Jane in January: Inspiration, pt 1

Inspiration is a peculiar thing. Personally I find it flighty, fleeting, hard to catch, and harder to predict. It would be lovely to say I do this or go here or listen to that for inspiration. That would make my life so much easier.

But, alas, my muse who takes the avatar of a humming bird most days is hardly so cooperative.  Said little bird chooses to alight in the oddest places, at the oddest times. A tiny flower caught in a spider’s web became an entire fantasy world  of creatures hiding in plain sight (still working on that tale). A story structure I found in a movie became the launching point for Jane Austen’s Dragons. National Ice Cream Day led to How Jane Austen Kept her Cool: An A to Z history of Georgian Ice Cream. Sometimes a single word can get me going like … library …hmmm … what could happen at a library … what unexpected thing could happen at a library … hmm there’s a short story in that … no wait, there’s more to it. There’s a whole book in that. Thus A Most Affectionate Mother was born.

So, when we came upon the theme for Jane in January–Inspiration– my first thought was, I have no clue. I have no idea how to find inspiration. But the more I thought about it, well, the more inspired I got and the little hummingbird came in for a short landing. So I offer you a short story about a certain artists inspiration–and often lack there of…


Darcy set down his paintbrush and flexed his shoulders. How long had he spent staring at the rough sketch on his canvas? Judging by the shadows the two easels cast on the scuffed wood floor and the vague chill that had crept into the air, it had been hours. The light through the attic windows was waning. Might as well stop the exercise in futility now.

“Are you finished?” Charles Bingley peeked around his easel and waved a paintbrush at him, flinging little gobbets of paint onto the floor. Was that how he had managed to get paint in his hair?

That sort of mess was precisely why he did not bother to have this floor properly finished and the room was largely devoid of furnishings except what was used to store his supplies.

“Hardly.” Darcy turned his back and fiddled with his paints. Ultimately a servant would come and clean up for him, but perhaps if he appeared occupied, Bingley would not continue to press for conversation.

“I cannot thank you enough for inviting me to use your studio space. You were right, the attics at Darcy House offer the most marvelous light in the whole of London I should say.” Bingley wiped his hands on this paint-stained apron and sauntered toward him. Even his confident steps sounded intrusive.

Darcy grumbled and muttered under his breath.

“Still blocked, are you?” Bingley inspected Darcy’s canvas from several angles. “Not a lick of paint on the canvas all morning?”

“As you can see.” No, it was not polite to snarl, but Bingley had earned it.

Bingley pulled Darcy’s high stool near and perched one hip on it. “I am hardly the artist you are, but even I can see you are in quite a muddle here. You have never been so stymied in all the time I have known you. Back in school you were at the canvas every spare moment you had, producing quite accomplished works regularly.”

“How kind of you to remind me of the height from which I have fallen.” Darcy rolled his eyes and turned his back on Bingley.

“I am worried about you. Never have I seen anything drive you to distraction as this seems to have.”

“Should I thank you for stating the obvious?” Darcy dropped his brush. A large smear of burnt umber appeared on the floor where it fell.

“Let me help you.”

He whirled to face Bingley. “And exactly how do you propose to do that? Will you take my hand in yours and apply paint to the canvas for me?”

Bingley laughed, that easy, warm chuckle he had always had. His good nature could be maddening at times like these. “Hardly. It is no secret that I will never be the sort of artist you are—and that I do not resent you for your talent. I dabble for my own amusement, but you—you paint as though your very life and soul were poured into the efforts, as though it was a matter of life and breath that you create your works. And it is tearing you to pieces that you have produced nothing in how long is it now?”

“Six months.” The words sounded like a death sentence.

“So then, allow me to help you.”

“What do you propose?” Why did he even ask? There was nothing anyone could do for him until this awful bleakness passed of its own accord.

“You have been holed up in this studio for months, with nothing but the sights of London to inspire you. You need to get away. Come with me to Hertfordshire. I mean to rent a house there, get the feel of having an estate you know. I could use your advice. And if Netherfield Park is suitable, you can stay with me there. Perhaps the countryside will present you with some heretofore elusive inspiration.”

The idea was dreadful and intriguing all at the same time. Leaving London meant travel, and that was inconvenient. And it meant dealing with people, meeting with them, interacting with them, probably hating them. But staying in town was doing him no good, either. “I suppose I can accompany you before I return to Pemberley.”

