Page 69 of The Difference of a Darcy
She waited, hands still tightly clasped.
“We were raised almost as brothers,” he began quietly. “His father was my father’s steward. A good man—steady, intelligent, loyal. When George was born, his mother died in childbirth. A tragedy. She had been a serving girl, but bright and warm-spirited. My father felt it a great loss.”
Elizabeth blinked in surprise.
“My father—” Darcy paused, rubbing his gloved thumb against the edge of his seat. “He had always longed for a large family. He had a brother, younger by a few years, who died in his twenties of a fever while on the Continent. I think that loss marked him more deeply than he ever said aloud. So when I was born, and it became clear that my mother could not bear many more children—” his lips tightened—“he saw something of his brother in Wickham. The mannerisms, perhaps. A resemblance. And so he did what he thought best.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “What was that?”
“He had George brought to Pemberley,” Darcy said. “Not just as the steward’s son. As my companion. We shared tutors, toys, mischief. My father insisted he be educated as a gentleman. My mother hated it. She thought it encouraged entitlement—and she was right. But my father... he saw George as a second son.”
“Was he kind, as a boy?”
“Charming,” Darcy said bitterly. “Always charming. But selfish. Calculating. He would borrow my books and lose them, break my toys and charm me into silence. He would lie to my parents, and if caught, say it was a misunderstanding. And somehow, I was always the one being scolded for lacking generosity or warmth. My father thought me cold. In truth, I was exhausted.”
Elizabeth said nothing. Her fingers loosened their grip, slowly.
“Even as we grew older,” he continued, “George knew how to twist affection to his advantage. At university, he gambled away every allowance he was given. My father helped him again and again, even promising him the living at Kympton, despite his lack of interest in the Church. After my father died…” his voice dropped, “...I could not, in good conscience, bestow a parish upon a man who mocked religion and drank himself insensible before lectures.”
“And then?” Elizabeth asked softly.
“He demanded money instead,” Darcy said. “I gave it to him. Three thousand pounds.”
Elizabeth looked down at her lap, guilt roiling in her chest.
“I believed him,” she said quietly. “Every word.”
“I know,” Darcy said, his voice gentler now. “It wounded me, but… I can hardly fault you for it. Wickham is a gifted liar. And I was proud. Silent. I let you believe it.”
“I was prejudiced against you,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I saw what I wanted to see.”
He reached for her hand. “If you can forgive me for my pride, I can forgive you for your prejudice.”
Her lips curved faintly despite herself.
“Besides,” he added, “I am the one who made the foolish wish that brought us here, all because I condemned your familywithout truly knowing them. So perhaps we both are equally guilty of poor judgment.”
The rest of the day passed in quieter reflection. The road north unfolded like a ribbon of history—each milestone another marker of a shared past neither of them remembered, and yet one they were rewriting together.
And that night, when they stopped at a modest inn near Leicester, and Darcy gently touched the small of her back as he guided her inside, Elizabeth knew with quiet certainty that she was exactly where she wished to be.
By his side.
Wherever the road led next.
∞∞∞
The next day dawned gray and cold, the air damp with the threat of rain. The inside of the hired coach was warmer than the wind outside, but not by much. They sat close, huddled in their cloaks, their thighs brushing now and then with the movement of the carriage.
They had crossed the boundary into the next county that morning, and the countryside had begun to change—greener, hillier, with fewer villages and more miles between.
Elizabeth studied the scenery for a while, but her mind was elsewhere.
Darcy had asked after her family. He had spoken kindly of Jane. He had even endured Mrs. Bennet with an admirable degree of composure.
It was time she did the same.
She waited until the driver’s voice called down about the next change of horses, then looked over at Darcy.
