would convince her to accept a sizeable dowry, the impediment to our marriage would no longer exist.”
My heart sank to the floor. I did not wait one moment more to return to my room. I could not climb the staircase quickly enough. Upon reaching the landing, I fled to my chamber and closed the door behind me.
Marry the colonel? I had thought of it only in passing when visiting Kent last spring. Upon meeting him, I acknowledged his pleasant conversation and agreeable manners, but he soon dashed any contemplation of a possible match by informing me of his position, of his need to secure a financially advantageous alliance. I had never entertained the thought again. And now, at the mere suggestion, gooseflesh crawled up my arms.
][
I kept to my chamber most of the next day, pleading a headache. Georgiana checked on me and satisfied herself that my complaint was minor. She agreed to make my excuses to her brother and cousin, and thus, I avoided facing them. I feared that knowledge of the conversation I had overheard the night before might reflect in my expression, and I needed time to conceal my apprehension.
By late afternoon, however, I tired of my surroundings and stole quietly from my room. I climbed the staircase to the great gallery wherein the paintings of the Darcys and their ancestors hung. Once again, my grandmother’s portrait drew my attention. I searched her face, wishing she could speak to me, that she could enlighten me on the mystery of my birth. Hers was the only personage with whom I felt a kinship. Why, I do not know.
At length, I walked on down the hall and stopped to gaze upon the portrait of Siobhan Darcy’s three young sons. Their faces shone with innocence, and I wondered whether my grandmother had lived long enough to know of her oldest son’s transgression. I made note to ask Mr. Darcy in what year she died to see whether it occurred before the year of my birth.
I walked back to the portrait of my father. I still could not find myself hidden within his features. Above his painting and to the left hung a portrait of a man in a naval uniform. I glanced from the man’s face to that of one of the three young boys. Yes, I could see it was Henry Darcy, the youngest son. At even a young age, he had a mischievous gleam in his eye, as though he longed for adventure. It caused my heart to warm, and I smiled in return. There was something about him…
Someone cleared her throat. I startled somewhat, for I had been preoccupied and failed to notice Mrs. Reynolds’s arrival.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Bennet. I did not mean to surprise you.”
“No, no, I just did not see you, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“I trust you are feeling better. Will you join the family at dinner?”
“No, please have a tray brought to my room. I confess I only left my chamber because of boredom and not because my headache has lifted.”
“Very well, Miss Bennet.” She turned to leave, but I stopped her with a question.
“Did you not tell me you have been at Pemberley since Mr. Darcy was a boy?”
“Yes, Miss Bennet, since he was four years old.”
“Did you know either of his uncles, Messrs. Peter or Henry Darcy?”
“I did, ma’am. Admiral Henry had not yet joined the Navy.”
“I see his portrait.”
“It is very fine, is it not, ma’am?”
I nodded. “And which of these men is Mr. Peter Darcy? I confess I do not recognize him as an adult.”
She cleared her throat before answering. “That gentleman’s portrait was never painted as I recall, ma’am, because of the disgrace.”
“Disgrace?”
She lowered her eyes and pressed her lips together.
“You do not wish to tell me, I take it.”
“Begging your pardon, Miss Bennet, it is not my place to do so.”
“Well, goodness, what could he have done to cause his memory to be banished from the family portraits? Even Mr. Wickham’s likeness remains in the cabinet below stairs.”
“Yes, ma’am, that is because Mr. Wickham was a favourite of Mr. George
My heart sank to the floor. I did not wait one moment more to return to my room. I could not climb the staircase quickly enough. Upon reaching the landing, I fled to my chamber and closed the door behind me.
Marry the colonel? I had thought of it only in passing when visiting Kent last spring. Upon meeting him, I acknowledged his pleasant conversation and agreeable manners, but he soon dashed any contemplation of a possible match by informing me of his position, of his need to secure a financially advantageous alliance. I had never entertained the thought again. And now, at the mere suggestion, gooseflesh crawled up my arms.
][
I kept to my chamber most of the next day, pleading a headache. Georgiana checked on me and satisfied herself that my complaint was minor. She agreed to make my excuses to her brother and cousin, and thus, I avoided facing them. I feared that knowledge of the conversation I had overheard the night before might reflect in my expression, and I needed time to conceal my apprehension.
By late afternoon, however, I tired of my surroundings and stole quietly from my room. I climbed the staircase to the great gallery wherein the paintings of the Darcys and their ancestors hung. Once again, my grandmother’s portrait drew my attention. I searched her face, wishing she could speak to me, that she could enlighten me on the mystery of my birth. Hers was the only personage with whom I felt a kinship. Why, I do not know.
At length, I walked on down the hall and stopped to gaze upon the portrait of Siobhan Darcy’s three young sons. Their faces shone with innocence, and I wondered whether my grandmother had lived long enough to know of her oldest son’s transgression. I made note to ask Mr. Darcy in what year she died to see whether it occurred before the year of my birth.
I walked back to the portrait of my father. I still could not find myself hidden within his features. Above his painting and to the left hung a portrait of a man in a naval uniform. I glanced from the man’s face to that of one of the three young boys. Yes, I could see it was Henry Darcy, the youngest son. At even a young age, he had a mischievous gleam in his eye, as though he longed for adventure. It caused my heart to warm, and I smiled in return. There was something about him…
Someone cleared her throat. I startled somewhat, for I had been preoccupied and failed to notice Mrs. Reynolds’s arrival.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Bennet. I did not mean to surprise you.”
“No, no, I just did not see you, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“I trust you are feeling better. Will you join the family at dinner?”
“No, please have a tray brought to my room. I confess I only left my chamber because of boredom and not because my headache has lifted.”
“Very well, Miss Bennet.” She turned to leave, but I stopped her with a question.
“Did you not tell me you have been at Pemberley since Mr. Darcy was a boy?”
“Yes, Miss Bennet, since he was four years old.”
“Did you know either of his uncles, Messrs. Peter or Henry Darcy?”
“I did, ma’am. Admiral Henry had not yet joined the Navy.”
“I see his portrait.”
“It is very fine, is it not, ma’am?”
I nodded. “And which of these men is Mr. Peter Darcy? I confess I do not recognize him as an adult.”
She cleared her throat before answering. “That gentleman’s portrait was never painted as I recall, ma’am, because of the disgrace.”
“Disgrace?”
She lowered her eyes and pressed her lips together.
“You do not wish to tell me, I take it.”
“Begging your pardon, Miss Bennet, it is not my place to do so.”
“Well, goodness, what could he have done to cause his memory to be banished from the family portraits? Even Mr. Wickham’s likeness remains in the cabinet below stairs.”
“Yes, ma’am, that is because Mr. Wickham was a favourite of Mr. George
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