Page 94 of The Difference of a Darcy
The next few mornings passed in much the same manner. Elizabeth would rise early, fetch a breakfast tray, and walk it up the narrow stairs to the mistress’s chamber. Each time, she knocked softly, entered upon silence, and was met with the same pale, wary eyes.
“I am not hungry,” Georgiana would say—or sometimes nothing at all.
Elizabeth never pressed. She set the tray down and offered simple courtesies, then left the room quietly to begin her next assigned tasks, which mostly consisted of cleaning out disused rooms with dust so thick it lay like snowdrifts across the mantels. Mrs. Reynolds gave her a new room each day, and though the labor was wearisome, Elizabeth bore it without complaint.
Darcy she scarcely saw. He was sent to the stables most mornings and sometimes did not come in until long after sunset. Their conversations, when they came, were little more than tired murmurs exchanged over a shared crust of bread before they fell into the narrow servant’s bed. His hand would find hers beneath the blanket, their fingers curling together as if in silent reassurance—but that was all.
By the fourth morning, Elizabeth stood at the window of the bedchamber, waiting for Georgiana to speak. The girl had not even glanced at the tray today. Her eyes were fixed on her lap, her thumb worrying at a cracked fingernail until the skin beneath looked raw.
Elizabeth hesitated. “My youngest sister used to do that,” she said gently. “Bite her nails until they bled. Mama would scold her, but she never stopped. I think it was her way of holding the worry in.”
Georgiana did not look up, but her fingers stilled.
At last!Elizabeth rejoiced at this small acknowledgment of her existence. Not wanting to push the skittish girl, she retreated from the room with a curtsy.
The following morning, as she dusted Georgiana’s vanity table, a pale blue ribbon fell to the floor.
“Oh, my sister Lydia would love this shade of blue,” Elizabeth said lightly. “Though with her coloring—like mine—it made her look dreadful. She cried for a week, then gave the dress to our sister Jane, who looks more like you, ma’am. Itsuited her perfectly, and I imagine this ribbon would do the same for you.”
Realizing she was rambling, Elizabeth stopped speaking. Georgiana did not reply, but Elizabeth could feel the girl’s eyes following her until she left the room.
The next day was when the walls finally came down.
After delivering the breakfast tray, Elizabeth was almost to the door when she heard a quiet voice behind her.
“You have two sisters?”
Elizabeth turned slowly, warmth blooming in her chest.
“Four, actually. I am the second of five daughters.”
Georgiana nodded once, almost absently. Her gaze had dropped to the tray again, but her voice came more clearly this time. “I think I would have liked to have had a sister.”
The admission hung in the air between them, fragile and precious. Elizabeth nearly cheered for joy—but she checked herself, keeping her hands still against her skirts.
“They can be troublesome,” she said with a small smile, turning to the hearth to bring the cold fire back to life. “But I would not trade them for anything. Even when they steal my ribbons and lose my books.”
Georgiana tilted her head slightly. “Do you have a brother, too?”
Elizabeth blinked, then shook her head. “No. My mother had five daughters and not a son among us. Which, as you might imagine, she has never quite recovered from.” She gave the fire a soft poke with the iron and added kindling. “We do have a cousin, however, who stands to inherit everything. He is quite devoted to his duty. And to his sermons. And to the sound of his own voice.”
A sound that could almost have been mistaken for mirth came from the bed.
Elizabeth grinned over her shoulder. “He once spent a full hour explaining to my father why his hens were not laying eggs due to a spiritual failing.”
Georgiana’s lips twitched. “And was your father persuaded?”
“He fell asleep,” Elizabeth replied solemnly, “but it did not stop our cousin from writing a strongly worded letter on the subject.”
This time, Georgiana couldn’t help herself. She let out a sharp giggle—surprised, unguarded, and so rusty it sounded like it had not been used in years.
Encouraged, Elizabeth moved to the tray and uncovered the bowl with a small flourish. “I snuck a bit of honey into the porridge,” she whispered. “Do not tell Mrs. Wells. She thinks her porridge can stand on its own.”
She poured the tea, then added as casually as she could, “And I made the bread this morning. Only my third attempt, so if it is terrible, do not blame the kitchen.” She held the chair out for her invitingly.
Georgiana glanced toward the plate as if contemplating scaling the alps, then slowly, hesitantly, pulled back the bed covers.
Elizabeth helped her with her dressing gown and guided her gently to the chair. Georgiana took up her spoon and cautiously tasted the porridge. Elizabeth turned away to make the bed, but she kept talking—about the stubborn nature of rising dough, about the weather, about how Mrs. Wells had muttered all morning that the new scullery girl had arms like boiled turnips.
