Pride Prejudice and Prodigy

A Romance in Four Seasons

Chapter 6 ~ A Romance in Four Seasons

Though summer had arrived, Elizabeth was feeling restless, and not a little bored. The regiment had left Meryton, and consequently there were fewer parties, both at home and abroad; and those there were, lacked the variety and liveliness of old. George Wickham was gone at last – that, at least, was a blessing. With her youngest sister, Lydia, gone to Brighton as the companion of Mrs. Forster, the dinner table and sitting room were far quieter – although the conversation had become considerably more sensible. James Darlington was presently in London on business, and to perform at a soirée with his sister Julia, denying Elizabeth the opportunity of further satisfying her curiosity regarding his serialised story.

With so few distractions, Elizabeth found herself day-dreaming more often than was her habit; and James Darlington seemed to occupy her thoughts in equal measure with Fitzwilliam Darcy. But why, oh why, do I trouble my mind over either gentleman? she demanded crossly of herself. The former was too impoverished – and obliged to support a mother and sister. He was consequently in no position to consider marriage – except of course, to a wealthy young lady. The latter gentleman, she had so vehemently refused and unjustly abused, that she was the last woman in world who might expect to receive his addresses. Then why do I think about them so persistently? Is it simply because these gentlemen have each professed their admiration of me (albeit subtly and perhaps unintentionally on the part of Mr Darlington)? Or could it be that I am attracted to them?

Were Elizabeth being honest with herself, the answer to the latter conjecture would most certainly have been yes. But a young lady does not wish to admit a preference for a gentleman – even to herself – until she is confident of his heart. James Darlington was such an unusual and enigmatic young man, that despite his sometimes soulful looks and demonstrative words at unguarded moments, Elizabeth could not make up her mind as to his true feelings. Whereas Mr Darcy had been entirely forthright, and readily acknowledged the degree to which his affection for her had overcome every objection: the inferiority of her family, the certain disapprobation of his relatives, the dictates of his will, his reason, and his character. Despite her disdain at his arrogance and pride, Elizabeth could not help but be moved by the strength of such feelings… at least, as they formerly had been, when he paid her his addresses at Hunsford. But now? Surely he must despise her – if he thought of her at all. So why am I forever cursed by thoughts of him? she asked herself in exasperation.

Try as she might, Elizabeth could not prevent these flights of fancy in which she imagined one or other gentleman as her devoted lover. What made these thoughts particularly tantalising, was her inability to decide which of the two gentlemen, whose characters were so entirely different, she preferred.

***

On a fine and sunny morning, Elizabeth decided to visit Lady Darlington, in part to get away from home, as her mother was in one of her nervous humours. Jane felt obliged to keep company with their suffering mother, so Elizabeth set out alone. She was not at all in a good temper, having recently read something which had caused her great distress. As she turned into the lane where lay the cottage, Elizabeth was astonished to find James Darlington seated upon his three legged stool, engrossed in a painting. It was the very same spot where she had first met him several months prior. He turned his head upon hearing her step and smiled warmly.

Elizabeth immediately spoke. “I hope you are not going to ask me to stand again beneath that tree, sir, for I am in no mood to oblige you.”

“I had intended to make no such request, Miss Bennet. As you can see, you are already painted. Your delightful form and features are so indelibly etched upon my mind, that I had not the slightest difficulty painting you entirely from memory. But you seem vexed, Miss Bennet; I earnestly pray that I have done nothing to offend you.”

Elizabeth did not choose to answer his question immediately. She moved silently behind him to survey his work. He had indeed painted her beneath the oak tree, and standing in exactly the same pose that she had taken in his previous work.

After a long silence, during which he worked assiduously to alter the colour and style of her dress to match the one she now wore, he spoke, almost apologetically. “The gentleman who purchased the winter landscape was most enthusiastic, and begged me to paint this same landscape in summer, as a kind of companion piece. He expressed a desire that the same young lady should be standing beneath the oak tree. I hope you do not disapprove, Miss Bennet?”

