Page 53 of The Difference of a Darcy
As they walked back through the darkening village, Elizabeth asked softly, “Do you think she—my other self—was truly so different from me? Or do you think I could have become her… under the right circumstances?”
Darcy considered. “I think you are the same woman. But placed in a world with fewer choices.”
She was quiet for several steps. “Perhaps. Or perhaps she was wiser than I. She accepted security, stability. And I—” she looked up at him, eyes troubled— “I rejected it all. Even you.”
He stopped. “Elizabeth—”
She shook her head. “No. I do not regret refusing that proposal, Mr….William. But I do regret… not seeingyou. Not who you truly are, the man I have come to know the last few days.”
Darcy could only look at her—this woman who had haunted his thoughts, challenged his pride, and now walked beside him in an impossible world.
As they reached the top of the stairs to the hall that led to their room, he reached for her hand. And this time, he felt her fingers curl into his without hesitation.
The touch was light, but it grounded him more surely than the floorboards beneath their feet.
Nothing more was said as they entered their room. The fire Darcy had arranged earlier glowed in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Their meager supper of cheese and bread, the remnants of the hamper from Mrs. Gardiner, remained mostly untouched on the side table.
Elizabeth removed her bonnet slowly and crossed to the fire, her silhouette calm but reflective. Darcy lingered by the door, her earlier words still echoing in his mind.
I do regret… not seeing you.
He swallowed. “Elizabeth.”
She turned, and the light danced in her eyes.
He took a slow step forward. “You see me now?”
She smiled, small but real. “Yes. I do.”
A long silence fell between them; not heavy, but full of something unsaid.
Then she sat on the edge of the narrow bed and looked at the books they had purchased, the stray curl escaping her braid as she reached for the volume of poems.
“Do you think the other me ever reads to her husband?” she asked lightly.
Darcy gave a quiet laugh. “If she does, I suspect he does not understand half of it.”
“Then perhaps he and I are well matched.”
He crossed the room and sat beside her. “But not well suited.”
She looked up at him.
“No,” she said softly. “No, I cannot imagine finding contentment being married tohim.
Time seemed to pause in that moment. Though no declaration was made nor kiss exchanged, there was an understanding that settled between them like the firelight.
They were no longer strangers in a strange world.
They were together in it.
Chapter 10
Elizabeth stirred beneath the heavy coverlet, warm and drowsy in the early light. The familiar scent of woodsmoke lingered from the hearth, and something firmer than a pillow cradled her head—something that rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm.
Darcy.
As she had the prior two mornings, she awoke and realized their positions had shifted from polite distance to something far more intimate during the night. Her back was tucked snugly against his chest, one of his arms curled protectively around her waist, anchoring her in place. His breath stirred the hair near her temple. There was no awkwardness in it. Only warmth. Comfort. As though they had always begun the day this way.
