Chapter Text
Rosings Park was undeniably beautiful, but it had far too many windows.
Elizabeth Bennet sighed as she sketched her twenty-eighth tiny rectangle. She used to like painting windows. Honestly, she did. There was a skill in painting glass which she had worked hard to attain. You had to make them shine, even if the sky was dull and cloudy.
Not that most clients wanted bad weather. They wanted to see their fine houses in sunlight, with the suggestion of a slight summer breeze in the grass. It probably didn’t matter to them at all that the clouds were painstakingly reflected twenty-nine, thirty times. Thirty little skies, not to mention their breathtaking mother looking grandly down at them. They only wanted to know that their home was captured for the ages.
So here was Rosings Park with its thirty… goodness, thirty-one!... windows.
At least Lady Catherine de Bourgh had not wanted to be in the painting. Elizabeth could do portraits just as well as landscapes. In fact, it was where she had earned most of her reputation. But the Lady seemed to prefer the beauty of her home to the interesting creases in her many chins. Elizabeth was glad. She knew how to make women look younger and fresher, but had no notion of how to smooth out half a century of scowls.
She had refused to be intimidated when she was introduced to Lady Catherine. She was not a supplicant, begging for attention like the wittering Mr. Collins. She had been asked to come here because she had something that Lady Catherine wanted. Not only that, but something that was impossible to get from another living soul.
Elizabeth was not a genius by any means, but her paintings had a glimmer of unconventionality which made them stand out among all of the stodgy works of her peers. She refused to resort to their lazy methods, charging extra for hands or pearls.
She should charge by the window, though. Elizabeth spotted another one, lurking behind the low wall towards the servants’ quarters. Thirty-two.
There wasn’t a hint of paint on the drawing yet, but it was obvious that Rosings Park would be under the same warm, blue spring sky as always. That convention was one that Elizabeth had never managed to shake, and she was not confident enough to argue with a woman like Lady Catherine about such a daring change. The Lady wanted her home to look timeless and welcoming, not ominous and cold. It was not accurate, however. It was late autumn, and the sky was a worrying shade of brown that spoke of snow.
Elizabeth was wearing some dainty gloves which Jane had made for her, but they were not enough to stop her fingers from trembling. Occasional cold splats fell onto her head, a gift from the mist-drenched trees that towered over her. Her drawing was protected under a clever folding shelter, but she was not. Lizzie shivered.
Thirty-two windows were enough. She had a complete sketch.
Well, except for one thing.
In the foreground, beside a noble oak tree, Elizabeth carefully outlined a small, delicate muddle of wild flowers.
That was where the rose would be.