Page 109 of The Difference of a Darcy
He turned without another word and sauntered out, closing the door with a thud behind him.
Elizabeth let out a breath she did not realize she had been holding.
“There,” Mrs. Reynolds said at last, voice shaking just slightly. “That should give us a few days, anyway, to decide what to do.”
Elizabeth emerged slowly from the dressing room. Georgiana’s eyes were wide and glassy, but she was not crying.
“Both of you,” Mrs. Reynolds said, gesturing between them. “Stay in this room. I will bring you food, books, whatever you need. No one else comes in. No one else sees you.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Thank you,” Georgiana whispered, able to speak at last.
∞∞∞
Darcy’s arms ached from the weight of the firewood stacked in his grip, but the ache was welcome. It gave him something to focus on—something other than the image of George Wickham striding into Pemberley as if it were his birthright.
With a grunt, he shifted the bundle higher and nudged open the rear servants’ door with his boot. The kitchen corridor was warm, the air heavy with the scent of onions and roasting meat—though tension practically crackled from the other end of the hallway.
“Three courses!” came a sharp, aggrieved voice. “Three bloody courses!”
Darcy set the logs down just as Mrs. Wells appeared in the kitchen, red-faced and fuming. A mixing spoon was clutchedin her hand like a weapon. She slammed it onto the counter, snatched a copper pot off the shelf, then turned in place as though unsure which indignity to tackle first.
“He has not been here in weeks—weeks—and now he returns like a conquering general, barking orders as if he pays the bills! Cake with his tea, he says! Venison for supper!” She spun back around. “Venison, when we have not had a proper kill since Michaelmas!”
She reached for a bag of flour and slapped it onto the counter.
Darcy stepped forward cautiously. “I can bring in more wood for the ovens, if needed.”
Mrs. Wells flinched, then huffed. “Aye, and water too, while you are at it. If he wants cake, the man will get dry bread unless we get the batter thick enough to rise.”
Darcy nodded and made to leave again, but just then Mrs. Reynolds appeared in the doorway, a strand of hair coming loose from her bun.
“Do what you can, Mrs. Wells,” the housekeeper said without preamble. “With any luck, he will be too sotted by supper to recall half of what he ordered.”
Mrs. Wells scoffed. “We should be so fortunate.”
Mrs. Reynolds turned to Darcy. Her eyes were sharp, but her voice was low and firm. “Beth and Mrs. Wickham are secure upstairs. For now, we are maintaining the pretense of illness—a stomach ailment, very contagious. That ought to keep him away from them for a few days.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, nodding. “Thank you.”
“But with your wife confined, I am down one set of hands. I shall need help.”
“Of course,” he said quickly. “Anything.”
“I hope you do not mind some maid’s work,” she said bluntly. “There is polishing, trays to carry, fires to tend. Hewill expect the usual service. And I will be… preoccupied with diverting him as much as possible.”
“I understand,” Darcy said at once. “And… thank you.”
“Thank me when it is over,” she muttered. Then, after a brief hesitation, she added more grimly, “I am hoping he will tire of country life within a day or two. That is his habit, at least, from what I remember of him. But something in me fears he has returned because he is out of coin—or worse, because he is running from trouble.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened. “Let us hope trouble does not follow him.”
Mrs. Reynolds nodded once, then turned to the cook. “Do what you can, Mrs. Wells. Even if it is stew and a scorched cake, make it look like a feast.”
Mrs. Wells muttered something about the devil’s appetite, but Darcy was already lifting the wood and heading back to the scullery—eyes sharp, ears alert.
The remainder of the day continued in the same manner. All day long, he found things to polish, trays to carry, fires to stoke, boots to clean. The rhythm of the work helped keep his hands from trembling, but his mind…
