Page 126 of The Difference of a Darcy
Though sad fate our lives may sever
Parting will not last forever,
There's a hope that leaves me never,
All through the night.
Outside, the wind moaned through the cracks in the stone. But within the little scullery, the two women lay close together, and for the first time in many days, peace—fragile though it was—settled over Pemberley.
∞∞∞
Darcy leaned low over Nell’s neck, urging her onward with more fervor than the poor beast could easily endure. The mare’s breath steamed in the cold air, plumes of white vanishing as quickly as they formed. The road stretched ahead—mud frozen hard as stone, rimed with ice where thin trickles of meltwater crossed the track. Every jolt of the saddle rattled his bones, but still he pressed her on.
“Come, girl,” he murmured hoarsely. “We must make better time than this.”
The mare flicked her ears, obedient but weary, her stride lengthening only slightly. Each step felt an eternity stolen from Elizabeth’s safety. The sun had reached its zenith but already began to sink, throwing long winter shadows across the Derbyshire hills.
He knew these roads—had known them all his life. Yet today, even the landscape felt wrong. The hedgerows seemed lower, the woods thinner, the farmsteads shuttered and silent. Once, this had been his father’s land, his home, his charge. Now it was a stranger’s country, stripped of its pride and color, and he rode through it like a ghost haunting his own past.
A sharp wind cut through his coat, and he pulled the collar higher, jaw clenched against the cold. His thoughts circled with every hoofbeat.
If he reached Matlock by nightfall, what then? Would they even grant him entry? To them, he was no Darcy—only a servant, grimy and travel-worn, arriving on a half-starved mare with no card of introduction.
And if, by some mercy, he was admitted—would Richard listen? Would he still be the same man, loyal and steadfast, whose laughter had once echoed through Pemberley’s halls? Or would he be changed, like everything else in this twisted world—another echo, hollow and unfamiliar?
His hands tightened on the reins, his fingers numb not only from the grip, but from the cold.
If Richard were not himself… if he refused to come… then Elizabeth and Georgiana were alone with that monster.
Darcy’s stomach turned violently at the thought.
He could still see her face when he left—the faint tremor in her smile, the quiet courage in her eyes. She had held herself upright, as she always did, though the weight upon her shoulders should have bent any mortal woman.
God, how he loved her for that.
The rhythmic thud of hooves filled the silence. He clung to it—because the alternative was to hear again the echo of Wickham’s voice.
The sneer. The slurred laugh.
The sight of Elizabeth trembling.
He pressed a hand against his thigh to still the shaking. The fury that rose in him was almost welcome—it gave him warmth, something to hold onto.
How dare that man exist—how dare he breathe the same air as she did.
But Elizabeth’s words came back to him, soft and unyielding:
“Fitzwilliam,youwould know.
If he killed Wickham, no matter the world or the consequence, hewouldknow. He would carry that blood forever.
She was right.
He exhaled sharply, forcing the rage down.
Focus. Ride. Do not think of her tears. Do not think of the bruise on her wrist or the terror in her eyes.
Matlock was still hours away. The wind stung his face. The hills rose and fell before him in waves of frost and shadow, and with each mile, his mind swayed between hope and despair.
