Chapter 17 #2
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 saw him.
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.
Warmth and light spilled from the kitchen windows, a welcome contrast to the chilled dusk.
Inside, Elizabeth turned at once. Her expression softened with visible relief and she motioned him to a chair at the servants’ table.
“It is not much,” she said, brushing a loose curl from her cheek as she set a plate before him. “But it is warm.”
It was more than he expected.
The meat pie was plain, the crust uneven, but the scent made his mouth water. A thick slice of bread, a bit of crumbly cheese, and an apple completed the meal.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
She gave him a small smile and returned to the hearth, where she was wiping a low shelf near the stove. The cook looked up from peeling onions and gave him a sharp nod.
“So. You are the husband, then.”
Darcy straightened slightly. “I am.”
“When you have finished eating, fetch some water. There’s a pail in the corner.”
Darcy bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment and dug into his meal, savoring each bite. The food was simple but nourishing, and the presence of Elizabeth in the same warm room made it feel more than sufficient. As he worked through the pie, she came to sit beside him, her sleeves still rolled.
“Mrs. Wells is not half as frightening as she first appears,” she said in a low voice. “But she does not suffer laziness. I suspect I shall not have much time for sitting for quite a while.”
He gave a dry smile. “Have you met anyone else?”
She shook her head. “Only Mrs. Wells and Mrs. Reynolds, though I have seen signs of a few more maids. It is remarkably empty here.”
At that moment, the kitchen door opened, and Mrs. Reynolds entered with her ledger tucked under one arm.
Darcy rose at once. The housekeeper gave him a brief nod, then turned to Elizabeth.
“I have spoken with the mistress,” she said. “She would be glad of assistance in the morning. You are to help her dress and bring up a tray for breakfast. If she does not answer when you knock—which is likely—you are to try again after ten.”
Elizabeth curtsied. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Reynolds gave a satisfied nod and swept back out the door without another word.
The silence she left behind did not last long.
Mrs. Wells snorted from her place by the hearth. “That tray will do no good. Hasn’t eaten proper since she fell with child.”
Elizabeth stilled. Darcy froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth.
The cook noticed. “Aye. Poor thing. Scarcely more than a girl, and no mother to guide her. Left all alone with a husband not worth the name.”
She clicked her tongue and returned to her onions, as though she had not just delivered a blow to both their hearts.
Darcy could not breathe.
Pregnant. Georgiana.
His sister was to bear a child.
He met Elizabeth’s gaze across the table. Her eyes were wide, stricken.
Neither spoke. They finished their meal and completed their remaining tasks in silence. The air was heavy with unexpressed thoughts.
Elizabeth washed the dishes while Darcy fetched the pail and carried water in from the pump. Mrs. Wells directed them with gruff efficiency, setting oats to soak for the morning and barking orders about wiping down the table legs before bed.
By the time the last towel was hung and the final bowl dried, both of them ached in every limb.
They climbed the stairs side by side, neither speaking until they reached the small, cold chamber Mrs. Reynolds had assigned.
The bed was narrow. The blanket thin.
But it was clean.
Darcy sat on the edge to remove his boots, then stood aside so Elizabeth could do the same.
They said little as they readied for sleep. Too much had changed in a single day. Too many thoughts filled their minds.
When at last they lay down—shoulder to shoulder in the narrow bed—it was Elizabeth who turned to him, laying a hand gently over his heart.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered.
Darcy swallowed, his throat tight.
“I was not here to protect her,” he said hoarsely.
She made no reply, only reached for his hand beneath the covers and laced her fingers with his.
They lay like that for a long time, two hearts beating in the dark.
And though sleep came slowly, when it did, it found them together.
Still holding on.