Page 59 of The Difference of a Darcy
“She loves you,” Elizabeth said, her voice thick.
“I do not deserve it,” Jane whispered. “I have ruined her life.”
Elizabeth swallowed against the knot in her throat. “None of this is about what we deserve. It is about what we do next.”
Jane let out a sob, and Elizabeth wrapped her arms around her and held her close. They stayed like that for several moments, silent except for the soft crackle of the fire and the sound of Jane’s quiet, broken breathing.
When Elizabeth finally spoke, her voice was steady again. “Whatever happens next, you will not face it alone.”
Jane only nodded, pressing her face into Elizabeth’s shoulder.
Outside, footsteps passed faintly in the corridor. The house carried on as if nothing had changed.
But Elizabeth knew, without doubt, everything had.
∞∞∞
A few minutes after Elizabeth disappeared with Jane, the housekeeper came to the parlor where Darcy waited. He gratefully accepted the servant’s garments—a modest but clean pair of trousers and a soft linen shirt, clearly belonging to one of Longbourn’s taller footmen. His own clothes were handed off to a scullery maid, who promised they would be dried by the kitchen fire. As he changed in a small side room off the back hall, he was thankful for the relief from damp fabric clinging coldly to his skin.
The fit was not perfect—he lacked a cravat, and the waistcoat hung awkwardly from his shoulders—but it was warm and dry, and he reminded himself that vanity had no place in his current position. He was not Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, heir to generations of wealth and pride. He was William Smith, traveler, friend to a country parson’s wife.
When he returned to the front parlor, he found the fire now blazing high and a fresh pot of tea laid out on a tray. A moment later, Mrs. Bennet herself bustled in, cheeks pink with effort and satisfaction.
“There now! Much better, sir, you must feel more like yourself.” She plumped a cushion beside him and poured him a cup of tea without waiting to be asked. “It is a pity we hadn’t a waistcoat that fit you better, but you wear it well, if I may say so.”
Darcy inclined his head. “You are very kind, madam. I am indebted to you for your generosity.”
“Nonsense. I would do no less for any friend of Lizzy’s.” Her voice warmed on her daughter’s name, and Darcy felt a pang—of gratitude, of shame. He had once dismissed this woman as foolish, loud, and grasping. She was still all of those things—but she had also offered him her fire, her food, her finest guest chair, and even the use of her household’s wardrobe, without hesitation.
The front door creaked open. Voices rang out.
“Oh, Mama, itpoured! Aunt Philips gave us each a handkerchief to wear like a cap!”
“And Lydia danced in the puddles—Mama, you should have seen it.”
The door burst open and three young women—drenched and full of noise—tumbled into the hall. Mary, Kitty, and Lydia. Darcy had seen them before, of course, in another life. But never quite like this.
“Oh!” Lydia exclaimed, skidding to a halt as she caught sight of him. “Who isthat?”
“Lydia!” Mary hissed, but it was too late.
Mrs. Bennet smiled proudly. “This is Mr. William Smith, a friend of Lizzy’s. He and his wife have come all the way from Kent.”
Upon hearing that the handsome stranger was married, the younger two girls lost all interest in him entirely and turned their attention back to their mother.
“Oh, Mama, you simplymustcome to Meryton tomorrow,” Lydia said, shaking out her damp shawl. “Captain Carter has grown a most dashing mustache, and everyone says it makes him look positively foreign.”
“Lieutenant Denny has a new pair of boots,” Kitty added. “They were a Christmas present from his mother. And there is a new officer—Lieutenant Saunderson. He isverytall. Taller even than—” She glanced back at Darcy, then lost her train of thought.
Lydia giggled. “Denny bowed tomefirst, even though Mary King wasclearlyangling for it.”
Darcy said nothing, but he listened closely, brow faintly furrowed. There was no mention of Wickham, and yet the girls’ breathless delight in the society of officers—young men they scarcely knew—was enough to concern him.
Their enthusiasm was not malicious, but it was naive. Reckless. They tossed around names and flirtations as if they were lace ribbons or sweets. He wondered how many of those men—Captain Carter, Lieutenant Denny, and this new Saunderson—had ambitions no greater than cards, drink, and dalliances with foolish country girls.
Then, quite suddenly, Lydia spun toward him and asked abruptly, “Areyouan officer?”
Darcy blinked, caught off guard. “No, I am not.”
