Page 46 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)
He stood still as Barty adjusted his cuff for the third time. The evening routine progressed with his man’s usual tyranny over cloth and crease until the house announced itself with a gong fit for Westminster.The brazen toll of forged metal rang through the air.
Darcy blinked. What the deuce? A dinner gong?
Barty froze mid-adjustment, one hand still at his master’s cuff. Without looking up, he murmured, “Perhaps next we shall summon footmen with trumpets and rename the estate Chatsworth South.”
A breath escaped through his nose. “Quite.”
Barty flicked an imaginary speck from the lapel. He unfastened his waistcoat, tightened his cravat, and loosened it again.
Darcy bore it in silence.
“Have you finished sculpting?”
Barty, eyes narrowed, tilted his head. “A little tighter, sir, lest your dinner partner see your pulse.”
“Barty.”
The valet lifted an eyebrow. “Sir?”
Do not play the innocent with me .
He ran his hands over Darcy’s shoulders. “A shame, really,” he tutted. “To see such craftsmanship undone.”
“Do you know something I do not?”
Barty pressed his lips together. “I should not say, sir. But I shall.” Barty adjusted the hem of his coat.
Darcy braced himself. His man was about to spew valet wisdom. In droves…
“The line between restraint and recklessness is but a thread. One must consider the weight of a single step. Some men stand at the edge forever, never knowing how it feels to fall. A well-fitted coat hides much, but not all. If a man comes undone, sir, it is rarely the fault of his tailor—”
“Barty.”
Barty smoothed an invisible wrinkle. “Sir?”
“You have always been Loki to my Thor.”
Barty bowed deeply. “And you, sir, have always been predictable. One step, sir. That is all it takes.” He turned towards the door, glanced back, and then he was gone.
* * *
Darcy blinked at the empty doorway. The fire snapped behind him, casting flickering light along the walls. His coat felt too tight, the air too thick.
The urge struck without warning. The Book. On a page he expected to be blank, but, thankfully, was not:
Look at her. With your heart
The ink pressed into the page as though it had been waiting for him. The words did not simply stare back. They demanded.
* * *
Longbourn
Earlier that day, Mrs Bennet received a summons from Netherfield Park. A footman in livery delivered a quarto bearing the de Bourgh’s seal. The note was curt, its civility barely veiled: the Bennet family was invited to dine.
Upon reading it, Mrs Bennet declared herself both delighted and distressed. Delighted at the honour, distressed at the woeful state of her daughters’ wardrobe. There was not a glove among them fit for scrutiny.
She paced the length of the drawing room. “Dinner with Lady Catherine! At Netherfield. Oh, Mr Bennet, we shall be torn to pieces.”
“Then I am glad I’ve never worn anything worth mending,” he replied, not looking up from his paper.
“You are insufferable,” she snapped. “There is not a girl in this house with silk fit to face the mistress of Rosings Park. And Jane’s only decent shoes are missing a button.”
Mr Bennet folded the paper with deliberate care. “My dear, I must urge you to be at ease.”
“At ease?” she echoed.
He stood, crossed to the sideboard, and poured himself a modest glass of wine. “Lady Catherine may hold rank, but we have the advantage.”
Mrs Bennet scoffed. “Which is?”
“She has summoned us to her ground. Which means she plays hostess, not sovereign. It is the weaker position.”
Mrs Bennet sank into a chair. “I shall not be lectured on military strategy by a man who cannot distinguish between nutmeg and mace.”
“No, but I can distinguish between offence and opportunity. Keep your friends close, my dear—and your enemies seated beside the soup tureen.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, heavens. I do not know whether to faint or summon the mantua-maker.”
“Hmm.” Mr Bennet smiled faintly. “Perhaps we should consult our oracle.”
She blinked. “Mrs Ecclestone?”
He nodded. “She is of Canterbury, near Kent. Let us ask our what sacrifice Lady Catherine requires.”
Mrs Bennet opened her mouth—but the door creaked open before she could speak.
Mrs Ecclestone stepped into the room without announcement, her bearing as composed as ever. “How may I assist you?”
Mrs Bennet started. “Gracious! You gave me a turn.” She held out the invitation with Lady Catherine’s seal.
Mrs Ecclestone took it, then pursed her lips. “A summons, I see.”
Mr Bennet watched her closely. “Any insight, madam?”
“Yes,” she said flatly.
Mrs Bennet leant forward. “You will save us?”
“Oh course.”
Mr Bennet lifted a brow. “You seem unperturbed.”
“I have seen this play before.” She turned to Mrs Bennet. “Pray, tend to yourself, madam. I shall manage all.”
With a hasty inclination of the head and a nervous look toward the staircase, Mrs Bennet quitted the room.
Mr Bennet lingered. “And what is my task in all this?”
