An (Un)believably Artful Theft (Love’s Little Helpers #4)

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

E lizabeth wanted to scream! Never in her life had she harbored violent inclinations toward anyone, but had Miss Bingley walked into the room right then, Elizabeth would have enacted on her every savage scene she had ever read about in her father’s books and newspapers. This was blatant thievery! To have the work of Elizabeth’s heart claimed by another person as her own… it was unconscionable! It was immoral! It was… it was unfair and wrong and all the horrible adjectives she could name.

And there was nothing Elizabeth could say or do about it.

Heated ire deflated into bitter resentment in a breath. To reveal Miss Bingley as a thief would be to expose Elizabeth as the original artist and certainly not the Italian male she pretended to be in order to sell her paintings… yet another sin in Elizabeth’s growing list of offenses .

She dismissed the venom just as quickly as it had filled her. Spite would get her nowhere. This was the path she had chosen, and for her family’s sake, she would see it through. She would buy Longbourn and, once they were secure, she could paint for herself under her own name for the pure pleasure of it.

Her heart lifted despite all the obstacles standing between her and her dream. It was not the recognition she sought, although a little praise was always welcome. Elizabeth loved to paint. She loved blending and spreading colors into shapes and figures, creating bursts of vibrancy where there had been nothing before. She loved the possibilities of a blank canvas. Miss Bingley could steal her art, but she could not take away Elizabeth’s passion and joy.

She recalled the very moment she had first conjured up the idea of her scheme. She had painted a landscape for the wall above Uncle Philips’s desk—a small, bright path lined with the hedgerows Mama so feared as their future shelter. On the path, a child walked with her dog carrying flowers in her hands. Though Elizabeth could tell no one that the child was racing home before the blooms wilted, a gentleman who had seen the painting in her uncle’s study had asked where the young lass was going in such a hurry. The gentleman had smiled, and every time he turned to the painting, his smile returned. He had asked Uncle where the painting had come from, and Uncle had been proud to declare that he had an artist in his family.

That was when Elizabeth had realized the power of a simple image. It had made the man happy. It was not simply the beauty of a piece that mattered, but the feelings it provoked. People were willing to pay to experience certain emotions, and Elizabeth had the skill to fill that need. She also needed the money for her family. Here was the perfect solution.

It had taken months of constant persuasion, but Elizabeth was relentless. Her uncle eventually agreed it could not hurt much to allow her to try—providing they take precautions to protect her name and reputation.

And now someone was stealing her hard work! Try as she did to make peace with what had happened, bile burned her insides. With one last look at that vile name occupying the bottom right corner, Elizabeth turned away from the painting.

At that moment, Miss Bingley sashayed into the room. Elizabeth tensed, her hands clenched into fists and held tight at her sides lest she lunge at her with her claws drawn. Just when she would have been forced to mutter some pleasantry she did not mean, Miss Darcy entered the room. Hers was a welcome face. Focusing on her, Elizabeth smiled and did her best to ignore the other woman until she had gained mastery over her expression. She had resolved to keep her composure, but to say it was a challenge to do so would be a blatant understatement.

Mr. Bingley followed Miss Darcy, with the Hursts filing inside the room behind him. It would seem that Elizabeth’s self-possession would be tested in front of an audience. She could not afford to make a misstep.

Then Mr. Darcy entered wearing a fresh pair of breeches with a dry shirt and a different coat. It was wicked of Elizabeth, but she had an advantage over Miss Bingley, and she was angry enough to take it. Knowing that the lady would take notice of anything he did, Elizabeth met his gaze. She did not need to feign pleasure at seeing him, although for his sake, she selected her words carefully. “I cannot thank you enough for taking such good care of Remy.”

She heard a sharp breath coming from Miss Bingley’s direction. Good. She had been the one to send Elizabeth out to the stables, content to leave her for hours in the cold. Instead, she had unwittingly thrown her into Mr. Darcy’s path, and Elizabeth wished for her to know her mistake. It was a small barb, hardly sufficient, but it felt gloriously satisfying.

Mr. Darcy had yet to look away from her, and Elizabeth was not shy. Let him look away first. Just then, a devilish glint sparked in his eyes and the smallest smile erased all disagreeable thoughts of Miss Bingley from her mind. “I have never known a dog who enjoyed his bath more.”

Elizabeth choked back a laugh.

Bingley exclaimed, “He must stay as long as you do, Miss Elizabeth. It will do Archie good to have a friend.”

Stay? Elizabeth gave a start at the idea. “I do not wish to impose, Mr. Bingley, unless my presence is required to nurse my sister. ”

“Your presence would give her much comfort, and for that reason alone I hope you will agree to stay here until she is fully recovered.”

Oh, the daggerish looks his sisters cast his way! Whether he saw their vexed expressions and chose to ignore them or was blissfully ignorant of their displeasure, he continued on as jolly as ever. Clapping his hands together, he pronounced, “The more, the merrier! We shall send a note requesting that your maid pack a few things to send over as soon as you like. My household is entirely at your disposal.”

This incited another glare from his sisters. Miss Bingley especially did not look at all pleased. “We would be glad to entertain another Bennet,” she said through clenched teeth.

As welcome as Mr. Bingley made her, Elizabeth was not pleased at the prospect of spending any time at all in the same house as that thieving liar. Elizabeth’s civility toward that person was already wearing thin.

