Page 7 of Colour My World
“How?”
“Protect those who cannot defend themselves.”
“Whom do you mean?”
“Georgiana.” Her fingers trembled as she traced the back of his hand. “She is small. Helpless. She will never have the freedoms you do.”
His sister.
“She will need you.”
They were the last of the Pemberley Darcys. He would further the name; she, its heart.
“I will protect her with my life.”
“A gentleman’s first duty is to those he loves.” She tugged his hand, and he drew closer. She kissed his forehead.
Her lips were cold, and not quite the colour he remembered.
“I will rest for a moment,” she murmured, eyes half-closed. “Hold my hand, my love.”
The dressing gong boomed.
Darcy remained on his knees at her bedside. He struggled not to cry.
The quarter gong rang.
The absence of sound made him look at her. He counted to ten; she did not take a breath.
Please do not leave me. He pressed her hand to his cheek and wept.
A hand settled upon his shoulder. “I have sent word to your father,” Barty said.
Darcy looked up. “Please cancel the third gong.”
* * *
Pemberley, December 1795
Fitzwilliam Darcy, twelve years of age, entered his bedchamber, head held high. The day's burdens had bowed him low, but had not broken his resolve.
To Darcy, it felt as though Lady Anne’s death had taken his father too.
The man who had once lifted him onto his shoulders to name the constellations no longer smiled, no longer waited. In his place stood a figure of rigid expectations and colder discipline.
Lessons were no longer about knowledge, but duty. Aperceived shortcoming saw withering disappointment rather than encouragement.
His handwriting? Sloppy.
Latin? Lacking.
Horsemanship? Adequate, but not worthy of a Darcy.
And Georgiana. His sister. A daughter his father refused to acknowledge.
Darcy’s hands curled into fists–then stilled. Something new waited beside his wardrobe. It was his mother’s hope chest. Had his man, Barty, placed it there?
Sinking to his knees, he traced the wood grain before unlatching the lid. A breath of lavender, rosewater, and something fainter—bergamot—greeted him. His mother’s perfume.
