Page 105 of The Difference of a Darcy
While his absence had made life far worse for the people around him, his current presence hadnotmade matters better.
He was here now, but what had changed? What good had he done?
Georgiana was not affected by his presence at Pemberley. It was not he who was able to draw her out, to help her be happy.
If not for Elizabeth…
His throat tightened, and he paused, leaning against the spade and staring out across the frostbitten orchard. He had never imagined a world in which Elizabeth Bennet would willingly live beneath his roof as a servant. And yet here she was—without rank or recognition, without comfort or even certainty—and she had never once faltered. She bore her own grief with grace and turned her strength toward others.
He had watched her from afar these past weeks—watched the way she touched Georgiana’s hand, the way she smiled at the cook, the way she still laughed at his jokes, when they had the rare chance to speak.
She was everything good in his world.
But do I mean the same to her?
He exhaled sharply, the breath misting before him. His grip tightened on the handle of the spade, and he raised it high, ready to shove it in the frozen dirt once more.
“Blast!”
The shout came suddenly from across the yard.
Darcy’s head snapped up. That was not John’s voice. It held none of the tired grumble of the elderly stable hand. Nor was it one of the handful of footmen who still remained—they would not dare raise their voices within earshot of the house.
No. This voice was unfamiliar. And yet, familiar at the same time.
His brows drew together. Who could have come to call? There was no parson. The post had not come in days. Perhaps a tenant? A former tenant, more likely, coming to demand what could no longer be given.
Then he heard it.
Hooves.
Fast. Loud.
Not the heavy plod of a delivery cart or the meandering trot of a farmer’s mare—but something sharper. Eager. A stallion. He frowned. The only horse in the stables was Nelly—and she was too old for such sport.
A sharp whinny split the air.
Darcy stiffened. Someone was in the stable.A thief?
He dropped the spade and picked up the pitchfork lying near, then rushed forward. His boots crunched over the frost and gravel, his breath tight in his chest. Rounding the corner, he raised his makeshift weapon, half-expecting to find a thief haltering Nelly. His fists clenched. He would defend what little remained of Pemberley if it came to that.
But he stopped short at the sight before him.
It was not a thief.
It was worse.
George Wickham.
∞∞∞
The fire crackled quietly in the drawing room hearth, lending warmth to the morning light that spilled across the worn rug and well-scoured floors. Elizabeth sat near the window with a length of pale muslin spread across her lap, carefully pinning one of the repurposed panels from Lady Anne’s gowns. Across from her, Georgiana leaned forward in her chair, her own needle poised over a faded infant cap she had unearthed from a forgotten trunk.
The last several days had been spent in the attic, wrapped in dust and memory. They had uncovered a small trove of baby garments—caps, bonnets, gowns no longer than a foot in length. There were bolts of unused cloth and two gowns of Lady Anne’s that, though outdated in style, were of fine make and sound fabric. Elizabeth had carefully begun to alter them to suit Georgiana’s swelling form, and Georgiana, to Elizabeth’s delight, had taken up the work herself with surprising eagerness.
“This one was mine,” Georgiana said now, lifting a gossamer blanket with a smile both wistful and proud. “Mrs. Reynolds said I cried endlessly unless I was swaddled in it. She kept it for years in a box with my first lock of hair.”
Elizabeth smiled. “A sentimental heart in such a formidable housekeeper. I never would have guessed.”
