Page 89 of The Difference of a Darcy
“You should not have to be,” he told her.
“And yet,” she said with a small smile, “I want to be. Especially here. Especially foryou.”
His hand tightened around hers briefly, and she saw it again—that storm behind his eyes. Worry. Pain. Determination.
“I will return as quickly as I can,” he said quietly.
Elizabeth nodded. “Go. I will be fine.”
He hesitated only a moment longer, then released her hand and turned down the corridor.
Elizabeth inhaled deeply, steeling herself. Then she stepped into the kitchen.
The room was quiet, save for the ticking of a wall clock and the faint hiss of the low-burning stove. No pots bubbled. No footmen stood at attention. The wooden tables were mostly bare, save for a few stacked bowls and an empty pitcher.
A door creaked open behind her.
Elizabeth turned as a middle-aged woman entered through the side door, shaking droplets of water from the hem of her apron and carrying a basket of eggs. Her graying hair was hastily pinned, and her expression was one of mild irritation as she muttered to herself.
“Had to go gather them myself,” she said, placing the basket on the nearest table. “Don’t mind the hens, but hate the scullery work. I was meant to be baking, not chasing down hens in the cold.”
She looked up suddenly, eyes narrowing at the sight of a stranger in her kitchen.
“Who in heaven’s name are you?”
Elizabeth offered a quick curtsy. “My name is Beth Smith. Mrs. Reynolds sent me to speak with you. My husband and I have been taken on to help.”
The woman snorted, wiping her hands on her apron. “Help? With what?”
“I can cook a little,” Elizabeth said quickly. “And I am quite good at following directions.”
The cook’s expression remained wary, but not entirely unfriendly. “Well. If you can peel carrots and keep your nose out of the pies, we will get along well enough.”
“I shall do my best.”
The cook looked her up and down once more, then grunted and reached for a knife. “You may call me Mrs. Wells.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wells.”
“Well, we’ll see about that. Grab a bowl and start with the carrots.”
Elizabeth rolled up her sleeves and got to work.
∞∞∞
The stable yard smelled of damp hay and manure, familiar and grounding. Darcy let the quiet surround him as memories flooded through his mind: his first time on a horse, his father at his side; Georgiana’s expression on receiving a pony for her birthday; feeding his new steed an apple.
None of those occasions existed anymore.
As he rounded the corner, he stopped suddenly and stared in shock as a grizzled old man lifted his head from shoveling the muck. His frame was stooped with age and labor, his face deeply weathered, his once-dark hair now silver at the temples. But the eyes—sharp, dark, and tired—were unmistakable.
“Bates?”
Darcy’s former valet squinted. “Aye?”
Emotion surged in Darcy’s chest.
The stablemaster squinted in the half-light. “Do I know you, lad?”
