Page 75 of The Difference of a Darcy
Tears filled her eyes. “I am so sorry.”
Darcy’s eyes drifted to the window. “He was a complicated man—not prone to strong emotion. At least, not with me. But I admired him greatly. I thought I had years more to learn from him. Instead, I was left with a large estate, a grieving sister, and more responsibility than I felt equipped to bear.”
She reached for his hand, unthinking. He did not pull away.
“You were only twenty-three,” she said gently. “That is a great deal to carry.”
He looked down at their joined hands, as though startled by the comfort it offered.
“I made mistakes,” he said quietly. “A great many.”
She said nothing, waiting.
“Georgiana was twelve. She hardly knew me. I had been away at Cambridge, then abroad. I tried to manage her like a steward—dutifully, distantly. I listened to my aunts. I sent her to school. I thought… I thought it was what she needed.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed.
“She hated it,” he said simply. “She never said so in her letters, but she came home thinner. Quieter. She started writing poems with endings that never resolved. Just faded out.”
The image hurt. Elizabeth gripped his hand tighter. “And that is when you sent her to Ramsgate.”
“Yes,” he said in a rough whisper. “The worst mistake of them all.”
“You saved her,” Elizabeth countered, her voice low but firm. “That matters more.”
They sat in silence for a while after that, the rhythm of the road lulling them both into quiet thought.
Eventually, the mood lightened again—almost imperceptibly. He told her a fond story about Fitzwilliam falling off a donkey in Germany and swearing in five languages while village children applauded.
“You and your cousin are quite close, it seems.”
“He is my most cherished friend,” he replied. “You would love him… well, in our world, at least. I am not certain who he would be here. Everything is so changed.”
“You have had a great impact on those in your life.”
“I suppose,” he said, looking down at his hands.
Perhaps she realized that he was close to breaking, for she deliberately turned the topic of conversation with a light voice. “I have never been anywhere.”
Grateful for the reprieve, as his eyes were suspiciously wet, he asked, “Kent was your first time away?”
She nodded. “Unless you count visiting my Aunt and Uncle in Cheapside. Which I do not.”
“You ought to,” he said gently. “London is a worthy destination. And your uncle is a man of great sense.”
“He is,” she agreed. “But it is not the continent. I have never seen the Alps, or the sea, or even a castle beyond what I have read in Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.”
He looked thoughtful. “Would you like to?”
“To what? Travel?”
He nodded.
Elizabeth exhaled. “More than anything. I have always longed to see the world. But Papa never cared for exertion or expense. He preferred his books and his fireside—and Iunderstand. He has every right to be content. But I always hoped… perhaps one day.”
Darcy’s eyes flicked toward the window. The pale, wintry landscape passed by—bare trees, sheep huddled against hedgerows, snow-patched fields under an iron sky.
“You never know,” he said. “You may marry a man with the means to travel.”
