Page 70 of Colour My World
“I will not have it,” Bingley said through clenched teeth. “You have put me in the worst possible position. You humiliated Miss Elizabeth, abandoned me to explain it, and now sit there in silence? I swear, Darcy—” He raised his fists. “If you will not apologise, I shall thrash you here and now!”
“You would strike me?”
“I would and gladly, if it might knock some sense into you.”
Mr Bennet leant back in his chair. Bingley slapped the tabletop.
Darcy had had enough. He had not come to spar with his friend. “Sir. Might I have a private word?”
Bennet’s lips quirked. “Ah, he speaks.”
Bingley raked a hand through his hair, eyes afire. “Very well.” He turned sharply on his heel and strode out, the door shutting with a decisive click.
Darcy exhaled.
“You have something to say, I assume.” Bennet steepled his fingers. “Or shall we consider your silence an apology?”
* * *
The air between them felt charged, less a silence than a held breath.
“The move is yours to make.” Mr Bennet glanced to his left. Darcy spied an elegant chessboard. The pieces awaited play.
Darcy raised an eyebrow. Mr Bennet shook his head. “A future reward, should you earn it.”
Darcy poked at his temple. “I must ask for your utmost discretion.”
A flicker of amusement crossed Mr Bennet’s face. “You mistake me for a village widow, sir.”
Not desiring to chuckle, Darcy trapped his upper lip between his teeth and counted to five. He then unburdened himself.
“I was eleven years old when my mother died.”
Mr Bennet’s expression remained neutral.
“She was…my compass. My anchor. The most wonderful woman that ever existed. I remember her voice most of all. Soft, unwavering.” He shook his head. “She had this way of making certainty out of nothing. I believed her when she said all would be well. And then, one morning, nothing was.”
Darcy stopped talking. The only sound was the slow tick of the mantel clock.
“My father…” Darcy drew a breath. “He loved her fiercely. So deeply, I think, that when she died, he, his heart, died as well. He—” Darcy pressed his lips together, forcing down the tightness in his throat. “He withdrew.”
Mr Bennet’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
Darcy exhaled sharply. “I do not mean to say he neglected me. He fulfilled every duty—my education, estate management, business affairs, but… There was no closeness between us. We shared a house, not a bond. I have never said that aloud. To anyone.” Darcy glanced at the firelight flickering in the hearth.“And then there was Georgiana.”
Mr Bennet gave a knowing nod. “Your sister.”
“She never knew our mother’s voice.” Darcy rose, crossed to the hearth, and stared into the amber glow. “My father could not bear to look at her. She reminded him of what he had lost. That a grown man, a wise man,her father, could turn away from her…is beyond comprehension.”
“But he did.”
“He did.” Darcy looked at Mr Bennet. A memory rose unbidden.
Georgiana, at five, trailed a ribbon around the sculpted hedges, her curls catching the light as she skipped through the maze. She sang to the green creatures: leafy deer, trotting hounds, and a great lion crouched in the corner.
I had sat astride Goliath and watched her through the topiary leaves, willing the moment to last.
“Georgiana was my mother’s image. She was born with a full head of blonde curls. But that was not all. She had my mother’s eyes—one blue, the other the same but ringed in gold.”
