Page 68 of The Difference of a Darcy
She turned slowly toward him, taking in the relaxed lines of his face in sleep. So rare, that expression—unguarded, almost boyish. A version of him few had likely ever seen. She found herself studying him as if to memorize him: the faint crease between his brows, the tousled hair curling at the temples, the dark lashes that cast soft shadows over his cheeks.
She let the moment linger until his lashes fluttered, and his eyes opened.
He blinked at her. “Good morning,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
“Good morning,” she whispered back.
And just like that, the spell was broken.
But it was not lost.
They rose and dressed, the silence between them companionable now rather than strained. After a light breakfast brought to their room—Darcy had seen to it before she had even risen—they stepped out into the crisp morning air to begin their journey northward.
From the village of Meryton to the county border near Bakewell was no short jaunt. Darcy estimated it would take at least five days with good roads and hired post-chaises, perhaps longer if the weather turned. The route stretched nearly two hundred miles, threading north through Northamptonshire and the Midlands before finally reaching Derbyshire.
As the coach rumbled along the unfamiliar turnpikes and coaching inns rolled past the windows, Elizabeth felt the landscape shift—flattening into open farmland, the hills of her childhood giving way to the northward climb. The rhythm of the carriage was steady, almost lulling, and for a time they sat in silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts.
At the next stop to change the horses, the only other occupant of the public coach disembarked and did not return. Elizabeth and Darcy were left to themselves, and the only sign that they were not in a private conveyance was the worn upholstery beneath them and the groaning springs that creaked at every jolt in the road.
And because of their privacy, she could no longer contain the question gnawing at her.
“Mr. Dar—William,” she said carefully, “may I ask you something… uncomfortable?”
He turned from the window, brows lifting slightly. “You may ask me anything.”
She twisted her hands in her lap. “It is about Mr. Wickham.”
His entire posture stiffened.
“I only—being back in Meryton made me think of him. Of the stories he told. The… the living that was promised to him. That he claims you denied.”
Darcy’s jaw tensed. “I see.”
“I only mean—” she faltered, seeing the storm brewing behind his eyes. “I believed him, once. Not any longer, of course. But I think I should like to understand the truth.”
There was a silence—longer than she expected, heavier than she could bear. Darcy’s expression was unreadable, and he looked away from her, his gaze fixed on the passing landscape beyond the window. The countryside blurred past in shades of brown and gray, but Elizabeth hardly saw it. The quiet between them seemed to stretch, sharp and uncomfortable, until it filled the whole of the carriage.
Her stomach tightened. The warmth and certainty she had felt the night before—his tenderness, his kiss, the promise in his voice—slipped away like sand through her fingers. He was angry. Truly angry.
As the seconds ticked by, she sat rigidly, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She told herself she did not mind the silence. It was just a question. A simple inquiry. Perfectly reasonable.
But the longer he said nothing, the more her confidence withered. Her thoughts, so calm and certain that morning, began to churn. The security she had felt—his kiss on her forehead, the warmth in his voice, the way he had looked at her—suddenly felt fragile. Remote.
A prickle of discomfort stirred in her chest. She had never liked being left to guess at another’s thoughts. And from him—of all people—it felt intolerable.
She shifted slightly. Why was he so angry? Why would he not speak?
The silence pressed down, too close, too loud. A flicker of resentment sparked low in her gut, catching her by surprise.
“I am sorry,” she said at last, too quickly. Her voice was sharper than she intended. “It was presumptuous of me.”
“No,” he said, his voice low and tight. “It was not. Only… Wickham is a difficult subject for me. He always has been.”
“I see.”
The tone of her voice made it clear that she didnotsee. He hesitated a moment longer, then exhaled and turned back toward her.
“You are right to ask. And I promised you honesty.”
