“Show me this Gothic romance, my dear. How did your brother allow you to purchase it?”
“He did not. Miss Bingley gave it to me. She had finished with it and said I should enjoy the story.”
Elizabeth and Jane exchanged a look.
Amused, Georgiana added, “That is precisely my brother’s expression when he saw the title of the book. Yet since it was a gift from a close acquaintance, he thought I ought at least to attempt it so that I might express my gratitude for the gift.”
Elizabeth picked up the book. “I will take the first turn reading aloud.” She opened it and began to read. “St. Irvyne; or, The Rosicrucian. By Percy Bysshe Shelley.”
“Red thunderclouds, borne on the wings of the midnight whirlwind, floated, at fits, athwart the crimson-colored orbit of the moon; the rising fierceness of the blast sighed through the stunted shrubs…”
Elizabeth paused. “I find the language over-embellished and difficult to follow.”
Jane opined, “It is a violent beginning, sister. If the weather is any indication of what follows, I doubt we will be able to read much of this book.”
Elizabeth continued for another ten minutes, then lowered the volume and stood.
“My mind is fatigued. I must stretch my limbs, or I shall suffer for it.”
Georgiana rose as well. “I feel the same. The book is a disappointment.”
Then, turning to Jane, she added, “You have not yet seen my sketches and paintings. Would you like to see them?”
“I should like it very much,” Jane answered. “Lizzy has told me you are very accomplished.”
Elizabeth asked, “Does this house contain a ballroom? If it does, I should dearly like to see it. Perhaps you might take us on a short tour so that we may stretch our legs.” Then she added, “Only to see some of the public rooms, and then we may finish in your private sitting parlor.”
Georgiana agreed, and both sisters followed her into the corridor.
She led them down a wide hall. The walls on one side were hung with portraits of generations of Darcys.
Georgiana paused before a large portrait.
“This is my father, Graham, and Lady Anne, my mother.”
They stood and regarded the handsome couple. He was dark, like his son, with curling hair and deep-set eyes.
Elizabeth said, “Your brother is very like your father, and you resemble your mother, Georgiana. Not only in your fair hair and blue eyes, but in the line of your brows, and the shape of your nose.”
“My Uncle Henry has told me I remind him of my mother when she was my age.”
“This is Fitzwilliam when he was nineteen. He was at home for the summer when it was painted.”
She moved to the next.
“And this was done when I was twelve. Fitzwilliam intends another when I am seventeen, when I come out.”
Jane and Georgiana spoke of the dress in the portrait, but Elizabeth lingered before the likeness of Mr. Darcy. It was an excellent resemblance, true to his striking features, and she studied it, captivated by the man.
They proceeded down the portrait gallery until they reached a wide door that opened onto the ballroom. Sunshine poured through the tall beveled-glass windows, illuminating every corner. They walked the length of the room, admiring the patterned plaster ceiling and the elegant wall hangings.
Once again in the hall, they turned to the right, and Georgiana opened another door. Elizabeth found herself facing shelves upon shelves of books lining every wall. Even the spaces between the tall windows had been fitted with bookcases.
Elizabeth stood silent upon the threshold, struck by the magnificence of the sight.
Georgiana entered, and the sisters followed.
“All the oldest volumes are housed to the right. The first editions and rarities are kept in the glass cases. The Greek and Latin works run along that wall.”
