Page 19 of The Difference of a Darcy
“Of course, sir,” Elizabeth said repentantly.
And that had been the end of it.
Now, she only shook her head and gave a dry little laugh.
Married to him,she thought, giving an exaggerated shudder as she passed the mirror in the hall.No. I was certainly right to refuse.
The parsonage seemed unusually quiet. No barking orders from Mr. Collins, or calm reasoning from Charlotte. Elizabeth padded down the narrow hallway toward the cozy back room the new Mrs. Collins had claimed for herself—the little parlor with the view of the garden and the well-worn armchair by the hearth.
The fire was already lit. Charlotte had ordered it so that morning, anticipating her return with red cheeks and frozen fingers. It crackled merrily in the grate, casting long shadows against the polished table and half-unpacked crate of books.
Elizabeth let herself sink into the armchair and closed her eyes.
For a moment, she imagined herself back at Longbourn.
The Gardiner children would be tying ribbons to the stair banister, arguing over the best location for the paper stars. Lydia would be laughing somewhere near the front hall, hanging mistletoe over every doorway she could reach, just in case any officers be inclined to call.
Elizabeth flushed slightly as one officer’s image came to mind.Lieutenant Wickham… would he attempt to catch me under one?
Eyes still closed, she allowed herself the luxury of imagining the scene: a sly, playful smile and a scandalously chaste kiss on the cheek, his lips brushing against her skin. Her stomachfluttered a little at the thought.If only old Mr. Darcy had never had a son,she thought idly, then Mr. Wickham could marry as he pleased. He could have his inheritance. He could—
Her smile faded.
Jane.
Her thoughts, like smoke, always curled back to Jane. To the pale, tired eyes that had refused to sparkle even with Christmas so near. To the heart that had been, perhaps, quietly broken—thanks to the man who haunted Elizabeth even now in Kent.
Mr. Darcy.
Her fists clenched in the folds of her shawl.
He had done it. Had separated them. Had torn something lovely and full of promise for the sake of his own prejudices. How many lives had he altered with a few well-placed words? How many hearts had he dismissed in pursuit of his own comfort?
She gave a bitter sigh and opened her eyes.
And blinked.
A knock—gentle, but firm—sounded from the front of the house. A moment later, the maid’s hesitant voice: “Miss Bennet? You have a caller.”
She frowned. “Ihave a caller? Who is it?”
“Mr. Darcy.”
∞∞∞
Darcy stood in the front entryway, hat in his hands. Now that he was here, he was suddenly anxious. Realizing he was twisting the brim and destroying its shape, Darcy took a deep breath and forced his hands to still.
“If you will follow me, sir.”
He followed the maid down the narrow corridor and into a small sitting room.
“Mr. Darcy, miss,” the girl whispered.
“Thank you, Hannah.”
Elizabeth nodded at the girl, who bobbed a curtsy and disappeared through the door, which she left ajar. Darcy debated leaving it open but decided it would be best to have privacy for the conversation. It would not do for a servant to listen at the door, then run to Lady Catherine with the news of his proposal before he had even returned to Rosings.
No, she had best hear the happy news from me directly.
