Page 142 of The Difference of a Darcy
For the first time since that fateful night, she felt the world settle into place. She smiled faintly, tears stinging her lashes. “Fitzwilliam,” she breathed.
And in his eyes, she saw the same truth reflected back—bright, certain, and utterly undeniable.
He kissed her again, softer this time, as if to memorize her. Around them the frost gleamed, and the morning light turned to gold upon the water. It felt to her as though the world itself had been holding its breath—and now, at last, had let it go.
∞∞∞
Darcy’s arm remained around Elizabeth’s shoulders as they stood near the creek, watching the faint current curl around the icy stones. He could still feel the echo of her words in his chest, as if they had been carved there.
I love you.
For a long time he said nothing, afraid that speech might shatter the fragile perfection of the moment. When he did find his voice, it came rough and uncertain.
“You love me,” he said, almost to himself. “I can scarcely believe it.”
Elizabeth turned her face against his shoulder, her breath warm through the wool of his coat. “You had better believe it,” she said softly, her tone half teasing, half tender.
He let out a quiet laugh, the sound still strange to his own ears. “I have imagined those words a thousand times. To hear them now—it feels unreal.”
“It is as real as this,” she said, pulling gently from his side and crouching near the water’s edge. She picked up a small, smooth pebble and held it in her palm. “Do you remember how you were throwing these into the pond at Rosings?”
He nodded, watching her fingers cradle the stone.
“You are like that pebble,” she said. “Every action you take, every word you speak, touches more lives than you can see. It was not only Georgiana you saved. You changed everything—for her, for me, for all of us. You have had an effect far beyond what you imagine.”
She held out the stone to him. “Keep this. Let it remind you that you matter—that your existence has weight and purpose. It matters very much—especially to me.”
For a moment, he could not speak. He took the pebble from her hand and turned it between his fingers, feeling its smooth, cool surface. Then he closed his fist around it, his thumb tracing the soft curve, and slipped it into his front coat pocket, where it came to rest against his heart.
“I will keep it always,” he said quietly, patting the place where it lay.
They lingered there until the light began to fade, the mist rising once more from the river. As they made their way back along the path, Darcy caught sight of a small cluster of white snowdrops blooming beneath the trees, their fragile heads nodding in the chill breeze.
He stopped and bent to pluck one. The stem was long and slender, the petals pure and bright against the dark of his glove. Turning to her, he tucked the flower gently behind her ear, his fingers brushing her hair.
“If I am like the pebble, then you are like this flower,” he said softly, “bringing beauty and the promise of spring when all else seems dark and cold.”
Her eyes met his, shining, and he leaned down to kiss her—lightly this time, tenderly, a promise of the future.
They walked the rest of the way hand in hand.
When they reached the house, the windows glowed with candlelight, and the smell of supper greeted them as they stepped inside.
Mrs. Reynolds met them in the kitchen, her capable hands already busy at the hearth. “There you are,” she said with a smile. “Sit down and eat while it is still warm. Enough menfolk came from Matlock this afternoon to see to things, and I have a few helpers from the village now. You two have done enough for one day.”
Elizabeth smiled. “We are not so very tired, Mrs. Reynolds.”
The older woman gave her a knowing look. “Aye, but you will be once you sit. Go on, then. Sup, and then get yourselves to bed. Tomorrow will come soon enough.”
Darcy exchanged a glance with Elizabeth. She was smiling faintly, her cheeks touched with color, the little snowdrop still tucked behind her ear.
He reached for her hand beneath the table, lacing their fingers together as the fire crackled and the scent of fresh bread filled the room. Upon eating their fill, they climbed the stairs in silence, the faint glow of the hearth below flickering against the walls.
When they reached their chamber, she moved about quietly, setting aside her shawl and smoothing the coverlet as if afraid to break the stillness. Her movements were calm, but there was a faint, nervous energy about her—a quickness in her breath, a tension in her fingers that did not escape him.
Darcy watched her, his heart full. She had faced every peril with courage, had met fear and despair and come through it shining—and yet this simple moment, the two of them alone, seemed to unsettle her.
When at last they lay side by side upon the bed, she kept her gaze on the ceiling, her hands folded upon her stomach. He turned toward her, unable to resist the pull of her nearness.