“Of your painting, no, Mr Darlington, I do not disapprove; it is every bit as fine as your earlier painting of this scene. And as to the liberty you have taken, in again including me in the painting, I am but little troubled. It is nothing compared to a far greater liberty you have taken concerning me!” she said crossly.

Her tone of voice was such that James Darlington put down his brush and palette and turned to face the lady, his expression a mixture of confusion and alarm. He looked at her entreatingly, but spoke not a word.

“You seem surprised sir? Perhaps it would help if you were to cast your mind back to a conversation we had some weeks ago at Longbourn, regarding your literary work. You declined at the time to reveal the name of your story which is currently being published in weekly instalments.”

“I am very sorry, Miss Bennet, and a little surprised, that my secrecy has so discomposed you,” he offered apologetically.

“You said it was a success, sir; so why would you wish to conceal its name from me? Surely you must be happy to have all your acquaintance read it? You may recall my confessing, at this very place, that I was not greatly knowledgeable in art; however, I am an avid reader of the modern novel, including the popular variety published in weekly and monthly instalments, that leave the reader waiting anxiously to learn whether the hero will defeat the villain and claim the hand of the beautiful heroine – even though one knows, of course, that it must end so. My Aunt Gardiner saves the instalments of such serialised stories for my sisters and myself, and sends them to us regularly. While visiting her in London, I began reading a wonderful new story which is become very popular.”

“Oh?” he muttered uneasily. “And may I ask the name of it?”

Elizabeth looked intently at the gentleman, who was avoiding her fiery eyes. Ignoring his question, she sternly demanded, “Pray tell me, sir, from whence come the characters and plots in your writing? Are they the creation of your imagination, or are they perhaps purloined from the people and events you encounter in your daily life?”

“All fictional writing, I believe, is inspired to some extent by the experiences of the writer. Each character is constructed – in part at least – from a person or persons he has met, or perhaps read of, or about whom he has received a report. Plots may incorporate real events if the author is lucky enough to lead an interesting life. Of course there will be embellishments and outright invention, as well.” The speaker was looking increasingly uncomfortable beneath the intensity of Elizabeth's gaze.

“Have you perhaps come across the sensational new author, Josephine Defoe?” Elizabeth asked accusingly. “She is the author of A Romance in Four Seasons, which is presently being serialised in The Observer. It is the story I began reading in London. A package, with the most recent chapters, arrived from my Aunt Gardiner only yesterday, and naturally I immediately read them; it is such a fascinating and engrossing tale. I am particularly eager to know how it will end. But perhaps you are able to tell me, Mr Darlington?”

“How did you guess?” he asked softly, hanging his head and continuing to avoid Elizabeth's eyes and conceal his reddened face.

“When she first recommended the story to me, my Aunt Gardiner told me I should find it amusing, especially since the heroine, Evelyn, seemed in some ways quite like myself. And the mother of her friend, Agnes, could almost be my own mother, could she not? And the villainous Edward Smythe is clearly modelled on George Wickham!”

“And my brother Edwin also – he's a bit of a mixture, really. So, how did you like it, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“I must admit that I liked it very much,” conceded Elizabeth grudgingly. “Until yesterday, when I realised that the heroine was an almost exact replica of myself – and guessed that Josephine Defoe was, in fact, James Darlington! How dare you take my character, sir, without seeking my consent?”

“But did you not like her? Did you not sympathise with her difficulties? Did you not find her entirely delightful and admirable?”

“That is hardly the point, Mr Darlington! Certainly your Evelyn is everything that is charming and beautiful. I particularly recall your description upon her entrance to the ballroom: ‘her eyes sparkled and lighted up the soul of every young man who beheld her.' I remember thinking that I had read those words before, but could not recall exactly where; and supposed that the author had stolen them from some poem or novel.”

“I would never do such a thing!” protested the gentleman vehemently.

“But now I realise exactly why those words sounded familiar – you spoke them to me, as I stood beneath that oak tree there, for your painting! Do you make a habit, sir, of flattering young ladies with extracts from your writing? Or was it the other way around perhaps? Were you testing the effect of the compliment upon me to determine if it would serve you in your story?”

