Page 45 of Colour My World
Georgiana clapped her hands. “Christmas at Pemberley. Icould not wish for more.”
Darcy smiled faintly. “Would I be imposing if I asked you to be ready by week’s end?”
“I shall endure it.” Georgiana laughed.
“I am certain you shall do your utmost.”
She reached across the table and took his hand. “Do not think you must bear everything alone.”
Darcy hesitated.I will tell her tomorrow.
Just one more evening like this—quiet, ordinary, unmarred.
One last gift before the world changes again.
He squeezed her hand in return. “I shall remember that.”
* * *
Darcy pushed through the front door, boots sliding on stone. Barty, directly behind him, caught at his greatcoat, trying to ease it from his shoulders. Darcy roughly pulled his arms free and pressed onward. He had promised her. He would not fail again.
The day had slipped through his fingers—so many matters to settle: the Chancery, the Exchequer, the banks. His waistcoat clung crooked; he tugged it straight. Checked his cuffs, adjusted them briskly. The longcase clock struck the half hour.Damn.
He reached the music room doors and paused. Nothing. And then—music.
Not gentle. Not decorative. The first notes struck like inquiry: low, searching. A phrase rose, crested, and broke like surf. Beethoven.
He opened the doors quietly. There she was.
Georgiana sat upright, still except for her hands, which moved with certainty—fingers arcing, lifting, pressing, never hesitant. Her brow was smooth. Eyes half-closed. She was not performing. She was speaking.
He stepped inside and stood just beyond the threshold. Thelast chord shivered into silence.
Georgiana sat poised, eyes half-closed, her hands precise on the keys. She did not falter. He stood in the doorway until the final note dissolved. The silence that followed felt sacred.
She looked up. “I hoped you might come.”
“I am late.”
“Yes,” She stared at him. “Is there something you would like to inform me of?” She turned back to the keys but did not play. “As disguise of any sort is an abhorrence of Darcy men, I need not ask you a second time.”
He crossed the room slowly and sat beside her. Gently, he took her hand. “Father is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Who told you?”
“Fitzwilliam.”
He studied her profile. “And I—I should have—Georgiana, I—”
“Why did you wait?”
“I wanted… one last evening unmarred.”
“You feared I would break.”
“I feared I might.”
