Page 16 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Matlock House, that same evening…

Frost webbed the edges of the windows, delicate as lace, yet the warmth within the room held firm against winter’s chill. Darcy stood just inside the doorway, his shoulders tense. Across the room, Georgiana sat on a blue velvet settee, an embroidery hoop in her lap.

She looked up and smiled—a genuine smile, one that reached her eyes. “Brother.”

Darcy crossed the room and took the chair opposite her. The scent of lavender and beeswax clung to the air, a Matlock House constant. On a side table, a tea tray of delicate porcelain and silver polished to a mirror’s gleam sat untouched.

“You look well.”

Georgiana pressed her lips together. “And you look exhausted.”

He smiled. “Fitzwilliam’s assessment was far less kind.”

“He is not subtle.”

“No, he is not.”

The light in the room had softened to amber, casting long shadows across the damask walls. Outside, fog clung to the windowpanes, blurring the world beyond.

Darcy studied his sister. Her poise, her measured grace. The tension in her shoulders had eased, but shadows still clung beneath her eyes.

“I am glad you have come,” she admitted. “It feels…safe.”

His jaw tightened. “It should never have felt otherwise.”

Her gaze dropped. “No.”

He paused. “Did she trouble you?”

“No.” She set the hoop aside. “Fitzwilliam saw to it.”

“Yes. He said as much.”

She glanced up, hesitating, then spoke. “He told me things I had not seen for myself. What I thought kindness was not. What I believed to be concern—control.”

Darcy stiffened.

“The letters she intercepted. The excuses she made on my behalf. The friends I never met. The outings she promised but never arranged.” She took a steady breath. “There were always people about me…and yet I felt apart. I did not realise until now.”

“You should have written me.”

She looked at her hands. “I did not wish to disappoint you.”

“You could never….” He looked away.

The chimes of the longcase clock echoed through the silence between them.

Georgiana reached for the teapot, filled a cup, and placed it before him. “Drink, Brother.” A small, teasing smile. “You are brooding again.”

Darcy sipped. “And how have you occupied yourself of late?”

“My music master introduced me to a new piece on the pianoforte. A sonata by a German composer—Beethoven.”

“Is it to your liking?”

“It is unlike anything I have played before,” she admitted. “Melancholy and forceful all at once.”

“Much like its composer, I imagine.”

Georgiana tilted her head. “Have you met him?”

“No, but I know of him.”

She considered this. “May I play it for you?”

“I should like that.”

She beamed. “And for the holidays? Shall we return home?”

Father is gone. Pemberley is mine now. To preserve. To make whole. “Yes, we shall.”

Georgiana clapped her hands. “Christmas at Pemberley. I could not wish for more.”

Darcy smiled faintly. “Would I be imposing if I asked you to be ready by week’s end?”

“I shall endure it.” Georgiana laughed.

“I am certain you shall do your utmost.”

She reached across the table and took his hand. “Do not think you must bear everything alone.”

Darcy hesitated. I will tell her tomorrow.

Just one more evening like this—quiet, ordinary, unmarred.

One last gift before the world changes again.

He squeezed her hand in return. “I shall remember that.”

* * *

Darcy pushed through the front door, boots sliding on stone. Barty, directly behind him, caught at his greatcoat, trying to ease it from his shoulders. Darcy roughly pulled his arms free and pressed onward. He had promised her. He would not fail again.

The day had slipped through his fingers—so many matters to settle: the Chancery, the Exchequer, the banks. His waistcoat clung crooked; he tugged it straight. Checked his cuffs, adjusted them briskly. The longcase clock struck the half hour. Damn.

He reached the music room doors and paused. Nothing. And then—music.

Not gentle. Not decorative. The first notes struck like inquiry: low, searching. A phrase rose, crested, and broke like surf. Beethoven.

He opened the doors quietly. There she was.

Georgiana sat upright, still except for her hands, which moved with certainty—fingers arcing, lifting, pressing, never hesitant. Her brow was smooth. Eyes half-closed. She was not performing. She was speaking.

He stepped inside and stood just beyond the threshold. The last chord shivered into silence.

Georgiana sat poised, eyes half-closed, her hands precise on the keys. She did not falter. He stood in the doorway until the final note dissolved. The silence that followed felt sacred.

She looked up. “I hoped you might come.”

“I am late.”

“Yes,” She stared at him. “Is there something you would like to inform me of?” She turned back to the keys but did not play. “As disguise of any sort is an abhorrence of Darcy men, I need not ask you a second time.”

He crossed the room slowly and sat beside her. Gently, he took her hand. “Father is dead.”

“Yes.”

