Page 50 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Alone once again, Anne had fled, claiming her mother would scream ‘Compromise!’ and Darcy strode the length of his chamber, his footfalls muffled by the thick Persian rug. His mind, however, thundered with each misstep he had taken where Elizabeth was concerned.

He had insulted her, unintentionally, slighted her at the assembly. He had misjudged her, believing her impertinence mere play, never perceiving her wit was armour forged to deflect scorn. But that paled beside the arrogance he had shown before her father.

He had stood straight-backed, chin high, and declared his intention to make her Mrs Darcy as if it were an honour to which she must yield.

She would honour me with her affections. The arrogance of it curdled in his throat.

No—he had not asked for her heart. He had assumed it.

He paused before the hearth, gripping the mantel as he stared into the dying embers. He could buy her the finest carriage in England, gift her the most exquisite jewels, and commission poets to immortalise her name.

And yet, they would not earn him her regard. She valued honesty, sincerity, and an open heart untainted by artifice. What did he offer but presumption, a tattered history of pride, and a demand cloaked as a proposal?

Darcy raked a hand through his hair. A bold act. That was what was needed. But what? He had no answer.

Barty slipped into the room, his usual unruffled expression intact. He carried a familiar small, leather-bound book, its cover worn with age.

“If you plan to break every floorboard in this house, pray, grant me warning that I might move the furniture.”

“I do not require commentary.”

“No?” Barty held up the book. “Then take this.”

His mother’s magic journal. Her voice lived within its pages.

“And what, precisely, do you expect me to do with it?”

Barty pressed it into his hands. “Tell her, sir. She cannot know you otherwise.”

Darcy swallowed. “You think…words will suffice?”

“You thought of poetry, did you not?”

Its weight startled him. Memories, hopes, regrets—all bound within. Could he truly?

He rubbed his thumb across the journal’s smooth leather. “Leave me.”

After Barty withdrew, Darcy stood motionless a moment longer, then crossed to his desk. He opened the book. The words were exactly as he remembered.

Page One: A gentleman’s first duty is to those he loves.

Page Two: Strength is not in never falling but rising every time you do.

Page Three: The world is full of painted smiles—look beyond them.

Page Four: Allow her to sketch your character.

Page Five: Do not hesitate.

Page Six: Look at her. With your heart.

He drew a pen from its well and opened to the blank seventh page, and he flattened his palm upon it.

Slowly, he traced the shape of his hand, the ink dark against the parchment. A mark of intent. A silent plea. Would she understand?

* * *

A knock at the study door, and Hill stepped inside. “Mr Darcy’s man, sir.”

At that, the valet stepped past him, precise and composed, entirely at ease in another man’s household. He offered a bow.

“Mr Bartholomew, sir.”

Bennet studied him with mild curiosity. “You carry yourself less like a valet and more like a man who manages empires.”

“I serve with a quiet conscience; the end crowns all.”

“Shakespeare?”

“ Henry VI .”

Bennet paused. “Act V.”

“Scene Two, sir.”

Bennet smiled with teeth. “Well done. How long have you served Mr Darcy, if I might ask?”

“I was assessed by Lady Anne herself—though I suspect she chose me for my brevity, not my name.”

“I imagine not. And has Mr Darcy spoken all four syllables of your name each time you were needed during those two decades?”

A flicker of amusement touched the valet’s mouth. “No, sir. I answer to Barty.”

“Quite right. It would be cruel to expect economy from a man raised at Eton.”

Barty gave no reply beyond the quiet lift of an eyebrow and extended a small, leather-bound parcel.

“It is a personal volume. Mr Darcy asked that it come to you directly.”

Bennet accepted it and turned it over slowly. “Is it meant to enlighten or unsettle?”

“I daresay it may do both.”

“A rare ambition, that.”

“Desperate times,” Barty replied.

Bennet turned the parcel again. “I must confess, I am surprised. Mr Darcy seems rather too…rigid a creature to keep a man like you.”

Barty inclined his head, then gestured lightly to the journal. “Let us not judge by the cover we see.”

Bennet allowed the corner of his mouth to lift. “Indeed.”

He glanced at the book. “Shall I expect him next, or are you also empowered to discuss marriage articles in his stead?”

Barty nodded. “Not at this time, sir.”

“Pity.”

Hill, who had remained impassive at the door, gave the faintest cough.

“Thank you,” Bennet said, stepping back. “You may tell your master his book is received and guarded.”

Barty bowed again, and Hill escorted him out.

Bennet stood alone, the parcel in hand, its weight a question.

He set aside his book and unwrapped the parcel. A folded note rested atop a leather-bound book volume:

Mr Bennet, with your permission, this is a loan to your library.

I know Miss Elizabeth is fond of reading.

It is my hope she will discover some truths that have eluded us both.

I only ask that you protect the journal, which is a precious heirloom.

Once you have satisfied your curiosity, I would be grateful if you allowed her to hold it for a se’nnight.

—Darcy

Bennet inspected the note. “Curious.” He turned the pages, nodding at the wisdom imparted. Then he reached the seventh page. He stared at it for several moments. The ink was fresh. Traced with purpose, a question nestled within the shape of a hand.

His lips twitched. “Fortune favours the bold.” He rang the bell.

Hill appeared. “Sir?”

“Please deliver this to our reigning queen of hesitation.”

“Excellent, sir.” Hill bowed and withdrew.

Was that a smile on Hill’s face? Bennet chuckled to himself.

“Let us see if she reads between the lines. ”