Page 5 of Colour My World
Lady Anne arched a brow, amused. “And precisely how old are you, Mr—Barty?”
“Seventeen, ma’am. Just past Michaelmas.”
“Seventeen is rather green,” his father replied.
“With respect, sir, I was born to service. I’ve polished boots since I could lace my own, and I’ve known how a man ought to carry himself long before I carried a tray. My father served Lord Bedford near thirty years. Me grandad before him cleaned His Grace’s boots. I’ve not greyed yet, sir, but I’ve learned where to polish and when to hold still.”
Lady Anne leant forward slightly. “Can you read and write, Mr Bartholomew?”
Barty straightened. “Yes, ma’am. Me grandad taught me my letters. Me father sharpened ’em.”
George Darcy nodded slowly. “A valuable skill.”
Darcy blinked.Why is that important?
His father gestured at Barty.
“If I’m to keep your secrets, sir, I must know what they are, else I might stand guard o’er shadows while the truth slips past me.”
Darcy nodded. “A steward keeps accounts. A valet keeps confidences.”
Lady Anne pressed her fingertips to her lips. “What else, Fitzwilliam?”
Darcy looked between them. “I think he already knows more about me than I know about him.”
“Does that give you pause?” his father asked.
“Should it?” he replied.
His mother chuckled behind her hand. “Rhetoric? How diverting!”
George Darcy exhaled through his nose. “And did he pass your test?”
“He did. I dropped a glove. He returned it without comment.”
“Which proves what?” his mother asked.
“That he notices what matters. And does not need a medal for it—as Mr Renault does.”
Lady Anne coughed into her palm and squeezed her husband’s arm.
“God help us—the boy has a valet.” He raised his glass. “Well done, Son.”
Darcy turned to Barty, but he had already gone.
* * *
Pemberley, December 1794
Fitzwilliam Darcy, the eleven-year-old heir to half the county of Derbyshire, hesitated outside his mother’s bedchamber. The air was heavy with rosewater and sickness, a scent that turned his stomach. The physician had come and gone. A hush blanketed the great house, redolent of mourning.
His father had not spoken to him beyond a clipped “Return to your studies, Fitzwilliam.” But how could he? Latin was meaningless. Figures blurred together. His mother lay inside that room, suffering.
Is there nothing I can do?
He turned to go but halted. Raised voices came from the west-facing sitting room.
“I warned you, sir. She was too frail to bear another child—”
