Page 122 of The Difference of a Darcy
Darcy caught Elizabeth’s hand, holding it firmly between both of his. “I will come back for you,” he said, his voice low and steady, though his eyes betrayed the storm within.
“I know you will.”
He pressed her hand once, his thumb tracing the edge of her knuckles, and for a brief, impossible moment, the world stilled—the air, the sound, even her pulse. Then he released her hand and turned toward the corridor.
“Go quickly,” Mrs. Reynolds urged. “The longer you linger, the greater the danger.”
Darcy nodded once and was gone.
Elizabeth followed Mrs. Reynolds through the servant’s passage to the kitchens, where the hearth burned low and the air was thick with the scent of broth and soap. “The pantry will do best,” Mrs. Reynolds said, pointing to the narrow door at the far end. “If he comes home, you slip inside and bar the inner latch. If the worst occurs, and he catches sight of you, tell him you are in desperate need of the chamber pot.”
Elizabeth managed a weak smile. “So I am to be as contagious as Mrs. Georgiana?”
“That excuse served us once already,” Mrs. Reynolds said dryly. “No harm in using it again.”
She busied herself with the kettle, pretending to tidy the counter while Elizabeth sat on a small stool near the fire. They both listened for the sound of hooves in the courtyard.
At last, it came—the crisp beat of a single horse galloping away from Pemberley.
Elizabeth pressed her hand over her heart, murmuring a prayer she could not quite form into words.
“God keep him,” the housekeeper whispered.
Elizabeth nodded, the sting of tears bright in her eyes. “Yes,” she said softly. “And let him bring hope back with him.”
There was a moment of silence.
“I will leave you now to Mrs. Wells’ company,” Mrs. Reynolds said at last. Her duty complete, the housekeeper gave a brisk nod and bustled away. Elizabeth could hear her voice echoing down the passage as she issued orders to some unseen servant, until even that faded into the steady hum of the kitchen.
“Right then,” said Mrs. Wells, without looking up from the hearth. She stirred a thick stew, tested the broth with a spoon, and began ladling it into a bowl. “The mistress has not eaten a bite since breakfast, I would wager. I had best take her a tray. Here, you can make yourself useful with this dough. It needs kneading, and I am short on hands.”
Elizabeth moved to the worktable, grateful for something to do. She dusted her palms with flour and pressed into the pliant dough, working it over and over until it grew smooth beneath her touch. The rhythm steadied her thoughts. She could almost pretend it was an ordinary day, that Wickham was not out there somewhere, that Darcy was not risking his life and liberty on the open road.
Mrs. Wells was gone for perhaps ten minutes before returning. But she was not alone.
Georgiana followed close behind, her cheeks pale and blotched with tears, her hands twisting the handkerchief she held.
“Please,” the girl whispered as soon as she saw Elizabeth. “Please, may I stay here? I cannot bear to be alone in those rooms.”
“I thought these might help you be more comfortable, Beth. Oh! Mrs. Georgiana!” The housekeeper stopped short, her eyes widening in surprise. “What… what brings you down here?”
Georgiana rose half from her seat, twisting her hands together. “I could not stay alone,” she whispered. “Every sound made me jump. I know it is not proper, but I—”
Her voice broke, and Elizabeth quickly stepped between them. “She was frightened,” she said gently. “And she thought, perhaps, that being belowstairs might be safer for a little while.”
Mrs. Reynolds’ stern features softened, though her brows still drew together in concern. “Safer, perhaps temporarily,” she admitted, “but not for long. If he returns and finds you both together… well, it would in actuality bemoredangerous for Beth.”
“Not if he believes we are gone,” Elizabeth said, thinking quickly. “Tell him that Mrs. Georgiana fled, and that I went with her to protect her. He will not think to look for us here. No man like him would imagine his wife hiding in the scullery.”
Mrs. Reynolds blinked at her, taken aback by both the boldness and the sense of the suggestion. “You would have him believe you fled the house entirely?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. He is proud and careless. If he believes we ran, he will not trouble to search for long.”
Mrs. Wells, who had been listening from the stove, spoke up at last. “It does make sense,” she said. “If the master thinks his wife has bolted, he will go after her—or drink himself into a stupor. Either way, we gain time.”
“They could hide in the stables,” Mrs. Reynolds mused aloud.
“No,” Elizabeth said quickly. “It is too cold, and the ground is damp. The air would not be good for Mrs. Georgiana.” She gave a meaningful glance toward the younger woman’s stomach, relieved that Georgiana, still staring at her hands, did not notice. “Here, at least, there is warmth and quiet.”
