Page 27 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Bennet stood and pulled the corners of his waistcoat downwards. “Come along, then, Darcy. It would be discourteous to keep your hostess waiting.”

Darcy followed Bennet from the study. Somewhere near, the faint trill of a young girl’s laughter rang out before being abruptly shushed.

Bennet paused outside the drawing room, his hand on the door handle. “I should warn you.”

“Of what, precisely?”

Bennet smiled. “Mrs Ecclestone.”

The name meant nothing to him. The faint murmur of voices drifted from within. Female voices. Several. Before he could inquire further, Bennet pushed open the door, and the room fell silent.

Darcy glanced at the gathering: seven women, some perched on settees, others in chairs.

The drawing room was more constricted than he had expected.

Miss Elizabeth stood near the hearth, Miss Bennet beside her, their expressions unreadable.

Miss Mary clutched what looked to be The Rambler .

Mrs Bennet occupied the most prominent seat.

But it was the unknown lady beside her who drew his notice.

Older. Not elderly. Trim in a day gown of fine wool, unfashionable but well maintained. Her cuffs bore careful embroidery, not ostentatious but sure of hand. A woman of means, then.

Her composure set her apart. Older than Mrs Bennet, she regarded him with an expression that was entirely too knowing.

Darcy inclined his head, bracing himself for an introduction to some formidable matriarch, perhaps a long-standing benefactress of the Bennet family or a distant relation.

“Allow me to introduce Mrs Ecclestone,” Mrs Bennet said.

Mrs Ecclestone inclined her head. “Sir.”

Darcy bowed. “Madam.”

Mrs Bennet beamed. “Mrs Ecclestone is a most valued friend of our household. She has helped educate my girls into the young ladies you see before you.”

Darcy caught on. A woman of means rarely spent years in such close familiarity with another family’s children.

He turned back to Mrs Ecclestone. The well-worn hands.

The assessing stare. The way she held herself, not as a guest, but as someone accustomed to presiding over this very room.

It was not deference she expected; it was order.

“You were the governess.”

Mrs Ecclestone smiled, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Among other things.”

Mrs Bennet patted her arm fondly. “Oh yes, she has always been quite indispensable.”

Darcy sat. For the first time in recent memory, he found himself at a disadvantage.

Bennet crossed the room to the sideboard.

Mrs Bennet cleared her throat. “You find us in modest company, sir, but what we lack in grandeur, I hope we make up for in warmth.”

“Do you find warmth preferable to grandeur, Mr Darcy?” Mrs Ecclestone asked.

Darcy turned to her. It was not merely pleasantry; it was an examination.

“A house may be built of marble, but without warmth, it is no home,” he replied.

Mrs Ecclestone’s expression shifted. Approval? Amusement? He could not tell.

Miss Elizabeth stared at him from across the room.

Mrs Bennet beamed. “Oh, how true! Mr Bingley finds our little community most welcoming, does he not?”

“Indeed, he does,” Darcy said.

Miss Bennet looked down, her blush a tinge on her cheeks.

Mrs Ecclestone tapped a single finger against the arm of her chair. “And you, sir? Do you find Meryton welcoming?”

Darcy hesitated.

Miss Elizabeth finally spoke. “I suppose that depends on whether one values sincerity over civility.”

This was no longer an examination. This was a duel. He forced himself to appear unmoved. “I find civility is often mistaken for sincerity.”

She arched a brow. “And have you mistaken sincerity for civility?”

A ripple of amusement crossed Mrs Ecclestone’s face.

The trap had already sprung. He had spent years mastering restraint, measuring words before releasing them. But Miss Elizabeth wielded language like a stiletto, forcing him to retreat before he had even considered his footing.

He took a measured sip of his drink. “I find sincerity to be a rarer quality than civility.”

“Then perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places,” she parried.

Mrs Ecclestone exhaled noisily through her nose, a whisper of laughter.

Darcy had never wanted so badly to escape and yet remain.

Hill appeared in the doorway.

Bennet intervened, merciful or mischievous, but Darcy could not yet tell. “Dinner, I believe, is served.”

The ladies rose, and Darcy followed suit.

“Mr Darcy?” Mrs Bennet prompted.

He offered his arm without hesitation.

Miss Bennet stepped forward with her father close behind.

Darcy led his hostess into the dining room and assisted her to her chair.

As Bennet passed behind him, he clapped a hand to Darcy’s shoulder.

“You are in for a long evening, Son.”

* * *

Elizabeth took her seat beside Jane, across from Mary. Mr Darcy sat to her mother’s right, the place of honour.

The moment they sat, conversation flowed naturally.

