The True Darcy Spirit (4 page)

The previous evening, dining with his old friend Joachim Winter, Henry Lisser had questioned him about the family at Rosings.

Herr Winter was a retired artist of some distinction, who had been obliged to lay down his brushes on account of rheumatism in his fingers. However, he had taken on a new career, as master to the many young ladies who lived in the neighbourhood, and who wished to improve their drawing and painting skills beyond the instruction that their governesses could provide. It became quite the thing among the families to employ Herr Winter; kind, tolerant and conciliatory, he was a great favourite with his young pupils.

It was fortunate for Cassandra that her grandmother, the formidable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, had agreed that she might learn with Herr Winter. Lady Catherine, who had been thwarted in her attempts to make her own sickly daughter, Anne, as accomplished as she would have wished, was determined that Cassandra was going to turn out the most accomplished young lady in the country. So when the governess, Miss Wilson, came to her ladyship with the suggestion that a master might be engaged to instruct Cassandra in drawing and water-colours, she was listened to.

“Pray, why cannot you instruct the girl?” was Lady Catherine’s immediate reaction.

This was rough ground, and must be got over as lightly as
possible—Miss Wilson’s brother was in the army, and she often thought of her life at Rosings in military terms. “Indeed, I can, and she has made good progress. However, there is a notable master come to live in Hunsford, a Herr Winter. He is retired, but is taking pupils: He goes to Croscombe House to teach the Croscombe girls, and Miss Emily is doing remarkably well under his tuition. The Tremaynes think so highly of him that they send a carriage over, twice a week, for him to attend at Hunsford Lodge, where he instructs Mr. Ralph, who has considerable talent in that direction, and all the Miss Tremaynes.”

“Croscombe House, you say, and Hunsford Lodge?”

“And several other pupils besides. He is so much in demand, that I fear he may be unable to take on any more at present.”

No master was going to refuse to teach Lady Catherine’s granddaughter. The amiable Herr Winter was summoned, subjected to an impolite interrogation as to his background and abilities, and informed that he was to have the honour of teaching Miss Darcy.

Fortunately, Herr Winter was possessed of a sense of humour, and he had taken a liking to this Cassandra, with her wide grey eyes and ill-contained energy. At first, he had expected no more of her than of his other female pupils, who needed to sketch and draw and do water-colours as an accomplishment and as an agreeable way to pass the empty hours of leisure, and he had been astonished to find in Cassandra a talent far beyond that of the usual run of young ladies.

Very soon discovering that there were few of his male pupils, in Germany or in London, who had ever shown more promise, he forgot about her sex and simply enjoyed unfolding to her the mysteries of his craft. “Art, I cannot teach,” he would always say. “That comes from the soul and cannot be taught.”

Water-colours and pastels weren’t enough for her, and by the time she was fourteen, she was already an accomplished painter in oils, a skill she took care to keep hidden from her mother. He would have liked her to tackle some bigger themes, but Cassandra was firm about where her tastes and skills lay: She could paint from nature well enough, for her early training with her father had made her observant,
and the liveliness of her flowers and trees and landscapes made them delightful, but her real love, and gift, was for portraiture.

Herr Winter showed some of her work to young Henry Lisser, who was duly impressed. “Were she not a young lady, and born into an English gentleman’s household, she could make a living from her brush,” he said.

“Look at the upstairs parlour at Rosings, if you are able,” Herr Winter said. “She painted the panels in there; they thought I did it, but she wanted to learn fresco techniques, and so I showed her, and let her do the work. It was irksome for me to take the credit and the fee, but the pleasure and pride she took in the work were their own reward for her, and the main reward for me. It is much admired, I could not have produced anything so charming myself, and I was besieged with requests from other houses to do a similar thing. I had to say that my fingers were giving me considerable pain, since otherwise it might be noticed that those exquisite pastoral scenes did not come from my brush.”

Henry Lisser shrugged. “It is a waste of a talent,” he said, almost to himself. “However, she will marry a country squire and settle down to be a wife or mother, as is her destiny.”

Herr Winter put Cassandra’s work back in its portfolio. There was a tiny frown on his amiable countenance. “Part of me hopes that this will be the case. But, with this particular young lady, I do wonder about her future. I think it may not be as you describe. Her life at Rosings is not altogether a happy one; I only hope that she does not break out some day, tired of the smallness of her life, and perhaps take some disastrous step that she will come to regret.”

