Page 25 of The Scarred Duchess
Darcy and his aunt strolled the village’s high street. As they passed men and women going about their business, none failed to remove their hats or render a curtsey, such was the Darcy influence on the pleasant northern village. They stopped to converse with two well-dressed ladies.
“Is that Miss Darcy you carry?” asked the older matron. “May we see her? We missed the opportunity when we paid our condolences.”
“Another time, if you please. We are being careful of her health this month,” Lady Catherine announced.
“Of course. Good day to you both,” curtseyed both ladies, who quickly departed, their heads together as they whispered.
“What was that about?”
Lady Catherine sighed. “I refuse to feed the gossip-mongers. Georgiana has more than enough to face when walking and talking.”
Darcy scowled. “It is not fair.”
“The world is unfair, my boy.”
A few steps later, he sniffed. “I think my sister requires fresh linen.”
“Let us cross the lane to the laundress.”
The well-dressed pair stepped into a small hovel. A pleasant woman, her face etched in fatigue, looked up from a washtub. Her smile removed a few years of concern. “Is that little Miss Darcy?”
“She is, Miss Wickham.”
“Let us get her changed.” From nowhere, a swaddling linen appeared in her hand. Lady Catherine laid the babe on the nearest chair.
“Fetch me another rag, George,” Miss Wickham called out. From the shadows, a boy emerged. George Wickham was a distant relation of the Pemberley steward but lived with his elder sister, the village laundress. Darcy watched Wickham stare at Georgiana, looking curious and disgusted all at once, his eyes focused on the babe’s face. He stepped to his left to block the boy’s view.
“Finished we are, my lady and if I may, Lady Catherine?”
Darcy watched as his aunt almost imperceptibly stiffened.
“Miss Darcy is all that is beautiful.”
Lady Catherine relaxed and smiled before removing from the house, her nephew following behind her. Darcylooked over his shoulder as he left to see a scowl on Wickham’s face.
A group of boys gathered the next morning at Lambton Pond. It was a sunny day in late summer, and the air was thick with humidity. They skipped stones across the pond’s surface, all but the thrower counting the effort’s success.
“Seven, eight, nine! Well done, Baxter!” The bakery owner’s son accepted his well-earned accolades with a significant smile.
“My turn,” announced Samuel Cobb, the future landlord of The Rose & Crown. He practised his throwing motion a few times, then expertly flicked his wrist. The stone shot out across the water’s surface.
A chorus shouted, “Nine, ten, eleven!” Baxter and Darcy clapped him on the back, cheering. The fourth boy sneered, “You still have yet to best my score of fourteen.”
The three boys silently stared at Wickham. He scoffed, “It must be His Highness’s turn.”
“His name is Darcy,” countered Baxter
“Close your hole,” Wickham demanded. Though at thirteen, he was younger than some, including Darcy, he was the largest of the boys, his form manly and muscular where the others were still boyish and lanky.
“Well, Darcy? You scared?” Wickham taunted.
Darcy chose a stone from the ground and examined it.
“Are you going to toss it or kiss it?” Wickham asked with a sneering laugh.
Darcy practised three wrist twists, then let the stone fly. It sank after three skips. Baxter and Cobb patted his shoulder.
“You throw like a girl,” Wickham scoffed.
