Page 23 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Netherfield Park

Darcy stood at the grand window of Netherfield’s drawing room and watched the morning sun crest the horizon. His untouched coffee had long gone cold. The house was quiet except for the occasional wood creak and the distant sound of horses being led from the stables. His mind was anything but quiet.

He had spent the night chasing reason, turning over every possibility, yet none satisfied. His mind rebelled against the only answer his heart seemed to accept.

It was her. The vision his mother had spoken of—the one she had bid him to find.

The girl with hair like a Derbyshire autumn. Eyes painted in twin shades—earth and leaf. No childish dream. No fevered hope.

She had stood before him, flesh and breath, her gaze locked onto his, defiant against what must have been his unguarded astonishment. And he had fled like a coward.

Bingley strode in, his usual good humour dampened but not extinguished.

“I hope you’ve had time to reflect on your behaviour, Darcy.”

Darcy turned back to the window. “I have.”

“And?”

“And I see no reason to discuss it.”

“You insulted Miss Elizabeth. Whether intentional or not, you have made her the subject of the worst sort of gossip. The entire town saw you, heard you, react as though she were a creature out of a nightmare.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “I did not insult her.”

Bingley threw up his hands. “You gasped at her and stormed off without a word! You might as well have declared her a witch and demanded she burn at the stake.”

“Your predilection to hyperbole does you no justice. Nor the accusation.”

Bingley raked a hand through his hair. “You must apologise.”

Darcy’s silence was answer enough.

“You refuse?”

“What would you have me say? That I was unwell?”

Bingley crossed his arms. “Were you?”

A weak argument. Even Bingley must know it.

Bingley sighed. “Darcy, you are my dearest friend, but I will not have my good name attached to a man who publicly shames a lady without cause.”

Darcy said, “I will consider it.”

“See that you do.” He pivoted and strode out, his usual cheer absent.

Darcy barely had a moment’s reprieve before Bingley’s younger sister entered.

“Dearest Mr Darcy.” She settled into a chair. “I must commend you for your restraint last evening.”

Miss Bingley tapped her fan to her shoulder. “I know you must be concerned about what the locals are saying. But frankly speaking, Miss Eliza Bennet is an odd young woman.”

Darcy gritted his teeth. Leave me.

“Miss Harrington said something most peculiar: Miss Eliza sees spirits. She speaks of colours that no one else can see.” She shuddered. “How utterly unsettling. I cannot blame you for your reaction.”

He said nothing

Where Hurst might once have offered a deflection, there was now no buffer.

He had departed for London that morning, claiming matters in Town required discretion.

Darcy suspected that was only partly true—Hurst had no patience for affectation, least of all his sister-in-law’s.

He preferred the comforts of his club to the theatre of family obligation.

At least Mrs Hurst remained. She did not preen or provoke. She watched. She listened. And when she spoke, it was with economy and wit—company worth having. Her sister might have done well to notice the difference .

Miss Bingley prattled on. Her words were the distant drone of bees. Minutes later, the door latch clicked.

Blessed silence.

* * *

The candle’s glow flickered across the heavy wooden desk. Darcy stared at his mother’s journal. He could not name the last time he had opened it. Was it before his father’s death?

The Book. In it was the tale of the girl with autumn-touched hair and mismatched eyes. His soulmate. He bowed his head.

“Mother.”

The word, long unused, felt foreign on his lips.

“If ever you can hear me, if ever you can reach beyond the veil, then I beg you, guide me. Tell me I am mistaken. Tell me that the girl I saw is not—” He could not speak the rest.

He opened the journal and turned to the fourth page. Allow her to sketch your character. He touched the words. The ink was dry.

The flame wavered. Then, with neither draft nor cause, it guttered and died. Darkness enveloped him. Darcy did not stir.

The magic was real.

* * *

Elizabeth entered Lucas Lodge with her usual lightness, offering pleasantries with ease as their hosts received her family. The room bustled with conversation, laughter, and the warmth of familiar company. She took in the assembled guests and their aires:

Sir William’s conviviality gleamed pleasantly. A man endlessly satisfied with his place in the world.

Charlotte, ever composed, bore a steady, unshaken hue of patience.

Mr Bingley’s aire was as before, bright and warm.

Then she glimpsed Mr Darcy across the room. And again, nothing.