Once Mr. Lisser began work at Rosings, he saw for himself what Herr Winter meant. However, he kept his thoughts to himself, and, in truth, he was not much interested in a set of persons whom, he imagined, he would never see again, once the painting was finished. He had a good deal of reserve, and liked to keep a professional distance between himself and his clients.

Mr. Partington tried to draw him out—what was his background, what were his antecedents?—but he gave little away. He had studied in Leipzig and Vienna and Paris, before coming to London, he said, and no more could be got out of him.

Mr. Lisser had been surprised to find that the family arranged in front of the view of Rosings that he was to paint was to consist of only five members of the family. Mr. Partington chose the grouping, with him standing protectively behind his wife, who was seated with her baby son in her arms. Their youngest daughter sat cross-legged at her feet, in a foaming muslin dress with a pink sash, and her older sister, similarly attired, sat on a nearby swing.

It was a charming composition, very much in the modern taste, showing a paterfamilias enjoying the pleasures of family life, and the dutiful and fecund wife serene and contented, under his care.

“You have another daughter,” Henry Lisser said abruptly. “Is she not to be in the painting?”

She was not, Mr. Partington said snappishly, since she was a Darcy, a mere stepdaughter, not a Partington. However, Mr. Partington would be very much obliged if Mr. Lisser would include one or two of his prized Shorthorn cattle in the picture.

Cassandra was exasperated. Belle had been introduced, thanks to Mrs. Croscombe, to several agreeable and handsome young men; why did her volatile fancy have to alight on Mr. Lisser? And while she might tell her stepfather that such an artist would be a welcome addition to the dinner table at many a lofty home, it didn’t mean that he would in any way be considered a suitable lover for a Miss Isabel Darcy, with a fortune of some thirty thousand pounds or more.

Belle was a flirt, a determined and accomplished flirt, and now her attention was fixed on Mr. Lisser, there was nothing Cassandra could do to prevent her cousin from playing off her tricks. And it seemed that Henry Lisser was not displeased by the pleasure Belle took in his company. When he was at work, his attention was focussed entirely upon his subject. He was grave and uncommunicative, saying little to his subjects, and those few words merely a request to move this way or that, or to place a hand or reposition an arm. He gave instructions to his assistant, as necessary, and sometimes spoke to Cassandra, as to a pupil, but in a low, indifferent voice.

To her admiration, he banished Belle from his presence while he painted, in a kind enough way, but with sufficient authority that she accepted his rejection with no more than a toss of her head. The children, of course, could not hold their poses for very long, so he had filled in their small shapes and then dismissed them, bidding them to
run along and play with their cousin Miss Belle. They skipped off, and he was left to do some more work on the patient Partingtons.

Cassandra was fascinated to see how he worked, it was so very different from her own style of painting. He took numerous sketches, charcoal or graphite, and had always a sketchbook in his hand, drawing the house from numerous angles: “You must see the whole in your mind, even while you only paint one view.”

Cassandra was full of admiration and questions. He asked to see her notebooks, making few direct comments, but suggesting a shading here, another grouping of a composition there, and gave her some valuable advice as to portraiture, although, as he said, his own genius did not lie in that direction. Oh, yes, he could paint figures in a landscape, but head and shoulders or full-length portraits were not for him.

“You should travel, Miss Darcy, it would be of great benefit to you to go to Italy, to study the works of the masters and also to see for yourself the landscapes of that country.”

“Italy! Why, Mr. Lisser, Bath would be an adventure for me, and as for London, I long to go there, but”—with a sigh—“it is not at present possible.”

Mr. Lisser remembered what Herr Winter had said about his talented pupil, and said no more about her painting or travel. Instead he wanted to talk about Belle.

“She is your cousin, I believe?”

“The relationship is not such a close one. We share great-grandparents through her father and my mother, and there is also a connection through my father, who was the younger son of a younger son. Belle’s father is the eldest son of an eldest son. Do you have brothers and sisters, Mr. Lisser?”

“I have a younger brother, and two sisters.”

“Are they artistic?”

“My brother is destined for the military. One of my sisters is a good musician, the other has no artistic bent that we are aware of.”

“And they live in Germany?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you chose to come to London to work.”

“There are reasons…” His face took on a reserved look. Then he smiled, a smile that transformed his features. “London is a good place for those who wish to make their way as a painter, and I have to earn my bread like this. In the future perhaps—”

“You will prefer different subjects, a different style?”

“I hope so. But meanwhile I can benefit from the English love of landscape, especially when a painting portrays their own handsome property set in the midst of it. I have noticed that these kinds of paintings and family portraits are what hang on the walls of most houses that I visit.”