Mrs Ecclestone met his gaze without blinking. “Array your daughters in gemstones, sir. Let them dazzle with their own light. No shadow can touch what shines from within.”
He chuckled, sketched a bow, and turned smartly on his heel. “Of course. I shall go polish the family silver. And adorn our beauties properly.” Then with the manner of a general dismissed from war council, he marched off down the hall.
* * *
The schoolroom had become a theatre of preparation. Silks, ribbons, and trimmings lay strewn across the tables, a riot of colour and movement disrupting its usual order. Candles flickered in their sconces, and two young maids ran up and down the stairs.
At the head of the class, Mrs Ecclestone sat, hands folded, and watched the proceedings. She neither instructed nor interfered. Instead, she waited and observed. How I adore a display of sisterly affection!
Seated before her, the three elder Bennets submitted to their youngest sisters’ ministrations.
Kitty, brow furrowed in concentration, secured clasps, arranged hair, and selected adornments with the precision of a painter. Lydia, her eye for colour undeniable, examined each fabric, discarding one sash for another. She adjusted a hem and tugged at a sleeve.
Mrs Ecclestone approved of it all.
Jane, draped in ivory, was the very image of modesty. Modest as always, but her beauty cannot be contained.
Elizabeth sat straight-backed in a deep forest green gown as Kitty secured a comb in her hair. The colour echoed the rare pairing of her eyes, subtle as moss and shadow. The gown does not compete. It draws both colours into quiet harmony.
Mary sat in navy blue; her skin paler than her sisters. Kitty had pinned her dusky blonde hair back neatly. On another young lady, the shade might have been severe—too practical, too forgettable—but on Mary, it held weight. It made one look twice.
Practical on another young lady, striking on her. Mrs Ecclestone clapped her hands. “This will do.”
She turned to Kitty and Lydia. “I have never been prouder of you.” She was pleased to see them blush.
At the foot of the stairs, Mr and Mrs Bennet waited. Hill, arms full of carefully stacked boxes, stood beside them.
Mr Bennet took the first, a velvet case, and opened it. Inside was a sapphire pendant—deep as twilight.
Mrs Bennet fastened it about Jane’s neck. “Your eyes eclipse these, dearest Jane.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
The second box contained a garnet-encrusted cross.
“You are a prayer come to life, my Lizzy.” She kissed Mr Bennet’s cheek.
The third box held pearls—simple, clean, beautifully kept. “They were your grandmother Mary Elizabeth Bennet’s most cherished possession. None but you may do them justice.”
Mary placed her hand atop her mother’s.
Jane stood luminous. Elizabeth watchful. Mary steady. Beauty, reason, and virtue. Proof that miracles come in threes .
Mr and Mrs Bennet were quite fixed upon each other, until Mrs Ecclestone tapped his shoulder with her fan. “Behave yourself, sir.”
Mr Bennet sighed. “And the evening has scarce begun.”
Off they went. She smiled. “My, my, Catty Fitzwilliam. How ill you have calculated.”
* * *
Lady Catherine’s carriage—roomy, but not enough for ease—lurched forward. With five within, knees brushed, hands grazed skirts, and slippered feet shifted for space. Lanterns flickered against the glass. Jane and Mary examined their reflections.
Elizabeth looked through the carriage window, unseeing. Her thoughts had fixed upon one subject, one man, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. She reviewed every conversation with him, each glance, every unspoken challenge that had passed between them.
He was insufferable. She stared at the passing darkness beyond the window.
He was arrogant, ill-mannered . Her fingers tightened upon her skirts.
He left the assembly. He saw me and ran. The entire town saw it.
Her father made a noise—half cough, half laugh. When she focused upon him, he lifted his brows. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. She would not give him the satisfaction and returned to her arguments.
He is not repulsed now. She frowned.
He defended me. She shifted against the seat.
He admitted he admires me. Her hands curled into her lap.
Admire? She looked out the window again.
That is not the word. A huff of breath. Then what is?
Her father waggled his brows again. Elizabeth stared at him, then looked away.
Mr Darcy’s aire is rose.
The carriage hit a rut in the road, knocking her shoulder against Jane’s. Her sister adopted that same knowing smile. Elizabeth refused to acknowledge it.
He does not dance. He does not smile. Except… Her eyes closed briefly. Except with me.
Her father shook his head again, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He tsked under his breath.
Elizabeth whipped towards him. “Papa.”
He batted his eyes. “Lizzy?”
She glared.
He lifted his hands, palms up. “Not a word. I would never interrupt such an enthralling debate.”
The carriage rolled to a stop. The footman opened the door. Her father stepped out. Then, her mother. Then Jane. Elizabeth accepted her father’s hand as he said, “Have you finished arguing with yourself?”
Elizabeth bit her tongue. Mary linked arms with her. She lifted her chin, ignored his smirk, and strode towards Netherfield’s entrance with her sister. Her father chuckled behind her .