Page 79 of The Difference of a Darcy
Sitting carefully down beside him, Elizabeth softly said, “It is worse than you imagined.”
He nodded, unable to lift his head. “Much worse.”
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she reached over and placed her hand over his. “I am so sorry.”
He shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I meant—for what you saw. For what has become of the place you love.”
That struck something deep within him, and he closed his eyes.
“I knew it might be changed,” he said. “But I thought… I thought it would be smaller, perhaps. Or unfamiliar. Not this.” His voice grew ragged. “Not hollow. Not broken.”
She gave his hand a small squeeze. “Would you like to go back out into the village? Speak to some of the shopkeepers as we did in Meryton? Perhaps they can tell us more.”
He drew a shaky breath. “I am not certain I wish to know anything more. I think I have heard enough for now.”
“Of course.” Elizabeth nodded, her brow furrowed in sympathy. “Do you have an idea of what we shall do tomorrow?”
He lifted his eyes at last and met hers. “Pemberley once offered tours,” he said slowly. “It is a grand estate, and my father—our father—believed it wise to permit public days, like Chatsworth or Blenheim. We charged nothing for entry, but donations to the tenant charities were welcome. I had thought… I had hoped… we might gain admittance that way.”
“And now?”
“Now I do not know. With Wickham in possession…” His voice trailed off.
Elizabeth sat back on her heels. “Then perhaps we find another way.”
He offered her a tired smile. “What other way is there?”
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “We could try to obtain positions in the household. A maid and a steward’s assistant, perhaps. Or I might serve in the stillroom.”
Darcy blinked. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am perfectly serious.”
“You wouldworkat Pemberley? Inservice?” His eyes widened, a flush rising to his cheeks. “Elizabeth, that is not— I could not ask that of you.”
“You did not,” she said simply. “I offered.”
“But—”
“You forget,” she interrupted gently, “that while I am a gentleman’s daughter, I come from a much humbler estate than yours. At Longbourn, we do not have so many servants that we can afford idleness. I have often acted as my sisters’ maid, helping them dress or do their hair, and I have spent more than a few mornings in the kitchen when someone was ill and I wished for breakfast, or the fire had gone out in my room and I was too cold to wait for help.”
She gave him a wry smile. “I assure you, the idea of labor does not offend me—especially if it means aiding someone in need. Besides, in this world, I am a married woman with no money and no connections. I cannot afford to be proud.”
He flinched. “Still, I cannot abide the thought of you—”
“It is not forever,” she said. “And it is not for just anyone. You care for your sister. And I care for you. That is all the reason I need.”
The words hit him like a blow to the chest. For a moment, he could not speak. He simply stared at her—this remarkable woman, who had once rejected him with righteous fury and now offered to toil in a stranger’s kitchen for the sake of a sister she had never met.
She looked away then, her cheeks coloring faintly. “Besides,” she added in a lighter tone, “if your fear is that I end up in thekitchens, you need not worry. I can make a respectable biscuit—and I promise I shall only poison Mr. Wickham.”
He stared at her in astonishment, uncertain whether to laugh or be alarmed. Fortunately, a soft knock at the door spared him from determining whether she was a talented cook—or a budding murderess.
“Remind me to never anger you,” he muttered as he crossed the room and opened the door.
He heard her giggle behind him as he looked down at a young girl of around ten years. “My father said that supper is ready. He wishes to know if you would like it to be brought up on a tray for a farthing.”
