Page 80 of The Difference of a Darcy
“We will come down directly,” Elizabeth said from behind him.
Below-stairs, they ate their meal in silence, side by side on a bench by the fire. The stew was hot, if plain, and the tea weak enough to see the bottom of the cup through it. But it filled the aching hollow in his stomach, and Elizabeth’s presence at his side helped ease the one in his heart.
As they returned upstairs, Darcy held the candle while Elizabeth undid her braid and changed behind the screen. He stared into the fire until she slipped beneath the covers.
Then he changed quickly and slid in beside her, careful not to disturb the blanket.
But he could not sleep.
Not tonight.
He lay on his side, facing the wall, and listened to the wind howling outside the shuttered window, but rest would not come. The smell of smoke from the hearth was faint, mixing with the scent of lavender from Elizabeth’s hair.
He had hoped—so foolishly hoped—that coming here would feel like a homecoming. That he would find something familiar, some piece of his former life preserved.
Instead, he found ruin, all because he had never been born.
And in his absence, everything had suffered.
His mind spun with fears and doubtsHe had no notion if all was truly lost—if his home, his sister, his very purpose in life had been swept away by one foolish, selfish wish. Had he ruined the lives of hundreds by vanishing from their memories? Were his tenants, his servants, the entire village of Lambton suffering because of his pride and thoughtless words?
But worst of all—had he lost Georgiana?
It was unbearable. Every image of her—her bright eyes, her timid smile, the way she clung to his hand when she was small—rose before him like ghosts.
He had failed her.
And the knowledge of that failure carved him open.
He shut his eyes against the pain, but it surged up behind his ribs. Would he ever see her again? Would she know him? Or had he consigned her to misery, abandoned in a cold world without protection, without affection?
The weight of it pressed on his chest, relentless and suffocating. Guilt churned in his stomach until he could scarcely breathe, and the pain gathered behind his eyes like a storm. He fought against it, swallowing hard, willing the tears away—but it was no use. Like a dam that had cracked beyond repair, the sorrow surged forward.
He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to stop the tears he felt gathering. He would not cry. He was a man—he had always controlled himself, always borne pain in silence. He had grieved for his parents behind closed doors. He had buried his doubts about Georgiana’s care for years. He had held back every sign of weakness since he was twenty-one and the weight of Pemberley fell on his shoulders.
But now... now, the burden was too great. The cracks splintered, and the storm broke loose.
His throat tightened, and his chest began to shake. He pressed a fist to his mouth, but a single sob escaped before he could stifle it. Another followed, raw and unbidden. He turned his face deeper into the pillow, desperate to muffle the sound, but it was no use.
Then, he felt it —a touch. Gentle. Steady.
Elizabeth’s hand, resting on his shoulder.
He froze.
A thousand instincts screamed at him to turn away, to bury his shame, to apologize for his weakness. But he could not speak. Her fingers remained—firm, warm, unafraid.
And that was what undid him.
Her tenderness.
Her presence.
The fact that she did not recoil, but leaned into his pain.
Tears slid hot and fast down his cheeks. His shoulders trembled. His chest ached with the force of it, as if his body could no longer contain the despair.
He wept.
