Page 29 of The Difference of a Darcy
Darcy looked utterly undone. His eyes searched the grove as if he could will the stranger back into being.
But the grove gave no answers.
She watched in silence as he swallowed hard.
“I… do not know, Miss Bennet.”
∞∞∞
Darcy stared at the frozen stream, then at Elizabeth, then back again.
None of it made sense.
His heart pounded hard in his chest, the cold air burning his lungs. The strange man—apparition—was gone. The woods were quiet again. Snow drifted lazily through the boughs above.
Did that really just happen? Or am I hallucinating?
The shock on Elizabeth’s face told him that if he did, indeed, imagine it all, then Elizabeth was similarly afflicted. He turned toward her, trying to speak, but no words came.
She looked as shaken as he felt.
“I—” he began, then stopped.
Elizabeth blinked, rubbed her gloved hands together for warmth, and gave a shaky laugh. “I do not suppose… do you often find woodland spirits in Kent?”
Darcy let out a breath, startled into the ghost of a smile. “Not in my experience.”
They stood a moment longer, uncertain.
At last, Elizabeth broke the silence again. “Do you think this is all a dream?”
Darcy hesitated. “If it is, it is a very cold one.”
That drew a small, breathless laugh from her, and something in his chest eased slightly. He nodded toward the path.
“Come,” he said. “Let us walk back. Christmas Day has yet to begin, and I would rather face it with dry boots.”
She nodded, still pale, and fell into step beside him.
They walked in silence for some minutes. The snow muffled their footfalls, and the air smelled of pine and smoke. Darcy felt his mind begin to clear—or perhaps simply retreat. What had happened, what he had said, what he hadwished—it was too large to make sense of now.
He glanced sidelong at Elizabeth.
She was frowning slightly, as if lost in thought. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest.
“How… how much did you hear?” he asked quietly.
Her head turned. “All of it, I believe. Your wish, and everything the… the fae said.”
He nodded once, accepting the descriptive title, and they walked on.
They had nearly reached the bend in the lane—the one that curved just before the parsonage came into view—when the faint sound of wheels on gravel reached them.
A carriage. Drawing up to the house.
Darcy narrowed his eyes.
It was a phaeton—high and elegant—and it came to a halt just before the gate.
