Page 54 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Frost clung to the hedgerows in delicate filigree.

The long drive bordered by evergreens bound in scarlet ribbon.

The sky hung low and pewter-grey above the house, but every window glowed gold with candlelight.

Smoke rose in gentle streams from the eastern chimneys.

The scent of yew and burning oak reached the carriage as it slowed before the front steps.

Darcy stepped down, snow brushing his greatcoat, his boots muffled against gravel still crusted with ice. He removed his gloves, shook the cold from his shoulders, and turned towards the door. Before he could lift the knocker, it opened.

The butler—tall, gaunt, and eternally displeased—blinked at him as though Darcy had tracked mud across the Queen’s carpet. “Mr Darcy,” he said, with all the warmth of an empty urn.

“I believe I am expected.”

The butler inclined his head. “This way, sir.”

Inside, the entrance hall stood dressed in formality. Garlands looped the staircase. Holly berries punctuated sprays of ivy along the mantels. A spray of mistletoe dangled above the drawing room door, no doubt unnoticed or ignored by Lady Catherine.

The butler led him down the corridor with all the solemnity of a judge passing sentence.

“Her Ladyship is within.”

The drawing room smelled faintly of cinnamon and beeswax.

Firelight gilded the edges of the Aubusson carpet.

A silver vase stood on the sideboard, filled with holly.

Above the hearth hung a portrait of Sir Lewis de Bourgh in the scarlet robes of a King's Counsel, his expression forever fixed in a look of mild disapproval.

Lady Catherine stood beneath it, bearing a striking resemblance to her husband, whose portrait loomed above her.

“You are not expected.”

“That is correct.”

Her brow arched. “And yet here you are.”

“I came to spend the holiday with my sister. And with your leave, your daughter.”

Lady Catherine sniffed, turning towards the fire.

“One does not bar family in December,” he said.

She adjusted the holly in its vase with a flick of her fingers. “Provided you do not speak of radicalism, German composers, or topics better suited for the servants’ hall.”

“I shall strive to keep the peace.”

She did not look at him as she spoke again. “You are still unmarried, I presume.”

“At present.”

“We shall consider it a mercy.” With that, she turned, her skirts sweeping across the Turkish rug as she exited the room, leaving the scent of lavender water and command in her wake.

“A minor triumph,” he said to Sir Lewis. Darcy remained a moment longer, collecting himself beneath the portrait’s gaze. He exited the drawing room. Soft footsteps touched the upper landing. He looked up.

Georgiana stood halfway down the staircase, hands resting on the polished rail.

She wore a gown of deep winter green, simple but elegant, and her hair swept back with a pearl comb.

The candlelight caught in the curves of her face, older now, more assured.

No longer the girl who had waited at windows. For a moment, he saw Lady Anne.

“You came,” she said.

Darcy inclined his head. “Of course.”

Georgiana’s lips curved. “We saved you a place at the table. A party of four.”

He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “A quartet.”

She descended another step. “Your coat is wet. You ought to change before dinner.”

He rubbed a finger at his temple. “I shall.”

She nodded, then looked away briefly, then back, her voice softer. “I am glad you are here.”

Darcy bowed his head. “So am I.”

She studied him, the silence stretching not unkindly. “I had wondered,” she said at last, “whether you would come to Rosings for the festive season.”

“I came for you.”

Her expression did not change, but something within it eased. She stepped down the final stair and stood beside him, her head only just below his shoulder.

“Come,” she said, offering her hand. “You may walk with me to the music room. But you must not speak of politics, or religion, or the weather.”

He took her arm gently. “And if I disobey?”

“Then I shall seat you beside our aunt.”

“What of German composers?” he asked.

Georgiana gripped his arm as she laughed.

* * *

The dining room at Rosings glittered beneath the soft flicker of candlelight. Garland twined around the towering gilt mirror. Silver candlesticks gleamed between crystal glasses and holly-framed place cards written in an uncompromisingly precise hand.

Darcy took his seat at Lady Catherine’s right. Across from him sat Georgiana. Anne de Bourgh faced her mother. Lady Catherine presided like Britannia astride the Channel—stern, unmoved, and clad in black satin edged with jet.

She surveyed them all.

“Georgiana, sit upright. A lady’s spine is not a cat’s tail.”

Georgiana complied without protest, placing her table linen in her lap with a grace that silenced any further remark. “Of course, Auntie.”

Lady Catherine glared. She turned to Darcy. “You will be pleased to know,” she declared, “that Rosings has sent seven dozen parcels to the Kent parish poor. Flour, suet, currants, and a strong black tea.”

“No brandy?” Darcy asked.

“That would signify waste,” Lady Catherine replied.

“Drinking is labour, of a kind.” He turned to Anne. “Is it not?”

She raised her glass in salute. “Mother is a true general of charity.”

Lady Catherine sniffed. “I know how to direct a household. Some do not.”

Darcy met Georgiana’s gaze. She looked amused. There was something in her bearing now that had not been there before. She had found her line.