***

The journey to Hertfordshire had not been unpleasant—a few hours on horseback in fine September weather were good for the soul. And what was good for the soul was also good for one’s muse. Certainly, it had not been brought back to life, not yet, but there were vague stirrings within, the kind related to creative energies, not the revenge of last night’s supper.

Perhaps Bingley was right. There was something about the countryside, or perhaps it was about being in an unfamiliar place with so much potential for discovery. Whatever it was, creative surges bubbled and teased, tickled and prodded his heart and mind as they had not in months. For that reason alone, he would have recommended that Bingley take Netherfield. Luckily the house and grounds were good, so he could make his endorsements with a clear conscience.

 

October 15

After just over a fortnight in the country, it was difficult to pronounce Bingley right or wrong. Darcy had produced two landscapes—one of the Netherfield house itself—and a still life of some random bric-a-brac scavenged from various rooms of the house. They were journeyman’s efforts at best, hardly anything to be proud of and certainly not satisfying to behold. But they were the first completed canvases he had produced since Easter and the dreaded visit to Rosings Park. It was difficult not to curse Aunt Catherine for that.

Perhaps that was the source of his troubles now. Ever since she started pushing him to fix a date for his wedding to Anne, all creative impulses had ceased. But how could they not? Contemplating life fixed to that dry, wizened shell of a woman who scarcely had an original idea of her own. By Jove, she barely said a word of her own volition! He could feel his soul withering in his chest every time he shared space with her. How could he possibly be expected to live like that?

Chest tightening at the very thought, he paced his spacious guest quarters. Perhaps he could outrun the sensation.

Bingley pounded on his door. “Are you nearly ready, Darce? The ladies are in the parlor waiting for us.”

Darcy glanced in the mirror and straightened his cravat. His valet had done a good job tonight, not that he had anyone to impress in this quaint market town. “I am coming directly.”

Bingley’s distinct footfalls strode away.

A simple country assembly should not be such a trial; surely none would agree it was something to be dreaded. And yet it was so. Dancing with unfamiliar partners was abhorrent, and truth be told embarrassing. Inevitably he would find himself staring at his partner, analyzing the shape of her eyes, the lines of her nose, the usually imperfect symmetry of her face, how it might be subtly and skillfully improved when rendered in charcoal or pastel.

Such attentions, when noticed, were bad enough, but heaven help him if his eyes drifted lower, to necklines that were far too intriguing in the way they played with light and shadow. No young lady had ever been able to accept that such attentions were artistic not—ah, more personal in nature. They expected he meant far more than he ever did, and it never ended well.

Perhaps tonight though, with his muse on its way to being renewed, he could avoid such uncomfortable encounters. If not, there was always the card room.

 

Traffic filled the street as Bingley’s coach approach the assembly rooms. Ordinary and unassuming was the best that could be said of them. Absolutely the best. The rest was not appropriate to dwell upon and could very well poison him for the rest of the evening. Afterall, how was one to enjoy themselves in an environment so drab, dreary, and awkward? Was not beauty an essential quality of any such event?

They picked their way across the muddy street and waited their turn to enter the assembly rooms. Faded, tired blue covered the walls. It might have been appealing as a robin’s egg when newly painted, but now it just whimpered to leave it alone and let it rest. Scuffed, even gouged in places, the floors cried out of mercy. And the paintings littering the walls—enough! Such thoughts were absolutely not helpful.

Presently, a round faced, red cheeked, potbellied man wearing a Master of Ceremonies sash greeted them. He seemed a bit pompous, full of himself, as though he were at an assembly in Bath as he offered to make introductions. Bingley readily agreed as Darcy stifled a sigh.

The whole experience of being paraded around and introduced was to be expected—and dreaded. It was simply what happened at such venues. Still though, from the looks the party garnered—and the glances fixed on Darcy alone—it was clear that their servants had already taken care of circulating word of the general level of wealth and connection they brought with them.

It should not bother him that the entire room seemed ready to approve of him and gladly admit him into their acquaintance on so little a recommendation. Aunt Catherine would have declared it was the right and proper reaction, and it was in fact their due being part of the best society in England. Many would agree with her, but Darcy did not. Beauty and admirable qualities were often found quite outside such trivial circles. Many times, it lurked in unexpected arenas. But Aunt Catherine would hardly admit such uncouth ideas.

