Page 33 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Bennet clasped his hands behind his back and regarded Jane as though seeing a familiar painting in an unexpected light. “Well, my dear, I shall leave you to your convalescence. Do not allow your mother’s enthusiasm for your recovery to result in an untimely demise.”

As Jane laughed, he turned towards Elizabeth. “As for you, Lizzy, I find myself in need of a guide. Shall we see if Mr Bingley has managed to elevate his book room beyond the sorry state of Meryton’s circulating library? Or will I be forced to lament the tragedy of wasted shelves?”

“I doubt he has had the time or the inclination to do so.”

“Then I shall content myself by mourning the oversight.” He gestured towards the door. “Come, let us see what dreadful state the collection is in.”

They followed a footman through the corridor and down the staircase.

When in comfortable silence. Though the storm had passed, the air still held the damp hush of rain.

When the library door was opened and they stepped inside, the room was unoccupied.

Bennet cast a glance over the shelves and gave a soft tsk of disapproval.

“As I feared. A collection assembled for appearance, not for use.”

He pulled out a volume, inspected it, and placed it back, his nose wrinkled as if the book were a rotten fish. “Ah, but no matter. It serves my purpose well enough. Now, Lizzy, tell me everything.”

Elizabeth folded her arms. “I have already told Jane—”

“Who is not me,” he interrupted. “Now, begin.”

She sighed. “It was the usual. Miss Bingley displayed her sharp tongue, and Mr Bingley attempted to temper her, which she ignored.”

Bennet hummed, unimpressed. “And?”

“Mrs Hurst surprised me. I should think we could be friends.”

“Mrs Ecclestone expressed the same sentiment,” he said.

“An admirable recommendation.”

“Indeed.”

He gestured for her to continue.

“And then, Mr Darcy defended me.”

“And that, I suspect, is what troubles you.”

Elizabeth’s lips parted, but no reply came.

“Why does his defence weigh so heavily upon you?” he asked.

She hesitated. “Because I do not comprehend him.”

“Ah.” Bennet crossed the room and sat. He gestured for her to do the same. “I imagine that must be quite vexing for someone who prides herself on comprehension.”

Elizabeth sank into the chair opposite him. “I do understand people, Papa. I see their aires.”

“And yet?”

She pressed her fingers against her temple. “I cannot see his.”

Bennet leant forward. “Explain.”

“He insults me, disregards me, fixates on me, and then defends me. I cannot sketch his character. Each time I think I have, he shifts beyond knowing.”

“Why is that?”

“I do not know!” she snapped.

Bennet raised his eyebrows. She closed her eyes and inhaled.

“You ask as though there is some logical answer, Papa.”

“Is there not?”

“No!”

“Then tell me why his defence of you is so significant.”

Elizabeth turned to the fire, her jaw tight.

“Lizzy.”

His daughter swallowed.

“Elizabeth.”

She shook her head.

“We made a promise, my dear. All those years ago.”

She closed her eyes. “Complete honesty,” she whispered.

“Yes. Complete honesty.”

He waited. “What are you hiding?”

Elizabeth seemed to ignore him.

“What do you not want to admit?”

She clenched her jaw, refusing to answer.

Bennet leant back and folded his arms. “It must be quite something if it has left you at such a loss.”

“I—” Her voice faltered. She drew a breath. “When he defended me,” she said slowly, “his aire appeared.”

“What colour?” He measured his words. Long ago, he had learnt that silence was the surest prod.

Elizabeth’s breath came short and quick. Her jaw clenched, then released. Then, with the force of a dam breaking—

“Because”—she pressed a hand to her mouth as if to catch the words— “because he admires me. And I am not entirely averse to it.”

He was surprised that Homer reared its unwelcome head: Truth is seldom pleasant; but always noble.

Instead, he said, “Ah. Now we are getting somewhere. ”