Elizabeth held her breath.
He looked her in the eye. “I am ashamed of my behavior and so proud of the young lady you have become despite my poor example.”
She had not realized how badly she needed her father’s forgiveness until he granted it. The tightness in her chest released, and tears spilled over her cheeks. He brushed them away with his fingers. “I always considered myself cursed, using my failures as an excuse to donothing at all. I became lazy, negligent. Well,”—he sniffed and stood taller—“I am resolved to act. You did what I ought to have done. Thanks to you and your uncles, we already have a promising start.”
Elizabeth could hardly breathe. Did this mean what she had wished for all along would come true?
He smiled at her, affirming her hope. “I am not the same painter you are, but with some practice, I shall remember to do that which I once loved.”
She was in his embrace then, weak and heartbroken but hopeful.
A fortnight passed, and Papa kept his promise. He joined his daughter in the attic, where they painted together every day. The improvement to his mood was immediate and beneficial to the entire household. To Mama, he gave more affection. To Mary, more praise. To Jane, more support. To Kitty and Lydia, more guidance. His enthusiasm was contagious.
Even Kitty and Lydia were inspired to consider what creative endeavor they ought to pursue. This might have been influenced by their jealousy at Mary’s success with Mr. Goode, but Elizabeth was glad to see the change, no matter the source of their motivation.
The Bennet household had never been happier. Well, mostly.
Sometimes their contentment felt like salt in Elizabeth’s wounded heart. She found it increasingly difficult to hide her own disappointment. Her reputation was in shambles. Mr. Darcy was gone. She would never marry. However, her sisters might settle as well as theycould manage. Papa would provide for their needs and take greater care of their prospects. Mama’s nerves calmed.
Elizabeth tried to be satisfied with their happiness, but their success contrasted too heavily with her failure. She mourned the loss of what might have been. Every night, Elizabeth cried herself to sleep, and only Remy knew.
CHAPTER 38
TWO WEEKS LATER…
“Mr. Bennet! Mr. Bennet, we have callers!” called Mama from the bottom of the attic stairs.
Kitty exclaimed, “Callers! We have callers! Oh, finally!”
“It is only Uncle Philips and Mr. Goode,” pouted Lydia.
Papa reluctantly set down his brush with a sigh. “I suppose we ought to join them.” He looked at his painting, his eyes lingering on the piece with an affection that warmed Elizabeth’s heart to see. Whatever he was working on brought him a great deal of joy. He had not allowed her to see it, his pride being too fragile yet to make himself vulnerable to others’ opinions—even someone he trusted to be kind.
Elizabeth understood his caution. To create was to expose oneself to judgment, and until he developed the confidence necessary to withstand the praise and criticism that came with exposing his work, he did well to keep it to himself. Still, she was curious… What would he choose to paint first after twenty years without touching a canvas?
“Come, Lizzy! Your uncle is a busy man and cannot have called here without good reason. Let us see what he is about.” With one last cherishing look, he stepped away from his easel.
Elizabeth cleaned her things and followed him downstairs. Uncle paced in front of the fireplace while Mr. Goode smiled adoringly at Mary despite Lydia’s best attempts to distract him.
“Lizzy!” Uncle grinned, finally standing still. “I bear glad tidings!”
Papa gestured toward the chair. “Will you not have a seat, Philips?”
Uncle rubbed his hands together. “In a minute, I thank you, Bennet.” Taking a moment to look at each of them, he pronounced, “You are all saved.”
“Says the Lord,” mumbled Mary with an impish smile. Papa chuckled, and Mr. Goode cast her an appreciative glance.
Uncle ignored them, too intent on Elizabeth to allow for distraction. “I received word from Gardiner. Ladies and gentlemen are clamoring for more of your paintings.”
“Mario Rossi’s paintings?”
“All the same. They are scouring the countryside for your artwork, paying fortunes for them. One benefactor in particular has been purchasing more than the others, thus driving this frantic search for your landscapes.”
Elizabeth gasped. “But that would cost a fortune!”
Uncle rocked back and forth on his feet. “He is a gentleman with a fortune at his disposal.” The twinkle in his eye told her he knew this wealthy benefactor’s name.
Would it be… could it be Mr. Darcy? Could any man care so much that he would go to such a substantial cost for her? She feared to hope it was possible.
