Page 40 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

The following morning, Darcy entered the breakfast-parlour. The air carried the rich scent of fresh coffee, a stark contrast to the stale tension of the drawing room from the night before.

He had expected to find solitude. Instead, at the sideboard, he found Hurst.

Darcy halted. “You are returned.”

“Last night,” Hurst replied, lifting his cup in greeting.

Darcy crossed to pour his coffee. “I had understood you would remain in Town until Christmas.”

“That was my intention. Louisa convinced me otherwise.”

Darcy had once asked Hurst about his affairs, but the man had revealed nothing.

He was a master of obfuscation. What little Darcy had discerned was this: Hurst moved in circles beyond mere society, knew men in every town and village, and—if Darcy had to guess—gathered intelligence with the same devotion a numismatist reserved for rare coins.

“Mrs Hurst is a discerning woman.”

“Thank you. I agree.”

“This seems rather extreme for parlour tittle-tattle.” That could not be all it was. “Is there something more?”

“Your express.”

Hurst has spoken with Fitzwilliam? “I had not thought my account widely shared.”

“It was not. But it reached the necessary hands.” Hurst reached for his gloves. “I shall return to Town shortly. And I will not be alone.”

Bootsteps sounded in the corridor—trunks being moved, Bingley’s voice in the hall. Mr Howard entered with Hurst’s coat and hat.

With one last glance, Hurst said, “Be watchful, Darcy. Not all comedies conclude with laughter.” Then he was gone.

* * *

The breakfast-parlour felt oddly vacant. Only the quiet clink of silver against china and the occasional creak of a chair disturbed the silence. Bingley stared at Darcy. Darcy stared at Bingley. Both looked down at their plates.

Bingley exhaled. “I must say, the morning is unusually agreeable.”

Darcy lifted his cup. “Indeed. No chatter. No clashing opinions. No scheming.”

Bingley nodded. “No interruptions.”

Darcy took a measured sip. “No theatrics.”

Bingley grinned. “No hostess.”

Darcy set down his cup. “No means of issuing invitations.”

“Other than men,” Bingley replied.

They met each other’s eyes. In unison: “Longbourn.” Chairs scraped against the floor, boots struck polished wood, and minutes later, they met at the stable.

* * *

The breakfast-parlour at Longbourn had become a stage, curtains drawn, players in place, and Bennet had the best seat in the house.

Mrs Ecclestone had returned. And she had fixated upon Bingley.

The poor fool had entered cheerful, untroubled, and blissfully ignorant of the fox circling him. He smiled upon Jane, offered the usual pleasantries, and even inquired after Mrs Bennet’s health. Now, he squirmed.

“Mr Bingley,” Mrs Ecclestone said, her gimlet eye unblinking. “You are yet in residence at Netherfield?”

“Er—yes,” Bingley replied, shifting in his seat.

“How singular.”

Mrs Bennet caught her gaze and gave a small, conspiratorial nod.

Bennet watched the exchange with amusement. His dear wife believed herself the mistress of orchestration, but it was Mrs Ecclestone conducting the symphony.

“Singular indeed,” Mrs Ecclestone said, tapping her fingers against the chair arm. “A young man, unwed, lingering in the country past his usual amusements.”

“I am fond of the country.” Bingley, eyes wide, reached for his teacup. “It is quite…refreshing.”

Mrs Ecclestone’s eyes sharpened. “Refreshing, is it? And yet, your sisters have returned to Town.”

“Yes, well.” Bingley coughed and set the cup down. “They prefer London.”

“As does Mr Hurst, no doubt.”

“Indeed.”

Mrs Ecclestone turned slightly, her fan twitching. “And you, Mr Darcy? Do you, too, find the country refreshing ?”

Bennet did not miss how his least talkative guest startled upon being addressed.

“I do.”

Mrs Ecclestone’s gaze flicked to Elizabeth, who was studiously not looking at Darcy. “How convenient.”

Kitty and Lydia, for once, behaved admirably. Their usual chatter had ceased; their eyes sparked with interest in the spectacle unfolding before them.

“Miss Kitty,” Mrs Ecclestone said suddenly.

Kitty nearly dropped her teacup. “Yes, ma’am?”

“How is your reading progressing?”

Kitty sat up straighter. “Quite well, ma’am. I have been reading Milton.”

“A worthy choice.”

Lydia opened her mouth, but Mrs Ecclestone turned to her before she could speak. “Miss Lydia?”

Lydia, apparently caught off guard, clamped her mouth noisily, her eyes wide.

“Lydia has been reading Shakespeare ,” Kitty replied quickly, hands folded primly in her lap.

“Yes. Much Ado About Nothing. ” Lydia added.

“Very good. It pleases me that you both continue to pursue a broad education.” Mrs Ecclestone took a sip of tea.

Kitty looked relieved. Lydia sat perfectly still. Both Darcy and Bingley looked faintly chagrined. Bennet noted it with satisfaction. The men had just been corrected. Mrs Bennet gave Jane a meaningful glance.

Bennet took that as his cue. He set down his glass, folded his hands, and looked directly at Bingley. “Tell me, Mr Bingley, do you find Meryton well-supplied?”

Bingley blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Supplied,” Bennet repeated. “With amusements, of course.”

Bingley looked like a hare flushed from cover.

Jane, to her credit, merely sipped her tea, serene and unassuming.

Bingley fumbled. “Er—yes?”

“Ah,” Bennet said. “Then I suppose you will be eager to return to London.”

“I—well—”

Mrs Ecclestone raised an eyebrow. Mrs Bennet whispered furiously. Jane raised her cup once more, composed. Elizabeth glanced at Darcy. Darcy looked away. Bennet, delighted beyond words, sipped his tea.

“I”—Bingley cleared his throat— “I find I rather like the country.”

Jane smiled into her teacup.

Mrs Ecclestone exhaled. “Well. At last, some honesty.”

Bingley gave the distinct impression of a man manoeuvred into a trap and unable to object to the craftsmanship.

Bennet reclined. “Well, Mr Bingley, I suppose you must decide soon whether you prefer London or the country. We should all be eager to know.”

Mrs Ecclestone nodded once, and Bingley looked as though he would rather face a battalion.

Jane set down her cup. “Would you care for another, Mr Bingley?”

Bingley met her gaze. “I—yes,” he said, with all the gravity of a man accepting his fate.

Elizabeth looked at Darcy. Darcy studied the pattern on his plate. Bennet bit back a laugh. Mrs Ecclestone took another sip of tea. Bennet, thoroughly satisfied, sat back.

Yes. He enjoyed comedies immensely .