Page 25 of The Difference of a Darcy
He had believed—truly believed—that Jane Bennet was indifferent. Her manner was quiet, her expressions mild. But now… now he remembered the way her face lit up when Bingley entered a room. The softening of her voice when she spoke his name. The hope that had flickered—genuine, if restrained.
Had he misread it?
Had he destroyed her happiness out of arrogance?
His stomach twisted. He could see Bingley’s expression now, the last time they spoke.“Do you truly think she does not care for me?”his young friend had asked.
He had hesitated. And lied.
He swallowed hard. His throat burned.
And Georgiana. Wickham.
That betrayal still stung—but worse was the memory of her crumpled letter, her pale cheeks, the way she would not look him in the eye for weeks. She had trusted him. Trusted him to protect her. And he had been so intent on shielding her from disgrace that he never once asked what she wanted.
He looked down at the stone in his hand. His fingers were stiff with cold.
Everything felt wrong. Off-kilter. Broken.
He had tried to act with honor. With good sense. He had told himself his choices were just—admirable, even.
But what if they were just proud? Just self-serving? Just… blind?
“I tried,” he whispered. His voice sounded strange in the stillness.
No one answered.
The snow creaked beneath his boot as he shifted his weight. The cold was in his teeth now, in his bones. He should go back. He would be missed.
But would youreallybe missed?The taunt rose from the back of his mind.After all, the only person who would express any dismay over your absence only values you as a husband to her daughter.
And so he lingered, allowing the black despair to swirl around him, permeating every fiber of his being until his chest ached.
The pressure was unbearable. He gripped the stone tighter, feeling it bite into his palm. Overcome with anguish, he let out a guttural scream and hurled the stone into trickling water, the sound of shattering ice echoing amongst the snow-covered trees.
Falling to his knees, he buried his face in his hands. “I wish I had never been born!” he said aloud, his voice rough and strange in the stillness.
The words tore from him louder than he had intended. They rang across the empty grove, sharp and desperate. No sooner had they left his mouth than the air changed.
It was not the wind. Therewasno wind. The trees stood still, their branches heavy with snow. But something moved—an invisible ripple, like the world had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.
Then—without footstep, sound, or warning—a figure stood across the stream.
Not a man. Not quite.
The man—if hewasa man—looked entirely out of place. His hair was pale as frost, though not from age. His eyes—green, sharp, not quite human—glinted with amusement. Hisclothing was fine, though foreign in cut, and shimmered faintly as though the light bent around it.
“Well,” said the stranger, voice lilting and amused. “That can be arranged.”
Darcy stumbled back a half-step, breath catching in his throat. “What? Who…who are you? Where did you come from?”
The peculiar man quirked an eyebrow. “That is the most interesting thing I have heard all winter,” he said, ignoring Darcy’s question. “So you wish you had never been born, do you?”
Darcy’s pulse pounded in his ears. “I did not— That is to say, I—”
“Oh, you did,” the man interrupted, cheerful as ever. “Loudly. With feeling. And you meant it. I must say, it has beenagessince I heard a wish like that made with such conviction. It called me.”
He stepped lightly across the stream. Not onto the bridge—onto the water itself. The ice held beneath his boots without a sound.
