Page 50 of The Difference of a Darcy
He must have sensed her watching, for he turned to meet her eyes. For a moment, neither spoke. The warmth in his gaze startled her—gentle, reassuring, a silent promise that whatever lay ahead, he would not leave her to face it alone.
Across from them, one of the other passengers—a man with thinning hair and a self-important air—cleared his throat and leaned slightly forward. “Forgive me, miss,” he said pompously, “but your face seems familiar. I cannot help but think—have we met before? Perhaps in London?”
Elizabeth blinked. The cadence was uncanny. If she closed her eyes, it could have been Mr. Collins himself.
Before she could find a polite response, Darcy spoke with quiet firmness. “My wife’s face is often remarked upon, sir. But I assure you, she is quite singular.”
The man gave a startled blink, muttered something unintelligible, and sat back with a sniff. The woman next to him leaned forward slightly and said with a cheerful smile, “You two make such a handsome couple. Newlyweds?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, unsure how to respond—but Darcy’s voice came smoothly and without hesitation. “Yes. Just a few days ago.”
“Oh, how lovely,” the woman cooed. “Still in the honeymoon phase.”
Elizabeth caught the twinkle in Darcy’s eye, and before she could stop herself, she murmured beneath her breath, “Let us hope it lasts longer than the wedding night.”
Darcy coughed once—violently—and turned to hide a grin.
She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. The other passengers took no notice. The coach rattled on toward Meryton.
But between Elizabeth and Darcy, the warmth lingered.
∞∞∞
The village had not changed.
That was Darcy’s first thought as the coach rolled into Meryton’s square: the streets narrow and uneven, the buildings weathered but clean, the small shops clustered like hens in a roost. The late December wind stirred the last brown leaves in the gutters and carried the mingled scent of chimney smoke and yeast from the bakery.
And yet, everything had changed.
He descended first and turned to offer his hand to Elizabeth. She accepted with quiet poise, but as her boots touched the cobblestones, he saw the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. Her gaze moved slowly over the familiar lane, as though each building were a test of memory.
She smiled faintly at a woman crossing the square—a friendly, open expression that faltered when the woman looked her way with confusion, nodded politely, and moved on.
Darcy saw it clearly this time. The moment Elizabeth’s heart squeezed behind her calm expression.
He fiercely wished to be able to do something, but what comfort could he offer when the universe itself had conspired to replace her with another?
They made their way to the inn Elizabeth suggested. A small sign above the tavern door creaked in the wind:The Boar and Barrel. Hardly elegant, but it would do. He requested a private room and signed the register asMr. and Mrs. William Smith, handing over the money without flinching.
They climbed the stairs and set their modest belongings down. The bed was narrow but clean; the hearth cold, but well-stocked. It would do.
“It is too late for calls,” Elizabeth murmured as she peeked out the room’s single window. “They will be at dinner… or preparing for it.”
Darcy nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”
She turned from the window, her brows knit in thought. “But if we were to walk the village now… perhaps we might hear something.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. “You intend to eavesdrop?”
“I intend to shop,” she said archly. “If the townspeople insist on speaking freely in front of paying customers, well—that is hardly our fault.”
They bundled against the cold once more and stepped back into the narrow street, passing modest households already shuttered against the dusk. The bell over the door gave a cheerful jingle as they entered the milliner’s shop. The scent of lavender and starch lingered in the air, and bolts of muslin and ribbon-lined shelves painted a far prettier picture than anything Darcy had seen in recent days.
Elizabeth moved with ease through the narrow aisles. This was her world—one he had once dismissed too quickly. He watched her trail her fingers across a roll of sky-blue ribbon, then turn to the older woman behind the counter with a warm smile.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “I was last in Meryton some months ago, visiting family. I thought perhaps I might find a new bonnet ribbon while we are in town.”
The shopkeeper—pleasant-faced, with a fraying lace cap and shrewd eyes—offered a polite smile. “You have the look of someone familiar,” she said. “But I can’t quite place you.”
