Page 24 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Road to Meryton, two days later...

Longbourn Pond stretched before her, the surface smooth as glass, save for the rippling reflection of a great oak tree leaning from the raised bank at the north end. Its shadow sprawled across the water, each leaf rendered with exacting detail in the soft play of light and dark.

Elizabeth stood in front of Kitty’s current landscape. She traced the line where the mirrored branches met the ripple.

“Was that caused by a fish?”

Kitty nodded. “It was. You have an eye for colour, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth kissed her temple. As if I could see aught else.

“Elizabeth, dear.”

“Yes, Mama?”

“Would you mind visiting your Aunt Philips? She was rather put out when Mr Philip’s return from Town was delayed once again. It would be a kindness.”

“Of course, Mama.”

Elizabeth asked Kitty, “Will you join me?”

“I would be delighted.”

* * *

Elizabeth and Kitty held hands and skipped every four or five steps—a childhood echo of garden play outside the nursery. They giggled as their muslin skirts slapped against their legs.

For one hour, propriety could be cast off like an old shawl.

The road, rutted from recent rains, bore the deep grooves of carriage wheels, perfect for a hop, skip, and a jump. They stepped carefully to avoid the muddier patches.

As they rounded a bend, they encountered two men. One man dressed in livery stood beside a chestnut horse, bridle in one hand, the other stroking its neck. The second crouched at the foreleg, focused on a hoof.

A second horse stood tethered to a low branch—a striking beast, tall and dark, with a glossy coat like midnight glass. Its eyes, deep and intelligent, turned towards them. It looked directly at Elizabeth—and nodded once.

She smiled, delighted. If this magnificent creature had an aire, his would be glorious.

“It appears Mercury here has picked up a stone.” That was Mr Darcy’s voice!

“Sir, you need not trouble yourself—”

“Hold him steady,” Mr Darcy interrupted. With a final flick of his blade, a stone flew through the air and bounced at Kitty’s feet.

Kitty giggled.

Mr Darcy rose. “Miss Elizabeth.” He looked at Kitty, too, and raised his eyebrows.

“Mr Darcy. This is my sister Catherine.” She rarely used the name, but it seemed to suit the moment.

“Miss Catherine.” He bowed, perfectly civil, perfectly unreadable.

Elizabeth’s lips tightened. He was all politeness—and yet something in the precision of it left her more unsettled than if he had been openly rude. Again.

Kitty elbowed Elizabeth and widened her eyes. Elizabeth curtsied with her.

Mr Darcy turned to the other man. “Walk him back. A few hours rest should see him mended.”

“Never you mind, guv’nor. You’re the one I came for.” He opened a saddlebag and handed over a parcel.

“Thank you, Perkins,” he said, passing the man some coins. He patted the horse’s neck. “You are a noble creature, Mercury. Mind where you step.”

Mercury whinnied, as if in reply. Mr Perkins chuckled, then began walking the horse back toward Meryton, murmuring what sounded like the start of a story: “So there I was, standing knee-deep in the Itchen —clear as glass, that river down in Hampshire—no boots, mind you...”

Elizabeth’s head swam. She ought to say something, but what?

She glanced from him to the horse and back. “You seem surprisingly at ease, Mr Darcy.”

He drew a handkerchief and cleaned the blade. “Any man who owns horses should be.”

She tilted her head. “Indeed. One might almost believe you prefer horses to dance partners.”

He looked up. “They are less prone to misinterpretation.”

She smiled without warmth. “And less inclined to speak their mind.”

“Some minds are worth hearing. Others—” He stopped and bowed. “Good day, ladies.”

He mounted the black horse she had admired moments earlier and rode off without another word.

“You were unkind just now, Lizzy.”

“I merely stated—”

“You assumed,” Kitty interrupted. “He helped because he could.”

It appeared Mr Darcy reserved his tenderness for thoroughbreds, not for the thoroughly slighted.

* * *

Meryton, the following day...

Darcy had intended the morning’s ride to clear his mind, but Bingley’s words lingered like grit in the bit. How could Miss Elizabeth possibly believe he had insulted her at the assembly?

Goliath surged beneath him as they took the rise, but Darcy’s thoughts stayed fixed on her cool reception at Lucas Lodge, her pointed remark on the road. He had expected wit. Instead, her words had held an edge. A veiled reprimand. Had she truly taken offence?

When matters grew muddled at Pemberley, he appealed to higher judgement.

And none held more sway with Miss Elizabeth than her father.

By the time High Street and its shops fully materialised beyond the hedgerows, he had made little progress in sorting sense from feeling.

He dismounted and secured Goliath to a post outside, murmuring a low word of praise as the horse shook out his mane.

A bell chimed as he stepped into the bookseller’s shop. Ink and leather mingled with dust. Knowledge slept on the shelves, waiting to be claimed. A few minutes to browse, and then I shall consider again the dilemma named Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

He turned down the aisle and halted. She stood before the shelf, fingertips tracing the spines of well-worn volumes. Sunlight from the front window lit her hair like polished chestnut. She stood on her toes and swayed softly to a rhythm he could not hear.

His mouth turned dry.

Before he could retreat, she glanced up.

“Mr Darcy!”

“Miss Elizabeth.”

She glanced back at the book in her hands. “I had not expected to see you in Meryton.”

“I had matters to attend to.” His reply sounded too stiff. He tried again. “You appear to have found something of interest.”

She smoothed a hand over the cover of Ossian . “My father owns a copy, but it is well-thumbed. I wished for a newer edition.”

