Inspiration Read online

  At last, his canvas perched on his easel in a beam of morning sun. Trembling fingers tightened around a pencil as he sucked in a deep breath. There was something almost sacred about a pristine canvas. The act of marking it could be almost profane, especially when inspiration eluded him. But now … now was different. The pencil glided down, around, over, through curves, with a hint of shadow. It seemed only moments later that the rough blocked forms of a nymph admiring her reflection in a reflecting pool took shape.

  Yes! Yes, exactly as he had seen it in his mind’s eye. His fingers tingled as power surged through eyes, arms, and hands, colors and images taking shape before him.

  “Darcy? Darcy…”

  Darcy jumped, nearly dropping his brush. “What are you doing here? I understand I am in your house, but since when has that negated the need to knock on a closed door?”

  “Since I have been knocking for a full five minutes with no answer from you.” Bingley stood just behind him.

  “You jest.”

  “Not at all. I would wager you have been at your easel since dawn by the look of you.” Bingley’s right eye twitched with something of a wink.

  “What of it?”

  “Have a look outside. What do you notice about the sun?”

  Darcy blinked and peered out of the window. No, that was not possible. Surely only an hour, maybe two had passed.

  “It is nearly sundown, and you have no idea. It has been quite some time since I have seen you this way.” Bingley peered over Darcy’s shoulder. “I can see why. Very impressive. I have never seen this sort of work from you—it is inspired, truly inspired. You almost expect the nymph to rise up off the painting daring you to give her chase. I only wish I could see her face.”

  “Her face?” Something crushed his chest, leaving him dizzy and weak.

  “Yes, you have painted her from a distance, behind and to the side. Did you not even realize that?”

  Darcy stared at the painting as if for the first time. Bingley was right, her face was hidden, just barely silhouetted against the trees. It was not meant to be seen, it was part of the mystery of the scene. But what if she turned? What would that be like?

  “Wait, wait, I know that look in your eye. You are already sketching the next work in this series. Do not deny it; I can tell. Before you get any farther in the process, I insist you come down to dinner. You have eaten nothing today, and knowing you, you will eat nothing if not forced until this inspiration is complete. So, consider yourself forced, and come down right now. The light is gone in any case. You can do no more today.”

  Darcy grumbled under his breath. But Bingley was right. There was not enough light for real work tonight. He might as well eat. He would bring his sketchbook down to the parlor, though—firelight was sufficient for that endeavor. That way he could make the time he would have to sit with his host and his sisters at least somewhat productive.

  ∞∞∞

  Nearly a month passed with Darcy scarcely leaving his guest chambers at Netherfield. Canvasses—finished, partially finished, and barely started—littered every available space. His sketchbook lay open on the floor, taunting him.

  With each additional creative effort, his tensions mounted. The sort of tensions that were energetic and addictive, that kept drawing him back. Fitzwilliam had once seen him in such a state and likened him to an opium eater. There was probably more truth in the comparison than Darcy would have preferred.

  At first, it had been a delightful tension of anticipation—a new work in progress, the thrill of the creative, generative act. The wonder at what it would become, what new secrets would he learn from the images that formed beneath his brush. But as the weeks passed, the sweetness slipped away, replaced by bitter frustration.

  He stared at the canvas before him and growled, searching the room for what he needed, but naturally it was not there, hiding in the shadows of the late afternoon sun. Bingley had been right. Infuriatingly right. He clutched his paintbrush in a grip that drove the blood from his fingers and sank down on his stool to cover his face with his hand.

  The nymph needed to show her face. The image, the story, was painfully incomplete without a glimpse of the expression she wore as she sat beside that infernal pond, thinking who knew what. He had to know—he simply had to.

  Yet she refused to show her face. He scrubbed his face with his hands.

  He had seen Miss Bennet’s face, but his muse somehow hid it from him each time he looked for it in his memories. It was there; it had to be. But stubborn minx that she was, she refused to show it to him. He threw aside his brush, allowing it bounce off the drapery as it clattered to the floor. Nicolls, the housekeeper, would probably not appreciate the Prussian blue splotch on the curtains.

  He rubbed his temples hard. What he needed was neither a meal, a glass of wine, or a bottle of brandy, nor perhaps all of them, as Bingley had suggested.

  In truth, none of those would do anything but temporarily distract his misery. He needed to see Miss Elizabeth Bennet once again. Not just to see her, but to sit down and study her at length, to stare at her and memorize every feature, every expression, from the arch of her eyebrow to the line of her jaw, and everything in between. More than food or drink or possibly even air, everything in him required that he be permitted a prolonged audience with Miss Bennet.

  One that could never, ever happen.

  Bingley seemed to suspect his need, suggesting that they call upon Longbourn. His motive might have been a bit more self-serving than it seemed at first blush; he appeared quite smitten with the eldest Bennet sister. But even if he had gone along with Bingley’s scheme, it would hardly have afforded him the opportunity he needed. And to be so close to his inspiration without being able to absorb her essence would be more than his tortured soul could tolerate.