Anne spoke. “We have also sent books.”

Lady Catherine turned her head as though Anne had suggested opera in the stables. “A folly. The poor do not read.”

“They might.” Anne buttered her bread with meticulous care. “If someone gave them something worth reading.”

Darcy choked quietly into his wine.

Lady Catherine stared at Anne as though she had spoken in tongues. “You have been spending too much time with Georgiana.”

“I enjoy her company,” Anne replied, reaching for the salt with the air of a duchess at ease.

Darcy glanced between them. His sister had grown into her strength. And his cousin, it seemed, had been biding hers.

Anne leant in towards him. “It seems you are outnumbered, Darcy.”

“I am content to be so.”

Lady Catherine gestured to a footman. “So long as no one mentions Athenian abstractions or German composers, we shall have peace.”

Her eyes flicked towards Darcy. “And certainly, no mention of weddings.”

“I agree,” Darcy replied.

“You do? Have your affections become unentangled?” Lady Catherine asked.

“My affections are not entangled.” He inclined his nose. “They are fixed.”

Lady Catherine narrowed her gaze. “You cannot be serious.”

Anne, without raising her eyes from her plate, said, “He is.”

Lady Catherine exhaled through her nose and returned to the goose. “Well. Let us hope she can manage cutlery.”

Anne sipped her wine. “Miss Elizabeth reads Greek, Mother.”

Lady Catherine’s knife paused above her plate. Then, without comment, she resumed cutting.

“So long as she avoids the Germans.”

Georgiana lifted her fork. “I am learning a new piece by Beethoven.”

* * *

The Rosings maze lay still beneath a frost-laced hush, each hedgerow and yew dusted with silver.

Pale light spilt through low clouds, casting long, softened shadows across the gravel walks.

A thin sheet of ice veiled the ornamental pond.

Somewhere, a thrush sang—bold, insistent, defiant of the cold.

Darcy stepped out onto the path, gloved hands in his greatcoat pockets. His breath hung in the air like smoke. Footsteps sounded behind him.

“Good morning, Brother.”

He turned.

Georgiana approached, her boots crunching softly over gravel, her cloak pulled close. Her cheeks were flush from the cold air, her expression clear.

“You were not late this time,” she said.

Darcy inclined his head. “No. Nor shall I be again.”

She studied him a moment, then looked towards the far end of the garden. “Will you stay through Twelfth Night?”

“If you wish it.”

She tilted her head. Stared at him. “I do.” Georgiana took his offered arm. They walked on together.

“I read your letters. Some of them so often that they crumbled. They were beautiful,” she said. “Even when you tried not to be.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I knew what you felt for her before you admitted it to yourself.”

A crow called once across the fields.

“You never said her name. Not once. Not in writing. But it was there—in the margins. In the breath between sentences.”

Darcy exhaled slowly. “I did not think you would notice.”

“I did.” She glanced up at him. “And I believe I know her as well as you.”

“Anne is a gossip.”

Georgiana laughed. “She is.” Then, more softly, “But she sees more than you or I ever shall.”

Darcy looked down at her, but she faced ahead, eyes steady.

“Miss Elizabeth wrote to me,” Georgiana added, quieter still. “And I can safely say, I adore her.”

Darcy squeezed her hand. “I believed you would.”

Georgiana let the silence linger a moment longer. Then, with a glance sideways, she added, “Speaking of writing…”

“Yes?”

“Aunt Catherine has written to request a companion.”

Darcy looked at her.

“Not a servant. Nor a relation. With Anne planning to go to Town for the nonce, I recommended that she retain a woman of sharp mind and unshakable manners.”

“A rare creature.”

“She has written to Mrs Ecclestone.”

He blinked. “The governess from Longbourn?”

“The Bishop of Rochester’s cousin.”

“Yes, so I learned.”

“Six weeks,” Georgiana said. “To begin in February.”

Darcy arched a brow. “A governess for my aunt.”

“A companion,” she corrected, lips curving faintly. “Though the difference may prove academic.”

Darcy’s mouth lifted at one corner. He gave a soft laugh. “You are our mother’s daughter.”

“Am I finally?”

He looked down into his mother’s eyes—one blue as a Derbyshire summer sky, the other the same but ringed in gold.

“You always were.”

* * *

Darcy stood in the entrance hall—gloves in hand, coat fastened, hat tucked beneath one arm. His carriage waited in the drive, the wheels already dusted with snow. The butler appeared, bristling with disapproval as ever and said nothing as Anne de Bourgh descended the stairs.

She walked with quiet deliberation, her hands folded before her. At the base of the stairs, she stopped and extended a folded slip of paper.

“She meant to write it,” Anne said. “But could not.”

Darcy took it.

A gentleman becomes most himself not when he leads—

but when he is received.

He looked up. Anne met his gaze, eyes steady. “My mother will say I am turning sentimental.”

And so you did. Darcy allowed a breath to escape. “I shall not report you.”

Her lips twitched. Not quite a smile. “That would be most prudent.”