Mr Bennet made a wry comment about the local harvest; Mrs Bennet remarked on the fair weather and the delight of good company, including, with unmistakeable cheer, all company.

Elizabeth was fairly certain it was meant as a barb.

Mr Darcy, if he noticed, gave no sign. Lydia attempted to convince her mother to visit Meryton the next day.

“If Mrs Ecclestone deems it worthy.”

Lydia huffed but did not press. Mrs Bennet turned to Kitty.

“Tell us of your next canvas, Miss Kitty Kauffman.”

“Mama! I would have expected such from Papa.”

“Then you should not have carried on about seeing Ariadne at Somerset House for months on end, mon petit artiste .”

Kitty set her utensils aside. “I had planned a study of the great oak near the parsonage, but Mr Whitman suggested I try a broader perspective, capture the lane as a whole.”

“That would provide a better sense of scale,” Mary said.

Through it all, Elizabeth tried to discern Mr Darcy. Everyone else revealed some trace, subtle shades shifting like light through coloured glass. Even Mary bore a quiet, unwavering hue. Mrs Ecclestone’s aire remained steady as a rock.

But Mr Darcy? Nothing.

“Lizzy.” Jane nudged her. “You are staring.”

Caught. She drew a breath and returned to the present. Mr Darcy had not even noticed; if he had, he gave no sign. How could Mr Darcy have no aire?

He sat with perfect posture, his movements precise but never hurried. He complimented his hostess with a hearty appetite. He seemed aware of every conversation at the table, though he rarely responded.

“Papa,” Mary said, “do you think a government is strongest when it preserves the wisdom of those who came before or when it embraces the needs of the present?”

Her father dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Ah, an excellent question, my dear. A government is like a library; too many old books and the shelves collapse under the weight of outdated knowledge. Too many new ones and one loses the wisdom of the past.”

“Then you side with neither Burke nor Paine but with a balance of both?” Mary replied.

Her father nodded. “A house must have strong foundations and open windows, my dear. Without one, it crumbles; without the other, it stagnates.”

Mary tapped a finger against her plate. “So, true stability lies in knowing when to fortify and when to yield.”

Her father raised his glass. “Spoken like a woman with sense.”

A smattering of chuckles followed. Elizabeth cast a sidelong glance at Mr Darcy. He had listened in complete stillness, his expression unreadable. And still, still , he had no aire. No flicker, no hue, not even a breath of colour.

Jane kicked her ankle. “Lizzy, you are staring. Again.”

Is there indeed no colour at all? Or does he shimmer in shades beyond my ken, like glass?

Mr Darcy reached for his wine. The movement drew her attention again, and her eyes locked onto him before she could stop herself.

He looked at her. Not past her. Not around her. But at her. It lasted a second, perhaps two, before he turned away again.

Elizabeth felt a pulse in her temple. What is that?

The conversation swirled around her, but she barely heard it. No aire. No shade. Nothing she could decipher. She continued watching him, perplexed.

“Lizzy.”

Lydia’s voice rang sharp and clear through the room.

Elizabeth turned to find all eyes on her.

“You keep staring at Mr Darcy.”

“Lydia,” Jane hissed.

“No, allow her to speak.” Mrs Ecclestone set her napkin aside.

Elizabeth’s stomach dropped.

Lydia looked at Mrs Ecclestone, who nodded. “Well, he is rather handsome.” She grinned. “Or, more likely, because he insulted you in front of the entire village.”

Jane’s lips parted. Mary lifted an eyebrow. Mrs Bennet sat up.

Mr Darcy, for his part, placed his knife and fork down with slow deliberation. He stood and reminded her just how tall he was.

“In that, Miss Lydia, you are correct.”

His voice was lower than usual, steady but stripped of its usual precision. He turned to Elizabeth.

“I realise I have behaved abominably. And you, Miss Elizabeth, deserve my sincerest apologies.” He bowed deeply. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he resumed his seat.

Something stirred in her, uncertain and unwilling. Was it admiration? Could humility alone redeem the past ?

Lydia huffed. “Well, at least you admit it.”

“I do.”

Mrs Bennet placed her hand upon Mr Darcy’s forearm. “Why, Mr Darcy is not so disagreeable after all, is he Mr Bennet?”

“An acquired taste, my dear.”

Mr Darcy, however, did not break his gaze from Elizabeth.

The room waited. All eyes were on her again. He was not the man she had thought him. But who, precisely, was he? She had braced for deflection, not contrition. And certainly not this strange sense of something beginning.

She lowered her gaze and returned to her plate, though the food had lost all flavour .