Page 14 of Colour My World
With pleasure. It is for Georgiana, not you, that I pursue this endeavour.
* * *
Darcy stood at the edge of the stables as Mr Wickham loaded the last of his belongings atop the carriage.
George Wickham, arms crossed, leaning against the carriage door. A sneer curled his lips. Mocking. Unrepentant.
“Wickham’s charm will avail him nothing now.” Fitzwilliam stepped up beside him.
Wickham’s face paled. He looked left, then right. As if pursued, he leapt into the carriage.
“No, my father sees him clearly now. And without an audience to beguile, Ireland will be insufferably dull.”
Mr Wickham nodded once towards Darcy, then followed his son. The door shut. With a shout and a crack of the reins, the carriage lurched forward.
Darcy did not move, not even when the carriage disappeared beyond the trees. He had once believed Wickham a friend.
Fitzwilliam broke his reverie. “His charm is but a veneer. Beneath it, he is blackened to the core.”
Darcy stared at the empty lane. “I do not disagree with you, Cousin.”
* * *
That evening, Darcy penned a letter to his aunt Matlock of his forthcoming arrival with Georgiana. Another to Mr and Mrs Hudson. They would prepare Darcy House for an extended stay.
His requirements were precise: his rooms readied, his study undisturbed, his meals unvaried. Barty’s lodging, as befitted a man in his employ. Georgiana’s attendants were likewise accounted for.
When the seal was pressed, he straightened his desk.
From the bottom drawer, he pulled out The Book.
He opened it and turned two pages.
Non est virtus numquam cadere, sed saepe cadere et semper surgere.
How? Who? He traced the words, then examined his fingertips. Dry. The letters bore a slight cant to the right. Only one person in his life wrote with both hands.
Barty had served him for seven years—quick-witted, silent when it suited him, and always precise. He had seen the man write with his left when polishing boots with his right when drafting his receipts.
He had never asked why. He had simply accepted it.
But this? Darcy stared at the page. This script bore elegance. Balance. The faint echo of classical hand. Barty had no Latin. How could he possibly know Seneca? He could not.
Darcy dipped a quill and penned the equivalent below in English.Strength is not in never falling but in rising every time you do.
Chapter 4
Georgiana tucked a stray curl behind her ear and reached for her smallest doll. She sat on the floor before the hearth, arranging them in a perfect row.
Darcy leant against the doorframe. She had not spoken much that day. He watched as she set her cloth soldier before the other dolls. “What are they doing, sweetling?”
Georgiana did not look up. “They are safe now.”
Darcy stepped closer. “Safe from what?”
She hesitated. Her fingers tightened on the soldier’s uniform. “The bad man is gone.”
His breath caught. She had never called Wickham a “bad man” before. He knelt beside her. “Yes, he is gone.”
