Page 52 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Anne’s soup had not yet cooled when her mother struck.

“Darcy, you will not marry that … Bennet girl.”

Anne closed her eyes for a beat. So much for the first course.

Across the table, Darcy set down his spoon with the slow precision of a man preparing for battle. His cloud— aire, Miss Elizabeth called it -- usually faint and cool, shimmered faintly at the edges.

“That is not your decision,” he said evenly.

Lady Catherine drew herself taller by half an inch—not that anyone noticed. Her aire , a seething coil of bitter orange and sharp violet, pulsed with every syllable.

“You carry the blood of three ancient houses. And you would see it diluted for a woman whose grandfather sold ribbons in Cheapside?”

The headache arrived—just behind her left eye. There it was again: the great bogeyman of commerce. Cheapside. Where fortunes were earned instead of inherited. The horror.

“If blood is so fragile, Aunt,” Darcy said, “it deserves to be thinned.”

Anne reached for her wine glass. She would need every drop.

“You know I dine at Devonshire House,” her mother continued. “What will you do when no invitations come? When the doors of every drawing room close to your Mrs Darcy?”

Anne kept her gaze on the soup—excellent, by the way, if utterly wasted under such conditions. Her mother’s aire hovered like an actual thundercloud. “By all means, Mother,” she said, “let them lock their doors. Rosings shall always be open.”

“You both betray me,” replied Lady Catherine.

There it was again. Betrayal, the favourite refrain of tyrants. Anne smiled despite her megrim. “You cannot be betrayed by those you never truly trusted.”

Lady Catherine exhaled. “Very well. Marry her, if you must. But bring her to Rosings. Let me make her presentable.”

Anne sipped. “And by ‘presentable’ you mean broken.”

Lady Catherine smiled the kind of smile Anne had once seen on a French general in a sketch—tight, cold, and confident in his artillery. She turned to Darcy. “I trust you will not allow that to happen.”

He stood. His aire burned darker now—rose shading into garnet. A man cornered but calm. He bowed. Formal. Final.

“Not by you,” he said, “or any of the ton .”

As he reached the door, Anne let her spoon fall gently into her bowl. “I shall expect a very fine wedding invitation.”

“You shall have it,” he replied, and was gone. The door shut behind him.

Anne leaned back and allowed herself a languid stretch. “Well, that was not so very dreadful.”

Her mother’s aire pulsed violently—red and violet threading like a storm. Anne closed her eyes and shook her head. No, no, no. I will not be swayed.

Lady Catherine pressed her fingers to her temple. “You have ruined everything.”

Anne tilted the teapot and eyed the dregs. “No, Mother. I have merely refused to be ruined.”

Her mother said something low and quite unrepeatable.

Anne winced. The headache throbbed behind her eyes, but it was nothing new.

She would have a second cup. This time with brandy.

* * *

Longbourn, November 1811

Mr Bennet glanced up from his periodical as Hill entered, a folded note in his hands.

“A letter for you, sir. From Netherfield Park.”

Bennet peered at the neatly folded parchment, the wax seal bearing the Darcy crest. So, it begins.

He broke the seal with a flick of his wrist. The note inside was brief—direct and unmistakably Darcy.

Mr Bennet,

I write to you with a delicate request. Some matters remain unresolved between your daughter and me—issues of great importance. I do not wish to impose upon your household nor invite the scrutiny that such a conversation would inevitably garner.

If you would permit it, I would ask for a private word with Miss Elizabeth, away from the eyes and ears of others. I defer entirely to your judgement on how this may be arranged in a manner that safeguards her reputation.

Should you find this request improper, I shall not press further.

—Darcy

Bennet folded the letter in half. Concise, respectful, and earnest. He leant back in his chair and tapped the letter against his knee. There was no demand, no assumption of consent, only a man who had learned enough to ask.

His gaze drifted towards the window. Beyond, the world glistened in the storm's wake, the air damp and the roads slick with the rain’s remnants.

After four days of confinement, Elizabeth had grown restless. He had seen it in how she paced with her fingers curled around the spine of that book. That Book.

If she was to see the world anew, it should be under the best of circumstances.

Mr Darcy,

Sunrise upon Oakham Mount is a tolerable way to see the world afresh, particularly for young people possessed of great stamina. It is peaceful, well beyond the reach of spying eyes, and a delicate setting for meaningful conversation.

Elizabeth has long been in the habit of morning walks. Now that the storm has passed, I see no reason she should not resume them.

I trust you are a man of your word.

—Bennet

Bennet folded the note and reached for his seal. A faint chuckle escaped him as he pressed the wax, the imprint of his signet ring setting the matter in stone.

“Hill.”

His man reappeared in the doorway. “Sir?”

“Was a reply expected?”

“Yes, sir. He waits in the kitchen.”

Bennet held out the sealed letter .