James Darlington could not help but smile, despite the severity of the accusation. “You had it round the right way in your latter surmise, madam – although I most vehemently deny that I was testing a compliment upon you. I was completely overcome by your beauty, and thoroughly captivated by your sparkling eyes.”

Elizabeth shook her head doubtfully. “You are again attempting flattery, sir; this time to extricate yourself – having been badly caught out!”

“But this is most unjust, Miss Bennet. What I said to you that day was sincere, unstudied, and the honest response of my senses and feelings upon first meeting you. There was neither the intention to flatter, nor to contrive a situation which might afterwards be used in some literary context. Since you are aware that I have based my heroine Evelyn upon yourself, you can hardly find it surprising that when I imagine her, I think of you. And when I think of you, it is always your lovely eyes that first I see. I can assure you, I did not consciously intend to repeat any words that I have spoken to you on any occasion in my writing. They simply came spontaneously to mind as I pictured Evelyn – because in fact, I was seeing you… and your eyes.”

In attempting to justify himself, the gentleman had spoken with an intensity and warmth he would otherwise have restrained; and on which account he was clearly embarrassed. He quickly turned back to his easel and took up his brush and palette. “Please excuse me, Miss Bennet; I must finish my work before my colours dry on me.”

Elizabeth, too, was embarrassed. Her questions regarding his feelings were answered by his present embarrassment; by the warmth with which he had just now spoken of her; but most particularly because he admitted to modelling his heroine upon her. It was not difficult to surmise that the author had cast himself in the role of the hero, Jason, who was entirely smitten by Evelyn. But had he, in fact, based Jason upon himself, she wondered. Certainly there were many similarities, but there were also glaring differences. Perhaps their perceptions and judgements were at odds again – on this occasion concerning his own character, rather than that of Mr Darcy or Mr Wickham. In view of their mutual discomfiture, Elizabeth resolved to carry on quickly to the cottage, but she could not help but ask, “And is the character of your hero, Jason, based upon yourself, sir?”

Without turning from his work, he replied, “In part, yes. But I am not so conceited as to believe that my own character resembles that of the classic hero of a romance.”

“And do you wish to be like Jason?”

“No madam, not in the least. In creating a hero, the author strives for something that the general readership will find attractive; and that young ladies, particularly, will find desirable. Jason is designed to quicken the hearts of my female readers; I have not that sort of character, and I have no wish of it.”

“Yet your heroine, Evelyn, is very close indeed to my own character. So close in fact, that I must confess to finding the acuteness of your penetration rather disquieting.”

“Please, do not be alarmed, Miss Bennet. It is just that in your case – err, excuse me – I mean in the case of my heroine, Evelyn, I was not disposed to alter my vision to suit the general approbation; and yet, I felt confident that she would earn it just as you – I mean she – was.” The gentleman, who had turned about on his stool to face Elizabeth, quickly turned back again, and busied himself with his work.

Elizabeth was also embarrassed, and sought to turn the conversation away from herself. “Did the additions, alterations, and embellishments you made in order to transform your own character, into that of Jason, come from your imagination, or from some other person or persons?”

“Jason is almost an exact amalgam of myself and another gentleman; an acquaintance of mine – and of yours also, Miss Bennet. Can you not guess the identity of that gentleman?”

The answer hit Elizabeth with a jolt, sending a shiver down her spine. It was obviously Mr Darcy. Jason was depicted as the stately, proud, upright and gentlemanly heir to a great estate. No wonder I like Jason so much, thought Elizabeth, he combines the best qualities of the two gentlemen who exercise such a fascination over my mind.

“I suppose it must be someone like Fitzwilliam Darcy,” said Elizabeth lightly, feigning indifference, but in fact feeling acutely embarrassed; and desperate to avoid a discussion on the respective characters of Darcy and James Darlington. That gentleman was far too perceptive for her comfort, and she did not wish to provide him with the opportunity of gaining further insights – particularly regarding her feelings for either Mr Darcy or himself. “In that case, you did not make your hero arrogant enough!” she added, provocatively.

“Oh, so you still think Darcy arrogant, do you? But perhaps that characteristic of my hero's persona was taken from myself, rather than Darcy?” he said, turning his head and smiling.

