Page 95 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

A trip to the British Institution would take him out of sight of his mother, who was busy attending to her other matches. An exhibition was not as private as the park in the winter, but it was better than not seeing Miss Elizabeth at all.

With such a group and his sister certain to be fixed at Miss Elizabeth’s side, however, he would need help if he was to speak to her.

“Certainly,” he said. “Richard may join us.”

Georgiana’s brows pinched together. “Why would Richard join us? He does not like art.”

“He is fond of Derbyshire landscapes.”

Richard was not fond of landscapes, or Reinagle, or paintings at all for that matter. But he knew enough of Darcy’s present difficulties to understand the benefit of an extra gentleman on such an outing. Darcy sent a note to Matlock House.

Richard’s answer came back during dinner. In it he declared that he was indeed extremely fond of landscapes, and very interested in the flower paintings by Mr. Rineagle, which did not inspire confidence in his taste but at least promised his attendance.

The next morning, Georgiana talked nearly all the way to Pall Mall. She wondered whether Miss Elizabeth would prefer the Derbyshire views or the flower studies; she had brought no sketchbook, which was a pity, though perhaps it was better not to be distracted.

Darcy answered when an answer seemed to be required and let the rest of his sister’s happiness spill out unimpeded. Richard, seated opposite him, waited until Georgiana turned to the window to comment upon a passing carriage.

“Landscapes?” he mouthed.

Darcy nodded.

His cousin glanced at Georgiana, who was not paying them any mind as they turned onto St. James’s Street. “It is a remarkable interest to discover on the same day someone happens to be visiting an exhibition of those very paintings.”

Darcy looked at him. “You promised to help,” he said so quietly it might as well have been a whisper.

“When did I promise you anything?”

“You are here, are you not?”

Richard cast his eyes to the ceiling of the coach, and then said, in a hushed voice, “Very well. I am willing to be fond of landscapes. I only wish to point out that your own fondness is very exactly timed.”

“Georgiana was invited, and my mother asked me to accompany her.”

“And you have always been a devoted brother.” Richard glanced towards the window. “A devotion that has recently expanded to include visits to view landscapes of the Peak, a part of England that you know as well as any artist. Better.”

Georgiana turned back at once. “Did you say views of the Peak? Oh, I hope there are some. Miss Elizabeth would like the Peak, I think.” She blushed. “Or perhaps I only imagined that because I do.”

“I often find that my friendships are improved when I invent a few harmless facts to support them,” Richard said.

It was only a mile from Upper Brook Street to Pall Mall, and soon they were walking into the long, light rooms of the British Institution. They quickly located the Bennet ladies and their aunt, who were admiring the Welsh paintings.

Darcy saw Miss Elizabeth identify them. She was not surprised that he had come—Georgiana had surely informed them that her brother would convey her in his own carriage—but there was a new wariness in her expression that was quickly extinguished, leaving a sort of blankness in its place.

Then Mrs. Gardiner turned. “Miss Darcy. Mr. Darcy. Colonel.”

They all greeted one another. Miss Elizabeth made a remark about the weather, but otherwise replied to his inquiries so briefly that the conversation ended nearly before it had begun.

The Institution was not crowded, but neither was their party ever alone. Catalogues rustled. Opinions passed in murmurs from one visitor to the next. Every so often a disagreement rose above them, spoken loudly and with great confidence on both sides.

“Now that,” said a stout gentleman, waving at a painting, “is atmosphere.”

“There is certainly a great deal of it,” said his friend. “I cannot even find the boats.”

“The boats are immaterial. The artist has given us the light.”

“He has given us the fog.”

“That golden mass, at the centre⁠—”