Page 10 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

A soft groan broke the quiet of the room. Elizabeth blinked against the dim morning light that crept between the curtains. Beside her, Jane shifted, curling inward, one hand pressed to her stomach. “Lizzy.”

She noted the tight set of her brow, the way she clutched the sheets. And then—the telltale dampness between them.

“Jane.” They had shared a room long enough for Elizabeth to recognise the signs. Jane’s lips pressed into a line.

Elizabeth threw back the covers and tugged a wrap over her nightgown. “I shall fetch Mrs Hill.”

Jane grasped her wrist. “No. Do not make a fuss.”

Elizabeth squeezed her hand. “There is none to be made.” She slipped from the room, her bare feet soft against the wooden floors as she hurried down the servants’ corridor to ask for ginger tea.

* * *

Mrs Hill arrived without ceremony, a fresh bundle of linens in her arms. “’Tis nothing to fret over, Miss Jane, Miss Elizabeth,” she said as she pulled back the soiled sheets. “A woman’s burden, nothing more.”

She hardly looked at the stain. She replaced the linen, smoothed it, and eased Jane back into bed.

Jane murmured thanks as she sank into the pillows.

“Now, rest easy, my duckling. A warming pan and some hot tea will set you right.”

Elizabeth tucked the covers as Mrs Hill gathered the soiled linen. “We can’t have the younger ones make a spectacle.”

Mrs Bennet arrived in her wrapper: plain, neatly belted, her nightcap snug over curling papers. “My dear girl, my sweet Jane. You must not strain yourself today!” She hovered beside the bed and pressed a hand to Jane’s cheek.

Elizabeth remained in the window seat. When it was her mother, she had always braced for the storm, never the calm. How different I see her now.

No frantic flickering, no sharp bursts of amber and fire. She fussed, as she always did. She smoothed Jane’s hair. “You shall have broth and honey tea, and the girls will not disturb you.”

Her mother’s colours held steady. Warm. A quiet sort of tenderness. Perhaps it had always been there. Elizabeth had simply never seen it.

* * *

The following morning, Elizabeth woke at her usual early hour.

Jane remained abed. “I feel much better this morning. Later, I shall walk with you.”

“Never you mind. I will appeal to Mary. You must rest.”

At the base of the stairs, Elizabeth shivered. She fetched a shawl from the sitting room chair. With her shoulders warmly covered, she found Mary at the table buttering her toast.

“Good morning, Mary.”

“Good morning. How does Jane fare?”

“She has assured me she shall be herself again soon. Would you walk with me after our meal?”

“Of course.” She took a bite of her toast. Swallowed. Grimaced. Belched into her hand. She looked about, her face red with embarrassment.

Then, a cloud of tiny golden flecks appeared above Mary’s head. They moved exactly as the ones she had seen around Jane.

Elizabeth, distracted, patted her hand. “No one is here.”

“Lizzy,” she whispered.

“Yes?” What could it mean? Jane’s monthly had come the next morning. But Mary? She is newly fourteen.

“Why do you stare?” Mary dabbed at her mouth as if a crumb or two lingered.

The ladybirds flittered back and forth. “It is nothing, dear,” she said and forced a smile. “Nothing at all.”

But it was not nothing. She ought to speak with Mrs Hill. Again.

* * *

A week later, Charlotte Lucas called. Elizabeth greeted her warmly, grateful for the steadying presence of a friend less inclined to dramatics than her younger sisters. They spoke of parish events, the rhythm of the season, and small village matters that touched neither pride nor vanity.

Charlotte’s voice, even in amusement, carried its usual composure. Elizabeth noted a pale-yellow mist around her—steady, unhurried—tinted with soft gold whenever she laughed. No artifice. Only tempered good sense. Elizabeth smiled.

Charlotte paused. “You are very quiet today, Eliza.”

Elizabeth glanced down at her sewing. “I have been thinking.”

“That is never a good sign.”

Elizabeth chuckled, but her thoughts pressed against her throat. She wanted to tell Charlotte. She wanted… The words died before they could rise. How could she explain something she did not understand herself?

Before she could speak, Mrs Bennet bustled in, lamenting that the new drawing room curtains would never arrive in time for Christmas visitors. Mrs Hill set down a tray of tea and biscuits, then followed her mistress from the room.

The moment slipped away.

* * *

It was not until later, when the bustle of the household had ebbed, and the others had scattered—Kitty chasing Lydia upstairs, Jane assisting their mother—that Elizabeth and Charlotte found themselves alone once more. Halting piano scales floated from the next room. Mary.

