Page 47 of Colour My World
“Duty.” The word sat bitter in Darcy’s mouth. “It seems I have inherited more than an estate.”
“Yes, well. Some men are born to be masters of their world. Others are”—Bingley nudged a loose stone with the toe of his boot— “merely fortunate enough to afford their amusements.”
Darcy turned to him. “And which are you?”
Bingley shrugged. “A fortunate man, I hope. One with ambitions, though hardly as weighty as yours.”
“What aspirations could you possibly possess that do not involve brandy, horses, or a new waistcoat?”
Bingley laughed. “An estate, since you ask. Something modest, respectable—though not so grand as Pemberley, mind you.”
“I should hope not. I should hate to think of you burdened by anything more than a hunting lodge.”
“Do not be so dull. I do have aspirations.”
“Such as?” Darcy had yet to see his friend aspire to anything beyond the next blond with a dance card.
“A home for a wife, a family. I should like to marry, you know.”
“Have you tired of charming every blonde angel in Town?”
“I have not. Is it wrong to enjoy a pretty smile and a melodiclaugh?”
“As long as your honour is not engaged, it is not.”
“Then I shall continue on my quest. Lancelot to your Arthur, seeking my Guinevere.”
Darcy smiled despite himself. The irony was too rich to resist. Bingley, as ever, wielded literature with enthusiasm but no accuracy.
“I hope you invest in books when you purchase your estate.”
“I had not considered it. But if you recommend it, I shall do so.”
Darcy glanced back at the graves. “Shall you marry before or after this purchase?”
“After, I should think. I have been advised it is easier to find a wife as a gentleman.”
“Who is this sage you listen to?”
“Caroline. She, too, has aspirations for me.”
“As long as your sister’s aspirations do not include me.”
Bingley let out an incredulous laugh. “Ah, you wound me! Hurst has taken on Louisa, and Caroline—well, she has other ambitions.”
“I am pleased to hear you say that.”
Bingley grinned. “And you? You have always been a step ahead of me in life, my friend. What will you do now?”
Darcy’s eyes drifted over the lettering on the stone, the final declaration of his father’s legacy. George Darcy had lived for duty. He had died with it. Alone.
Would Darcy say goodbye? Would he acknowledge the man who shaped him, for better or worse? His fingers curled into fists. A breath, a pause, and then nothing. He turned from the grave. “I will do as I must.”
“Then let us go in before the rain finds us.”
Chapter 15
Pemberley, June 1808