“Who told you?”

“Fitzwilliam.”

He studied her profile. “And I—I should have—Georgiana, I—”

“Why did you wait?”

“I wanted… one last evening unmarred.”

“You feared I would break.”

“I feared I might.”

He waited. She did not respond.

He cleared his throat. “Is there anything you would like to know of?”

“Is that why you were late?”

“Yes.”

She nodded once.

“Can you forgive me?” he asked.

“This last time,” she said, “I can.”

He grasped her hand and kissed it.

“Would you like me to play for you?”

“Yes,” he said. “From the beginning.”

* * *

Pemberley, November 1807

The graveyard stood empty. The storm had passed, but the earlier downpour had softened the edges of the freshly turned earth. The dead required no witnesses.

GEORGE ALEXANDER DARCY

1750—1807

A DEVOTED HUSBAND, AN UPRIGHT MASTER,

A FATHER OF UNYIELDING PRINCIPLE

The sculpted headstone stood stark against the winter gloom. Darcy stood before it, hands clasped behind his back, his greatcoat damp at the edges where the mist clung to the air. The words on the stone were fitting. Principled, unyielding, just. Of course, Father arranged his own epitaph.

He gazed at the neighbouring stone.

ANNE FITZWILLIAM DARCY

1755—1794

A BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER WHOSE KINDNESS

KNEW NO BOUNDS

For thirteen years, she had rested alone. Now, at last, he was beside her.

His father had never recovered from her loss. Grief had hollowed the man who once laughed freely and loved without reservation. What remained had been shaped by duty, stripped of warmth. Perhaps now, in death, he has found her again—.

“Darcy.” Bingley stopped beside him, his presence not an unwelcome intrusion. His Cambridge schoolmate had arrived at Pemberley two days prior, undeterred by the treacherous roads or the brutal grip of Derbyshire’s winter.

The silence pressed down, heavy as the clouds that had not yet lifted. Water pooled in the hollow of the grave, sinking slowly into the softened earth as if even the storm had tried to bury the man deeper.

“I should hate to see you retreat to some dark chamber and, while brooding, refuse all company.”

Darcy stared at his mother’s headstone. “Would you?”

“No. But then, I have not carried Pemberley on my back since childhood.”

“Duty.” The word sat bitter in Darcy’s mouth. “It seems I have inherited more than an estate.”

“Yes, well. Some men are born to be masters of their world. Others are”—Bingley nudged a loose stone with the toe of his boot— “merely fortunate enough to afford their amusements.”

Darcy turned to him. “And which are you?”

Bingley shrugged. “A fortunate man, I hope. One with ambitions, though hardly as weighty as yours.”

“What aspirations could you possibly possess that do not involve brandy, horses, or a new waistcoat?”

Bingley laughed. “An estate, since you ask. Something modest, respectable—though not so grand as Pemberley, mind you.”

“I should hope not. I should hate to think of you burdened by anything more than a hunting lodge.”

“Do not be so dull. I do have aspirations.”

“Such as?” Darcy had yet to see his friend aspire to anything beyond the next blond with a dance card.

“A home for a wife, a family. I should like to marry, you know.”

“Have you tired of charming every blonde angel in Town?”

“I have not. Is it wrong to enjoy a pretty smile and a melodic laugh?”

“As long as your honour is not engaged, it is not.”

“Then I shall continue on my quest. Lancelot to your Arthur, seeking my Guinevere.”

Darcy smiled despite himself. The irony was too rich to resist. Bingley, as ever, wielded literature with enthusiasm but no accuracy.

“I hope you invest in books when you purchase your estate.”

“I had not considered it. But if you recommend it, I shall do so.”

Darcy glanced back at the graves. “Shall you marry before or after this purchase?”

“After, I should think. I have been advised it is easier to find a wife as a gentleman.”

“Who is this sage you listen to?”

“Caroline. She, too, has aspirations for me.”

“As long as your sister’s aspirations do not include me.”

Bingley let out an incredulous laugh. “Ah, you wound me! Hurst has taken on Louisa, and Caroline—well, she has other ambitions.”

“I am pleased to hear you say that.”

Bingley grinned. “And you? You have always been a step ahead of me in life, my friend. What will you do now?”

Darcy’s eyes drifted over the lettering on the stone, the final declaration of his father’s legacy. George Darcy had lived for duty. He had died with it. Alone.

Would Darcy say goodbye? Would he acknowledge the man who shaped him, for better or worse? His fingers curled into fists. A breath, a pause, and then nothing. He turned from the grave. “I will do as I must.”

“Then let us go in before the rain finds us. ”