Charlotte sipped her tea, watching her. “You are thinking again,” she said lightly.

Elizabeth set down her cup. She folded her hands in her lap. This time, she would not retreat. She took a breath. “I see things.”

Charlotte lifted a brow. “Things?”

“Colours.” Elizabeth forced herself to meet her friend’s eyes. “Around people. Sometimes bright, sometimes faint. Sometimes…nothing at all.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, but Charlotte’s gaze did not waver. “You are certain?” she asked charily.

“I am certain I see them. I know not what they mean.”

Charlotte set her cup down with great deliberation. She leant forward. “Show me.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “It is not something I summon. It is simply there. Like a scent or the feeling of rain before it falls.” She related everything she had seen of her parents and her sisters. The ladybirds. The aftermath. Please, please believe me.

“You must not fight it, Eliza.”

Elizabeth blinked. “What?”

“You have always been perceptive. You see the world as it is rather than as people wish it to be. I do not think this is something unnatural.”

“It is not natural either.”

“Perhaps it is simply a different way of understanding.” Charlotte stood. “May we go to your father’s library? There is something I would like to show you.”

Elizabeth glanced towards the window. Her father and Sir William Lucas were walking the drive, far from earshot. “Of course.”

She led Charlotte to her father’s study. Elizabeth settled into her favourite chair while Charlotte searched the shelves. A minute passed. “Precisely where it ought to be,” she said, easing a thick volume from the shelf.

Elizabeth sat forward. “What have you found?”

Charlotte held up Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales . She read aloud:

“ Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth— ”

“Am I to suppose the Lord gave my new sight to me?”

Charlotte laughed. “Not quite. But you claim to see before you understand.”

“How?”

“These clouds you see, they are a form of insight, like the ‘ sweete breeth’ of inspiration.”

Elizabeth rested her chin upon her fisted hands. “Then let us name them properly.”

Charlotte pushed out her bottom lip. “ Aire . You see a person’s aire.” She pronounced the word with a hard ‘e’ at the end.

Elizabeth tested the word. “Aire.” She looked at her friend. The edges of her aire pulsed darker.

“What do you see?”

Elizabeth smirked. “That you are quite enamoured with yourself.”

Charlotte laughed. “I daresay I am.” She reached over and grasped Elizabeth’s hand. “You are blessed to see people truly whether they wish you to. Or not.”

Elizabeth considered that. “You believe this is intuition?”

“A physical manifestation of it, yes.”

Elizabeth let that settle. Not madness. Not imagination. Something she had always possessed, only now, she could see it. “Do not speak of this to anyone else.”

“Why ever not?”

“People fear what they do not understand. What do you think your mother would say if she knew?” Elizabeth thought of the orange flames that flared around her mother’s outbursts, the way her emotions hurt . “She would not believe me.”

Charlotte nodded.

“What do you propose I do?”

“Attend to what they show you. Do not dismiss them.”

“Aire. Aire ,” Elizabeth repeated, the latter with a French accent. “Merci, mon amie.”

Charlotte dipped a curtsey. “Le plaisir fut tout à moi.”

Elizabeth smiled. The pleasure had indeed been mutual.

* * *

That evening, sitting in her window seat, Elizabeth turned towards the glass. Her reflection stared back. The same face. The eyes—one brown, one green—were changed. And through them, everything else had shifted.

Her father read a letter. His tan aire darkened in thought before he spoke.

Lydia preened before the mirror. Her gilded aire shimmered bright, then flickered into nothing.

Jane. And Mary. They remained steady. White and silver, respectively.

Earlier, in the withdrawing room, Kitty had leant tentatively towards Lydia. Lydia opened her mouth, mischief already gleaming in her eyes.

“Kitty,” Elizabeth said, “I do hope you are not planning to steal Lydia’s mirror. She might perish without it.”

Kitty blinked. A flush of colour touched her cheeks.

Lydia huffed, flipping a curl. “As if I should allow such treachery.”

“Then it is war, is it? At least make it a fair one.” Elizabeth held up two fingers. “Two pins apiece and no powder thrown.”

Kitty laughed, uncertain at first. The tension between them loosened; her aire stilled.

Elizabeth noted the rapid flashes whenever her mother prepared to contradict herself. Small signs, but revealing. A person could sense the shifts in the wind before a storm. She would as well.

She drew a fingertip against the pane, tracing the outline of her green eye. She would heed the aires.