Page 47 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Darcy studied the landscape above the escritoire.

Greens and browns. Elizabeth. Still, he stared.

Voices pressed in and then faded. Elizabeth.

How could he shield her from his aunt’s inevitable vitriol without appearing heavy-handed?

Any overt defence would wound her pride.

Yet, standing idly by while Lady Catherine shredded her to pieces––unthinkable.

A gentleman’s first duty is to those he loves. He had chosen her. With that choice came responsibility.

Mr Howard opened the drawing room doors. “Mr Bennet, Mrs Bennet, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and Miss Mary Bennet.”

The Bennet ladies approached, composed and dignified. Striking. Their richly coloured yet modest gowns shimmered in the day’s light. Miss Bennet, serene in ivory, glowed with quiet beauty. Miss Mary, in navy silk, carried herself with poise.

Elizabeth glided in, regal in deep green, and Darcy stilled. She entered not as a vision but as a reckoning. He worked his tongue as if he had sucked a lemon. His mouth had gone very, very dry.

Lady Catherine snapped her fan shut. Teeth bared, she turned upon Collins. “These are the Bennets?”

Collins turned white.

“ These are the Bennets?”

Lady Catherine’s eyes swept the group, her lips moving as she counted beneath her breath. “You claimed there were five daughters.”

“Y-yes, your L-ladyship.”

Mrs Bennet curtsied. “If I may. Our two youngest are at home with their governess. They are not yet out.”

Lady Catherine’s fan stilled. She turned back to Collins. “You said nothing of a governess.”

Then, to Mrs Bennet. “And who, pray, oversees their education?”

“Mrs Ecclestone. Mrs Ophelia Ecclestone.”

Lady Catherine’s eyes widened. “Ecclestone? Of Canterbury?”

Mr Bennet smiled thinly. “Indeed. I daresay she is.”

Lady Catherine looked as if she would gag. “The Bishop of Rochester’s relations. Those Ecclestones?”

Mrs Bennet turned to her husband. “Did Mrs Ecclestone ever speak of a relation that was a bishop, Mr Bennet?”

He glanced at the ceiling. “She once spoke of a bishop in passing.” He then smiled at Mrs Bennet. “But at the time, I was engaged in a rather spirited chess match with Lizzy. I assumed she referred to our daughter’s most excellent move.”

“Of course. A correct assumption,” said Mrs Bennet.

They both turned back to Lady Catherine.

“The very same,” Mr Bennet replied in a most solemn manner.

Lady Catherine looked incredulous. Her gaze flicked between Mr and Mrs Bennet as if replaying their exchange in her mind. Slowly, suspicion crept into her countenance. “You jest.”

Mr Bennet lifted a brow. “My lady, I do not believe I have.”

Mrs Bennet pressed a hand to her chest. “He would not, Your Ladyship. One does not jest about bishops.”

Lady Catherine squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “You mock me.”

Mr Bennet turned to his wife. “My dear, have you mocked Her Ladyship?”

Mrs Bennet, eyes wide and innocent, blinked. “Mock, Mr Bennet? Me? I would sooner mock the King.”

A fresh wave of colour flooded Lady Catherine’s face.

Mr Collins stepped forward. “Your Ladyship––”

She sliced the air with her hand. Her gaze snapped back to the Bennets, who had composed themselves once more, standing as if nothing untoward had passed between them.

They knew. She knew.

Lady Catherine’s face darkened to a furious red, her fingers white upon her fan as though she meant to snap it in two. She appeared on the verge of an apoplexy.

Mr Bennet darted an eye at Darcy and winked.

Lady Catherine exploded. “Mr Collins! You distinctly told me five young women were roaming the countryside without proper escort.” She swept her hand towards the assembled girls. “And these, these pictures of elegance, are the hoydens in question?”

Collins’s mouth opened and closed, and then he gulped loudly.

Darcy stepped next to Elizabeth. Though her lips were pressed together, she remained calm, mostly unaffected. Yet amusement danced in her eyes.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he murmured. “You look… magnificent.”

