“Dear Lizzy,” said Jane, embracing her sister. “I do not suppose we will see you again before you leave. Have a safe journey and remember to write.”
Elizabeth promised to do so and the Bingleys departed. Then she went into the drawing room, where she wrote to the London housekeeper, apprising her of the fact that the Darcys would be entertaining five house guests when they returned to London, prior to their departure for Egypt.
***
June arrived, and with it the day of their departure for London drew nearer. The children had all but forgotten about the coming trip, having been engrossed in their summer activities at Pemberley, but their excitement began to mount as the boxes were packed, for the journey to London signalled that the journey to Egypt was not far behind.
Almost as soon as they reached London, Mr Darcy called on Paul Inkworthy. The artist’s home was in a poor part of town, with narrow cobbled streets and overhanging gables. The houses were a relic of the sixteenth century, their black-and-white buildings giving evidence of the neighbourhood’s Tudor heritage.
Darcy found the address, mounted the three precarious wooden steps, and knocked on the crazily askew front door.
There came a drunken shout from inside, followed by the sound of someone falling over, and then a window opened overhead, and a woman peered out.
“Aw, my life, it’s a swell,” she said, before shutting the window and running heavily downstairs to open the door.
“I am here to see Mr Inkworthy,” said Darcy.
“Yes, sir, right this way, sir,” said the woman, wiping her greasy hands on her even greasier apron.
Darcy followed her into the ill-lit interior and up several flights of rickety stairs, until she stopped on the uppermost landing, which was inches deep in dust.
“’Ere you are, sir,” she said, bobbing him something that resembled a curtsey and holding out her hand.
Darcy put a coin into it and knocked on the attic door. A familiar voice called, “Come in,” and Darcy opened the door, walking into the large attic room with a sharp sense of interest. It was bare of any furniture, save for a bed, a table, and a chair; but canvases, sketchbooks, paintbrushes, and all the paraphernalia of an artist’s studio filled the large space. An easel stood over by the east-facing window, and on it stood a painting, while in the corner farthest from the easel, cleaning a paintbrush, was Paul Inkworthy.
The artist had his back to him, and Darcy had a chance to examine him for a moment, curious to know more about the young man who was to accompany them on their travels.
Mr Inkworthy looked much the same as he had on their previous meeting, and yet there was something different about him. He was still tall and thin—Darcy found himself wondering when the man had last had a good meal—and his dark, curly hair still fell in an unruly profusion over his collar, but he had an air of confidence about him that had been lacking before. It was evident in the line of his back and the angle of his head.
Darcy nodded thoughtfully. Before, Inkworthy had been in someone else’s salon. Here, he was in his own studio, the master of all he surveyed—a small domain, it was true, but one full of riches.
Darcy walked over to the easel and was surprised to see a half-finished portrait of Elizabeth standing on it.
“Ah, yes,” came a voice at his side.
He turned to see Mr Inkworthy, who had joined him noiselessly and was looking critically at his own work.
“You have painted my wife,” said Darcy.
Some of the artist’s former nervousness returned.
“Yes,” he said, uncertainly, as if he realised he had committed a faux pas by painting another man’s wife when not expressly asked to do so. But then the artist in him took over and he said, “I could not resist. It is the eyes, you see, they are so very fine. I noticed them as soon as I was introduced to her. It is not just the colour and shape, nor the fineness of the lashes, but the expression in them. It is extraordinary.”
He stood looking at his portrait, lost in thought.
“You have caught it very well,” said Darcy, impressed.
“No.” The artist shook his head. “I have caught something of it, it is true, but my memory failed me at a critical juncture. I should have taken a sketch at the time but I neglected to do so, for which I have been cursing myself ever since. I could not remember the light in them, the exact glow, the sense of spirit… But I will capture it, I promise you. Now that I am to go to Egypt with you, I will have time to study those eyes at my leisure.”
“Which brings me to the object of my visit,” said Darcy. “Mrs Darcy and I”—he caught himself stressing Mrs, since the young man was so appreciative of Elizabeth, and since the artist possessed a certain charm. “Mrs Darcy and I would like you to join us at Darcy House tomorrow, so that you may spend a few days with us prior to setting out on our journey. It will give you an opportunity to become acquainted with us, with our children, and with our travelling companions: my cousin, the Honourable Edward Fitzwilliam; and a family friend, Miss Sophie Lucas.”
Mr Inkworthy looked dazzled at such a prospect but managed to murmur his thanks. “I will need to bring my things with me,” he added. “I hope there will be room for them all?”
“I am sure we can accommodate them,” said Darcy with a smile, remembering the size of Darcy House—remembering, too, the spacious quarters he had arranged for them on the ship he had commissioned to take them to Egypt and the size of the house he had rented there.
The artist looked relieved, saying, “Then I will join you tomorrow, if that is convenient.”
Now that the business was concluded, some of Inkworthy’s former nervousness returned, as though he was suddenly conscious once again that his visitor was Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, a man who could buy his studio and everything in it a hundred times, nay a thousand times over, and never notice what he spent. Remembering, too, that Darcy had a fine and imposing figure, which made his own spare frame seem even more scrawny, and a face which would have put a more handsome man than Paul Inkworthy to shame.
“Very well,” said Darcy, adding the final, unwitting, touch to the younger man’s sense of his inferior place in the world by saying, “I will send the carriage.”
***
While Darcy was busy with Paul Inkworthy, Elizabeth was busy overseeing the preparation of the rooms for their guests. Having satisfied herself that everything was just as she wanted it, she finalised the list of essential and desirable things they should take with them and then went into the drawing room, where the children were playing.
“Have you any questions?” she asked them. “We will be leaving in a week, and everything must be ready by then.”
Beth asked her mother’s advice on which clothes she should take, a sure sign she was gradually leaving childhood behind and beginning to walk the path toward womanhood; William wondered if his allowance would be sufficient for him to bring some curios back to England; John wrote to Colonel Fitzwilliam, telling his idol that he would be visiting the scene of the Battle of Aboukir Bay; and Laurence chased a squealing Jane around the room, pretending to be a crocodile. Only Margaret was quiet, listening to her doll and then saying gravely that Aahotep was glad to be going home.
When she had answered the children’s questions, Elizabeth relinquished them into the care of various tutors and governesses. She went out into the garden, where Darcy soon joined her.
“How peaceful it is!” said Elizabeth, as they walked along arm-in-arm. “There is nothing better than the London garden in July. It is small compared to the grounds at Pemberley, I know, but it is a haven of beauty and tranquillity, especially when the roses are in bloom.”