Page 20 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

The drawing room had settled into a quiet ease. The scent of tea and lemons lingered, mixing with the crisp autumn air filtering through the slightly cracked window.

Her father stood in the open doorway. Elizabeth noted the sparkle in his eyes and his efforts not to smile. His tan aire bore a chocolate-brown rim. He was teasing out the moment for his amusement. Elizabeth closed Wordsworth in her lap and waited.

Mrs Bennet did the honours, then focused on Mr Bennet. Her pale yellow aire was spotted with faint orange flecks. Eagerness. Anticipation.

Mr Bennet commanded the room with a rather deliberate clearing of his throat. “I called upon Mr Bingley this morning.”

A hush fell over the ladies.

Mrs Bennet’s aire brightened to a warm yellow, touched with orange. “Mr Bennet, you darling man. You called on him? Oh, what news! Was he as distinguished a gentleman as reported?”

“Charming, and without hesitation, accepted my company.”

Kitty and Lydia’s whispers escalated into delighted exclamations. But a single, well-timed throat-clearing cut through the noise. “Forgive me,” they said in unison.

Mrs Ecclestone gestured towards the door. “Ladies, I imagine tomorrow will be a busy one. You may excuse yourselves.”

Kitty and Lydia exchanged grins. With curtsies and no protest, they skipped out of the room—lavenders and carnations trailing behind like silken threads.

Jane turned to Elizabeth and smiled. “It is difficult not to be curious.”

“They are not alone in their curiosity,” Elizabeth replied. She turned to Mary. “What say you?”

Mary lifted her teacup, took a measured sip, and then nodded.

Jane addressed their father. “Did he express much interest in Meryton, sir?”

“He spoke warmly of the countryside, favours good company, and delights in meeting his neighbours.”

Mrs Bennet’s aire pulsed into a radiant yellow. “Oh, Mr Bennet, this is splendid news!”

Elizabeth caught the quirk of her father’s lips when he sent her a sidelong glance. His tan aire deepened into a richer brown. He was playing his part well.

“I thought it only appropriate to make his acquaintance,” he continued, lifting his tea with an air of casual indifference. “If only to ensure he was worthy of such attention.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

“And tell me, Mr Bennet, he must wish to make himself known among the best families. You invited him, of course?” Mrs Bennet’s tone seemed to increase a half-octave on the last two words. A faint hint of orange seeped into her aire: excitement and uncertainty.

Her father fixed his gaze upon her mother. “I did.”

Mrs Bennet’s aire turned amber. “Oh, Mr Bennet, you have pleased me exceedingly. What a chance for our daughters!”

“Indeed.”

* * *

That afternoon, the household settled into the quiet anticipation of a guest. Or rather, most did—Kitty and Lydia darted between the drawing room and the front window, skirts rustling as they shifted to catch sight of an arriving caller. Their aires flickered erratically.

“Ladies, compose yourselves. Restlessness is neither dignified nor becoming.” Mrs Ecclestone’s aire deepened to a sharper hue.

Kitty and Lydia, with contrite looks on their faces, obediently stepped back from the window. Their aires shimmered.

Elizabeth looked to Jane seated beside her on the settee.

“I cannot fault their eagerness,” Jane said. Her aire pulsed faintly.

“Nor can I.” She turned to Mary, who had chosen a quiet corner to study The Imitation of Christ .

A sudden intake of breath from Kitty drew attention back to the window.

“He comes!”

A hatted man approached at an unhurried pace, his horse’s chestnut coat glinting beneath the afternoon light, shifting between russet and gold.

“He appears rather handsome.”

Elizabeth shut her eyes. Oh, Kitty!

Mrs Ecclestone cleared her throat. “Such comments are unbecoming.” She rose to her full height. “Ladies.” She gestured towards the door.

Kitty and Lydia wilted. They curtsied and followed Mrs Ecclestone, their aires retreating into subdued gold.

As the room quieted, Jane turned to Elizabeth. “He dresses with taste, I think.”

Mary smiled atop Thomas à Kempis’s work. “Does piety include noticing a gentleman’s jacket? Or is vanity allowed on such occasions?”

Jane’s cheeks coloured. “A touch of admiration harms no one.”

* * *

Hill entered the room with a card on a silver salver. “Mr Bingley is at the door, sir.”

Elizabeth glanced up from Cecilia as her father took it and rubbed it between his fingers. “Excellent stock, fine ink—Gardiner’s custom, no doubt.”

“A discerning man, then,” Mrs Bennet replied.

He arched a brow. “As am I?”

“As are you, Mr Bennet.”

He gave a nod to Hill. “Show him in.”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. She failed. Happily.

Hill announced their guest. “Mr Bingley.”

Elizabeth watched as Mr Bingley entered, bowing first to Mrs Bennet.

He did not merely incline his head; he smiled. His hand brushed the edge of his waistcoat.

His aire was a pale blue. Respect. Nerves, perhaps.

Mrs Bennet fluttered a linen, her voice rising like a bell. “What a pleasure, sir! We are delighted.”

Next came Jane.

His bow deepened. He said her name with warmth but no embellishment. Just sincerity. He met her eyes. Jane blushed.

Then, he turned to Elizabeth…

His gaze lingered. Just a moment too long. A shift of weight. A slight lift of the brow—barely perceptible, but there. His aire pulsed. Curiosity. Not quite alarm. Not quite interest. Something closer to surprise.

Her eyes. He had noticed. And yet—he bowed.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

She curtsied. His aire calmed.

Last, he greeted Mary. Polite. Present. He bowed with equal care and no condescension.

Elizabeth watched Mary curtsey with her usual economy. No effort to charm, but no insult taken. His aire did not waver. A blue so honest might be difficult to sustain.

Most men veiled their intent behind civility. Mr Bingley’s manner was unguarded. There was no mask. No sharpness, no greed, no anxious gleam of calculation. Only light .