Page 47 of The Difference of a Darcy
He leaned back slightly, enough to meet her eyes. “Yes. The hiding place was untouched. I found more than enough to sustain us for…” he hesitated. “Enough for several weeks, if need be.”
A breath of relief escaped her lips, and she sagged a little in his embrace. Her body still shivered despite the fire in her cheeks.
Darcy noticed at once. Without a word, he drew her even closer, wrapping his arms more snugly about her as though to ward off every remaining chill in the air—and in her heart.
“Come,” he said softly, his voice low and steady at her ear. “Let us find a coaching inn for the night.”
And she nodded. This time, she did not let go of his hand.
∞∞∞
The sign above the coaching inn creaked on its rusted hinges as the wind pushed against it. “The Ox and Crown,” it read—weatherworn but respectable, with a warm yellow glow in the windows and a promise of privacy in the narrow alley just off Fleet Street.
Darcy pushed open the door and held it for Elizabeth, whose cheeks were still blotched with cold and alarm. She stepped inside without a word.
The innkeeper looked up from behind the counter. “Evenin’. Happy Christmas. Room?”
“Happy Christmas. Yes.” Darcy pulled out a few coins from the small purse he had tucked in his coat. “One room. For myself and my wife.”
Elizabeth glanced at him sidelong, but said nothing as she removed her gloves. The innkeeper accepted the coins without scrutiny and nodded briskly.
“Hot water?” he asked, looking them up and down.
“If you please. We have been traveling for quite a while. And—” Darcy paused, then added, “—could you send a girl to the nearest clothier or dry goods shop, if there is one open on Boxing Day? We require a change of garments. Something plain and serviceable for a lady of my wife’s size and—” he dared one glance at Elizabeth, “—excellent taste.”
“And for you, sir?”
“Anything respectable. Coat, shirt, trousers.”
The innkeeper called out for Meg, a gangly, red-cheeked girl who appeared from the back room. Darcy handed her several coins and gave instructions, watching as she nodded eagerly and disappeared into the night.
Their room was on the second floor. Small, but clean. A narrow bed with a quilt, a basin stand, a hearth already lit with a cheery fire. Elizabeth disappeared into the washroom with a murmur of thanks as a maid arrived bearing a steaming pitcher of water.
Darcy waited outside, standing in the corridor with one hand pressed against the wall. His body ached with fatigue, but his mind would not rest.
The scene at Darcy House haunted him.
That home—hishome—had been like an extension of Pemberley. He had taken it for granted, walked its halls in boyhood, read by its library fire as a young man. And now it was gone. Sold off to satisfy another man’s debts.
Wickham.
His jaw clenched. If Georgiana had truly married him—willingly or otherwise—then the implications went far beyond empty coffers. She would be vulnerable, isolated, perhaps even mistreated.
But what could he do? He was no one. Not in this world. He had no legal authority. No brotherly claim. He could not even gain entrance to his own house.
He thought of the safe in the study and the money he had collected from there. At least Wickham had not known of that. A small mercy.
Wickham.
But Georgiana…
He closed his eyes, his fist tightening against the wooden frame. Memories of Christmases in the past flooded through his mind.
Georgiana at seven years of age, her curls tied with a red ribbon as she shyly presented him with a drawing of a lopsided gingerbread figure she had made herself. She hadclung to his waist when he praised it, her eyes bright with pride…
A bright Christmas afternoon, teaching her to skate on the frozen lake on the front lawn of Pemberley, her laughter ringing across the ice as he steadied her hands. She had declared it the happiest day of her life.
The year that Georgiana had insisted upon giving every servant a gift she had sewn herself. The stitches were crooked and the ribbons mismatched, yet the entire household had worn them proudly for her sake.