  So, he paced the floor and wrestled with images that would not cooperate. And cursed the day he allowed Bingley to convince him to take this ill-advised expedition. Then the rain came in, stealing his light and confining him to his room when Miss Bennet arrived to dine with Bingley’s sisters. Yes, he could have joined them, but Miss Bennet looked just enough like her sister to ensure he would be driven mad. If he were not already there now, which was a distinct possibility.

  Worse still, having been in the rain, the delicate maiden became ill and could not be moved from Netherfield. Perhaps he should simply jump from his window to end his suffering. That might be preferable to this anguish.

  ∞∞∞

  Finally, the rains stopped, and he could take a turn about the gardens. It was not likely to help, but very occasionally fresh air and natural beauty could assuage his tormented sensibilities, for at least a little while.

  He buttoned his coat and pulled on his hat, hurrying down the stairs. Hopefully, he could make it out of the house without notice. Civil words—to anyone—were certainly beyond him.

  Success! A dozen steps from the front door, he gulped in morning air tasting of old rain and open fields. He closed his eyes and breathed in the matching fragrance—green and loamy and earthy. Sheep in the distance bleated their greetings to one another, and a cow joined the conversation. Dogs barked to remind them all of their places. Home—this place had just the barest resemblance to home. There was something to be said about the countryside.

  “Oh, excuse me!”

  His eyes flew open. It could not be. But there she was, standing right in front of him, staring directly into his eyes! How? Why? What would make Providence smile upon him so?

  “Mr. Darcy?” Her forehead knotted—a most intricate knot, one to be remembered.

  He shook his head and blinked. “Yes, yes. Pray forgive me, I did not expect to see you there.”

  “I suppose not. I came to call upon my sister.” She dipped in the barest of curtsies.

  “Your sister? Oh, yes, your sister. I did not see her myself, but I heard she fell ill yesterday after the rains.”

  “I came to see for myself how she is doing and if perhaps she mi
ght be removed to Longbourn for her recovery.”

  No, she must not be removed, not for any reason, not if it brought Miss Elizabeth here! “I … yes … that is very good of you.”

  “It is what sisters do for one another. Perhaps you might be able to take me to her?”

  How could he possibly do that when he did not know which room Miss Bennet occupied? But if he said yes, he could remain in her presence a little longer and try to capture her likeness with surreptitious glances. “Pray, come with me.”

  After leaving her in the care of the housekeeper, he joined Bingley and his sisters in the parlor. With any luck, Miss Elizabeth might call upon them before she left Netherfield. A few more moments to memorize her features was worth the small talk. It would not be enough, to be sure, but it was something.

  ∞∞∞

  Not only did Providence smile upon him, but it outright waved its banner and sang joyous airs over him. Miss Bennet was too sick to be moved, and her sister insisted upon staying with her. To be sure, he could not rejoice that the other young lady was ill, and he would certainly mourn and perhaps even feel guilty if her condition took a turn for the worse. But the opportunity to share the same house with Miss Elizabeth and fix her features into his mind’s eye was too great a boon to leave unappreciated.

  No doubt fortune would extract a heavy price for her favor, but for now he would bask in its glow.

  The following morning, he remained in the morning room until Miss Elizabeth made a brief appearance to break her fast. Quite conveniently, the room had been established on the east side of the house, allowing the best of the morning sunlight to filter in through gauzy white curtains. The furnishings, though older and a bit heavy, did not clutter the space, leaving it conveniently without visual impediments.

  Since Miss Elizabeth chose to read, he took advantage of her preoccupation to study the perfect asymmetry of her face. Though aesthetics dictated perfect symmetry to be ideal in any woman, it was her slight imperfections—almost too slight to notice—that made her so intriguing, so utterly delightful: the singular dimple on her right cheek; the tiny cleft in her chin, just slightly to the right as well; the tiny beauty mark on her left cheek.

  And her eyes. To say they were merely “fine”—as Miss Bingley had mockingly called them—would be to insult them. They were exquisite, dark and deep with feeling and intelligence. Worthy of a study of their own.

  So worthy, in fact, thereafter he took to bringing his journal to the morning room to sketch her eyes while he sipped his coffee. Since it was only eyes and nothing more, he could easily claim they were a general sort of study, not his record against a future without her as a direct reference. Oh, how that thought stung, like a slice to his soul.

  Best refrain from considering it whilst she was here, now, in the flesh, lest he fail to use this rare opportunity to its fullest.

  In the evenings after dinner, she would join them for at least a little while in the drawing room. There she often read, offering him yet another unparalleled opportunity to record her profile, her expressions in his thoughts and his sketchbook. Perhaps now that Miss Bennet was recovering a bit, she would stay there with him—and the rest of the house party—longer.

