Page 9 of Colour My World
Her lashes fluttered, then stilled.
Darcy remained until her breathing slowed. The doll slipped from her fingers. He caught it and set it beside her. As he tucked the blanket higher, she stirred, half-asleep, and whispered into the pillow, barely more than a breath:
“I be good. I be good.”
Darcy closed his eyes, the ache in his chest sharper than before. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.
You already are, sweetling. You have always been.
* * *
Eton, April 1798
Rain tapped steadily against the tall windows. Darcy stood before them, eyes tracing the rivulets as they slid down the glass. He was past fifteen now and deep into his studies at Eton. In one hand, he held a letter from his tutor; the other rested against the window frame, cool with condensation. Behind him, Barty sat at the writing desk, recording something into a journal.
Darcy said, “Is that the travel ledger?”
“Aye,” Barty replied without looking up. “I made a note of the mile count and the livery repairs. You will find it beneath the supply orders.”
Darcy moved towards the desk, brow furrowing. “Is that your left hand?”
The quill froze for an instant and then resumed, gliding neatly across the page. “I use whichever serves, sir.”
Darcy stepped beside him. “I have seen you write with your right. This”—he gestured at the script— “this is near identical.”
“Aye. Takes practice.” Barty dipped the quill again. “Me father said a man ought to write with both hands. That way, no injury nor interruption could keep him from his duty.”
Darcy watched him work. “You never said.”
“You never asked.”
Barty glanced up, a glint in his eye. Darcy chuckled.
“All is in order.” Barty drew a second volume from the desk drawer. “Your private disbursements. I moved the entries to the gentleman’s book.”
Darcy accepted both. “I should like the ink in the study drawer replaced. Black.”
“As you wish, sir.”
* * *
Pemberley, April 1799
The sun made everything golden. It spilled over the sculpted hedges—shaped like horses, sheep, cows—until the leafy green animals almost looked alive. When the wind blew, the leaves whispered as if the animals talked to one another.
Georgiana held her Daisy-doll by the arm as she skipped through the grass. Her boots crunched over scattered leaves. She made sure to avoid muddy spots.
Twirling once, then again, her skirts puffing out like a bell. A white bell. What had Brother read to her?A white daff-a-dill.
Then, a shadow swallowed the light. She squinted against the brightness. One of the older boys stood there.
George Wickham. She knew him. He laughed big and talked fast. He smiled. He always smiled.
Georgiana looked for Nurse.There. Talking to a gardener.
“All alone, little one?” He crouched. His dark eyes were warm,but his smile was not.
Georgiana hugged Daisy-doll tightly to her chest. “Nurse says not to talk to strangers,” she whispered.
