“You will not forget to write? I am longing to hear all about it,” said Jane.

“I will write very regularly, and you must write to me, too,” said Elizabeth. “I want to know all about my nieces and nephews while I am away. I have an itinerary inside; I will give you a copy before you leave, and then you will know where we will be at any given time. If you send your letters to the British Consuls, they will hold the letters for us until we arrive, for we will be travelling at a leisurely pace and the post will go more quickly than we do.”

“This artist of yours, is he any good?” asked Bingley.

“He comes highly recommended,” said Darcy, “but I hope to see for myself when I invite him to stay with us before embarking on our voyage. I intend to call on him to issue the invitation.”

“Would it not be better to write?” said Bingley. “You will give him more time to prepare if you do.”

“Which is exactly why I intend to call. I would like a chance to see his studio so that I can examine some of his work without him having arranged it all for me in advance.”

“His studio is, I fear, nothing more than an attic,” said Elizabeth. “The address was not in a good part of town. You must not expect too much.”

“Never mind. If the young man has talent, then I mean to give him the opportunity to rise in the world. If I like his work, I am thinking of commissioning a whole set of paintings from him, so that we will have a pictorial record of our trip.”

“I like that idea,” said Elizabeth, “but we will be away for months, and if he is to paint everywhere we go and everything we do, we will need a new gallery at Pemberley!”

“Well, and why not? Each generation of Darcys adds something to the house. We will add an Egyptian gallery. We might collect some antiquities, too. And once we return, I will be able to introduce him to many more patrons. There is nothing I would like more than to make his fortune, if he deserves it.”

Elizabeth was gratified. It was one of the more wonderful things about their position, that it gave them an opportunity to encourage those with talent, and she found herself looking forward to all the paintings, with their exotic backgrounds, which were to come.

“You must bring some antiquities back for us, you know,” said Bingley. “Upon my honour, I think a few Egyptian vases would look well in the hall. Do you not think so, Jane?”

“If you would like some, then I have no objection,” said Jane. “But I would rather have some Egyptian cotton; it is supposed to be very fine.”

As the two women began talking of fabrics and sheets, dresses and shirts, the gentlemen excused themselves and went down to the lake to fish.

“Upon my honour, this is a daring enterprise,” said Bingley, as he reeled in his line, only to find a tangle of weed on the other end. He removed the weed and then cast it again.

“The trip to Egypt or entertaining Mrs Bennet in London?” asked Darcy.

Bingley laughed.

“I meant the former, but perhaps the latter will be more of a trial. We have just come back from Longbourn, where Mrs Bennet spoiled the children dreadfully. Charles and Eleanor have taken no harm from it, Charles being too old and Eleanor too young, but I was glad to bring Eliza and Harry home before they were thoroughly spoiled. And so you will be leaving us in July. How long do you mean to stay away?”

“For six months at least. The journey will take several months each way, and we intend to spend some time travelling down the Nile when we arrive. We will go so far from home only once, and we mean to make the most of it.”

Bingley felt a tug on his line and landed a fish, and shortly afterward, Darcy’s own line gave a jerk. It was with a sizeable catch, at last, that they returned to the house, where the fish were taken to the kitchens and served as one of the dishes at dinner.

Afterward, Jane and Bingley did not linger, wanting to be home before dark.

“Dear Lizzy,” said Jane, embracing her sister. “I do not suppose we will see you again before you leave. Have a safe journey and remember to write.”

Elizabeth promised to do so and the Bingleys departed. Then she went into the drawing room, where she wrote to the London housekeeper, apprising her of the fact that the Darcys would be entertaining five house guests when they returned to London, prior to their departure for Egypt.

***

June arrived, and with it the day of their departure for London drew nearer. The children had all but forgotten about the coming trip, having been engrossed in their summer activities at Pemberley, but their excitement began to mount as the boxes were packed, for the journey to London signalled that the journey to Egypt was not far behind.

Almost as soon as they reached London, Mr Darcy called on Paul Inkworthy. The artist’s home was in a poor part of town, with narrow cobbled streets and overhanging gables. The houses were a relic of the sixteenth century, their black-and-white buildings giving evidence of the neighbourhood’s Tudor heritage.

