Page 83 of The Difference of a Darcy
She hurried behind the folding screen where the chamber pot waited, then splashed her face from the pitcher with what little water remained. Her fingers trembled slightly as she wiped her hands on the towel and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her reflection looked far older than the girl who had left Longbourn for Hunsford only a few weeks prior—worn not by time, but by emotion.
And yet... her eyes held something steadier now. Something resolute.
When she returned to the bedside, Darcy was awake.
He did not speak at first, only met her gaze with a quiet that was somehow more meaningful than words. There was no mention of the night before. No acknowledgement of his tears or her embrace.
But something had shifted.
She saw it in the way he looked at her—as though she were something solid. Safe. A lighthouse on a storm-beaten shore.
“Good morning,” he said softly, voice still rough with sleep.
“Good morning.”
The simplicity of the greeting, the civility of it, was somehow more intimate than anything they might have said.
He sat up slowly, stretching out the stiffness of a poor mattress and days of travel. She turned to busy herself at the basin again, allowing them both the small dignity of pretense.
Soon after, they shared a modest breakfast of toasted bread and weak tea in the inn’s small dining room. The innkeeper’s wife brought it with a tired smile and a murmured hope for finer weather.
It had snowed in the night—only a dusting, and already melting—but the morning remained grey and heavy. The kind of cold that settled deep in one’s bones.
Still, Darcy seemed better. Not cheerful, but upright. Ready.
“So,” Elizabeth said lightly, sipping her tea, “what do two vagabonds do on the morning after their arrival in a near-abandoned market town?”
He glanced at her over the rim of his cup. “I believe they walk five miles to a ruined estate on the off chance it remains open to tourists.”
She laughed, and the sound warmed her own heart.
“I suppose we could have simply asked someone in town,” she said, “but where would the romance be in that?”
“Indeed,” he said with dry amusement. “Not nearly as dramatic.”
He hesitated, then set his cup down.
“I do not wish to overburden you, Elizabeth. The walk is a long one. If you prefer to rest—”
She waved a hand. “Mr. Smith,” she said archly, “have you forgotten what an excellent walker I am? Even Miss Bingleywas forced to admit my accomplishment, and as you well know, she was usually my severest critic.”
His smile came slowly—genuine, if still touched by fatigue. “Very well. But if you expire from exertion, I shall take no blame.”
“None at all,” she said. “I shall simply haunt you until your dying day.”
“Comforting.”
She tilted her head, her eyes twinkling. “As ghosts go, I daresay I would be more charming than most.”
“Of that I have no doubt.”
They rose together then, gathering cloaks and gloves, preparing for the cold outside. Their footsteps echoed down the stairs and out into the street, past shuttered shops and empty windows.
The road to Pemberley lay ahead.
And though the path might yet end in heartbreak, Elizabeth could not help but feel a quiet thrum of anticipation in her chest.
Darcy was beside her.