She bit her bottom lip. It defied reason. Every living adult displayed some essence of themselves. And yet, he did not.

“Eliza.” Charlotte touched her arm lightly, pulling her from her thoughts. “My father wishes to speak with you.”

Sir William approached. “Miss Elizabeth, I must say, what a lovely gathering this is. And such fortunate company.”

“Indeed.”

He turned to Mr Darcy, who stood nearby. “Miss Elizabeth, I forget myself. You have not been formally introduced. Mr Darcy, may I present Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn. Miss Bennet, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire.”

Elizabeth curtseyed. “Mr Darcy.”

Darcy bowed. “Miss Bennet.”

“Capital. Capital. Perhaps we shall see a demonstration of dancing this evening.”

He is entirely oblivious, the adorable man.

“Come, sir, you cannot be so cruel as to deprive us entirely! A country dance is an excellent way to engage in good company.”

Darcy inclined his head. “For those who enjoy it, yes.”

“And Mr Darcy does not,” Elizabeth replied.

Sir William clapped Mr Darcy’s shoulder. “Ah, but surely, a man of your standing must see its merits! The charm of a well-executed reel. Why, there is no finer sight.”

Elizabeth noted Darcy’s rigid stance and the careful neutrality in his expression. “A man in Mr Darcy’s position cannot be expected to endure such trials.”

His lips parted, but before he could speak, Miss Bingley materialised between them, slipping in with practised ease. “Oh, Miss Eliza,” she said with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Mr Darcy’s taste far exceeds the amusement of a country jig.”

Elizabeth ignored her unpleasant aire and returned her smile with practised civility. “Is that so? I would have thought it more a matter of preference than of taste.”

Miss Bingley’s lips tightened. Before she could retort, Mr Bingley approached. “Miss Bennet, I do hope you will dance this evening?”

Jane smiled demurely. “If a partner is willing.” Her aire deepened.

Mr Bingley extended his hand. His aire remained unchanged. “Then I must claim the honour.” Does he tease her, or is he sincere?

Elizabeth turned to find Mr Darcy staring at her. She lifted an eyebrow. He glanced away. How could a man with no visible trace of feeling hold such weight? His absence of an aire was unnerving.

* * *

Mary played the final note and rested her hands. The immediate silence shattered into a chorus of delighted voices.

“Exquisite!” Lady Lucas declared. She stood and led the applause.

“Superlative technique,” Sir William replied to his wife, though his clapping was subdued. Befitting a gentleman of his station.

“I hardly breathed through the cadenza,” Maria Lucas whispered, fanning herself.

Mary smiled demurely. “You are all too kind.” She accepted her father’s extended hand. He turned her to the audience.

“Come now, let us not let praise go to her head. Perhaps a second performance? To prove it was no mere accident?”

Laughter rippled through the room. Mary’s aire never changed. How does she maintain such composure?

“Miss Elizabeth.”

Startled out of her thoughts, she turned, finding herself face-to-face with Mr Darcy.

“Mr Darcy.”

“I was not aware you held such an interest in music.”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “And what has given you that impression, sir?”

“You have spoken to the performer no fewer than three minutes on the evening’s programme,” he replied. “And dismissed two of her preferences outright.”

“The performer has a name.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“My sister, Mary, provided this evening’s entertainment.”

Mr Darcy blinked.

Elizabeth added, voice dry. “And it appears I have been your entertainment.”

Charlotte choked on a laugh behind her fan.

“You have been observing me most intently, sir.”

“You are not easily overlooked.”

A sudden warmth curled at the base of her spine. She masked it with a wry smile. “I should not wish to intrude upon your careful scrutiny any longer. I know you prefer silence to conversation.”

“That is a common assumption,” he replied.

“Then it is a false one?”

“Not entirely,” he admitted. “But there are some voices that merit being heard.”

Charlotte’s eyes sparkled. “Eliza does have rather strong opinions on the matter of music. Perhaps you might attempt to sway her with your own.”

“I would not presume to change Miss Elizabeth’s mind. I merely wish to know it.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth, but nothing came. Her wit, her certainty, all stalled by his candour. Mr Darcy bowed and walked off.

Charlotte leant in. “It seems you have caught Mr Darcy’s attention after all. ”