Page 113 of The Difference of a Darcy
Three days of silence, sewing, and stories. Three days of worry and waiting, of watching the door like it might swing open at any moment and bring with it everything they feared. Three days of Wickham roaming the halls like a fox outside the henhouse, and Mrs. Reynolds faithfully delivering trays and diversion to the mistress’s chamber.
But it could not last.
By the fourth day, Mrs. Reynolds entered the room with tight lips and a pinched expression. “He is beginning to suspect,” she said grimly. “If we keep you shut away any longer, he will come up here himself. And if he finds Beth…”
Georgiana paled visibly.
Elizabeth reached for her hand. “You do not have to sit with him long. Only for meals. After that, return here. I shall be waiting.”
It was not enough to make Georgiana brave—but it was enough to make her move.
That evening, she dressed slowly in one of the looser gowns they had altered from her mother’s things—soft gray with a darker sash, and a fichu to hide the neckline. Elizabeth helpedarrange her hair and offered her a final look of encouragement before she descended.
Elizabeth took the servants’ hall down to the dining room, where she stood near the corridor like a sentry. Her hands twisted together in front of her apron. She could not hear the exact words, but she could hear tones—Wickham’s voice rising and falling in annoyance, Georgiana’s soft and tentative replies.
Darcy passed her several times as he carried dishes in and out, grinding his teeth in an effort to remain silent. Each time he came close, his arm brushed up against hers—not enough to slow him down, but enough to ground her.
The whole household held its breath.
Inside the room, Wickham’s mood darkened by the minute. He was irritated by the roast, by the temperature of the wine, by the bread. He muttered about the lack of decent company and barked at Georgiana when she only ate small bites of her food.
By the time the tea tray was brought out, he was pacing behind his chair.
“I have half a mind to drag you upstairs myself,” he snapped. “You are my wife, and youwillfulfill your duties.”
There was a pause, and Elizabeth tensed.
Georgiana’s voice—shaky but audible—answered at last: “You would not want to harm the baby.”
Another pause.
Wickham gave a disgusted scoff. “What does it matter? I prefer a woman who is not ill and simpering all the time, anyway.”
And then he was gone.
Elizabeth waited several minutes before she pushed open the dining room door. Georgiana sat perfectly still, hands clenched in her lap, lips pressed into a bloodless line.
Darcy stepped in behind her. “He has taken a bottle and his coat,” he said quietly. “He will not return soon.”
Georgiana gave a tight nod.
Elizabeth walked forward and touched her shoulder gently. “Come, Mrs. Georgiana. Let us go back upstairs.”
Darcy did not speak as they passed him—but as their eyes met briefly, Elizabeth knew they shared the same thought.
This reprieve would not last forever. And something had to be done.
∞∞∞
The morning light through the tall windows was soft and grey, falling over the bed where Georgiana sat stitching a length of muslin while Elizabeth sorted through a small basket of ribbons and lace. For now the house was quiet—eerily so. Wickham had returned in the small hours, half-singing and half-cursing, but there had been no further disturbance. Mrs. Reynolds had reported that he still slept off his drink, and so, cautiously, they worked.
Elizabeth glanced at the open door leading to the dressing room, every sense alert though she smiled and spoke lightly.
“Your stitches are improving, Mrs. Georgiana,” she said. “At this rate, your child will have a finer layette than any infant in Derbyshire.”
A faint blush touched the girl’s cheeks. “I only hope there is time enough. I am so slow—”
The words cut off with a small gasp.