Cassandra thought of the dozens of portraits that hung in the public rooms at Rosings and also in corridors and passages where they were never noticed. And on the top floor, a picture gallery ran the length of the central part of the house, where the finest portraits hung, from stiff Tudor faces, all very much alike, through the long, big-eyed, livelier Stuarts, a riot of lace and silk and satin, for the de Bourghs had always held to the royalist cause, to the wide-skirted and gold-laced men and women of the last century.

Belle came dancing into the room, a vision in a figured muslin, with a wide sash about her slim waist, and a fetching hat in her hand. Now, as he rose to his feet, Mr. Lisser had no eyes or thoughts for anyone but Belle; she was a minx, to lead him on like that. Cassandra stood up, too.

“I am going to show Mr. Lisser the gallery of family portraits,” she said.

“Oh, let me do that, you are wanted in your mama’s room, she asked me to look for you.”

Belle went off with Mr. Lisser, and Cassandra dutifully went to her mother’s chamber, where her mother was surprised to see her; no, she hadn’t summoned her, she had merely remarked to Belle that she might find her cousin downstairs with Mr. Lisser.

“And I wish, my love, that you will not spend so much time with Mr. Lisser. He is here to work, you know, not to talk.”

“He is giving me some very helpful advice, Mama.”

Mrs. Partington gave a faint smile. “He is very kind, but you must not presume upon his kindness. He is no Herr Winter, not a drawing master, but an accomplished artist, he is not to be wasting his time on your little drawings and sketches.”

“Thank you, Mama,” said Cassandra, whisking herself away before she should say something she would regret.

Mr. Partington also disapproved of the time Cassandra spent with Mr. Lisser, and told his wife so. “She is putting herself forward, it is always so. She talks to him as though she were an equal, another artist; very unbecoming behaviour in a young girl. And she is too often alone with him. While he has too much sense to take advantage, word will get around, tongues will wag. It is not appropriate for a Miss Darcy to be closeted for hours on end with a young man, however much their talk is of grounds and colours and form.”

“I have already mentioned the matter to her, my dear,” said Mrs. Partington in soothing tones.

So Cassandra had to snatch moments with Henry Lisser at such times as her mother was out visiting, and Mr. Partington was out inspecting a pig or giving instructions for his early wheat.

“I should like to paint Mr. Partington in his farmer’s smock,” said Mr. Lisser, showing Cassandra a sketch he had made without Mr. Partington’s knowledge. “He seems more at home out on the land than he does in the drawing room in his fine clothes. No, don’t frown, I am not speaking ill of your stepfather, I admire him for it. My father, also, is a keen farmer.” Again, that reserved look. Did he feel that his origins were low, that it was a disgrace to be the son of a farmer? Certainly, there was no hint of the clodpole about Mr. Lisser, his manners were polished and he was a man at ease in his company.

Although less so in Belle’s company; as the days passed, Cassandra noticed that he was stiff and uncomfortable when Belle was with them, and that there was a warmth in his eyes when he looked at her frivolous cousin that suggested his feelings for her might be deepening beyond mere flirtation.

There was nothing she could say, she could not advise a man several years her senior, a guest, a virtual stranger. But she did drop a hint
as to the reason why Belle was at Rosings. He laughed, genuinely amused. “Miss Belle is of a type, but she is good-hearted beneath the frippery, I believe.”

Cassandra couldn’t agree with him, she thought Belle entirely heartless, and especially so to lead on a man in Henry Lisser’s position; it could bring nothing but unhappiness to him, and even trouble in his professional life. Why could not Belle be more careful what she was about?

It irked her slightly that the eyes and suspicions of her parents and even her governess were directed at her. She liked and admired Mr. Lisser, she was anxious to learn all she could from him, but as a man, he did not interest her. She had not yet met a man who did.

She remonstrated with Belle, who gave a familiar toss of her head, and pouted, and said that Cassandra knew nothing about it, and she was not flirting with Mr. Lisser, nor had he captured her heart, the idea was absurd.

“I am very sure that is the case,” Cassandra said. “For I know how attached you are to your Ferdie.”

“Ferdie?” said Belle. “Oh, him. Yes, of course.”

“I do believe she has forgotten him,” Cassandra said to Emily on her next visit to Croscombe House. “She is the most cold-hearted, thoughtless girl I ever met.”

