Page 148 of The Difference of a Darcy
A pebble.
For a moment she could only stare at it, blinking in disbelief.
The smooth gray surface was unmistakable—the same pebble she had pressed into his hand beside the river at Pemberley, the one she had told him to keep as a reminder of his worth. She remembered watching him slip it into his coat pocket.
But notthiscoat.
He had worn a rough, ill-fitting coat then—one they had purchased in that small market town after escaping Pemberley with nothing but what they could carry. The coat of a tradesman, not a gentleman. Yet this pebble had found its way here, into the fine wool of his present jacket, as though it had crossed the boundary of that vanished world with him.
How is it possible?
Does it even matter?
Her mind reeled. She no longer doubted that their time together had been real, but this—this small, solid token in his palm—was further evidence that defied any explanation.
Which meant their love was real.
Her heart swelled.
Without thinking, she reached up and touched his cheek. His skin was cold, his jaw rough from the morning chill. He covered her hand with his own, his thumb tracing slow circles against her wrist before he turned her palm and pressed a kiss into it.
The warmth of his lips against her bare skin sent a shiver through her—not of cold, but of remembrance. She closed her eyes, breathing him in, letting herself simply feel.
When he spoke again, his voice was low, gentle, steady in a way that soothed her racing heart.
“Your hands are cold,” he murmured. “We must get you inside—warm you up.”
She opened her eyes and smiled faintly. “And here I thought you would scold me for running off without my gloves.”
He gave a soft, breathless laugh—the first she had heard since waking in this world. “You would not be the Elizabeth I know if you did not ignore good sense now and then.”
“Do you ever tire of saving me?”
“Never,” he said simply. “Though I admit, you do make it necessary with alarming frequency.”
She laughed softly, the sound mingling with the faint whisper of the wind through the trees. “Then it seems we are both creatures of habit.”
“Indeed,” he said, his smile deepening. “And for once, I am content to repeat myself.”
He reached for her hand again, enclosing her fingers within his own. Together they began the slow walk back toward the parsonage, their footsteps crunching over the thin crust of frost.
Neither spoke for some time. The morning light was soft upon the fields, and the world felt still—suspended between what had been and what was yet to come.
As they reached the lane, Elizabeth glanced up at him, her breath forming small clouds in the cold air. “It truly happened,” she whispered, half to herself.
Darcy’s hand tightened around hers. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It truly did.”
They exchanged a look of quiet wonder, and then—still hand in hand—they turned the final corner toward Hunsford, where the first curls of chimney smoke rose into the pale winter sky.
Chapter 30
Everything was still.
The faint scent of beeswax and evergreen hung in the air, mingling with the cold breath of early spring that crept in through the old stone walls. The morning sunlight, pale and new, streamed through the high windows, striking motes of dust into gold.
Darcy stood near the altar of the Longbourn chapel, his gloved hands clasped before him, and tried to steady the rhythm of his heart.
He had imagined this day a hundred times since his return to Hertfordshire, yet the reality felt nothing like those dreams. There was no grandeur, no sweeping joy—only a quiet certainty that reached down into his very soul.
