Page 157 of Colour My World
At length, Darcy turned away. He glanced back at Barty’s bandaged hand. He closed his eyes.
The slant of the letters. That quiet certainty. Ink drying, as always, in silence.
It could not have been Barty. Could it?
He turned back. But his man was gone.
On the desktop, in a hand he had seen before, lay a beloved quote.
The art of magic, perhaps, is to amuse nature while wonder takes root.
* * *
Pemberley, Five Years Later
The nursery was in chaos.
Bennet Darcy, three years old and as wild as the wind, wove between chairs, his laughter bright and unrestrained. Mary reached for him, her exasperation evident, but the boy twisted away at the last moment. His lovely laughter was musical and mocking.
Six months pregnant and resigned to her fate, Elizabeth rested a hand against the curve of her belly, feeling movement beneath her palm. A daughter. She needed no confirmation beyond instinct, though the village midwife and her mother’s thorough—and entirely mortifying—examinations insisted the same.
And, of course, the fortune-teller in the village. Not that she would ever confess to visiting such a woman.Ever.
Bennet shrieked with glee and darted behind the settee, a blur of curls and stockings. He darted out the door. Elizabeth watched him with affection and a trace of apprehension. He bore no visibleaireyet.
She both longed for it and dreaded it. Would the day it came to mean the end of his guileless, perfect boyhood?
She stepped into the hall as Bennet dashed out of her sitting room, a book held high above his head. He stopped and threw it down as Mary swooped him into her arms.
“The sins of our mother,” she said, “are visited upon the child.”
“Why not our father?”
“Papa?” Mary sniffed. “Too many to count.”
Elizabeth smiled. “By your leave, our mother has a more manageable ledger.”
Mary laughed. “Indeed. Easier to tally—and quicker to forgive.”
“I count the days until he becomes Darcy’s charge.”
“Riding lessons?” Mary was well-familiar with everything Pemberley.
“At the very least.”
She bent to retrieve the fallen book and groaned from the effort. The spine had cracked. The cover was blank. It was The Book.
She stilled. The heirloom had survived decades, until now.
Reverently, she ran her fingers along its worn leather cover, smoothing the damage. Something shifted beneath the binding. She lifted it to see more clearly. A slip of paper lay hidden within.
She crossed to her desk with care. Using the letter opener, she fished out the slip and unfolded it. It was a letter.
My dear future Mrs Darcy,
If you are reading this, Fitzwilliam has done what I had hoped.
He has found you. You are his match—not merely in standing but in spirit, wit, and heart. You must challenge, confound, and love him as he deserves. And you will have his heart in return.
