Page 71 of The Difference of a Darcy
“She turned sixteen two weeks later.”
The carriage rocked over a rut in the road. Neither of them spoke for several moments.
At last, Elizabeth said, “He is a monster.”
Darcy looked over, startled. Something in her voice—fierce and raw—seemed to move him.
“You were right,” she said, more quietly. “I believed his story in Meryton. I thought you had robbed him of his living. I thought him wronged and you proud.”
His eyes flicked away, and she hung her head. “I am ashamed of it now.”
“You had reason,” he said. “I gave you no cause to think otherwise.”
“But still—”
“I told you,” he said gently, “we are equal in our misjudgments.”
She searched his face—serious, composed, with just the faintest hint of sorrow lingering behind his eyes.
“I wish I could tell her it will be all right,” Elizabeth said softly. “That she will not always feel this way. That someone will see her, truly see her, and treat her kindly.”
He nodded once and looked out the window.
“I will do whatever I must,” he said, almost to himself. “Even if we are trapped in this world, and she does not know me. I will find a way to help her.”
Elizabeth watched him, her throat tightening.
And in that moment, she saw not the proud man who had once insulted her at a ball, nor the stranger thrust into her journey by some inexplicable force of fate.
She saw a partner. The one man in the world who was the most suited to her in disposition and talents, in understanding and temper.
And her heart knew it.
∞∞∞
Darcy sat quietly as the coach rattled onward, the conversation with Elizabeth still echoing in his mind.
She had asked him—gently, curiously—about Wickham, and instead of answering her with the clarity and honesty she deserved, he had bristled.
He had not meant to. Truly. And yet, the instant she had spoken Wickham’s name, something had curled in his chest: a hot, acidic knot of memory and shame and fury—and the words had left him more harshly than he intended.
And she had recoiled.
Not dramatically. Not with wounded pride or anger. No, it was subtler than that. A stilling of her hands. A quick blink. A quiet retreat into herself.
But he had seen it.
And he had hated himself for it.
She had only wanted to understand. Of course she had asked. And why should she not have believed Wickham back in Meryton? Darcy had done nothing to recommend himself—nothing to refute Wickham’s lies—nothing to make Elizabeth trust him over a charming man with a tragic tale.
And yet she had apologized. Felt shame. Looked at him with those wide, regretful eyes and spoken words he never thought he would hear from her lips.
“I am sorry… It was presumptuous of me.”
Not just an apology. A wound cloaked in frustration. He had heard the flicker of hurt in her tone, the defensive edge. And he had deserved every syllable of it.
He had apologized, of course. Tried to explain. But the truth was, he hated the man so much, and had done for so long, that any mention of him was like pressing against an old bruise that had never properly healed. Wickham had been at the center of too many of his failures—failures of judgment, of trust, of protection. Failures that had cost people Darcy loved more than they would ever know.
