Page 48 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Her father engaged Lady Catherine while her mother entertained Mr Darcy.

Elizabeth took delicate bites, her focus on the unfamiliar aires.

Lady Catherine’s aire was rigid, crackling white lightning, shot through with iron-grey streaks. They pulsated with her every statement, waxing and waning like a tempest. Elizabeth kept her eyes averted to avoid the megrim.

Like Mr Darcy, Miss de Bourgh was an anomaly.

While he had no aire, hers resembled Mary’s, an unchanging, homogenous colour.

Miss de Bourgh’s aire was pale green. Like a flower stem awaiting nourishment.

She sat beside Mary, conversing, or rather, Mary spoke and Miss de Bourgh listened.

Elizabeth watched, fascinated. As Mary spoke, Miss de Bourgh gave no replies, only nodded.

Their aires, side by side, shared no kinship.

Mary’s silver held shape, firm and quiet.

Miss de Bourgh’s green remained unchanged, faint as a pressed fern.

Neither woman shifted in her seat. Neither looked towards the room.

Two women—one known to her, beloved; the other, Elizabeth knew nothing of.

She returned to her plate. But her eyes strayed again as Jane leant close to Mr Darcy. Elizabeth swallowed too quickly. Her throat locked, her eyes watered, and the morsel of food stuck.

She drank a glass of wine before her and then was able to swallow.

Her father smiled. “Beware the red storm of rage,” he said, “and the green-eyed monster of jealousy.”

Of whom does Papa speak? She turned her head. From the other end of the table, Mr Darcy’s gaze was fixed upon her.

* * *

Lady Catherine stood to lead the ladies out of the dining room.

And the gentlemen quickly gained their feet.

Before Elizabeth could follow her mother and sisters, Miss de Bourgh caught her arm.

She steered Elizabeth towards a settee meant for two and sat.

Elizabeth, momentarily surprised, settled beside her.

A murmur of movement. Dresses rustled. Lady Catherine surveyed her audience. She smoothed her skirts and cleared her throat. “Well then,” she said. “Which of you ladies plays?”

“My Mary plays very well,” Mrs Bennet replied.

Lady Catherine snapped open her fan. “Very well? Or quite well?”

“We shall let you be the judge.”

“Indeed.”

Mary approached the pianoforte. Lady Catherine straightened. “Had I learnt to play, I should have been a great proficient.” Her aire detonated.

Elizabeth’s head snapped back as lightning burst from the woman.

“Music,” Lady Catherine continued, “requires discipline. Strength of character. A fine ear. I, of course, possess all three.”

Elizabeth clasped her hands in her lap and grimaced. The flashes from Lady Catherine’s aire burned behind her eyes.

Clementi’s Sonatina in C Major, Op. 36, No. 1 filled the room. Mary must sense my distress.

“I encountered Herr Haydn in Bath. He asked my advice on an arrangement.”

The music faltered.

Elizabeth covered her face and pressed her fingers into her eyes.

“Come, Miss Elizabeth. Let us take a turn about the room. It is refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude,” Miss de Bourgh said.

Elizabeth fell into step beside her, uncertain of the purpose. Miss de Bourgh led her to a pair of chairs placed at the far end, well removed from the others. She seated Elizabeth so her back faced the room.

“How long have you seen the clouds?”

* * *

Elizabeth’s pulse quickened. She glanced over her shoulder at Mary, who had resumed playing; Lady Catherine’s voice swelled, and her mother, bless her, seemed determined to keep their hostess occupied.

No one was listening. She turned back. “I do not—”

Anne’s brows lifted slightly. “Do not attempt deception, my dear. You flinched when my mother’s colours erupted.”

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened over her skirts.

Miss de Bourgh leant in. “How long?”

The room seemed to press in. She studied the woman before her, the same pale, unchanging green surrounding her, calm and impenetrable. Moss over ancient stone.

“Since I was fifteen.”

She nodded as if she had expected this. “I was eight.” Her fingers traced idle patterns over her skirts. “A fever. Scarlet fever. It nearly took me. And you?”

“A riding accident. I struck my head.”

“And your eyes?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“Fascinating.”

“Did anything else change for you?”

Miss de Bourgh pressed her lips together. “Only my wish never to see another new cloud.”

She understands. “Is that what you named them?”

“What do you call them?”

“Aires.”

Anne repeated it in a French tone. “Air—ees.” She smiled archly. “I shall claim that for myself, if I may.”

Elizabeth shrugged.

Behind them, Lady Catherine’s voice increased.

Miss de Bourgh shut her eyes.

I am no longer alone. Elizabeth walked taller as a new thought struck her. “Do I have an aire?”

“Of course you do.” Miss de Bourgh squeezed her arm. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed.

* * *

A footman stepped forward, offering a polished tray of short cigars and snifters of cognac gleamed atop it.

Bennet plucked a cigar and rolled it between his fingers.

Raising it to his nose, he inhaled lightly, then exhaled with a short, unimpressed chuckle.

He did not strike a match. Instead, he returned the cigar to the tray.

“I enjoy a cigar from time to time. What our hostess calls this, I do not know. But it is not a cigar.”

At the mantel, Darcy lifted his glass and took a measured sip. He turned and spat it back into the glass, setting it down with deliberate finality. “If I did not know any better, I would think she means to kill us.”

They laughed. Darcy gestured to the footman. After a brief whisper, the servant pulled a crystal bottle of amber liquid from below the sideboard and filled two new snifters. “One must be prepared in all instances.”

They lifted their glasses, sniffed, sipped––and sighed.

“Tell me, Darcy,” Bennet said, shifting slightly in his seat. “What are your intentions towards my daughter?”

“Elizabeth?”

“Elizabeth, is it?”

Darcy did not so much as hesitate. “I intend to make her Mrs Darcy.”

Bennet raised his brows, the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “That is forthright, sir. Some would say rather presumptuous.”

“Better forthright than false.”

Bennet studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “You understand what that means? The talk it will produce? Lizzy is no stranger to scrutiny, but your name linked to hers will set every tongue wagging from Meryton to Mayfair.”

“I am prepared for that.”

“And she?”

“I would not proceed without your consent. Or hers.”

Bennet nodded, tapping his fingertips against the chair's arm. “You are not a man prone to whimsy. You would not enter this lightly.”

“No.”

“I assume you have considered the ramifications, your family’s expectations, society’s inevitable judgement. A lesser man would hesitate.”

“I have hesitated long enough.”

Bennet found himself both amused and, reluctantly, impressed. He reached for his glass, swirling the amber liquid within. “You are aware Elizabeth is not easily swayed. She values her independence, her mind. If you seek only to mould her into something more…suitable, you will fail.”

“She is perfect exactly as she is.” Darcy did not waver. The young man had made his decision.

“Then, sir, you may take your chances.” Bennet sipped his cognac. “But be certain of this…. If I find her unhappy, if I suspect her heart compromised by anything less than the devotion she deserves, you and I shall have more than words.”

Darcy’s lips quirked faintly. “Understood.”

“You seem remarkably composed for a man walking into the lion’s den. Tell me, is it sheer determination or folly?”

Darcy chuckled. Then, his expression sobered. “A gentleman’s first duty is to those he loves.”

“That is a noble sentiment. Whence does it come?”

“Lady Anne Darcy.”

Bennet was silent for a moment. Then, he lifted his glass once more. “Then let us drink to mothers who raise gentlemen. ”