Page 111 of The Difference of a Darcy
And still, he slept.
Alone.
∞∞∞
The first day passed slowly, like wading through thick, invisible fog.
Though the fire burned warmly in the hearth of the mistress’s chamber, neither Georgiana nor Elizabeth could quite relax. Every sound in the corridor—every footstep, creak, or muffled voice—made them flinch. Wickham’s drunkenshouting earlier that morning had not been repeated, but the memory of it lingered like the scent of cheap port.
Georgiana sat on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, while Elizabeth tried to summon calm for them both.
“We need distraction,” she declared after several minutes of fraught silence.
Georgiana glanced at her with dull eyes. “From what? My life?”
“From the noise of your thoughts,” Elizabeth said firmly. “So here is what we shall do. I will tell you every ridiculous story I can remember from my childhood until you either laugh or tell me to be quiet.”
And so she did.
She began with tales of Lydia—falling into a pigpen at age five, insisting she could make gooseberry jam with onions, and once stealing a pair of Lady Lucas’s shoes because they sparkled. Then came Mary’s failed attempt at writing poetry and Kitty’s tantrum over a bonnet that blew into a pond.
Georgiana smiled faintly at the first tale, then chuckled a little by the third, even though she had heard some of them before.
It was not much, but it was a start.
Mrs. Reynolds came in shortly thereafter, her arms full of distractions: books, sewing, and a small tea tray. “Try to keep your minds occupied,” she said softly, casting a wary glance toward the locked adjoining door to the master’s chambers. “And your ears alert. I will bring supper later.”
The hours passed slowly. Elizabeth read aloud while Georgiana worked at mending a small linen gown they had salvaged from the attic—one that had once belonged to Georgiana herself, now destined for the child she carried.
When night fell, the tension returned in full.
Elizabeth moved the chair from the vanity to sit before the connecting door, placing a heavy folio of music atop it for good measure. If Wickham tried to enter in the night, the racket would surely wake them both.
They lay side by side under the bedclothes, both still clothed in case they needed to flee, Elizabeth with her eyes fixed on the dimly glowing embers. Georgiana stared at the ceiling.
“Do you think he will come in?” the girl asked softly.
“I do not know,” Elizabeth replied truthfully. “But I do not think he will tonight. He was well into his bottle when last we heard him.”
Indeed, not long after, Wickham’s unmistakable snores reverberated through the connecting wall. It was crude and vulgar—but oddly comforting. At least while he slept, they were safe.
Georgiana turned toward Elizabeth. “I am glad you are here.”
Elizabeth reached across the narrow space and gave her hand a squeeze. “So am I.”
And at last, they both slept.
∞∞∞
It was midmorning the following day, when the fire in the drawing room finally began to chase away the chill. Mrs. Reynolds knocked softly and slipped inside, holding out a sealed envelope on a salver.
“For Mrs. Wickham,” she said with a respectful nod before quickly exiting.
Georgiana blinked in surprise, her embroidery needle halting mid-stitch. “For me?”
Elizabeth leaned over curiously. Georgiana’s hand trembled slightly as she reached for the thick envelope. She stared at the family crest impressed in wax, then at the familiar, sprawling handwriting.
“It is from Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she whispered. Her hands began to shake even more.