“You speak of your father’s library with great admiration.”

Her eyes sparkled, and the emerald one caught the light. Darcy blinked.

“It is one of his greatest treasures. I suspect, were he permitted to take only one room from Longbourn, it would be the library.”

Darcy allowed himself a small smile. “That is a sentiment I understand.”

She blinked at him as though surprised by the admission.

“My father claims his books are excellent companions.”

“I agree with that sentiment.” He pressed his lips together. “I find books do not flatter, nor do they interrupt.”

Her brow arched. “And what of conversation?” she asked at last.

Something in her tone had softened. Or perhaps he had imagined it. “It depends upon the company.”

Her lips parted slightly, caught between curiosity and disbelief.

“I meant no slight.”

“Indeed? Then I must be more apt to misjudge you than I realised.”

“Yes, you seem to take pleasure in wilful misunderstanding,” he said.

She covered her mouth and gasped—or laughed—he could not discern which. But he did spot the upward curve of her lips behind her hand.

Fortune favours the bold, according to Richard.

“Miss Elizabeth, might I enquire, would your father be at home, were I to call?”

* * *

Elizabeth tightened her grip on the book. Surely, she had misheard him.

“M-my father?”

“Yes.”

Her thoughts scattered. Mr Darcy, speaking with her father? Impossible. Absurd. But what else could it be? Had he come to warn her father against Mr Bingley? Against Jane?

Did he not see how Jane holds Mr Bingley in higher esteem than he does her?

Her lips parted, then closed. She counted to five. “He is often at home during calling hours.”

“Then I shall send my card.” He bowed low and turned away, leaving Elizabeth alone among the shelves.

Her heart pounded with a certainty she could not name.

* * *

The Road to Longbourn, October 1811

The wheels creaked, and the rhythmic jolt of the road barely disturbed the occupants within the carriage. Bingley, elbows braced on his knees, sat forward. He had exchanged disbelief for something like grim pleasure.

“What shall you say?”

Fixed on the brocade pattern in the carriage wall, Darcy counted fifty before abandoning the exercise.

Bingley’s words barely registered. He had heard them all before, in various forms, since he agreed to render an apology that morning.

“You insulted her in public,” Bingley pressed. “She deserves an explanation.”

Beside him, Miss Bingley scoffed. “An explanation? Charles, really. Do not make a spectacle of it. Mr Darcy owes her nothing.”

Bingley turned on her. “Are you saying you did not notice the way the room reacted? Every person in Meryton took note. The insult was perceived. In such cases, perception is all that matters.”

“I should think not,” Miss Bingley replied, examining her nails. “You speak as though Miss Eliza was the Queen herself. She is merely a country girl with no connections of note.”

“No connections? The Gardiners are of solid reputation—”

“Tradespeople,” Miss Bingley interjected. “A family of shopkeepers. Really, Charles, I despair of your taste.”

Darcy smothered a smile. The irony was not lost on him.

Miss Bingley, whose family had built its fortune manufacturing carriages, now sneered at trade as though she had been born into landed gentility.

Her silks, her polish, and her practised disdain all bore the gleam of recent money buffed to mimic an old pedigree.

The Gardiners were no less respectable. Merely more honest.

He would have preferred to go alone. An apology, particularly one born of private shame, did not warrant an audience. But Bingley had insisted, and Mrs Hurst had made clear that propriety demanded a party call. Darcy bore it, resenting every unnecessary witness.

He had one reprieve yet left to him. If Mr Bennet received him first, he might at least gauge the temper of the household. Perhaps even gain permission for a private word. No apology, however contrived, could succeed under the scrutiny of the drawing room.

He closed his eyes briefly. Then opened them again. Anything to tune out their endless bickering.

Instead, he pictured her .

The exact hue of her hair, not merely brown but chestnut, touched with auburn in the right light. The shape of her eyes, the way one was such a deep green, it might have belonged to the Derbyshire woodlands.

Something deep within him knew the truth. His mother had spoken of her.

“You will know her when you see her, my darling boy.”

As a child, he had clung to those words, envisioning a perfect creature spun from myth and poetry. As a man, he had dismissed them as whimsy. Until now.

She was real. And she was waiting at Longbourn. A sharp jab in the ribs dragged him back to the present.

“Darcy, for the love of God, say something.”

“You overestimate my role in this,” Darcy said.

Bingley flushed. “That is absurd, and you know it. Miss Elizabeth’s reputation is at stake.”

Miss Bingley waved a hand. “Really, Charles, how you exaggerate.” She turned to her sister. “What say you?”

“Any man may err, but only a fool persists in his error.” Mrs Hurst fixed on Darcy. “I, for one, refuse to be made a fool.”

He inclined his head. Like her husband, Louisa Hurst was not one to trifle with.

However, Bingley was a dog with a bone. “I saw the way the room turned against him. Against us. I have heard the murmurs amongst the servants. You have done her harm, Darcy, and you must set it right. This has gone on unanswered for far too long.”

What could he say? That he had never meant to slight her? That he had gaped because she was his fate staring back at him? That he had not stopped thinking of her eyes, wide with astonishment, ever since?

No. He could say none of it.

He turned to the window. The countryside blurred past. With each passing field, his chest grew heavier.

“I must say, I pity you, Mr Darcy.” Miss Bingley folded her hands in her lap.

“Indeed?”

“Oh, yes.” Her lips curved into something that might have passed for a smile. “To be burdened with guilt over a lady of no consequence must be a trial.”

The carriage slowed. Longbourn lay ahead .