Tears welled up in her eyes and choked her throat. She could not so easily defend Mr. Darcy’s right to the painting when she knew what it meant to her father—to her whole family. Mr. Darcy was wealthy and could have any painting he wanted. By comparison, they had nothing. Still, it did not sit right on Elizabeth’s conscience.
“If Mr. Darcy understood that?—”
Papa snapped, “You are not to speak to him, Lizzy. His good opinion means little enough to me if he would deprive my wife and daughters of their only means of security. No, the painting stays here. The less we say about it, the better.”
Elizabeth could not agree. Papa did not know Mr. Darcy as she did. The gentleman would understand if only she could explain why the painting was so important to them. Perhaps she could make a deal with him, maybe offer him the first chance to buy it once it was hers. He might not pay the price she could fetch at the auction house, but she could not rightly demand morefrom him when the painting had been his in the first place. She did not doubt his assertion that it had been stolen. Mr. Darcy was not a liar.
Nor could she allow Mr. Darcy to believe her father as indifferent and unfeeling as he must have seemed. Elizabeth could not bear that.
Papa’s gaze did not waver. “Say nothing to anyone in the household, not even Jane.Especiallynot your mother!”
Elizabeth did not like keeping secrets, butthispromise she could keep. She promised, already planning how soon she could meet privately with Mr. Darcy.
CHAPTER 23
The next day, Elizabeth wandered the fields between Longbourn and Netherfield Park, hoping to spot Mr. Darcy during his early morning ride while knowing her effort was likely for naught. What if Georgiana or Mr. Bingley was with him? What if he did not ride that morning? Or he rode in the opposite direction? Still, she had to try.
“Where is he, Remy?” she asked her faithful companion. His ears pricked up, and he looked into the morning fog intently as if he had heard a bird.
Expecting a flock to emerge from the dense clouds, Elizabeth was surprised to see two riders materialize from the mist. Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam,
“I had hoped our paths might cross.” she said when they rode up to her.
Mr. Darcy did not dismount. “Your father does not wish us to speak.”
“I am aware of that. Nonetheless, Imustspeak to you. There are things you must know.”
He showed reluctance but dismounted. The colonel took his reins, wisely inferring that she wished for some privacy. Everything about Mr. Darcy was stiff and formal. No twinkle in the eye or hint of a smile. He nodded curtly, and Elizabeth understood it was her moment to state her case.
Disappointed and determined, she fell in beside him, took a deep breath, and began. “My father is a good man.” Was that a scoff she heard? Her hands clenched. “He did not steal the painting.”
Mr. Darcy looked at her askance, his brow arched. “He bought it at themarché ouvert. Just where do you suppose he thought the painting came from?”
“The market is an acceptable place to purchase art and antiquities. Many gentlemen from established families are known to frequent them, as you must know.”
He turned to face her. “Because I am one of them? I assure you,Miss Elizabeth,that gentlemen of my status donotfrequent the market?—”
“Is not the result the same if a gentleman sends a servant in his stead? Do not mistake my meaning,Mr. Darcy.” She enunciated his name, smarting at how formally he had said hers when she had thought he might hold her in higher regard.
He leaned forward, clearly piqued. If he thought he could intimidate her, she would prove how unmovedshe could be. Holding her ground, she crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin, returning his bold, agitated gaze as he stated, “Every piece of art in my family’s possession, without exception, has been bought either directly from the artist or has been passed down from one generation of Darcys to the next.”
His self-righteousness angered her so much, she wanted to scream or stamp her foot… neither of which would help her argue her case. No, she must keep her heart calm and her head cool. Mildness and logic were her allies.
Swallowing her sarcastic comeback, she loosened her arms at her sides. “I do not question your family’s ethics. I have no doubt you descend from a long line of morally upright individuals, but I thank you not to call my father’s character into question. He purchased the painting in good faith.”
“Which is why I offered to purchase it.”
“Y-you what?” She heard him, but she could not believe it. Her father had not mentioned this.
He repeated himself, slower and clearer. “I offered to purchase it.”
What a maddening man! His simple utterance made her swing from one extreme to the other—from self-righteous to magnanimous. She folded her arms around her middle. “That was fair of you,” she said sheepishly.
Every bit of bluster seeped out, leaving herunsteady. The relief she felt at learning her original impression of Mr. Darcy’s character had not been mistaken was immense, but there were many questions she wished she could ask him without appearing heartless and vulgar. How much had he offered? Why should he offer to purchase what had originally been his? Why had he done it?
“My offer was a fair one, considering the worth of the painting and its value to me personally.” There was a tightness in his voice that worked like a vice on her stomach. “Any other gentleman would have accepted my generous offer.”
“But not my father.”
