Page 92 of The Difference of a Darcy
By the time the last towel was hung and the final bowl dried, both of them ached in every limb.
They climbed the stairs side by side, neither speaking until they reached the small, cold chamber Mrs. Reynolds had assigned.
The bed was narrow. The blanket thin.
But it was clean.
Darcy sat on the edge to remove his boots, then stood aside so Elizabeth could do the same.
They said little as they readied for sleep. Too much had changed in a single day. Too many thoughts filled their minds.
When at last they lay down—shoulder to shoulder in the narrow bed—it was Elizabeth who turned to him, laying a hand gently over his heart.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered.
Darcy swallowed, his throat tight.
“I was not here to protect her,” he said hoarsely.
She made no reply, only reached for his hand beneath the covers and laced her fingers with his.
They lay like that for a long time, two hearts beating in the dark.
And though sleep came slowly, when it did, it found them together.
Still holding on.
Chapter 18
The light was still dim when Elizabeth awoke, the early dawn casting only the faintest hue of silver across the modest chamber. For a long moment, she lay still, listening to the even sound of Darcy’s breathing beside her, steady and warm. He had not stirred once in the night, which she hoped meant he had found some small measure of peace.
She had not.
Pregnant.
Elizabeth closed her eyes against the thought of a young girl—nearly the same age as Lydia—alone in this crumbling house, bearing a burden she should not have had to carry alone.
Rising from the bed, she winced as she stretched out her stiffened muscles. She dressed quickly in the dim light, pinning up her hair without the aid of a mirror and washing with the cold water left in the basin. The morning chill clung to the stone walls and tile floor, biting at her skin, but she ignored it.
As she reached for her shawl, Darcy stirred. His hand searched the space where hers had just been. When he found only emptiness, he blinked and sat up.
“You are leaving?”
“We should be up now,” she whispered. “I am to fetch Georgiana’s tray, and you will have chores as well.”
His expression tightened at the name, but he nodded, swinging his bare legs over the side of the bed with a yawn.
Elizabeth flushed at the sight and escaped into the corridor, making her way silently to the kitchens. Her footsteps were muffled by the worn flagstones. Mrs. Wells was already at the stove, stirring a pot with one hand and balancing a tray with the other.
“There you are,” she said without turning. “Mistress’s breakfast. Bread, weak tea, porridge. Not that she’ll touch it. Where is your husband?”
“Mr. Smith will be along shortly.” Elizabeth stepped forward and accepted the tray. “I will take this up to Geor—to Mrs. Wickham now.”
“She will not say thank you,” Mrs. Wells warned. “Mind you, she is not cruel. Just… quiet. As if she is somewhere far away.”
“I understand.”
“She is still a lady in spite of her age. Remember that.”
