Page 104 of The Difference of a Darcy
She giggled, the sound bright and welcome in the crisp air. “That is not very romantic.”
“No,” he agreed, “but it is accurate.”
They shared a smile, quiet and full of something that felt very close to love.
The wind picked up then, sharp and sudden, tugging at Elizabeth’s shawl.
“We should head back,” she said. “It will be dark soon—and colder still.”
He offered his arm, and she took it without hesitation.
As they turned toward the house, the shadows lengthening behind them, she realized that though nothing about their situation was certain, this—walking beside him—felt like the surest thing she had known in weeks.
∞∞∞
Darcy drove the fork into the frozen earth with more force than necessary, the chill of the late January morning stinging his fingers even through the worn leather of his gloves. His breath came in visible puffs,
He had already broken the handle of one spade this week, and John—he still could not get used to thinking of his former valet that way—had fetched another one with a severe look and muttered comment.
This made him grateful for the current silence, and he paused for a moment to pull off one glove, flexing his fingers.
Calluses had formed along his palms, hardened ridges where smooth skin had once marked the hands of a gentleman. His shoulders ached with the familiar soreness of work—not the fleeting strain of fencing or the controlled posture of a mount, but the slow, relentless weight of repetition. His coat, once tailored precisely to his frame, now tugged too tightly across the upper arms. And his breeches, though belted snugly, had begun to hang looser at his hips.
He studied his hand, the reddish lines at his knuckles, the dirt lodged under his nails despite his best efforts. These were not the hands of a man raised to govern estates and sign ledgers from behind polished desks.
These were the hands of a man who worked.
He ought to have felt ashamed. His aunt would have sniffed and called him a drudge. His uncle would have wondered how far he had fallen. Even Bingley, good-hearted as he was, might have raised a brow at the stains on Darcy’s cuffs.
But Darcy was not ashamed.
No—there was a strange pride in these marks. They were proof. Proof that he was not merely surviving, but shaping, changing. Doing what had to be done. These hands had helped mend the stable roof. They had cleared weeds from the kitchen beds and turned compost piles and fed livestock when John’s old knees gave out.
He was no longer only master in title. He was servant, too—and better for it.
If only it were enough.
He glanced toward the manor, its chimneys smudging the sky with pale smoke. Somewhere inside, Elizabeth was reading to Georgiana or showing her how to piece together a tiny baby gown from salvaged scraps. If anyone had asked him, months ago, what transformation looked like, he would have spoken of fortune, marriage, reputation.
Now he knew better.
It looked like ribbons sewn into old muslin. It sounded like laughter coaxed from silence. It felt like warmth blooming in a drawing room that had long been cold.
All around him, the orchard slept beneath a shroud of frost—gnarled pippin trees stretched brittle limbs toward a gray sky, their roots blanketed in mulch to keep the worst of the cold at bay. Brassicas clung to life in stiff rows nearby—cabbages, cauliflower, sprouts. At the far end of the garden, under warped panes of glass, parsley and lettuce pushed bravely through the soil in a cracked forcing frame. The earth was stubborn. Unyielding.
But he kept at it. Replacing his glove, he adjusted his grip on his tool and once again began to dig at the frozen earth. His knees were damp with the frost through the warn fabric of his trousers, but he ignored the chill.
He had to dosomething.
It had been nearly a month since they arrived at Pemberley—he and Elizabeth, the strangers at the door. A month since they lied their way into service in the house that should have been his birthright. A month since he stood outside his sister’s room and realized that she no longer knew him.
And in all that time, it was Elizabeth—always Elizabeth—who had brought light into the place. It was she who coaxed Georgiana to eat, who sat beside her each morning in the drawing room, who spoke gently and cheerfully until that too-thin girl began to speak in turn.
Elizabeth had sewn new gowns from scraps. Helped organize the attic. Spoken to Mrs. Reynolds with respect and the other servants with kindness. Every day she found some new way to ease a burden, to spark a change. She was transforming his sister. His home.
And he—he who had once been master of Pemberley—could do little more than shovel muck, aerate garden beds, and keep the stables from collapse.
He knew it was not about pride—at least, not pride over his former status as one of the wealthiest gentlemen in England. He had left that behind when he bent his back beside her in the kitchens. But as each day passed, a quiet dread unfurled in his chest.
