Page 136 of Colour My World
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.”
