As welcome as Mr. Bingley made her, Elizabeth was not pleased at the prospect of spending any time at all in the same house as that thieving liar. Elizabeth’s civility toward that person was already wearing thin.
Miss Darcy twisted her hands, saying in a manner that reminded Elizabeth of Jane when she was much younger, “Oh, please do stay. Your company would be a most welcome addition to our party.”
Mr. Darcy regarded Miss Darcy with a look that only a brother who thought the world revolved around his little sister could give. He turned to Elizabeth, his eyes warm. “Your sister summoned you to come, and mine will convince you to stay. The sisters have spoken, and so it must be. Please say you will stay.”
His plea made her waver. Were it only dependenton his sister and hers, Elizabeth would gladly comply, but what would she do about Miss Bingley? She could not look at that woman without her hackles rising.
Mrs. Hurst, having been so blatant in her displeasure, now took the lead in reassuring their other guests that Elizabeth was as welcome as she had made Jane. “Come, Miss Elizabeth, you must stay. I daresay Miss Bennet will recover all the better for your company, and you are bound to benefit from our association. I see that you noticed my sister’s artwork.”
To Elizabeth’s horror, Mrs. Hurst gestured to the very paintings currently causing Elizabeth so much misery. She made a sort of noise of acknowledgment and prayed that it would pass as acceptable interest.
Mrs. Hurst continued. “Caroline is a talented painter. She would never say a word, but everyone else says so.”
Miss Bingley blushed and looked down with a demure expression she must have spent hours practicing in a mirror, for there was nothing shy or humble about her.
It was difficult, but Elizabeth forced herself to step away from the paintings she wished to protect from Miss Bingley’s false claims. She walked as far opposite from them as she could get, which, to her good fortune, was where Miss Darcy stood. “Does Miss Darcy like to paint?” she asked, gently drawing the girl into the conversation and therefore changing the topic away from Miss Bingley. Elizabeth was one haughty assertion away from tearing that lady’s hair out.
“I enjoy watercolors,” replied Miss Darcy.
In a blink, Miss Bingley was standing on Miss Darcy’s other side and petting her arm. “You are too modest, my dear.” Addressing Elizabeth, she continued, “Miss Darcy is known to be a highly accomplished young lady, as talented in music and languages as she is in the arts.”
Far from pleasing Miss Darcy, the excessive praise given before an audience seemed to embarrass the young miss. She looked down at the carpet, her hands wringing, her lips opening and closing as though she knew she needed to speak but did not know what to say.
Elizabeth sympathized with her. Ignoring Miss Bingley, she addressed Miss Darcy. “I have not practiced much with watercolors. Perhaps you might teach me some techniques while I am here.”
“I do not know very much, but I would be happy to show you what I have learned.”
What a humble reply!So unlike the heiresses she heard about… or the ambitious ladies who wore their accomplishments like medals on their epaulets. Miss Bingley could learn a great deal from Miss Darcy.
Mrs. Hurst said, “I am certain Caroline would agree to give you some art lessons as well, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth sucked in her breath and held it. She would rather eat Brussels sprouts for a month than take art lessons from Miss Bingley!
With a condescending pout, Mrs. Hurst continued, “It must be dreadful not to have the advantages of townout here in the country. I imagine it is too far for the masters to agree to come.”
As if London were a faraway land and not a comfortable distance of a half-day carriage ride—and even shorter on horseback!
“Caro’s paintings are highly praised in town,” Mrs. Hurst added. “One family in the first circles even asked if she might paint their family’s portrait.” She smiled wryly, her glance repeatedly falling on Mr. Darcy.
To the gentleman’s credit, he leaned against the fireplace mantel, his expression bored.
Mr. Bingley seemed to wake from a distraction. “Which family?”
His sister tittered awkwardly. “For Heaven’s sake, Charles, how could you not remember? They are such an influential family.”
“Which family?” he repeated, looking genuinely confused.
Mrs. Hurst swallowed hard and gave a pointed look at her husband, who shifted his weight on the settee. “Ah, yes, that is right. Lord Fluffergerner…” The name trailed off, and he added a cough at the end, skillfully preventing anyone from asking him to repeat the name.
With a marked glare at her brother-in-law, Miss Bingley turned to Mr. Darcy. “You are reputed to have an eye for fine art. What do you think of my paintings?” She smiled prettily in anticipation of a compliment.
“I would rather not give my opinion.”
She looked a little less certain but persisted. “Come, Mr. Darcy. Any artist must be willing to hear the truth about their work and accept critique when it is given from someone qualified to give it.”
“My hesitation has nothing to do with your paintings. It is a matter of taste. I much prefer portraits to landscapes; therefore, I do not believe my view is relevant.”
“Your view is relevant to our conversation. I am brave enough to hear it.”