But now was definitely neither the time nor the place to risk discovering intriguing sorts of beauty. Acquainted with no one in the room, he could not risk it. So, he danced once with Mrs. Hurst, whose beauty was unremarkable to be sure, and once with Miss Bingley, who was attractive enough, but in the ordinary sort of way of the upper class.

What would her reaction be if she knew he found her beauty common enough to be of little note? How angry she would be—then she might be of more interest. Women could be fascinating when they were angry—the subtle expressions of their eyes, the tension in their throats…but Miss Bingley would hardly appreciate such things.

Once he had danced those two sets, he spent the rest of the evening walking about the room, speaking only to those of his own party, much to the general disapproval of the denizens of Meryton. The way they looked at him and whispered among themselves. No doubt they had decided he was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world. It was not the first time he had seen those looks, and doubtless would not be the last. At least at home in Derbyshire, he was better regarded, having had the opportunity to demonstrate his true character. Perhaps, his muse willing of course, he would return there in a few weeks, able to pursue his art in the sanctuary of his own home surroundings.

He paused in his circuit around the room. Bingley had found a lovely partner, probably the prettiest girl in the room. He and she danced together particularly well. So well in fact that Bingley wore a decidedly puppyish smile as he gazed at her. Lovely, he had found yet another ‘angel’ for his attentions. What was her name? Miss Bennet? Whatever it was, they twirled their way in grace and elegance to the end of the line and paused, their turn to wait out a set of the music.

Bingley looked over his shoulder and sauntered toward Darcy. “Come, Darcy, I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”

Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose and turned aside. Why did Bingley have to make a public spectacle of this? “I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment for me to stand up with.’”

Bingley offered a sound that seemed half-chuckle, half-snort. “I would not be so fastidious as you are for a kingdom! Upon my honor, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty.’”

“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room.”   That was not entirely true. There were any number of handsome women, but all of them ordinary—the kind one might encounter anywhere. Entirely uninspiring.

“Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”

“Which do you mean?” He looked over his shoulder. Heavens above! A nymph, or maybe a dryad sat against the wall regarding the dancers. Her features favored Bingley’s partner, but there was something different about her. Something remarkable. Something entirely unique that he had never seen before.

Something he had to paint. His fingers tingled and his hands twitched.

She looked up at him and caught his eye. Bollocks! He had been caught staring. But her reaction was so peculiar. She did not blush or stammer or otherwise try to garner his notice or call attention to the fact he had been staring. She merely smiled with a tiny nod. What ever could she mean?

He looked away and spoke just a little louder. “She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me. I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.” Of course he did not mean a word of that, but what else could he have possibly said when Bingley was ready to be far more helpful than Darcy could tolerate?

Bingley rolled his eyes and drew breath for what would surely be one of his lengthy diatribes, but the first notes of the next repetition of the music drew him back to his partner and delivered Darcy from an unpleasant conversation—at least for the moment.

The young woman had turned her shoulder toward him, probably thinking she was delivering some sort of subtle cut. But he could hardly have asked for more. From this angle, he could study the intriguing line of her neck and back, the graceful craft of her ear and the barest suggestion of the silhouette of her face. His heart beat a little faster. How much longer before they could be away from this place and back to his paints?

 

***

The next morning Darcy woke at dawn. The rest of the household would sleep until noon or even later after such a late night. But how could he sleep when his paints called? All night he had dreamt of laying brush to canvas; he could not wait a moment more. His heart would surely burst if he did.

He rushed through his morning toilette without his valet who would only distract him and complicate the muddle of his thoughts. He forced himself to think of each step lest he missed something significant as his mind struggled to leap ahead to the project he had completed in his dreams.

At last, his canvas perched on his easel in a beam of morning sun. Trembling fingers tightened around a pencil as he sucked in a deep breath. There was something almost sacred about a pristine canvas. The act of marking it could be almost profane, especially when inspiration eluded him. But now, now was different. The pencil glided down, around, over, through curves, with a hint of shadow. It seemed only moments later that the rough blocked forms of a nymph admiring her reflection in a reflecting pool took shape.

Yes! Yes, exactly as he had seen it in his mind’s eye. His fingers tingled as power surged through eyes, arms and hands, colors and images taking shape before him.

