Page 125 of Colour My World
Mrs Bennet sank into a chair. “I shall not be lectured on military strategy by a man who cannot distinguish between nutmeg and mace.”
“No, but I can distinguish between offence and opportunity. Keep your friends close, my dear—and your enemies seated beside the soup tureen.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, heavens. I do not know whether to faint or summon the mantua-maker.”
“Hmm.” Mr Bennet smiled faintly. “Perhaps we should consult our oracle.”
She blinked. “Mrs Ecclestone?”
He nodded. “She is of Canterbury, near Kent. Let us ask our what sacrifice Lady Catherine requires.”
Mrs Bennet opened her mouth—but the door creaked open before she could speak.
Mrs Ecclestone stepped into the room without announcement, her bearing as composed as ever. “How may Iassist you?”
Mrs Bennet started. “Gracious! You gave me a turn.” She held out the invitation with Lady Catherine’s seal.
Mrs Ecclestone took it, then pursed her lips. “A summons, I see.”
Mr Bennet watched her closely. “Any insight, madam?”
“Yes,” she said flatly.
Mrs Bennet leant forward. “You will save us?”
“Oh course.”
Mr Bennet lifted a brow. “You seem unperturbed.”
“I have seen this play before.” She turned to Mrs Bennet. “Pray, tend to yourself, madam. I shall manage all.”
With a hasty inclination of the head and a nervous look toward the staircase, Mrs Bennet quitted the room.
Mr Bennet lingered. “And what is my task in all this?”
Mrs Ecclestone met his gaze without blinking. “Array your daughters in gemstones, sir. Let them dazzle with their own light. No shadow can touch what shines from within.”
He chuckled, sketched a bow, and turned smartly on his heel. “Of course. I shall go polish the family silver. And adorn our beauties properly.” Then with the manner of a general dismissed from war council, he marched off down the hall.
* * *
The schoolroom had become a theatre of preparation. Silks, ribbons, and trimmings lay strewn across the tables, a riot of colour and movement disrupting its usual order. Candles flickered in their sconces, and two young maids ran up and down the stairs.
At the head of the class, Mrs Ecclestone sat, hands folded, and watched the proceedings. She neither instructed nor interfered. Instead, she waited and observed.How I adore a display ofsisterly affection!
Seated before her, the three elder Bennets submitted to their youngest sisters’ ministrations.
Kitty, brow furrowed in concentration, secured clasps, arranged hair, and selected adornments with the precision of a painter. Lydia, her eye for colour undeniable, examined each fabric, discarding one sash for another. She adjusted a hem and tugged at a sleeve.
Mrs Ecclestone approved of it all.
Jane, draped in ivory, was the very image of modesty.Modest as always, but her beauty cannot be contained.
Elizabeth sat straight-backed in a deep forest green gown as Kitty secured a comb in her hair. The colour echoed the rare pairing of her eyes, subtle as moss and shadow.The gown does not compete. It draws both colours into quiet harmony.
Mary sat in navy blue; her skin paler than her sisters. Kitty had pinned her dusky blonde hair back neatly. On another young lady, the shade might have been severe—too practical, too forgettable—but on Mary, it held weight. It made one look twice.
Practical on another young lady, striking on her.Mrs Ecclestone clapped her hands. “This will do.”
