Page 1 of Colour My World
Prologue
Derbyshire, September 1792
The stately halls of Pemberley lay wrapped in silence, disturbed only by the ticking of a distant clock. Nine-year-old Fitzwilliam Darcy stood in the narrow antechamber outside his father’s study, a space lined with dark wainscoting, just wide enough for two chairs and judgement.
This was not the portrait gallery. Only one painting hung here: a long-dead ancestor, once a High Court judge. A brass placard beneath the frame displayed his name:Sir Alistair D’Arcy, Lord Justice, 1703.The ancient spelling—the one Father never used.
But his manservant did. Only when Father could not hear him.
Mr Renault often stood here, silent as the furniture and twice as proud of it. Today, the chair was empty.
Darcy hated that antechamber. The picture watched him.
He had asked once if the eyes moved. Barty said no, but still—sometimes, when the corridor lay quiet and the shadows lengthened, he could feel it. That cold prickle at the nape of his neck. As if the judge already knew. As if he had been found out.
He should have walked away. Gentlemen did not linger where they were not invited. But his father’s voice, so often measured, tore through the oaken door, laced with a fury he had never heard before.
“You will put an end to this nonsense!”
“You will not address me in that manner, George Darcy.” It was his aunt, Lady Catherine. Cold. Imperious.
“I shall not bind my son and heir to any arrangement. Why would you?”
“The daughter of Sir Lewis de Bourgh understands expectation.”
“Does she?” His father’s voice sounded sad.
“It has been understood for years, and you know it well. Our families are bound by more than blood. It is his obligation and yours.”
“Do not presume to speak to me of duty, madam.”
“Dismiss my words if you must, but Pemberley is bound to the earldom. The legacy of Matlock is not yours to alter. This alliance was never meant to honour your line. The blood of my sister, the Fitzwilliam line, has long stood in service to the Crown.
“Fitzwilliam’s marriage to Anne is not merely advantageous. It is necessary. It binds Rosings and Pemberley in a common purpose. Would you see it cast aside merely to indulge your resentment of the peerage?”
Darcy flinched.Marriage? What about school?
“You speak of obligation,” his father said, voice low. “I speak of my son.”
Why would they speak of me and cousin Anne? I scarcely know her.
She was a year younger than he, a slight girl with thin brows and a small, serious mouth. He remembered her sitting perfectly straight on the settee in the blue room, eyes lowered whenever their mothers spoke.
She had not been unfriendly. Just quiet, as if silence were armour. Especially when Lady Catherine was in the room. Darcy did not blame her. He, too, preferred to be elsewhere when his aunt’s talon of a finger pointed in his direction.
And just as he meant to flee, the scent of rosewater drifted into the antechamber. A gentle hand smoothed over his hair. Another settled at his back, a soft caress.
“Come, my darling,” his mother whispered. “Not all words are meant for young ears.” She took his hand. That was enough. Theknot in his stomach loosened. He did not look back.
The voices faded behind the door.
They walked through the quiet halls. Left at the statue of Caesar, then past the tapestry with the griffon that always seemed poised to leap. His boots tapped against the stone; now and then, he caught the soft swish of her slippers trailing beside him.
She led him through a door he had only entered a handful of times, into her private sitting room. The air changed. It smelled like flowers, but not of the garden. There were bright pillows, shelves of strange little boxes, and a painted fan with a bird that looked like it had flown in from a dream.
His mother sat down on the settee and patted the cushion beside her. On the small table sat a book. No title. Just smooth brown leather, like saddle polish in the sunshine. She placed her hand on it. Her fingers ran along the edge gently, like it was something special.
“Do you know what this is, my dear boy?”
