Page 72 of Colour My World
Mr Bennet chuckled. “My brother-in-law’s doing. Last Christmas, Gardiner left two bottles of cognac, smuggled through a Scottish pirate who quoted Burns while naming his fees.”
Darcy lifted his glass. “‘Freedom and whisky gang thegither!’”
Mr Bennet waggled his eyebrows and sipped his own.
They sat in silence, the fire crackling softly, punctuated only by the steady tick of the mantel clock.
Darcy let his gaze wander. The study was well-lived in. The bookshelves bowed slightly beneath the weight of volumes well-handled, their spines worn and titles softened by years of use. This was not a gentleman’s idle collection for display; it was a working library assembled for thought, not admiration. He set his glass down. The books called to him.
He ran his fingers over the leather bindings. Plutarch’sLives, the complete set. Montaigne’sEssais. Hume’sHistory of England—all six volumes. He traced the gilded lettering.
“You have a first edition.”
“One of a few indulgences I have never regretted.”
Newton’sPrincipia. Adam Smith’sWealth of Nations. The complete works of Dryden. “An impressive collection.”
Mr Bennet swirled the cognac in his glass. “Adequate, perhaps.”
Darcy’s lips twitched. He turned back to the shelves. “At Darcy House, the library spans two levels. We removed the floor to accommodate the height of the shelves. Twenty-foot rolling ladders. An iron railing encircles the upper tier.”
He could feel Mr Bennet’s stare. “How many volumes?”
“Thousands.”
Mr Bennet took a slow sip of his cognac. “A modest triumph. Enjoy it.”
* * *
He rose from behind his desk and took the chair opposite Darcy. The shift was subtle, yet Darcy recognised it for what it was: the moment had come to address his errors.
A knock at the door. Mr Hill, his expression as impassive as ever, stepped inside. “The Netherfield party is departing, sir.”
Mr Bennet looked at Darcy.
Darcy did not hesitate. “The Netherfield party may leave.”
Hill nodded. “Very good, sir.” He withdrew, closing the door with the same silent efficiency he had opened it.
Darcy waited, and Mr Bennet lifted an eyebrow.
“Until I hear the carriage wheels, I cannot continue without suspicion of my hostess.”
Mr Bennet inclined his head. “As Mrs Bennet is not the type of woman to listen at doorways, I infer you speak of one of Mr Bingley’s sisters?”
“I do.”
Mr Bennet swirled his cognac, watching the amber liquidcatch the firelight. “I am a father raising five daughters. Tell me of your journey raising your sister.”
Darcy rested his forearms on his knees. “The trials of raising a young girl while hardly a man?” He shook his head. “I scarcely knew where to begin.”
“You had no one to guide you?”
Darcy exhaled through his nose. “I would only inflict Lady Catherine on my worst enemy.”Wickham, perhaps.
“Lady Matlock, though a woman of superior sense, has four of her own to manage.”
“Grown, I believe?”
