Page 43 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

The storm descended upon Netherfield Park just past noon. From the drawing room window, Darcy gazed out over the sodden, grey landscape. The last of the dead leaves skittered over the gravel drive.

Elizabeth.

He pictured her as she walked with Bingley. What had he seen in her face? Jealousy? Impossible. Yet she had been watching him. Watching him and her sister. Perhaps?

And then, the first carriage appeared. Darcy straightened. A glossy black barouche, its crest unmistakable, thundered up the lane like a war chariot. The de Bourgh coat of arms glared from the door, the gold and black shining even in the rain.

Behind it, a second carriage rolled into view. Darcy swore under his breath.

* * *

He and Bingley reached the hall as the front doors burst open. Lady Catherine de Bourgh swept inside, her cloak billowing like a general surveying a battlefield. Mr Collins scurried after. Bingley blinked in obvious confusion.

Lady Catherine looked at them and scoffed. “Do not stand there like parsnips.”

Darcy scowled.

“Where is the mistress?” she demanded.

Bingley shook his head. Darcy set his jaw and said, “Netherfield has no mistress.”

She sliced the air with a sharp motion of her hand. “Ridiculous. A household of bachelors? At this time of year? Unheard of. Grown men left to manage themselves? No mistress. It will not do.”

She turned sharply. Her cloak whipped at her heels. “You may consider me mistress of the house.”

The butler and housekeeper exchanged glances, then bowed their heads. Bingley gaped. Darcy ground his teeth.

She snapped her fingers. “Let us not linger here like beggars.”

Mr Collins bobbed his head furiously. “Indeed, most excellent Your Ladyship, I cannot express my delight that you should bestow such grace upon—”

With a wave of her hand, she ascended the stairs. Her coterie followed in her wake. Darcy watched his aunt, the unstoppable force.

A cold hand graced his cheek. He looked down to see Anne’s eyes, pale, strange, and knowing, met his. “Chin up, Darcy,” she murmured. “This was inevitable.”

Anne’s maid, Mrs Jenkinson, whisked her up the stairs, while Darcy remained at the foot of the grand staircase.

Lady Catherine’s command echoed in the cavernous hall. “Tea. The largest drawing room. Immediately,” and the butler hurried down the stairs.

The tension in Darcy’s shoulders neared a breaking point.

Bingley, at last, found his voice. “I say,” he muttered. “What the devil just happened?”

* * *

The fire in the blue room, as Lady Catherine had dubbed it, crackled, but the warmth did not reach Darcy’s bones.

His aunt sat in the central chair, her hands upon her cane.

Mr Collins hovered nearby. Anne sat unmoving, layered in furs and silence.

Mrs Jenkinson adjusted a shawl, whispered something, and settled back into ether.

Bingley sat, his eyes darting between Darcy and Lady Catherine as if a canary caught in a gilded cage.

Her Ladyship tapped her cane once. “We shall not mince words, Darcy,” she said. “It is well past time you ceased this nonsense and fulfilled your obligations.”

“Obligations, Your Ladyship?”

“Do not play coy with me.”

Collins cleared his throat. “Indeed, Mr Darcy, Her Ladyship speaks nothing but wisdom! I have often said—”

“Desist,” Darcy said.

Collins gulped. Lady Catherine continued as though he had never spoken.

“You were always meant for Anne. The connection between Rosings and Pemberley is of vital importance.”

Collins nodded fervently.

Darcy looked past him to Anne. She met his gaze, impassive.

Lady Catherine’s fingers tightened over her cane. “She has always been your intended. Your mother wanted it.”

Darcy inclined his head. “She did not.”

Lady Catherine’s nostrils flared. “Your father approved.”

“He, too, did not.”

Lady Catherine’s nails drummed once on her cane. “Your father agreed to the match.”

Darcy exhaled slowly. “He knew he was dying. He spoke many things near the end. This was an empty threat, made when he knew he would not live to enforce it.”

Lady Catherine’s jaw tightened. “And do you mean to disregard his legacy?”

Darcy rolled his shoulders. The weight of expectation sat there no longer. “I intend to honour it.”

Lady Catherine’s cane struck the floor. “You were raised for this. Anne was raised for this.”

Darcy pressed his fingertips into his palm. “I was raised to govern Pemberley.”

“You would throw away all that was planned for you?”

“All that you planned,” he replied.

Her nostrils flared. Mr Collins twitched. Mrs Jenkinson adjusted Anne’s shawl. Bingley made a low sound, as though resisting the urge to speak.

Lady Catherine inhaled through her nose. “You are blinded, Darcy.”

“Am I?”

“You have been seen in Hertfordshire. I have heard the rumours.”

Lady Catherine paused. “You would disgrace yourself for a woman of no consequence?”

“She is of consequence.”

Lady Catherine slammed her cane against the floor. “This is not finished. I shall retire to my rooms.” She turned towards Anne, who sat unmoving. Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “Anne, let us retire.”

“You should listen to him, Mother,” Anne replied.

Lady Catherine’s jaw tightened; Anne adjusted her own shawl.

Lady Catherine’s cane thumped against the floor. “Come. I shall not repeat myself.”

Mrs Jenkinson fluttered, but Anne stood on her own. She passed him without a word, but her fingers brushed his sleeve.

She did not look at him, but he understood. Chin up, Darcy. She left the room.

The wind howled against the windows.

Bingley slumped back in his chair, running a hand over his face. “This is worse than Drury Lane. When I go with Caroline, I sit through two hours of nonsense—but at least it ends.” Bingley slumped back in his chair and rubbed his face.

“Will this?”

* * *

The following morning, Bingley stood in the vestibule, coat buttoned, gloves pulled snug. He worked his shoulders, his usual cheer dulled to something pensive. A footman carried the last of his trunks through the open door.

Darcy had watched him in silence. “You are certain?”

Bingley looked at him, pain etched upon his face. “I have never been less certain of anything in my life.”

“Then why go?”

“Because, for once, I must think.”

The butler handed him his hat.

“Darcy.”

“Yes?”

“I never knew your life was such a tempest.” He disappeared through the front door to his waiting carriage.

“Good luck,” he murmured, though Bingley would not have heard him.

Behind him, a footman held out a small stack of folded notes. “Shall I delivery these, sir?”

He looked down at the notes. The first bore the Bennet name. At least Bingley had the courtesy to inform his neighbours. He reached for that letter and set it aside.

“No. I shall take this one myself. ”