Elizabeth turned away from him, and before walking briskly off in the direction of his mother's cottage, she fired a parting shot over her shoulder, “No, I meant you did not make Jason arrogant enough to do justice to the disposition of either Mr Darcy or yourself!”

***

Elizabeth was hardly surprised that James Darlington did not join his mother and herself in the kitchen; nor, that he was decamped from the lane when she passed by on her way home. As she walked towards Longbourn, she turned over the morning's conversation in her mind. It was clear that the gentleman had been at least as embarrassed as she. He had unintentionally revealed a very strong preference for her; even stronger, perhaps, than hers for him. She smiled to herself and wondered if he was as utterly in love with her as was his Jason was with Evelyn… or as Mr Darcy had professed to be with her, some weeks ago. No young lady could help but feel greatly satisfied in being so deeply desired.

Elizabeth saw James Darlington on only one further occasion before departing with her aunt and uncle into Derbyshire. He had endeavoured to apprehend her alone when he came to dine with them, and seemed most anxious to speak with her. At first, Elizabeth feared that she was about to receive – and would be reluctantly obliged to refuse – her third offer of marriage in barely twice as many months. Regardless of what she felt for the gentleman, it would be impossible for her to accept him, at least in his present circumstances. Perhaps if he succeeded in the literary world, and his mother and sister were well provided for and secure, she might then consider his addresses. But that could take many years, and would certainly require more than one or two successful novels. Despite everything she had said on the subject of the un-gentlemanliness of earning one's living in such a way, she knew it would not stop her from accepting him – if she decided that she loved him, above all others (something of which she was far from certain).

Luckily for Elizabeth she was spared the distress of breaking yet another poor man's heart, for it soon became evident that he was not begging for her hand – only her forgiveness. “Miss Bennet, before you depart from Hertfordshire, I wish to offer you my sincere apologies for taking your character and using it without your sanction for my heroine, Evelyn. It is something that authors do constantly, and it never occurred to me, until our recent conversation, that you might be displeased. I would never do anything that knowingly caused you pain, Miss Bennet; please believe me!”

Despite her relief that it was not a proposal of marriage, and the certainty that she must refuse him, Elizabeth felt a twinge of disappointment; and wondered not a little at her own conceit. She nevertheless put such thoughts aside and answered him kindly. “I do believe you, sir, and you are most heartily forgiven. And I apologise for bracketing you together with Mr Darcy in arrogance. Despite my revision of that gentleman's character, I still hold him to be proud and arrogant. In your case, however, what may at first seem like arrogance or conceit, is perhaps nothing more than a lack of modesty, which given your prodigious talents, you might find some difficulty in evincing.”

“It is exactly so, madam. I detest those social conventions which require one to act dishonestly – to pretend that one is something that one is not – be it better or worse than the fact. I believe in the forthright expression of my opinions of people – my own self included. False modesty is falsehood. And if, on occasion, I have exhibited feelings of great admiration, where social propriety decrees that they be hidden beneath banal courtesies… then I hope you will forgive me. Please understand me, Miss Bennet: I am by nature candid and artless; and if I have sometimes spoken too warmly, too ardently or too longingly, it was done without design, and without hope of…” He blushed and looked at his feet as he struggled to get the better of his emotions. “You well know the situation of my family, Miss Bennet, and the constraints it places upon me. Were I free to follow the dictates of my heart… but once again I have said too much,” he added, before turning and walking away.

Elizabeth could not help but be deeply touched by his words, and the hopelessness of his situation. But she was sensible enough to know that it was pointless to lament what might have been – but was not. Fortunately, her tour into Derbyshire would commence the following day, and there would be distractions aplenty to occupy her mind and save her having to decide how she might have answered him, had he thrown himself at her feet, and had his circumstances been different. It amused her to consider that had his circumstances, in fact, been different, he would never have come into Hertfordshire in first place, and so she should never have known the gentleman or his family. Her thoughts turned once more to the capriciousness of life, and how much of it seemed to depend upon chance. What next, she wondered, does chance hold in store for me?