Page 138 of Colour My World
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.”
Chapter 49
The book came without ceremony, though the weight of it, both literal and otherwise, settled heavily upon her.
Elizabeth paced the drawing room while her mother and Jane focused on their work baskets. She had received it from Hill, who said, “A loan for you, Miss Elizabeth. From Mr Darcy.” The name sent her pulse tripping.
Her mother sniffed. “I hardly think a book a thing of value. Even from Mr Darcy.”
And yet, he values it enough to entrust it to me.
“Go, go. You are nothing but a distraction, what with all your pacing and moping. Leave us.”
Elizabeth kissed her mother’s cheek and tripped up the stairs.
She sat upon the cushioned window seat in her bedchamber, the journal in her lap and traced its worn leather. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled leather, aged paper, fresh ink, and something else—mystery? Anticipation? She knew not.
Curiosity warred with reluctance.What did he expect? That a book, however, treasured, could sway me?
She exhaled sharply.No. Enough. If he meant this as a challenge, I will accept it and best him at his own game.
Elizabeth turned the first page.A gentleman’s first duty is to those he loves.
She frowned. It was not the romantic entreaty she had expected. Indeed, it was more a guiding principle—succinct, clear, and commanding.
Had Mr Darcy needed such instruction? Had he not been raised in privilege, his path of duty laid before him like a well-worn road?
And yet, its quiet authority refused to release her. A gentleman’s duty.
Her father had never lectured on duty; he had lived it. She once thought him more scholar than sentinel—until the fall. Until she lay still in the field, the chaff clinging to her dress, and Jane’s cries piercing the air.
He had been at her bedside, drawn and quiet. “No more, Lizzy,” he had said, smoothing her hair. “I will not lose you.” And he had not.
From that day, his duty was no longer abstract. It had been her.
He had fought battles that could not be seen. He had ensured her safety, protected her from whispers, from the fear that had gripped their household in the months after her accident. When her mother had fretted about prospects, when the physician had murmured aboutlasting effects, her father had stood firm and held their world together.
A gentleman’s first duty is to those he loves.
The passage spoke of a gentleman’s obligations—love intertwined with duty. Her father at her bedside, her hand in his. Had Mr Darcy ever known such a duty? Had he ever felt a love so deep that it became a vow? Her father had.
Was this what Mr Darcy meant to convey? That duty was not merely an expectation but a choice—a promise made in the quiet hours with no audience to laud the gesture?
She traced the words with her fingertips.A gentleman’s first duty is to those he loves.
Her father had known this truth before she had ever read it. Had Mr Darcy? Had she?
