Page 115 of The Difference of a Darcy
His breath caught. “And you were there?”
“Yes.” She still would not meet his gaze. “He—he touched me. My face. He said things. Awful things. About my husband not pleasing me—”
A coldness settled in Darcy’s bones. He stepped forward, his fists clenched. “He dared to lay his hands on you?”
She lifted her head, finally looking at him. “He did not hurt me, William.”
“I do not care,” he snapped. “I will kill him. By God, I will—”
“No!” She grabbed his arm, gripping it hard. “You cannot. You are a servant. He is the master here. If you so much as raise your voice, he could have you beaten or thrown out—or worse. And then what would I do?”
His jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring. “I will not let him near you again.”
“You will not have to.” Her voice trembled, but her eyes were steady now. “I will stay below stairs, or in my room, or with Georgiana. But I will not move about the house without you beside me.”
Darcy was still breathing hard, but he nodded. Slowly. “Good. Yes. I will stay at your side whenever I can. And I will speak to Mrs. Reynolds.”
“I believe she already knows. She was the one who came in and got me out.”
He exhaled through his nose, furious and helpless and aching with gratitude. He reached for her hand and pressed it between both of his own.
“I swear to you,” he said quietly, “if he ever tries again—”
“You cannot,” she whispered. “Not yet. Not while we’re in this world. We will get through this, together.”
Her words struck deep. Slowly, he nodded. “Together.”
She squeezed his hand once, then let go.
And with only a glance between them, they returned to their places in the quiet war that Pemberley had become.
∞∞∞
The next two days passed in a strange, suspended tension.
Each morning, Elizabeth was escorted by Darcy down to the kitchens. He remained near her through every task—hauling coal, polishing woodwork, trimming wick lamps—his presence a constant, quiet shield.
If Wickham left the house, Elizabeth would hurry to Georgiana’s side, the two women resuming their quiet projects and conversations in the safety of the drawing room. Georgiana’s nerves were frayed, but she tried to hide it behind smiles and stitching. Elizabeth did the same.
It was a pattern—tense, quiet, survivable.
Until the morning it shattered.
Elizabeth was in the upstairs music room, wiping dust from a high shelf while Darcy swept the hearth. The windows were open to let in air, and the scent of coal smoke drifted faintly on the breeze.
Then came the shout.
“Fire!”
Elizabeth’s cloth slipped from her hands. Her heart jolted.
Darcy shot upright. “Stay here,” he ordered, already halfway to the door. “I will find out what is happening.”
He disappeared through the door, leaving her alone. She returned to her work, her thoughts consumed by what could be happening below.
I do not smell any smoke; perhaps it is just something near the stables or in the kitchen.
And then she heard it.