“Darcy? Darcy…”

Darcy jumped, nearly dropping his brush. “What are you doing here? I understand I am in your house, but since when has that negated the need to knock on a closed door?”

“Since I have been knocking for a full five minutes with no answer from you.” Bingley folded his arms across his chest.

“You jest.”

“Not at all. I would wager you have been at your easel since dawn by the look of you.” Bingley’s right eye twitched with something of a wink.

“What of it?”

“Have a look outside, what do you notice about the sun?”

Darcy blinked and peered out the window. No, that was not possible. Surely only an hour, maybe two had passed.

“It is nearly sundown and you have no idea. It has been quite some time since I have seen you this way.” Bingley peered over Darcy’s shoulder. “I can see why. Very impressive. I have never seen this sort of work from you—it is inspired, truly inspired. You almost expect the nymph to rise up off the painting daring you to give her chase. I only wish I could see her face.”

“Her face?” Something sucked the air from his lungs leaving him dizzy and weak.

“Yes, you have painted her from a distance, behind and to the side. Did you not even realize that?”

Darcy stared at the painting as if for the first time. Bingley was right, her face was hidden, just barely silhouetted against the trees. It was not meant to be seen, it was part of the mystery of the scene. But what if she turned? What would that be like?

“Wait, wait, I know that look in your eye. You are already sketching the next work in this series. Do not deny it, I can tell. Before you get any farther in the process, I insist you come down to dinner. You have eaten nothing today and knowing you, you will eat nothing if not forced until this inspiration is complete. So, consider yourself forced, and come down right now. The light is gone in any case. You can do no more today.”

Darcy grumbled under his breath. But Bingley was right, there was not enough light for real work tonight. He might as well eat. He would bring his sketch book down to the parlor—firelight was sufficient to that endeavor. At least that way he could make the time he would have to sit with his host and his sisters at least somewhat productive.


54 comments

Skip to comment form

    • Megan on January 4, 2019 at 2:00 am
    • Reply

    Love it!! I can’t claim to be that level of artistic (I sew, scrapbook and occasionally write poetry) but I do know what it is to have an idea grab you and not let go until you get it down somehow. I’ve read several stories that have Darcy as an artist and all of them have (at least to me) a report wealth of felling to Darcy that words don’t always do justice to. Thanks for sharing and I look forward to reading more of this one (please!)

      • Megan on January 4, 2019 at 2:03 am
      • Reply

      Deeper wealth of feeling to Darcy (this is why comments should wait till fully awake for better proofreading)

      1. I know what you mean about the proofreading–must have caffeine before I post anything else…well who knows what might happen?

    • Buturot on January 4, 2019 at 2:27 am
    • Reply

    I say Darcy was so entranced … to paint all day and not hear Bingley’s knock/call. I wondered why he didn’t do a close up picture of Elizabeth looking at her reflection in a pond. Wonder if it is a meaning for Darcy, that she is yet unreachable/unattainable so it is a vague face for the nymph residing in his thoughts.

    Appreciate for sharing an exerpt of your new story

    1. What a beautiful way of looking at it! Thanks!

    • Taswmom on January 4, 2019 at 3:35 am
    • Reply

    I love it! She’s already his muse, and most surely dislikes him! I can’t wait, well, I don’t want to wait, to be more literal, for more of this story!

    1. Thanks so much. I hope the future installments satisfy!

    • Glynis on January 4, 2019 at 4:23 am
    • Reply

    Well I imagine this will be the reason Darcy stares at Elizabeth every time they meet. Now if only he’d danced with her instead of insulting her!!!
    I hope he does do some paintings of her face and that she sees them then maybe she will know how he feels about her??
    I look forward to reading what does actually happen next.

    • Sarah on January 4, 2019 at 5:19 am
    • Reply

    Darcy the artist is an inspired subject as far as I’m concerned. Love this. Thanks Maria.

    • Mary on January 4, 2019 at 5:34 am
    • Reply

    A series of paintings all based on Lizzie? Very clever!
    Loved this story. Thank you for sharing.