She did not look at him. “And you, silent.”

“Rendered silent, if I may admit.”

She turned to him. “You may.”

* * *

Mr Howard had served great houses for over five decades.

He had witnessed earls bicker, countesses weep, and more than one lord abandon dignity in pursuit of a mistress.

During his five-year tenure at Netherfield Park, he had become well acquainted with Longbourn’s patriarch and the man’s peculiar tendency to make light of every situation, especially those which ought not to be trifled with.

But this. This was a tableau he would savour. He cleared his throat. “Dinner is served.”

Lady Catherine ascended like a monarch. “As a proponent of propriety and rank, precedence must not be ignored.”

Mr Bennet extended his arm. “Then allow me the honour, Your Ladyship.”

Lady Catherine, after the briefest flicker of consideration, placed her hand upon his sleeve. “As is proper.”

Mr Darcy, ever the gentleman, turned to Mrs Bennet. “Madam?”

She placed her hand upon his forearm—but only just.

Miss Anne de Bourgh took Miss Elizabeth’s arm while Miss Mary fell in with Miss Bennet. The parson was the last cock on the dunghill.

Howard kept his face neutral as his predecessors had for generations, though it took some effort.

The party passed through the grand threshold to the dining room.

Mr Collins stepped forward to follow, but a footman moved into his path. “Sir, you are not of the dinner party.”

Howard inclined his head. The footman held firm. Mr Collins spluttered like a landed trout as the butler followed the guests.

* * *

Near the door stood an easel bearing the menu. Bennet squinted at the copperplate script, unsure whether it foretold supper or summoned spirits.

He escorted Lady Catherine to the head of the table, where a footman pulled out her chair with exaggerated ceremony. As she settled herself like a monarch receiving homage, Bennet took in the spectacle before him. And here was a stage most excellently set.

Silver candelabras, tall as sentries, lined the centre, their flames casting flickering shadows over gold-rimmed porcelain. He ran a finger along the edge of the tablecloth, unsurprised to find it so starched, he might split a lip on it.

At each place, a name card. Bennet sighed, utterly content. This was going to be better than theatre. And he was in the middle of it.

* * *

The soup was excellent. Or so Elizabeth assumed. She had yet to take a proper taste. Each time her spoon neared her lips—

“Miss Elizabeth, what precisely was the nature of your education?”

She lowered her spoon. “I had the advantage of an excellent governess in my youth, and thereafter applied myself to such authors as I found in my father’s library.”

“How novel. And under whose guidance?”

“From the authors themselves.”

She lifted her spoon again.

“What languages have you mastered?”

“Mastered, madam? French, Italian, and Greek—for reading only.”

“Do you ride?”

She lowered her spoon. “Well enough, Your Ladyship.”

“Side-saddle, I presume?”

“Of course.” She tried again.

“And your accomplishments?”

Elizabeth abandoned all hope of tasting her soup before the main course arrived. “I play, I sing, I draw—”

Lady Catherine waved a hand. “Yes, yes, but at what level?”

Mr Darcy set down his spoon. “Must the soup cool while our characters are dissected?”

Before Lady catherine could reply, he turned to Elizabeth. “?Le gusta la sopa, senorita?”

Lady Catherine crowed, “Miss Elizabeth has no Spanish, by her own words.”

“The Spanish was deliberate,” Mr Darcy said. “I feared she might mistake this for the Inquisition.”

Elizabeth, still holding her spoon, met his gaze. “Gracias, senor.”

Her father muffled a cough, which might have been a laugh. Mr Darcy bit his bottom lip.

Lady Catherine's eyes narrowed. “You did not mention you spoke Spanish.”

“No, madam,” Elizabeth replied. “I have not mastered it.”

Mr Bennet looked across the table. “She knows enough to pronounce upon her dinner.” He turned to Lady Catherine. “Whether with praise—or censure.”

Elizabeth took her long-delayed spoonful. The soup, at last, proved excellent .