“I do not think she is heartless, exactly,” said Emily. “I think she likes to flirt, and men take it more seriously than she intends, and then she likes the excitement and drama of a supposed attachment that she knows will not meet with her family’s approval, however worthy the man, because she is so young. One day, she will find a man she can give her heart to, and then she will change, you will see, it will all be different.”

Cassandra supposed that on matters of the heart, Emily knew much better than she, but she still wished that Belle were not at Rosings just now.

The picture was going on excellently, Mr. and Mrs. Partington were very pleased, and busy discussing where it might hang. Not in the gallery, that was too out of the way, no one ever went there,
except the children in wet weather, when they slid up and down on the polished floor and played skittles. The great drawing room would be the best place, so fresh hangings and new wallpaper would be required. Samples of fabric and wall coverings were ordered down from London, and Cassandra’s mama became almost animated as she occupied herself with choosing and matching and planning.

Mr. Partington was out of doors most of the day, as the weather continued fine, and almost grudged the time required for his sittings. However, the picture was nearly done, it would soon be finished, would be taken to London for varnishing and framing, and then Mr. Lisser would be gone.

Belle grew melancholy at the prospect, and Cassandra began to suspect that Mr. Lisser was taking longer than necessary to finish his work. Poor deluded man; now, although she had rejoiced in his being in the house for so many hours each day, she longed for him to be gone, before Belle forgot herself, and found herself once again in disgrace.

It was not to be. It was Cassandra who found herself in disgrace, in deep and unjustified disgrace.

“Mrs. Lawton saw you, do not deny it,” her mother said, her voice tearful.

Mr. Partington was red with anger. “To be embracing a man, a guest in the house, and, I may point out, a man very much your social inferior, what were you about? If you had no thought for your own reputation, could you not consider in how difficult a situation you placed Mr. Lisser?”

“Shame on you for that,” cried her mother. “You have led him on.”

“Indeed you must have, for he is too sensible a man to behave in this way otherwise. I am outraged that such a thing should happen in my house,” announced Mr. Partington. “You will go to your room and stay there until I consider what is to be done with you.”

Why, Cassandra asked herself, had she not protested, defended
herself, said at once that she had not lingered in the shrubbery with Mr. Lisser, no, nor any man?

Partly because she was so shocked at her parents’ at once jumping to the conclusion that if any young lady were dallying with a young man, then it must be Cassandra. They had immediately blamed her, without seeking any further for the truth, or even considering that Belle, who, after all, had a history of such a kind of behaviour, might be the young lady in Mr. Lisser’s arms.

Nor did they seem inclined to hold Mr. Lisser himself at fault: They assumed he had been led on, had taken Cassandra’s free and easy ways for something quite else, and had supposed that it must arise from careless parents, who were not troubled to restrain and guide their daughter into a proper way of behaving.

She also felt a sisterly solidarity that meant she was reluctant to accuse Belle, who was, after all, already in trouble with her family. And she had an inkling that if she were the guilty party, Mr. Lisser would not be held so much at fault, whereas if he had been embracing Belle, then the guilt would be entirely his.

She wasn’t quite sure why this should be, but it was. So she held her chin high and said nothing as the tide of Mr. Partington’s wrath flowed over her. Once out of his presence, though, she went upstairs to her own chamber so swiftly that at the end she was positively running, anxious to reach the privacy of her room before giving way to the rage that threatened to overcome her.

She taxed Belle with it that evening, after a miserable dinner of bread and water; did her stepfather think he was living between the covers of one of those despised novels?

“It was you with Mr. Lisser, was it not?”

Belle pouted and hung her head.

“I am sure it was, so you need not trouble yourself to lie. Why do you not say so?”

A jumbled, mumbled speech came out, of her parents’ dismay, of not wishing to bring any harm to Henry—

Henry, forsooth? Cassandra said to herself.

—of her fear that he might be sent away, that she might be sent
away, that they might be parted; the words flowed disjointedly from Belle’s pretty lips, and her violet eyes brimmed with tears.

“And what if they send me away?” said Cassandra.

Belle brightened. “Why, it would be the best thing in the world for you to be away from Rosings.”

“What, under a cloud?”

“Oh, as to that, talk of clouds is all nonsense. What is a stolen kiss, after all? It is nothing so very much.”

“Kisses exchanged with a person of our own order might not matter so very much, as you say, but Mr. Lisser is not in that position. Besides, to my mother and stepfather it does matter. Mr. Partington is old-fashioned in his views.”

Belle cast Cassandra a long, thoughtful look. “He dislikes you, so I dare say he is building it all up, just so that he may send you away.”