Page 101 of The Difference of a Darcy
The girl’s eyes lifted, wide and bright, and she nodded vigorously. “Please. I do not wish to hear my husband’s name.”
“Very well, Mrs. Georgiana. I shall see you in two hours in the drawing room.”
Elizabeth dipped a curtsy, then left the room with brisk steps—her heart full, her mind racing. She took a hasty meal in the kitchen, then set to work, polishing a hallway mirror and sweeping the upstairs landings. Once her morning duties were complete, she splashed cold water on her face, straightened her apron, and returned to the drawing room.
She found Georgiana already seated in her usual chair near the fire, a folded shawl draped neatly in her lap. The girl looked up as Elizabeth entered—no smile, but no fear either. That was progress enough.
“I have been thinking,” Georgiana said, her tone hesitant but curious. “You spoke this morning of… of learning to fill one’s own bucket. How does one do that?”
Elizabeth’s brow lifted, pleasantly surprised. “There are many ways. Little things, mostly.”
She sat down across from her. “For some, it is sewing—something useful or beautiful. You could mend linens or embroider a handkerchief.”
Georgiana looked thoughtful.
“Or music,” Elizabeth added. “You might play the pianoforte or arrange a tea tray just as you like it. You might even design a table or practice a new language—anything that brings order or joy to your day.”
Georgiana’s lips parted slightly. “French? Or Italian?”
“I am not fluent,” Elizabeth said with a soft smile, “but I know enough to muddle through.”
Georgiana looked toward the window, her expression quietly alight.
“I like that idea. Of filling the day with… small things. Things that are mine.”
Elizabeth nodded. “That is the best place to begin.”
Georgiana turned back to her, her gaze steadier than it had been in days. “Then let us begin. Today.”
The days that followed brought a quiet but steady transformation. As Georgiana found small ways to fill her hours—sorting linens, reviewing old piano sheets, even threading a few careful stitches into a baby’s cap—her shoulders gradually lost some of their tension. The hollownessin her voice softened. Her gaze no longer fell to the floor quite so often.
And yet, the silence that settled after their morning chats still clung to Elizabeth’s thoughts. There was so much Georgiana did not know. So much no one had prepared her for.
One chilly afternoon, as they sat in the drawing room and the fire snapped softly in the hearth, Elizabeth reached across the workbasket and gently asked, “Have you made many things for the baby yet?”
Georgiana looked up in surprise. “Made?”
“Clothes. Blankets. Perhaps a bonnet or a gown?”
The younger woman blinked. “I… no. I have no idea what is needed. Or how to begin.”
Elizabeth gave her a warm smile. “Then that is the perfect place to start. A few small things, perhaps. Sewing is like writing love into fabric. It gives you time to think… to hope.”
Georgiana glanced down at her lap, fingers twisting the edge of her shawl. “But I do not have anything. No patterns. No cloth. Not even old things to rework. And this is not London—there are no shops nearby. Not that I could pay for anything, even if there were. And my jewels…”
She stopped abruptly. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Elizabeth said nothing for a moment, then reached for a length of thread. “In my family’s home, we kept things in the attic. Old gowns of my mother’s. Toys we outgrew. Furniture that was unfashionable, but still strong and sound. I wonder… might Pemberley have something like that?”
Georgiana’s brow furrowed. “I do not know. I never thought to ask.”
“Mrs. Reynolds might,” Elizabeth said. “She has been here a long time. She may remember what was put away.”
With sudden purpose, Georgiana reached for the bell. A moment later, Mrs. Reynolds entered the room, her expression alert.
“You rang, ma’am?”
Elizabeth nearly smiled at the address—Georgiana still seemed surprised by it.
