Page 73 of Colour My World
Darcy nodded. “All are adults, yet still…”
“A child is a mother’s joy for life.”
Darcy looked into the fire. “Was I?”
* * *
Mr Bennet leant back in his chair, swirled the last of his cognac, and tipped his glass until it emptied.
“You have surprised me, sir. Pleasantly so.”
He set his tumbler aside. “Had anyone told me I would enjoy the better part of this afternoon, I might have made a fool of myself by disagreeing.”
“You are frank, sir.”
“I am old enough to be.” Mr Bennet studied him. “But all camaraderie aside, you are here for a reason, are you not, Mr Darcy?”
“Darcy. Please.”
Mr Bennet stared at him for several seconds. Then, with a nod, he stood and extended a hand.
“Bennet.”
Darcy rose and clasped it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Bennet.”
“And I, yours, Darcy.”
Releasing his hand, Bennet clapped his together, the sound decisive in the quiet study.
“Now then. As cathartic as this past hour has been for you, I recognise that you have held your high cards back.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Time to play them out, Son.”
The study settled into quiet once more. Darcy did not immediately speak. He stared at the amber liquid in his glass. The conversation had taken its natural course, yet now it veered into treacherous waters. He needed to proceed with caution.
Bennet gestured towards the chair. Darcy sat; Bennet did as well.
Darcy exhaled slowly, collecting his thoughts. “My mother… You have allowed me to speak of my grief, of her passing. But I would rather you know of her as she was.”
He looked towards the firelight.
“She was vibrant,” he said. “She had a laugh that filled a room, a presence that made you believe, truly believe, that no trouble could best you so long as she was near. My father called her the heart of Pemberley, and he was not wrong…. She loved fiercely. And above all things, she wished the same for me.”
He set his glass down and laced his fingers together. “You recall I mentioned Lady Catherine.”
Mr Bennet’s lips twitched. “How could I forget?”
“She and my father once argued over a cradle betrothal. To her daughter, my cousin Anne.”
Mr Bennet’s brows rose.
“I overheard them. I was a nine-year-old boy eavesdropping outside his study door. I understood little, save that my future was being bartered.”
“I take it you did not care for the terms.”
“I did not. But my mother…” Darcy’s throat tightened. “Shefound me listening at the door.”
Bennet said nothing.
