Page 30 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Alone in the corridor, Elizabeth stopped to smooth her damp skirt before entering the drawing room. The open doorway offered warmth to the chill behind her, but she stilled when she heard her name.

“Really, Charles, it is quite remarkable that Miss Eliza should so thoroughly disregard decorum. To arrive at Netherfield in such a state.”

“I find it admirable. Is she not the model of sisterly affection?” said Mrs Hurst.

“Yes, I suppose, in some quarters, it might be mistaken for devotion,” Miss Bingley continued. “Though I wonder—what does she imagine she accomplishes? Does she think to impress? To be thought noble?”

There. That was the heart of it. Not what she had done, but that she dared believe it had meaning. She traced Caroline’s aire, verdant strands twisted in smug pleasure.

Mr Bingley’s aire pulsed. “Really, Caroline, must you always find fault?”

Miss Bingley dismissed him with a careless wave. “Dearest brother, I do not judge. I merely report what is plain to anyone with eyes. And what I observe is a family wholly unsuited to society.”

Elizabeth had faced worse. But there was something in the ease of it—in the assured cruelty—that pierced more deeply than she would admit.

“Even setting aside Miss Eliza’s unfortunate eccentricities, I struggle to find one connection which is not an embarrassment.”

Mr Bingley’s aire darkened. “You exaggerate.”

“Do I? Consider their relations. A merchant in Cheapside. An aunt tied to trade. One can scarcely imagine a more illustrious lineage.”

Elizabeth curled her nails into her palms. To hear her family dissected, even errantly, made bile rise in her throat. And still, she did not move. She could not.

There, in the corner, unmoving, was Mr Darcy. Around him was nothing. For some reason, her heart ached for him. She dismissed the impulse. He had not spoken. Not once.

“Mr and Mrs Gardiner are more refined than half the people of my acquaintance. They are educated, well-mannered, and possess more good sense than many a gentleman’s wife,” Mr Bingley said.

“I agree,” Mr Darcy said.

Elizabeth’s attention snapped to him.

“You agree?” Miss Bingley’s voice was nearly a screech.

“I have met Mr Gardiner. He is an intelligent man, well-spoken and amiable. And his wife is a lady of taste.”

He spoke as though the matter were already settled.

Miss Bingley waved a hand. “Let us not pretend. A polished surface does not change the material beneath.”

The cruelty of it struck Elizabeth hard. Not because it was true—it was not. But because it was designed to wound.

“No, Caroline, it does not.”

Bravo! Mrs Hurst’s retort was a shot over her sister’s bow. Did Miss Bingley perceive the insult? “And green, my dear, remains a most unbecoming colour on you.”

Elizabeth nearly gasped. A description of Miss Bingley’s aire.

Mrs Hurst glanced at Darcy and said to her sister, “You forget yourself, Caroline.”

Miss Bingley opened her mouth to retort.

“Do not,” Mrs Hurst said. “You are a dependent sister. You would do well to remember it.”

Miss Bingley’s lips pressed into a thin line. She was Medusa; her aire a writhing tangle of green-scaled serpents.

“And what of the entail?” Miss Bingley’s voice was silk and glass. “Ah, yes. I wonder how much Miss Bennet has told you of the precarious nature of their estate.”

Elizabeth held her breath.

“I do not see how it is of any consequence,” said Mr Bingley.

“Of course you do not,” Miss Bingley replied. “But surely it has been mentioned? Their home and lands entailed away from all the daughters. What a tragedy. Or perhaps not, considering they have done so little to secure themselves a future.

“And now two of them sit upstairs, one ill, the other playing nursemaid—as if proximity might be mistaken for consequence.”

She had heard enough. Before she could step forward, Mr Bingley’s voice rang out. “This is disgraceful, Caroline.”

“No, Charles. It is the truth.”

Mr Darcy rose. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet possesses more wit than any woman in the first circle, a mind as quick as it is discerning, and a character”—he buttoned his jacket—“that is beyond reproach.”

Elizabeth stepped into the light.

Miss Bingley’s lips parted. Mrs Hurst smiled. Mr Bingley gaped.

Elizabeth knew before he turned. She felt it. The shift in the air. The crackle of tension. Mr Darcy followed their line of sight. Saw her. His eyes, so often unreadable, had softened. He smiled.

Around him, a rose-coloured aire unfurled .