Page 49 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

The rain had begun in the small hours, a light tapping on the windowpanes that, by morning, had deepened into a relentless downpour.

At Longbourn, the house stirred slowly beneath its grey veil.

Elizabeth woke just after dawn and stared at the dim ceiling, the rhythm of the rain an unbroken murmur that matched the unease within her.

Sleep had fled hours before; what remained was restlessness and thought. Too much thought.

The first day, she paced. The echoes of Netherfield’s dinner and Lady Catherine’s relentless questions clung to her.

Mr Darcy’s unwavering stare. Miss de Bourgh’s unbelievable revelation.

Though filled with its usual occupants, she found breathing difficult, as if Longbourn were suffocating her.

A vase in the drawing room met its demise when her elbow knocked it from its perch.

Jane startled but said nothing. Lydia snickered while Kitty murmured something about goats in drawing rooms .

The next day, having resolved nothing, she retreated into books.

Words blurred before her eyes, the sentences slipping from meaning.

Mr Darcy’s defence of her, his challenge to his formidable aunt, played repeatedly in her mind.

What had he and her father spoken of for so long?

Her embroidery suffered; needlework meant for delicate fingers was dropped, abandoned, and even mutilated.

By the third day, she surrendered to occupation.

She emptied her wardrobe, folded and smoothed gowns, then unfolded and arranged everything again.

Still, the same thoughts gnawed at her. Why had Mr Darcy held his silence?

Why had he only watched? The memory of his face unsettled her more than words ever could.

And then there was Lady Catherine’s daughter. Miss de Bourgh saw the world as Elizabeth did. She had said how her aire matched her eyes.

“Why do you laugh?”

Anne’s eyes had grown luminous. “Because your aire brings me such joy.”

Elizabeth smiled as she recalled the conversation; she could not help herself.

“You are surrounded by flowers,” Anne whispered, “not mere blossoms, but a veritable Kew. Old roses, sweet peas, forget-me-nots. Their colours—” she paused, head tilting slightly, “a rose like sunrise kissed with cream. I can almost smell the fragrance.”

By the fourth morning, she had exhausted all distractions.

The rain blurred the world beyond the window, and she pressed her forehead against the cool pane.

She remained in that attitude, mentally bankrupt, until a summons came from her father.

She welcomed the interruption, though she readied herself for the riddles he often enjoyed weaving.

She entered the study, finding him in his chair, the Edinburgh Review in hand. He did not glance up. He turned a page as if she had all the time in the world to wait upon his pleasure.

Elizabeth crossed her arms. “You wished to see me, Papa?”

Mr Bennet still studied his book. “Indeed, I did. Though I wonder whether you have been present these last few days.”

“I have been indoors if that is what you mean.”

“Ah, but where has your mind been? Certainly not in the pages of the books you have been staring at.”

He looked at her. She felt exposed. Elizabeth lifted her chin. “Is this to be a lecture?”

“Not at all.” He closed the periodical and rested it on his knee. “I find it fascinating. My Lizzy, always opinionated, struck silent by a man’s presence. An unprecedented event.”

“You find amusement in everything.”

“Not everything, but this? This is diverting.”

Elizabeth drew a sharp breath. “If you mean to provoke me, Papa, I must disappoint you. I have no opinions of worth to offer today.”

“No? Not even on our most intriguing guest?”

“Which guest?”

“The one who does not hover, yet whose absence you still seem to note.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “I do not—”

“Lizzy.”

She shook her head.

Her father nodded. “And yet, we passed hours in conversation. Does that not prompt curiosity?”

She turned away. The rain drummed against the windows. “His words were clear. His actions are less so.”

“Some men do not squander words.”

Elizabeth turned back. “Some men would do better than to stare.”

“That should be a comfort, not a confusion.”

“What do you wish me to take from this, Papa?”

“Only that silence is not always a lack of feeling. And that waiting serves no purpose but to prolong uncertainty.”

Elizabeth swallowed. “You believe I should speak first?”

“I believe,” Mr Bennet said, “that if you seek clarity, you must ask for it. Do not wait for certainty to be handed to you.”

* * *

Netherfield Park, those same four days…

Unbeknownst to Darcy, the rain had driven Elizabeth indoors. He had chosen the opposite course.