    1. Darcy would not be the first painter who had a very specific favorite model!

    • Doris on January 4, 2019 at 7:55 am
    • Reply

    I like it and am waiting how the painting/s will be reveiled and Elizabeth will know she is Darcy’s muse. But what will happen in the meantime and how will she react??
    Successful word-painting 🙂

    1. Thanks Doris! I’m waiting to see how Elizabeth reacts too. I know when it will happen, but not yet how she’ll respond.

    • meg on January 4, 2019 at 8:03 am
    • Reply

    I’m intrigued with this Darcy and hope that you develop the story into a full fledged novel – after all it’s starting near the beginning of JA’s original with an intriguing snippet into Lady Cat and another reason why D would travel to Netherfield with Bingley.
    Also of interest is how you’re weaving internal monologue with narration and occasional dialogue. The different voices seem to work seamlessly.
    Thanks for sharing!

    1. Thanks–I really excited you noticed the structural experiment I’ve got going on here. Sometimes I like to try a different approach to story telling just to see how it flows. I’m glad this one is working out well.

    • Theresa M on January 4, 2019 at 8:46 am
    • Reply

    love it! I regularly o through painitng blocks so and i think you have aptly described the artist feelings! Thanks for your story.

    1. Thanks so much! I’m glad I captured it well.

    • Ruth (more or less) on January 4, 2019 at 8:49 am
    • Reply

    Love it!

    1. 🙂

    • Carol hoyt on January 4, 2019 at 10:42 am
    • Reply

    You have a special talent for finding the unique story line which others follow.
    A great beginning. Can’t wzit to see how it unfolds.

    1. Thanks, Carol!

    • Hollis on January 4, 2019 at 10:53 am
    • Reply

    Darcy and Bingley are painters, how interesting!! Will Darcy be oblivious to Lizzy or will he need to draw more inspiration from her? (draw, get it?? 🙂 ) hehehehe I’m so funny!!!

    Great beginning, can’t wait to hear how it goes!!!

    1. Thanks! I’m a little interested to see when this ends up too!

  1. Would love to see this as a novella, Maria. Are you considering more? I hope so. Love the premise and look forward to seeing where it leads. 🙂

    1. I’ve got four installments planned at the moment. Then we’ll see what happens. Sometimes the muse isn’t so good about filling me in on her plans…

    • Patricia Edmisson on January 4, 2019 at 11:57 am
    • Reply

    At first, I thought this was going to be a modern version. But then read about the riding to Hertfordshire.

    Intriguing. I like it.

    1. I probably need to fix that. Didn’t mean to be confusing!

    • Nancy Duell on January 4, 2019 at 12:48 pm
    • Reply

    Maria
    You are amazing. Your inspiration has taken you on a new adventure. How is he going to approach Elizabeth to paint her?

    1. You know that’s a great question, for which I wish I had a great answer. But I don’t–not yet. Still waiting to see how that sorts itself out.

    • DarcyBennett on January 4, 2019 at 12:57 pm
    • Reply

    Loved that he has found inspiration after the ball with his new muse.

    1. I’m not sure if he’ll feel the same in the long run. I think his muse like to torment him.

    • J. W. Garrett on January 4, 2019 at 1:18 pm
    • Reply

    OMG!!! This is magical. It is inspired. It is marvelous. I feel drawn into the story by the sheer power of the words. It is as gripping as when I first started reading the dragon series. I love this Darcy. My fingers tingle and I want to know more of him. Whew! I don’t have the words to convey what I even want to say. This is just… most excellent. Please, please keep writing on this. I love this artistic Darcy. Either you draw or know someone who does. That passion, that drive, to put paint on canvas is not something you can simply make up. You have to know that feeling. Beautiful, just beautiful.

    1. Thanks J.W. I wish I could draw, but alas that is not my gift. I think though that there is a great deal of similarities in creative urges experiences by those who are driven to create. That’s was I was drawing from.

    • Eva Edmonds on January 4, 2019 at 1:22 pm
    • Reply

    I certainly did not expect Darcy to be an artist. So, what did Lady Catherine do to trouble Darcy so that he was unable to paint. It seems that there is nothing about Georgianna and Ramsgate. I can’t wait to see if the Muse ends up with Elizabeth’s face and that will startle so many!

    1. There will definitely be some startling moments coming up!

    • Beatrice on January 4, 2019 at 2:31 pm
    • Reply

    Lovely. And a totally new approach that explains so much about Darcy’s character… Thank you for this.

