That answer brought a glow of satisfaction to both the master and the housekeeper, though Miss Darcy remained in the gloomy mood that the conversation about mistakes and foolish decisions had thrown her.
“Here is the painting that Owen did of Mr. Darcy shortly after he gained the estate, and as you can see it is very like him.”
“Very like him indeed.” Elizabeth looked between the portrait and the original.
Darcy shook his head half embarrassedly. “He made me look too pretty.”
“I’ll not hear that!” Elizabeth laughed. “Besides, is that not the purpose of the portraitist? To bring out the beauty in hissubject, no matter how difficult it might be to mine? — the poor man.”
“You mean to say that it would have been particularly hard to find the beauty in me?” Darcy asked.
“No, no.” Elizabeth shot her husband a smiling glance. “Merely that I assume he must have found it so very difficult to paint a portrait when therewasno difficulty of the sort.”
Darcy’s face heated, and he rubbed at the back of his neck and looked down.
It was a little like when they were in bed. She had a deep influence over him.
“Be honest, you told the artist to make you look as ugly as possible.”
With a laugh, Darcy replied, “Imayhave quoted Cromwell, ‘flatter me not at all; pimples, warts, and everything you see’.”
Mrs. Reynolds led them to another room off the gallery, saying, “This was the late master’s favorite room. We have kept it mostly the same as it was during his life.”
They entered, and Mr. Darcy went to look at the bookshelves stacked with what presumably had been his father’s favorite books with a pensive frown. Miss Darcy looked out the window. Elizabeth noticed several miniatures hung up over the mantelpiece, and she thought one of them was of her husband, so she went closer to look.
Hanging next to the miniature of Mr. Darcy was one of Mr. Wickham. He looked as charming as in life, but younger. It shocked her to see the picture here, given the antipathy between Darcy and Wickham — a distaste her husband had still not deigned to explain to her.
Seeing Elizabeth staring at the picture, Mrs. Reynolds said, “This was the son of the late master’s steward, he was brought up by the late master at his own expense, but he is nowgone into the army, and I am afraid that he has turned out very wild.”
“Mr. Wickham. I am acquainted with him. He joined the militia regiment stationed in Meryton, not a mile from my home.”
“You know him? How does he do? Poor boy! I loved him dearly. He always could make us laugh, and his father was my dearest friend before he died. But the lad took more after his mother than his father, or his godfather. But he still has a dear place in my heart.”
“He told me that the late Mr. Darcy was the truest friend he ever had,” Elizabeth replied.
“Oh, the poor boy!”
Both Mr. Darcy and Miss Darcy came up behind them.
“You know Mr. Wickham!” Miss Darcy exclaimed in surprise.
“In Hertfordshire,” Elizabeth replied. “He joined the regiment this autumn.”
“Did he… say anything of me?” She then flushed and looked down.
Darcy glared at the portrait, as though he were willing it to wither away.
“Not a great deal,” Elizabeth replied. She gave Darcy a winsome smile, though something in her stomach was suddenly hollow. “I merely understand that there is some serious disagreement between Mr. Wickham and the family. One whose details my husband simply will not explain.”
“Burn it. Have it destroyed.” Darcy’s voice was harsh, and he did not take his loathing glare off of the portrait.
“You can’t!” Miss Darcy exclaimed. “Fitzwilliam!”
Darcy did not look at his sister. He ripped the frame off of its hook and handed it to Mrs. Reynolds. “Only burn the painting, but I wish to never see even the frame again.”
Mrs. Reynolds' eyes were quite wide as she took the miniature into her hands.
Clearly,shehad not expected this from her usually even tempered master.