Since the Bennets’ departure, the house had settled into an uneasy silence, broken only by the lingering presence of Lady Catherine, whose command of the household had only grown more oppressive.

She patrolled the halls with the precision of a seasoned strategist, commandeering the drawing room, the morning room, and even the library, where she held council with the servants, issuing demands that left no corner untouched by her authority.

Darcy would not be captured.

At first, he had taken to the stables, overseeing the care of his horse with a diligence that startled the grooms. When that no longer sufficed, he set out on long walks across the estate, the rain lashing at his greatcoat and soaking his boots through.

He convinced himself that the physical misery was preferable to confinement within walls where Lady Catherine lurked, waiting to ensnare him in yet another inquiry regarding Miss Bennet.

“Rain and mud,” Barty muttered as Darcy dripped onto the stone floor of the rear hall. “Find a bit of frost and throw yourself in it. You might complete the ruin.”

Darcy ignored him and ascended the stairs, only to halt at the sound of approaching voices. Lady Catherine’s unmistakable tones echoed from the upper landing. Instinct took over. He turned sharply and darted towards the narrow servant’s staircase.

“Coward,” Barty said into his sleeve, loud enough for Darcy, soft enough for the drapes.

Darcy climbed two steps at a time, moving swiftly, his damp boots making little sound against the worn wood.

He reached the upper floor and stepped out into a dim corridor, shaking droplets from his sleeve.

He exhaled, and then a hand yanked him sideways.

He stumbled into an unoccupied chamber, the door clicking shut behind him.

A lamp cast just enough light to reveal his cousin.

Anne de Bourgh stood before him, arms crossed, expression unimpressed. “You look like a drowned rat.”

“Anne.” He straightened, brushing a hand through his damp hair. “Was that necessary?”

She ignored the question. “I have been looking for you. I knew you would avoid my mother, but this is excessive, even for you.”

“She is relentless.”

“She is consistent.” Anne tilted her head. “And she is not wrong, is she?”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“This from the man who abhors fabrications.”

Darcy winced. The truth landed harder than he expected. The room’s shadows deepened, and the storm outside rattled the panes.

Anne stared at him. “You care for Miss Elizabeth.”

“Do I?”

“I know you do.”

Darcy inclined his head.

“You defended her.”

“I ended your mother’s tirade.”

“Ha!”

Darcy rolled his eyes.

Anne pointed at him. “There. There it is. You rolled your eyes at me.”

“Because this conversation is absurd.”

“Is it?” Anne stared at him again.

“What is it you want from me, Anne?”

She stepped forward and put her hand to his cheek. “I want you to know joy.”

She opened the door just enough to check the hallway. She motioned for Darcy to follow. When they reached his suite door, Anne knocked in a precise rhythm.

The door swung open immediately. Barty swept them in and threw the bolt.

“Is there anyone in this house who does not conspire to manage me?” Darcy said.

“Oh, do stop. We are cousins, and Barty is a worthy collaborator.”

“Is he?”

Barty smirked. He guided Anne to a chair and pressed a glass of sherry into her hand. “Now, sir, let us make a gentleman of you again.”

In minutes, he changed Darcy into dry clothing and made him presentable. Barty pushed him into the sitting room, handed him a drink, and closed the bedroom door.

Darcy sat. “That was worthy of Richard.”

“Who do you think taught me?” Anne laughed. “Let us be serious, Darcy. Our time is short.”

“I am at your disposal.”

“Then tell me this. What are your feelings for Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

Darcy swirled the whiskey in his glass. “I have spent years surrounded by those who see only Pemberley, who measure me by its wealth and consequence. It is a tiresome existence to be valued for what one owns rather than who one is. To always be observed, weighed, and never truly known.”

“It is.”

“I had resigned myself to solitude. A wife would serve but one purpose: to provide an heir.”

“And yet, you speak as though something has altered.”

“It has. At the assembly. I saw her.”

“And?”

“And my heart leapt.” Darcy stood. “Leapt! As in novels. I cannot explain without––” Without sounding as though I have lost my senses.

“What is your reluctance?”

Darcy resumed his seat, his gaze fixed upon Anne—the only woman who saw him without seeking the consequence of his name. “Does she behold Pemberley, or myself?”

Anne, with quiet assurance, laid her hand upon his. “You.”

His breath faltered. “You are certain?”

“Perfectly. ”