Page 63 of Colour My World
The candle’s glow flickered across the heavy wooden desk. Darcy stared at his mother’s journal. He could not name the last time he had opened it. Was it before his father’s death?
The Book. In it was the tale of the girl with autumn-touched hair and mismatched eyes.His soulmate.He bowed his head.
“Mother.”
The word, long unused, felt foreign on his lips.
“If ever you can hear me, if ever you can reach beyond the veil, then I beg you, guide me. Tell me I am mistaken. Tell me that the girl I saw is not—” He could not speak the rest.
He opened the journal and turned to the fourth page.Allow her to sketch your character.He touched the words. The ink was dry.
The flame wavered. Then, with neither draft nor cause, it guttered and died. Darkness enveloped him. Darcy did not stir.
The magic was real.
* * *
Elizabeth entered Lucas Lodge with her usual lightness, offering pleasantries with ease as their hosts received her family. The room bustled with conversation, laughter, and the warmth offamiliar company. She took in the assembled guests and their aires:
Sir William’s conviviality gleamed pleasantly.A man endlessly satisfied with his place in the world.
Charlotte, ever composed, bore a steady, unshaken hue of patience.
Mr Bingley’sairewas as before, bright and warm.
Then she glimpsed Mr Darcy across the room. And again, nothing.
She bit her bottom lip. It defied reason. Every living adult displayed some essence of themselves. And yet, he did not.
“Eliza.” Charlotte touched her arm lightly, pulling her from her thoughts. “My father wishes to speak with you.”
Sir William approached. “Miss Elizabeth, I must say, what a lovely gathering this is. And such fortunate company.”
“Indeed.”
He turned to Mr Darcy, who stood nearby. “Miss Elizabeth, I forget myself. You have not been formally introduced. Mr Darcy, may I present Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn. Miss Bennet, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire.”
Elizabeth curtseyed. “Mr Darcy.”
Darcy bowed. “Miss Bennet.”
“Capital. Capital. Perhaps we shall see a demonstration of dancing this evening.”
He is entirely oblivious, the adorable man.
“Come, sir, you cannot be so cruel as to deprive us entirely! A country dance is an excellent way to engage in good company.”
Darcy inclined his head. “For those who enjoy it, yes.”
“And Mr Darcy does not,” Elizabeth replied.
Sir William clapped Mr Darcy’s shoulder. “Ah, but surely, a man of your standing must see its merits! The charm of a well-executed reel. Why, there is no finer sight.”
Elizabeth noted Darcy’s rigid stance and the careful neutralityin his expression. “A man in Mr Darcy’s position cannot be expected to endure such trials.”
His lips parted, but before he could speak, Miss Bingley materialised between them, slipping in with practised ease. “Oh, Miss Eliza,” she said with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Mr Darcy’s taste far exceeds the amusement of a country jig.”
Elizabeth ignored her unpleasantaireand returned her smile with practised civility. “Is that so? I would have thought it more a matter of preference than of taste.”
