Page 137 of The Difference of a Darcy
“No, not yet,” Elizabeth said firmly. “She has had too many shocks already.”
“Yes, let the dear girl sleep,” Mrs. Reynolds agreed.
“Very well,” replied the colonel. He rubbed the back of his neck, and Elizabeth could see the weariness settle over him like a weight. “Truthfully, we should all do the same. There will be enough time later to decide what steps we should take next. For now, let us rest.”
Elizabeth rose, feeling the exhaustion in every limb. The tension that had held her upright through the long night drained away, leaving her hollow but lighter than she had felt in days. “A sensible plan at last,” she murmured.
The colonel gave her a faint smile. “A soldier learns to sleep when the battle ends, even if the smoke has not cleared.”
One by one they parted—Mrs. Reynolds to the servants’ wing, the colonel to the guest chamber prepared for him, and Darcy and Elizabeth to the quiet refuge of their room. The morning sun had risen high in the sky and shone in through the windows as they walked along the corridor, but to Elizabeth it felt as though the dawn had only just come.
For the first time since that terrible night began, she felt safe. When they reached the small chamber that had been given to them, Elizabeth closed the door behind them and stood still for a long moment. The house had fallen silent. The only sounds were the whisper of wind along the windows, and the quiet seemed almost unreal after the chaos of the past day.
She crossed to the narrow bed and sat down heavily. Her limbs felt heavy, her eyes burned, yet her mind would not rest.Every nerve still hummed with memory—the echo of hooves on the gravel, the crash of splintering wood, Georgiana’s frightened face. It was over now. Truly over. Mr. Wickham was dead.
Relief washed through her in slow, unsteady waves. It seemed impossible that the long night was truly ended—that the danger which had shadowed every hour might now be gone forever. Her body trembled as though it had only just remembered how to feel.
Darcy moved about the room without speaking, lighting a candle and drawing the curtains against the pale light. When he came to lay down in bed beside her, she looked up at him.
“He cannot hurt her again,” she said quietly.
“No,” he answered, but his voice held a note she could not name. There was relief there, and sorrow as well.
She wanted to ask, yet she was too weary to form the words. Instead, she reached for his hand and held it between both of hers, feeling the warmth of him seep slowly into her cold fingers. The simple contact steadied her at last, and she closed her eyes.
For the first time in many days, there was no need to listen for footsteps or fear a shout from the hall. The silence of safety felt almost as fragile as glass.
∞∞∞
Darcy watched Elizabeth’s head droop against his shoulder, her lashes heavy with sleep. For her, the end of fear had brought peace; for him, it had brought only weariness and a strange, aching regret.
He should have rejoiced that Wickham could not harm anyone again. Instead, he felt hollow. Memories flew throughhis mind of a laughing boy with sun-browned hair and quick wit, the companion of his youth.
How much promise there had been then—how much good might have come of it, had he chosen differently. It was a wasted life, and Darcy could not help but mourn the friend that had died long before the man.
Elizabeth stirred, her hand tightening over his. “What shall we do now?” she murmured, her voice thick with fatigue.
“I do not know,” he said truthfully. “My mind is too clouded to think.”
She gave a small sound of agreement, half sigh, half whisper, and leaned against him once more. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close.
The room was dim and the air in the room was warmer than usual. The steady rhythm of her breathing lulled him, and the heaviness in his eyes would not be denied.
At last, together, they drifted into sleep.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth awoke to the afternoon light pressing against the curtains. For a moment she could not recall where she was, only that the room felt still and unfamiliar. Then the sound of a knock at the door brought everything back—the night before, the news, the strange relief that had followed.
Mrs. Reynolds’s voice carried through the panel. “Mrs. Smith, ma’am—Mrs. Georgiana is awake.”
Elizabeth stirred, glancing toward Darcy. He was already watching her, his dark eyes heavy with fatigue but softened by something that looked very like peace.
“I have an idea,” she said quietly, pushing back the coverlet.
He smiled faintly. “I am grateful that you always have ideas, for I am often at a loss. An emergency upon an estate is simple enough. Matters of the heart, however, are an entirely different campaign.”
The warmth in his tone spread through her like sunlight. “Then it is well one of us has some experience,” she replied gently, rising to dress.