    1. Thanks! Its a really interesting lens to see him through.

    • Linda A. on January 4, 2019 at 4:11 pm
    • Reply

    Very nice! I hope he isn’t actually engaged to Anne… Thank you for sharing.

    1. I don’t think it’s a spoiler to tell you he’s not engaged to Anne.

    • Carole in Canada on January 4, 2019 at 5:43 pm
    • Reply

    So now we know your ‘Muse’ is really a ‘hummingbird’!! So can we convince you to make this short story a novella or novel? I love the idea of Darcy feeling that tingling in his fingers to paint Elizabeth and how absorbed he becomes in his art. Can’t wait to see what Elizabeth’s reaction will be as the month continues.

    1. Thanks for asking Carole. The truth is I don’t know yet. I’ll have to see what the must is doing when the month is through and then maybe. It has been know to happen… Thanks!

    • Aliki on January 4, 2019 at 6:01 pm
    • Reply

    I’m intrigued so far; BUT your dragon books/blog stories are still my favorite so far. I’m a Pern fan too 🙂

    1. Thanks! I’m definitely a Pern fan too!

    • Mary Coble on January 5, 2019 at 12:35 pm
    • Reply

    Wonderful story! I am anxious to see how the paintings will show the progression of Darcy’s feelings. I wonder when Lizzie will see them. Will it be accidentally? Are the paintings what will help change her feelings about Darcy? So many possiblilities! I cannot wait to see what you create!

    1. The reveal of the paintings is going to be interesting for sure. I think I know what will happen, bit never know for sure until words are on the page.

    • Meg on January 5, 2019 at 1:55 pm
    • Reply

    A more sensitive side to Darcy as an artist! That adds a dimension to his character not seen before.

    1. Yeah! Hoping to offer something a little unique.

    • Joana Starnes on January 6, 2019 at 7:57 am
    • Reply

    Such a beautiful excerpt, Maria! Thank you for sharing it with us. Wonderful to imagine Mr Darcy and his Hertfordshire muse. Especially if he persuades her to sit for him. Can’t wait to see what happens next!

    • Sarah B on January 8, 2019 at 1:32 pm
    • Reply

    Hmmm….Darcy as an artist, this should be interesting, I look forward to seeing how this plays out.

  2. Absolutely mesmerizing!! I think that many of us become that absorbed when we write; I can lose hours without even realizing it. With so many artists in my family–both sides–I know something of the artistic absorption; my husband disappears into his stained glass workshop and it’s not uncommon for me to not see him until I knock on the door to announce dinner. My brother is similar, as was my husband’s mother–both painters (brother does acrylics; mother-in-law moved from oils to watercolours halfway through her career). My boys can be so absorbed in their computer-generated artistry (and their pen/pencil sketches) that I have to drag them to the dinner table. And my daughter is the same when editing her photography. Sometimes it’s a miracle anyone eats around here, LOL! Fortunately, we don’t usually all fall into the “artistic haze” at the same time, so there’s usually someone who makes dinner for the rest. 😉

    Loved, Loved, LOVED this inspired beginning and am greatly looking forward to more!

    Warmly,
    Susanne 🙂

    • Sheila L. Majczan on January 11, 2019 at 9:51 am
    • Reply

    Excellent start – I do believe you have found your muse for this story. I have only read one other story in which Darcy was an artist. Many artists are pictured (no pun intended) as temperamental in stories I have read. I like the way Elizabeth is described just before he insults her at the Assembly. Looking forward to reading the rest of the story. Thanks for sharing.

    • Anji on January 11, 2019 at 5:19 pm
    • Reply

    That hummingbird (or was it a fairy dragon) certainly came up with the goods here! Intriguing start to the story and an almost unique premise. Only come across a couple of previous Austenesque stories featuring a series of paintings and photographs; The Gypsy Blessing and its sequel by Wendi Sotis.

    Please carry it on into a full length work. Pretty please!

  3. A very inspiring beginning, Maria. I love how you sketched Darcy as an artist. This is quite a fascinating concept, Maria. Cannot wait to see how this story pans out.

    • Laura H on January 20, 2019 at 12:28 am
    • Reply

    Darcy an artist? What an interesting idea. I like this beginning and look forward to the next installment. Thanks for sharing and the opportunity the giveaway.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.