Free A Private Performance by Helen Halstead Page B

musingly, he added, “Still, her ladyship’s loss was a gain for Lord Bradford, who has but a tottering uncle in his way to become marquess. The tragedy of Jeanette’s death may also prove invaluable to your new friend.”
    Â 
    In the Darcy carriage, Elizabeth sank back in weariness. Her husband found her hand in the darkness.
    â€œQueen of the Fair, I was so proud of you. You carried that off with wit as well as grace.”
    â€œI thank you, sir,”
    â€œI thank you,” he said.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œFor choosing me. Again.”
    â€œI feared it may be a dreadful blunder. Instead, everyone seemed to think I was rather sweet, which is a terrible blunder.”
    â€œI thought you would make a more politic selection—Lord Reerdon, for example. I was feeling a little jealous in advance.”
    â€œOf Lord Reerdon? Ugh! I thought you might rather not have the attention.”
    â€œNo, I did not object to that particular moment of prominence.” He paused. “Did you converse long with Mr. and Mrs. Foxwell?”
    â€œI saw the lady but briefly. I danced with Mr. Foxwell.”
    â€œHow did you find him?”
    â€œVery pleasant. My acquaintance with him is very short, so it must be difficult for me to judge. Why do you ask?”
    â€œI felt him to be somewhat constrained in manner. I asked his lady if he were in good health. She replied most vehemently that he will always be as he ever was.”
    â€œHow strange.”
    â€œStrange, indeed.”

CHAPTER 8
    M RS . C OURTNEY WATCHED E LIZABETH’S FACE for her reaction to Lady Englebury’s home and indeed Elizabeth was impressed. Light seemingly poured from two enormous sun-drenched seascapes in the hall. At the top of the stairs was an extraordinary forest, which seemed curiously real, with its deep purple shadows. The drawing room was characterised by an elegant plainness; the furnishings were the very best, but they were a mere backdrop for her ladyship’s collection of contemporary art.
    â€œYou are interested in my paintings, Mrs. Darcy? You have made a study of the subject?”
    â€œUnfortunately, I have but little talent for painting and, spending my life almost exclusively in Hertfordshire, I had few opportunities to look at exhibitions.”
    â€œExcellent!” barked the older woman. “The senseless daubs of the modern young woman are but poor imitations of art that died years ago, or ought to have died.”
    â€œI am sorry to hear that so many young ladies are expending their energies fruitlessly, your Ladyship.”
    Despite the marchioness’s penetrating stare, Elizabeth’s dark eyes looked serenely back.
    â€œHa! Ha! Come with me,” ordered the marchioness.
    On the boudoir wall, a creature created almost of light itself emerged from a cave.
    â€œThe birth of a soul,” murmured Amelia.
    â€œA pity the light generally goes out,” said her aunt. “Certain artists of today are seeing beyond the mere shapes of the objects before them. Some have the gift to share that insight with us.”
    Elizabeth said little. While she was fascinated to see paintings of a style of which she had only read, she felt unqualified to take a critical approach to them.
    She was struck by two landscapes hanging side by side, alike andyet so different. The sight of the very Derbyshire peak she had climbed with her husband took her breath for a moment.
    â€œThese paintings are of a place in Derbyshire,” she said. “The different light and weather make them almost seem different places. One is all gloomy desolation, and the other raptures of wildness.”
    The older woman looked at her sharply, suspecting a hidden significance in her remarks. She said, dryly:
    â€œOf course the viewers also have their private interpretation.”
    â€œThink you so, madam?” questioned Elizabeth, in mock doubt. “I daresay such a phenomenon is possible