Darcy found the address, mounted the three precarious wooden steps, and knocked on the crazily askew front door.

There came a drunken shout from inside, followed by the sound of someone falling over, and then a window opened overhead, and a woman peered out.

“Aw, my life, it’s a swell,” she said, before shutting the window and running heavily downstairs to open the door.

“I am here to see Mr Inkworthy,” said Darcy.

“Yes, sir, right this way, sir,” said the woman, wiping her greasy hands on her even greasier apron.

Darcy followed her into the ill-lit interior and up several flights of rickety stairs, until she stopped on the uppermost landing, which was inches deep in dust.

“’Ere you are, sir,” she said, bobbing him something that resembled a curtsey and holding out her hand.

Darcy put a coin into it and knocked on the attic door. A familiar voice called, “Come in,” and Darcy opened the door, walking into the large attic room with a sharp sense of interest. It was bare of any furniture, save for a bed, a table, and a chair; but canvases, sketchbooks, paintbrushes, and all the paraphernalia of an artist’s studio filled the large space. An easel stood over by the east-facing window, and on it stood a painting, while in the corner farthest from the easel, cleaning a paintbrush, was Paul Inkworthy.

The artist had his back to him, and Darcy had a chance to examine him for a moment, curious to know more about the young man who was to accompany them on their travels.

Mr Inkworthy looked much the same as he had on their previous meeting, and yet there was something different about him. He was still tall and thin—Darcy found himself wondering when the man had last had a good meal—and his dark, curly hair still fell in an unruly profusion over his collar, but he had an air of confidence about him that had been lacking before. It was evident in the line of his back and the angle of his head.

Darcy nodded thoughtfully. Before, Inkworthy had been in someone else’s salon. Here, he was in his own studio, the master of all he surveyed—a small domain, it was true, but one full of riches.

Darcy walked over to the easel and was surprised to see a half-finished portrait of Elizabeth standing on it.

“Ah, yes,” came a voice at his side.

He turned to see Mr Inkworthy, who had joined him noiselessly and was looking critically at his own work.

“You have painted my wife,” said Darcy.

Some of the artist’s former nervousness returned.

“Yes,” he said, uncertainly, as if he realised he had committed a faux pas by painting another man’s wife when not expressly asked to do so. But then the artist in him took over and he said, “I could not resist. It is the eyes, you see, they are so very fine. I noticed them as soon as I was introduced to her. It is not just the colour and shape, nor the fineness of the lashes, but the expression in them. It is extraordinary.”

He stood looking at his portrait, lost in thought.

“You have caught it very well,” said Darcy, impressed.

“No.” The artist shook his head. “I have caught something of it, it is true, but my memory failed me at a critical juncture. I should have taken a sketch at the time but I neglected to do so, for which I have been cursing myself ever since. I could not remember the light in them, the exact glow, the sense of spirit… But I will capture it, I promise you. Now that I am to go to Egypt with you, I will have time to study those eyes at my leisure.”

“Which brings me to the object of my visit,” said Darcy. “Mrs Darcy and I”—he caught himself stressing Mrs, since the young man was so appreciative of Elizabeth, and since the artist possessed a certain charm. “Mrs Darcy and I would like you to join us at Darcy House tomorrow, so that you may spend a few days with us prior to setting out on our journey. It will give you an opportunity to become acquainted with us, with our children, and with our travelling companions: my cousin, the Honourable Edward Fitzwilliam; and a family friend, Miss Sophie Lucas.”

Mr Inkworthy looked dazzled at such a prospect but managed to murmur his thanks. “I will need to bring my things with me,” he added. “I hope there will be room for them all?”

“I am sure we can accommodate them,” said Darcy with a smile, remembering the size of Darcy House—remembering, too, the spacious quarters he had arranged for them on the ship he had commissioned to take them to Egypt and the size of the house he had rented there.

The artist looked relieved, saying, “Then I will join you tomorrow, if that is convenient.”