Page 77 of Colour My World
“Tell us of your next canvas, Miss Kitty Kauffman.”
“Mama! I would have expected such from Papa.”
“Then you should not have carried on about seeingAriadneat Somerset House for months on end,mon petit artiste.”
Kitty set her utensils aside. “I had planned a study of the great oak near the parsonage, but Mr Whitman suggested I try a broader perspective, capture the lane as a whole.”
“That would provide a better sense of scale,” Mary said.
Through it all, Elizabeth tried to discern Mr Darcy. Everyone else revealed some trace, subtle shades shifting like light through coloured glass. Even Mary bore a quiet, unwavering hue. Mrs Ecclestone’saireremained steady as a rock.
But Mr Darcy? Nothing.
“Lizzy.” Jane nudged her. “You are staring.”
Caught. She drew a breath and returned to the present. MrDarcy had not even noticed; if he had, he gave no sign. How could Mr Darcy have no aire?
He sat with perfect posture, his movements precise but never hurried. He complimented his hostess with a hearty appetite. He seemed aware of every conversation at the table, though he rarely responded.
“Papa,” Mary said, “do you think a government is strongest when it preserves the wisdom of those who came before or when it embraces the needs of the present?”
Her father dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Ah, an excellent question, my dear. A government is like a library; too many old books and the shelves collapse under the weight of outdated knowledge. Too many new ones and one loses the wisdom of the past.”
“Then you side with neither Burke nor Paine but with a balance of both?” Mary replied.
Her father nodded. “A house must have strong foundations and open windows, my dear. Without one, it crumbles; without the other, it stagnates.”
Mary tapped a finger against her plate. “So, true stability lies in knowing when to fortify and when to yield.”
Her father raised his glass. “Spoken like a woman with sense.”
A smattering of chuckles followed. Elizabeth cast a sidelong glance at Mr Darcy. He had listened in complete stillness, his expression unreadable. And still,still, he had no aire. No flicker, no hue, not even a breath of colour.
Jane kicked her ankle. “Lizzy, you are staring. Again.”
Is there indeed no colour at all? Or does he shimmer in shades beyond my ken, like glass?
Mr Darcy reached for his wine. The movement drew her attention again, and her eyes locked onto him before she could stop herself.
He looked at her. Not past her. Not around her. But at her. Itlasted a second, perhaps two, before he turned away again.
Elizabeth felt a pulse in her temple.What is that?
The conversation swirled around her, but she barely heard it. No aire. No shade. Nothing she could decipher. She continued watching him, perplexed.
“Lizzy.”
Lydia’s voice rang sharp and clear through the room.
Elizabeth turned to find all eyes on her.
“You keep staring at Mr Darcy.”
“Lydia,” Jane hissed.
“No, allow her to speak.” Mrs Ecclestone set her napkin aside.
Elizabeth’s stomach dropped.