Miss Darcy twisted her hands, saying in a manner that reminded Elizabeth of Jane when she was much younger, “Oh, please do stay. Your company would be a most welcome addition to our party.”

Mr. Darcy regarded Miss Darcy with a look that only a brother who thought the world revolved around his little sister could give. He turned to Elizabeth, his eyes warm. “Your sister summoned you to come, and mine will convince you to stay. The sisters have spoken, and so it must be. Please say you will stay.”

His plea made her waver. Were it only dependent on his sister and hers, Elizabeth would gladly comply, but what would she do about Miss Bingley? She could not look at that woman without her hackles rising.

Mrs. Hurst, having been so blatant in her displeasure, now took the lead in reassuring their other guests that Elizabeth was as welcome as she had made Jane. “Come, Miss Elizabeth, you must stay. I daresay Miss Bennet will recover all the better for your company, and you are bound to benefit from our association. I see that you noticed my sister’s artwork.”

To Elizabeth’s horror, Mrs. Hurst gestured to the very paintings currently causing Elizabeth so much misery. She made a sort of noise of acknowledgment and prayed that it would pass as acceptable interest.

Mrs. Hurst continued. “Caroline is a talented painter. She would never say a word, but everyone else says so.”

Miss Bingley blushed and looked down with a demure expression she must have spent hours practicing in a mirror, for there was nothing shy or humble about her.

It was difficult, but Elizabeth forced herself to step away from the paintings she wished to protect from Miss Bingley’s false claims. She walked as far opposite from them as she could get, which, to her good fortune, was where Miss Darcy stood. “Does Miss Darcy like to paint?” she asked, gently drawing the girl into the conversation and therefore changing the topic away from Miss Bingley. Elizabeth was one haughty assertion away from tearing that lady’s hair out .

“I enjoy watercolors,” replied Miss Darcy.

In a blink, Miss Bingley was standing on Miss Darcy’s other side and petting her arm. “You are too modest, my dear.” Addressing Elizabeth, she continued, “Miss Darcy is known to be a highly accomplished young lady, as talented in music and languages as she is in the arts.”

Far from pleasing Miss Darcy, the excessive praise given before an audience seemed to embarrass the young miss. She looked down at the carpet, her hands wringing, her lips opening and closing as though she knew she needed to speak but did not know what to say.

Elizabeth sympathized with her. Ignoring Miss Bingley, she addressed Miss Darcy. “I have not practiced much with watercolors. Perhaps you might teach me some techniques while I am here.”

“I do not know very much, but I would be happy to show you what I have learned.”

What a humble reply! So unlike the heiresses she heard about… or the ambitious ladies who wore their accomplishments like medals on their epaulets. Miss Bingley could learn a great deal from Miss Darcy.

Mrs. Hurst said, “I am certain Caroline would agree to give you some art lessons as well, Miss Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth sucked in her breath and held it. She would rather eat Brussels sprouts for a month than take art lessons from Miss Bingley!

With a condescending pout, Mrs. Hurst continued, “It must be dreadful not to have the advantages of town out here in the country. I imagine it is too far for the masters to agree to come.”

As if London were a faraway land and not a comfortable distance of a half-day carriage ride—and even shorter on horseback!

“Caro’s paintings are highly praised in town,” Mrs. Hurst added. “One family in the first circles even asked if she might paint their family’s portrait.” She smiled wryly, her glance repeatedly falling on Mr. Darcy.

To the gentleman’s credit, he leaned against the fireplace mantel, his expression bored.

Mr. Bingley seemed to wake from a distraction. “Which family?”

His sister tittered awkwardly. “For Heaven’s sake, Charles, how could you not remember? They are such an influential family.”

“Which family?” he repeated, looking genuinely confused.

Mrs. Hurst swallowed hard and gave a pointed look at her husband, who shifted his weight on the settee. “Ah, yes, that is right. Lord Fluffergerner…” The name trailed off, and he added a cough at the end, skillfully preventing anyone from asking him to repeat the name.

With a marked glare at her brother-in-law, Miss Bingley turned to Mr. Darcy. “You are reputed to have an eye for fine art. What do you think of my paintings?” She smiled prettily in anticipation of a compliment.

“I would rather not give my opinion. ”

She looked a little less certain but persisted. “Come, Mr. Darcy. Any artist must be willing to hear the truth about their work and accept critique when it is given from someone qualified to give it.”

“My hesitation has nothing to do with your paintings. It is a matter of taste. I much prefer portraits to landscapes; therefore, I do not believe my view is relevant.”

“Your view is relevant to our conversation. I am brave enough to hear it.”

With a forbearing sigh, Mr. Darcy crossed the room to inspect the paintings more closely. Elizabeth could hardly breathe. She did not want Miss Bingley to get her compliment, but she so badly wished for Mr. Darcy to approve of her work.

Finally, he turned, ready to give his verdict. “For landscapes, they are tolerable enough.”

It was a brilliantly vague comment which could be understood however his audience chose. Elizabeth knew not to take his statement seriously. She could see that he was not the sort of man to encourage a lady so obviously seeking praise from him. All of this, Elizabeth knew in her rational mind.

And yet, she felt absolutely gutted.