Page 158 of Colour My World
I am sorry not to meet you in this life, but know this—I have watched over him, and now I will watch over you.
This boy, soon to be a man, will love you fiercely. And I? I already adore you.
I will only add, God bless you.
Lady Anne Fitzwilliam Darcy
But you may call me,
Mother
She rested her hand against the curve of her belly. The next Miss Darcy would never know Lady Anne, and the thought ached.Yet, she will bear her name.
Her unborn daughter, Anne Elizabeth Darcy, pushed back against her palm. Darcy’s mother had written to the one who would one day read her words. And they had found their way.
Her gaze drifted to the easel in the far corner, where the half-covered canvas waited for the framer’s return. After years of protest, she had finally sat for the portrait the Pemberley Gallery demanded. Lady Catherine–Auntie–had scoffed at it, of course. Darcy had never pressed her for it. He had waited. Waited with patience and unshaken devotion.
Elizabeth carefully refolded the letter and placed it back inside the spine—where it belonged. Where it would wait, one day, for a future Mrs Darcy.
A sound at the door, and she turned. Darcy stood in the doorway, windblown from the stables. Elizabeth inhaled the scent of leather and hay. His rose aire–his love for her–surrounded him. He looked at her hand pressed against her belly, at her, and at the journal.
“I received a letter from a lady dear to you.”
Darcy stepped forward, his smile everything beautiful. “Georgiana?”
She reached for his hand.
“Your mother.”
