Page 90 of The Difference of a Darcy
Darcy composed himself quickly. “Forgive me. I… Mrs. Reynolds told me to come find you, for work.”
Jonathan grunted. “Well, I am John. Who might you be?”
“I am William…William Smith. My wife and I have just been hired on to work.”
“Only work here is horses and hay,” said Bates, holding out his pitchfork.
Darcy hesitated. “Mrs. Reynolds said I could ask for Nelly to ride into Lambton, to retrieve our belongings first.”
“Well, there’s the saddle,” Bates said, pointing at the tack.
“Yes, thank you,” Darcy replied, his voice low.
Darcy turned to the saddle, and silently watched Bates return to his work. He had only been five years of age when his father had hired Bates to serve as his son’s valet. The son of a loyal tenant and sharp as a whip, Bates had more in mind for his future than a farm, and yet here he was, mucking out the stalls. George Darcy was a master who took great satisfaction in helping those beneath him succeed.
To see the man who had so meticulously cared for Darcy for more than twenty years—indeed, he had almost been like a second father to him—scooping muck in the stables was painful to witness.
Darcy saddled the old, but gentle work horse, and mounted.
With the mare's steady gait beneath him, he made his way toward the inn. The sun had dropped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the frosted road.
I cannot believe that Christmas was less than a fortnight ago. It feels as though an eternity has passed since I was at Rosings… believing Elizabeth would accept my attentions.
He winced at the reminder of his pride and conceit. How certain he had been that his wealth, his consequence, his desire alone were enough to justify a proposal—and her acceptance. He had thought himself so generous—so noble—for loving a woman beneath him. And he had believed, truly, that she would be flattered by his notice.
But now…
Now, she walked beside him as an equal, and not because of his status or station. She had seen him undone—afraid,weeping, exposed—and had not turned away. When she smiled at him now, it was not the tight, mocking curl of a woman barely tolerating his company. It was soft. Real. And when she looked at him, she did not merely see Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.
She sawhim.
And that knowledge steadied him as he finally arrived in Lambton on the old nag who looked to be as old as Darcy was himself.
The innkeeper looked up from his ledgers when Darcy entered, his eyebrows lifting with interest.
“You are back earlier than I expected,” the man said, leaning forward. “Find what you were after at Pemberley?”
Darcy hesitated. “We have accepted temporary employment on the estate.”
The innkeeper’s brows rose higher still, then knit with worry. “Workin’ up at Pemberley, are you? That is... well, I hope it is a short arrangement. Depends on how long George Wickham stays gone, I suppose.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Away from home, is he?”
“For now,” the innkeeper said warily. “Out on business, or debauchery—depends who you ask. But mark me, sir, best watch out for your wife when he’s back. Pretty little thing like her would not stand a chance against him. That man is not right. Charming, aye, but poison all the same, and with a fierce temper when he does not get what he wants.”
Darcy clenched his teeth at the man’s description of Elizabeth, but the concern on the innkeeper’s face was sincere, not leering.
“Thank you,” Darcy said at last, pressing the coins into his hand. “For the warning.”
With his saddlebags secured, he swung back into the saddle and rode toward Pemberley. The wind bit at his coat and collar, but it was the weight in his chest that chilled him most.
What have I brought Elizabeth into?
∞∞∞
The ride back to Pemberley was long and cold.
By the time Darcy unsaddled Nelly, his hands were stiff and aching. The moon had begun its slow rise over the distant ridge. He offered quiet thanks, his voice hoarse, and as he made his way back toward the servant’s entrance, boots crunching on the frozen gravel.
