Page 74 of The Difference of a Darcy
Just slightly.
Not enough to change the tone. Not enough to make either of them look away. But something had passed between them—an understanding. A recognition.
I want this kind of joy for the rest of my life, he thought.
The moment ended when they stopped once again for a change of horses and a few minutes to stretch their legs.
Once they had resumed their places side-by-side in the carriage, Elizabeth said playfully, “Now that you have heard all of my stories, Mr. Smith, it is only fair that you return the favor. What was growing up like for you?”
“Not nearly as interesting as your upbringing,” he said. “It was, in comparison, quite dull. I was not raised among ghost cows and feathered tragedies.”
She smiled. “No, I imagine Pemberley is quite devoid of poultry mishaps—too dignified and highbrow to be otherwise.”
“There was a peacock once,” he admitted to her delight. “My father purchased one from a collector in Bath. It screamed outside the nursery window every morning for a week. My mother declared it a harbinger of doom and made the steward sell it to the vicar.”
Elizabeth laughed. “That is not so very far from my world.”
“No,” he said after a moment. “Perhaps not.”
His heart leaped when she reached out to touch his knee. “I wish to hear everything,” she said in a serious voice.
And so he told her about Pemberley. About climbing the stone bridge as a boy and leaping into the river, much to the horror of his nursemaid. About stealing apricots from the glasshouse and blaming the footman, then confessing with such guilt that the entire staff forgave him at once. Of sneakinginto the library at night to trace his fingers along the spines of forbidden books by candlelight.
And did you read them?” she asked, amused.
“Some,” he said. “But mostly I liked the smell. The heavy, dusty scent of old bindings and dried ink. It made me feel… important, somehow. As though knowledge were a secret I was about to uncover.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I think I would have liked young Master Darcy.”
“I think he would have adored you.”
That silenced her—but not unpleasantly. After a few moments, she smiled brightly and said, “Tell me about your Grand Tour.”
He blinked, surprised. “How did you—?”
“Well, youarea wealthy young man in England… and I believe you mentioned it during that first dinner at Rosings.”
He huffed a laugh. “Ah. Yes. That dinner. I should thank you for that, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For not stabbing my aunt with your fork.”
“I was sorely tempted.”
He smiled faintly and looked down at his hands. “I went when I was twenty years of age. You are quite correct. It is a tradition of sorts—my father had done the same. My cousin Fitzwilliam went before his commission. I was meant to spend four years abroad in France, Italy, Greece. But then Napoleon had other plans.”
Elizabeth nodded soberly.
“So, I revised my course. I went north instead. The Low Countries, some of Germany, then to Denmark and briefly to Sweden. It was cold. Uncomfortable. But beautiful. Austere. I wrote pages and pages about the architecture. I thought I might collect art, once.” A beat. “I never did.”
“What happened?”
He was quiet a long moment, letting the memories flood over him. Then: “A letter came. My father had been thrown from his horse.”
Her smile faded. “Oh.”
“I returned at once, but he had already passed.”
