Page 155 of Colour My World
Elizabeth laughed.
The vicar cleared his throat. “There was another note attached.”
Darcy’s scowl deepened as he unfolded the second slip of paper.
Your new cousin has been assigned a mission.
He is to be sent to India to convert the heathens.
I advised him myself.
Elizabeth caught back a laugh. “She has sent Mr Collinsabroad?”
Darcy, long used to his aunt’s machinations, merely folded the paper. “Yes. It seems so.”
Darcy shook his head, slipping the missives into his coat.
“Come, Mrs Darcy—before my aunt plans our entire future.”
Elizabeth laced her fingers through his. “It still astonishes me.”
“What does?”
“That you were falling in love with me while memorising the vine pattern on a cracked Staffordshire plate.”
He smiled. “I would have preferred you not be seated beside Mrs Ecclestone. Desperation makes a man focus.”
“I suppose I ought to be grateful you did not fall for the crockery instead.”
“On the contrary,” he said softly, “I remember every detail of the plate. But I only recall one face from that table.”
“Flatterer.”
“Historian,” he replied, kissing her hand.
She sighed. “It was a most elegant plate.”
* * *
Darcy House, May 1813
A year of bliss. Nearly.
Each morning, he rose to find one eye the hue of rich earth, the other green as spring’s first leaf—different from one another, as his mother had foretold.
If only she had lived to meet Elizabeth.
Darcy leant back in his chair, and fingers steepled, eyes fixed on nothing. How best to mark the date? To honour her. To prove his devotion, his gratitude.
Jewellery? No. Elizabeth had the Darcy jewels.
Flowers? The greenhouse and orangery overflowed with hertalents.
Clothing? Accoutrements? Too blasé.
A chess set, perhaps? Carved from lapis and ivory?
He grimaced. She would never let him forget the three consecutive matches—and his hasty declaration that she could read his strategy before he even touched a piece.
