Page 140 of Colour My World
It was Mr Darcy’s hand. She turned back to that page. The outline was bold.
Elizabeth raised her own, hesitated, and then pressed it atop his. A perfect fit.
She inhaled shakily. For the first time, she saw not the gentleman of wealth or pride but the man who had extended his hand. She looked down at the journal, at his traced offering beneath her touch.Does he expect me to understand? Do I?
Darcy had not asked for her affection. He had not even asked for her forgiveness. In that moment, she comprehended him, not as others had spoken of him nor as she had once presumed. And she understood, at last, what it truly meant to sketch a man’s character.
Chapter 50
Netherfield Park, November 1811
Anne’s soup had not yet cooled when her mother struck.
“Darcy, you will not marry that … Bennet girl.”
Anne closed her eyes for a beat. So much for the first course.
Across the table, Darcy set down his spoon with the slow precision of a man preparing for battle. His cloud—aire,Miss Elizabeth called it--usually faint and cool, shimmered faintly at the edges.
“That is not your decision,” he said evenly.
Lady Catherine drew herself taller by half an inch—not that anyone noticed. Heraire, a seething coil of bitter orange and sharp violet, pulsed with every syllable.
“You carry the blood of three ancient houses. And you would see it diluted for a woman whose grandfather sold ribbons in Cheapside?”
The headache arrived—just behind her left eye. There it was again: the great bogeyman of commerce. Cheapside. Where fortunes were earned instead of inherited.The horror.
“If blood is so fragile, Aunt,” Darcy said, “it deserves to be thinned.”
Anne reached for her wine glass. She would need every drop.
“You know I dine at Devonshire House,” her mother continued. “What will you do when no invitations come? When the doors of every drawing room close to your Mrs Darcy?”
Anne kept her gaze on the soup—excellent, by the way, if utterly wasted under such conditions. Her mother’s aire hovered like an actual thundercloud. “By all means, Mother,” she said, “let them lock their doors. Rosings shall always be open.”
“You both betray me,” replied Lady Catherine.
There it was again. Betrayal, the favourite refrain of tyrants. Anne smiled despite her megrim. “You cannot be betrayed by those you never truly trusted.”
Lady Catherine exhaled. “Very well. Marry her, if you must. But bring her to Rosings. Let me make her presentable.”
Anne sipped. “And by ‘presentable’ you mean broken.”
Lady Catherine smiled the kind of smile Anne had once seen on a French general in a sketch—tight, cold, and confident in his artillery. She turned to Darcy. “I trust you will not allow that to happen.”
He stood. Hisaireburned darker now—rose shading into garnet. A man cornered but calm. He bowed. Formal. Final.
“Not by you,” he said, “or any of theton.”
As he reached the door, Anne let her spoon fall gently into her bowl. “I shall expect a very fine wedding invitation.”
“You shall have it,” he replied, and was gone. The door shut behind him.
Anne leaned back and allowed herself a languid stretch. “Well, that was not so very dreadful.”
Her mother’sairepulsed violently—red and violet threading like a storm. Anne closed her eyes and shook her head.No, no, no. I will not be swayed.
Lady Catherine pressed her fingers to her temple. “You have ruined everything.”
