Page 95 of The Difference of a Darcy
When she turned back, the bowl was nearly empty. It was all Elizabeth could do to keep from clapping her hands in excitement. She could not stop the grin from appearing on her face as she left Georgiana’s room with the nearly-empty tray.
The air was warm with steam and the scent of stew for dinner, and Mrs. Wells looked up as she entered.
“Well?” the cook barked. “Left it all again?”
Elizabeth lifted the tray with a grin. “No, ma’am. She ate nearly all the porridge. Even a bit of the bread.”
Mrs. Wells gaped. “What did you do? Threaten her?”
“Of course not!” Elizabeth laughed. “We only talked.”
Mrs. Reynolds emerged from the hall just in time to hear this and fixed Elizabeth with a sharp look.
“Talked?”
“I may have… shared a few stories. About my sisters. My cousin. Bread.”
The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “You are her maid, not her friend.”
Elizabeth straightened. “I understand. But it was not my intent to cross a line… only to comfort someone who seems very much alone.”
Mrs. Reynolds was silent for a moment. Then, in a gruff voice, she said, “I ought to scold you for being too familiar.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But it is the first full breakfast she has eaten in months.” Her tone softened, just slightly. “So, I will not.”
Mrs. Wells harrumphed. “Just do not expect her to eat my stew for dinner. I doubt your conversation is enough to manage that miracle.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly as she gathered her apron to begin the next task. “You never know,” she murmured. “Small miracles may happen, even here.”
∞∞∞
Like a dam breaking, once Georgiana began to speak, it was as though nothing could contain her.
At first, it was only a few questions—soft, hesitant things asked as Elizabeth poured tea or fluffed pillows. Within days, she was peppering Elizabeth with inquiries: about her family, her childhood, the weather in Hertfordshire, the cost of London ribbons, the taste of strawberries in June.
It was not idle curiosity; it was thirst—a deep, aching thirst, and Elizabeth’s words were water in a parched land.
Each morning, Elizabeth would arrive with the breakfast tray, and each morning Georgiana would be waiting—not always smiling, not yet—but awake, expectant. She allowed Elizabeth to help with her hair, even asked her once if the braid was neat enough, or if it looked foolish. Elizabeth assured her it was beautiful.
Little by little, the days changed.
The first milestone came quietly: Georgiana asked if she might wear a morning gown rather than her nightdress. Elizabeth did not cry, but she had to blink rapidly as she helped her lace it up.
The next day, she asked for the curtains to be drawn. “Just a little,” she said. “I do not wish to see the whole world. Only the tree outside.”
Another day, she accepted a book from the library. “Something I have read before,” she requested. “Evelina. So I am not startled by the ending.”
Elizabeth brought it to her, and Georgiana smiled at the first page like it was an old friend.
And then, one chilly afternoon, Georgiana surprised them all.
“I should like to go downstairs,” she said, not looking at Elizabeth as she said it. “To the sitting room. Only for a short while.”
Elizabeth helped her dress and put her house slippers on, then offered her arm to assist. Georgiana clutched it tightly theentire way down the stairs. Her steps were slow, and her breath caught more than once, but she did not turn back.
She lasted only fifteen minutes in the drawing room before she wilted against the cushions, worn out by the effort. But when Elizabeth suggested they return upstairs, Georgiana said, “Not yet,” and stayed for five minutes more.