  ∞∞∞

  Fortune smiled on him once more in the form of Miss Bennet’s recovery which brought both young ladies to the drawing room that night. Gracious, in what manner would payment be exacted for this blessing? No doubt the cost would be dear—but whatever it was, it would be worthwhile.

  Darcy lingered in the hallway between the dining room and the drawing room. Watching Miss Elizabeth walk, studying her grace, her motion, was something not to be missed. She guided her sister into the drawing room, most solicitous of Miss Bennet’s comfort, seeing her well-guarded from cold and draft, conversing with Bingley’s sisters. Odd, though, how Miss Bingley’s attentions seemed to immediately shift toward him when he, Bingley, and Hurst entered the room.

  Though some would insist Miss Bingley’s powers of conversation were considerable, they always felt more like a performance than an actual interpersonal engagement, making them somewhat off-putting. But, then again, many such engagements were off-putting themselves, so perhaps it really was not indicative of very much.

  Bingley immediately sought to make himself useful to Miss Bennet. He spent the first half hour piling up the fire lest she should suffer from the cold. At his desire, she moved to the other side of the fireplace that she might be farther from the door and its dreadful drafts. Then he sat down by her and scarcely talked to anyone else. If a man could have been more attentive, it was difficult to imagine. Miss Elizabeth, at her needlework in the opposite corner, saw it all with shining eyes.

  While Bingley’s display was mawkish at best, it did provide Darcy with the most enchanting expression of Miss Elizabeth’s to capture. Such joy, just pure happiness. Had he ever seen such affection carried only in the eyes? He pulled out his pocket sketchbook and set to work with his pencil. He could not afford to forget any detail of the lady’s quiet delight and enchantment.

  It said a great deal about Miss Elizabeth’s character that she could show such quiet joy for her sister without any trace of jealousy on her own behalf. Yes, that was a very pleasing trait in a woman—a beautiful one. He jotted a small note to himself to that effect. Sometimes it was useful to know what his models were thinking as he painted them. Somehow it made the expressions more engaging.

  But truly, what was she thinking? Why was she happy for her sister? Was it the very advantageous nature of a match with Bingley? Certainly, that would be what her mother would suggest. Perhaps it was best not to continue thinking along those lines.

  “I say, Mr. Darcy, I cannot make it out from here. Are you reading or are you writing—or is it drawing that you are about?” Miss Bingley looked up from her book and stared at him. She probably had not even been reading it in the first place. She hardly seemed the type intent upon improving her mind in such a way

  “I often find it helpful to make notes for future reference.” He returned to his sketch. Was Miss Bingley quick enough to realize he had offered no answer to her question?

  The tiny dimple that creased Miss Elizabeth’s cheek suggested she was.

  “How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare, after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything other than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.” Miss Bingley shut her book rather loudly.

  Darcy clamped his jaws shut. The thought of Miss Bingley refusing a suitor on the count of an insufficient library was one of the few things funny enough to make him want to laugh aloud.

  From near the fireplace, Bingley’s voice rose just enough for the rest of the room to hear. “I do so love a ball.”

  Miss Bingley leaned back and looked over her shoulder at Bingley. “By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in considering a dance at Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party. I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.”

  Bingley sought Darcy’s gaze and rolled his eyes. “If you mean Darcy, he may go to bed before it begins, if he chooses—but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing. As soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough, I shall send round my cards.”

  Miss Bingley looked directly at Darcy. “I should like balls infinitely better, if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing were the order of the day.”

  Had Miss Bingley any idea of how ridiculous she sounded? Something in the way Miss Elizabeth hid a dainty cough in her hand suggested that she might.

  “Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball.”

  Miss Bingley’s eyes darted a
bout as though she were looking for some sort of retort, but finding none, she got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well enough, but hardly enough out of the ordinary to be worth taking note. If ever he needed to render such a character, he could find her kind aplenty in any assembly in London.

  She meandered across the room. “Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.”

  Elizabeth glanced at Darcy and agreed. No, it was not possible that she understood his deepest desire and was acceding to it, was it? No, it could not be. Providence was pouring out all it had upon him.

  “Would you care to join us, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bingley’s eyebrow arched suggestively.

  And lose this opportunity to observe? “I must decline. I can imagine but two motives for your choosing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives my joining you would interfere.”

  Miss Bingley leaned in close to Miss Elizabeth. “What could he mean? I am dying to know what could be his meaning”

  “Depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it.” Miss Elizabeth turned her face aside and tried to walk on, but Miss Bingley retarded her progress.

  “No, no, I insist upon knowing. Mr. Darcy, do explain yourself.”

  He leaned forward, closing his sketchbook. “I have not the smallest objection to explaining. You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking. If the first, I should be completely in your way, and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire.” He returned to his sketchbook to commit his admiration to paper before he lost this unique approbation to stare at them as much as he cared.

  After all, how many times did such an opportunity come to one? He dare not allow a moment of it to be missed.