Page 93 of The Difference of a Darcy
“I shall.”
Elizabeth turned to leave, but Mrs. Wells added, “And if she sends you out, do not take it personal.”
“I will not.”
The tray felt heavier than it ought to as Elizabeth made her way through the winding corridors. Mrs. Reynolds had given her a tour of the house last night, making particular mention of Mrs. Wickham’s rooms.East wing, second floor. Door at the end of the corridor.
She was grateful for the forethought; she would have been lost otherwise. The house had always loomed in her imagination—majestic, warm, proud. And now it was still majestic… but quiet. Wounded.
Like its mistress.
She reached the door and gently knocked on it with one knuckle.
For several moments, there was only silence. Eizabeth was about to turn to go, when a faint, dull voice said, “Enter.”
Elizabeth entered with slow, steady steps, adjusting the tray in her arms. The room was sparsely furnished—no vanity, no dressing screen, not even a wardrobe. A single chest stood in the corner, and the hearth had only the faintest glow of embers, as if no maid had entered to stir it up again for the morning.
And there, in the narrow bed under a faded quilt, sat Georgiana.
Elizabeth’s breath caught.
The girl—no, the young woman—was a shadow of what she imagined. Her figure, once likely elegant, was now slight to the point of frailty, making her rounded belly all the more prominent beneath the loose folds of her nightgown. Her hair hung in limp waves around her thin face, and deep shadows bruised the skin beneath her eyes. Her hands clutched the edge of the quilt, knuckles white.
Elizabeth forced a gentle smile. “Good morning,” she said softly. “I brought your breakfast.”
Georgiana did not reply.
The girl looked at her for a long moment—her eyes pale and wary. Then, slowly, she turned her head toward the window again.
“I am not hungry.”
“I understand. Just the tea, maybe? The biscuits are very good this morning.”
No answer.
Elizabeth approached slowly, set the tray down on the nearby table and stood back.
“I am here to help you dress, if you wish it,” she said.
“I donotwish it,” said Georgiana tersely.
Elizabeth nodded, but wasn’t sure what to do next.
“Just go.” Georgiana said, but there was more misery in her tone than fury.
Elizabeth curtsied and slowly backed out of the room feeling defeated. She hesitated only once, just beyond the threshold, listening for any movement from within—but there was none. Only silence, heavy and impenetrable.
She closed the door as softly as she could.
The disappointment settled in her chest like a stone, though she had expected nothing different. Still, it hurt—to see a young woman looking so hollow, so withdrawn, and to be powerless to ease it. She had not appeared to be angry. Only… lifeless. Apathetic.
For the remainder of the day, Mrs. Reynolds put her to work cleaning rooms that had not seen use in years.
“There have only been a few of us here since the house was reopened,” the housekeeper explained. “A handful of maids is not enough to get a house like Pemberley in readiness very quickly.”
Thick dust coated the furniture like a second skin. Cobwebs hung in forgotten corners. Elizabeth worked with care, though her mind remained half in that upstairs chamber, replaying the brief exchange again and again.
That night, as she once again collapsed into bed beside Darcy, she was too exhausted to do anything Neither was able to speak a word before sleep claimed them.
