Chapter 18
The light was still dim when Elizabeth awoke, the early dawn casting only the faintest hue of silver across the modest chamber.
For a long moment, she lay still, listening to the even sound of Darcy’s breathing beside her, steady and warm.
He had not stirred once in the night, which she hoped meant he had found some small measure of peace.
She had not.
Pregnant.
Elizabeth closed her eyes against the thought of a young girl—nearly the same age as Lydia—alone in this crumbling house, bearing a burden she should not have had to carry alone.
Rising from the bed, she winced as she stretched out her stiffened muscles.
She dressed quickly in the dim light, pinning up her hair without the aid of a mirror and washing with the cold water left in the basin.
The morning chill clung to the stone walls and tile floor, biting at her skin, but she ignored it.
As she reached for her shawl, Darcy stirred. His hand searched the space where hers had just been. When he found only emptiness, he blinked and sat up.
“You are leaving?”
“We should be up now,” she whispered. “I am to fetch Georgiana’s tray, and you will have chores as well.”
His expression tightened at the name, but he nodded, swinging his bare legs over the side of the bed with a yawn.
Elizabeth flushed at the sight and escaped into the corridor, making her way silently to the kitchens. Her footsteps were muffled by the worn flagstones. Mrs. Wells was already at the stove, stirring a pot with one hand and balancing a tray with the other.
“There you are,” she said without turning. “Mistress’s breakfast. Bread, weak tea, porridge. Not that she’ll touch it. Where is your husband?”
“Mr. Smith will be along shortly.” Elizabeth stepped forward and accepted the tray. “I will take this up to Geor—to Mrs. Wickham now.”
“She will not say thank you,” Mrs. Wells warned. “Mind you, she is not cruel. Just… quiet. As if she is somewhere far away.”
“I understand.”
“She is still a lady in spite of her age. Remember that.”
“I shall.”
Elizabeth turned to leave, but Mrs. Wells added, “And if she sends you out, do not take it personal.”
“I will not.”
The tray felt heavier than it ought to as Elizabeth made her way through the winding corridors. Mrs. Reynolds had given her a tour of the house last night, making particular mention of Mrs. Wickham’s rooms. East wing, second floor. Door at the end of the corridor.
She was grateful for the forethought; she would have been lost otherwise. The house had always loomed in her imagination—majestic, warm, proud. And now it was still majestic… but quiet. Wounded.
Like its mistress.
She reached the door and gently knocked on it with one knuckle.
For several moments, there was only silence. Eizabeth was about to turn to go, when a faint, dull voice said, “Enter.”
Elizabeth entered with slow, steady steps, adjusting the tray in her arms. The room was sparsely furnished—no vanity, no dressing screen, not even a wardrobe.
A single chest stood in the corner, and the hearth had only the faintest glow of embers, as if no maid had entered to stir it up again for the morning.
And there, in the narrow bed under a faded quilt, sat Georgiana.
Elizabeth’s breath caught.
The girl—no, the young woman—was a shadow of what she imagined.
Her figure, once likely elegant, was now slight to the point of frailty, making her rounded belly all the more prominent beneath the loose folds of her nightgown.
Her hair hung in limp waves around her thin face, and deep shadows bruised the skin beneath her eyes.
Her hands clutched the edge of the quilt, knuckles white.
Elizabeth forced a gentle smile. “Good morning,” she said softly. “I brought your breakfast.”
Georgiana did not reply.
The girl looked at her for a long moment—her eyes pale and wary. Then, slowly, she turned her head toward the window again.
“I am not hungry.”
“I understand. Just the tea, maybe? The biscuits are very good this morning.”
No answer.
Elizabeth approached slowly, set the tray down on the nearby table and stood back.
“I am here to help you dress, if you wish it,” she said.
“I do not wish it,” said Georgiana tersely.
Elizabeth nodded, but wasn’t sure what to do next.
“Just go.” Georgiana said, but there was more misery in her tone than fury.
Elizabeth curtsied and slowly backed out of the room feeling defeated. She hesitated only once, just beyond the threshold, listening for any movement from within—but there was none. Only silence, heavy and impenetrable.
She closed the door as softly as she could.
The disappointment settled in her chest like a stone, though she had expected nothing different. Still, it hurt—to see a young woman looking so hollow, so withdrawn, and to be powerless to ease it. She had not appeared to be angry. Only… lifeless. Apathetic.
For the remainder of the day, Mrs. Reynolds put her to work cleaning rooms that had not seen use in years.
“There have only been a few of us here since the house was reopened,” the housekeeper explained. “A handful of maids is not enough to get a house like Pemberley in readiness very quickly.”
Thick dust coated the furniture like a second skin. Cobwebs hung in forgotten corners. Elizabeth worked with care, though her mind remained half in that upstairs chamber, replaying the brief exchange again and again.
That night, as she once again collapsed into bed beside Darcy, she was too exhausted to do anything Neither was able to speak a word before sleep claimed them.
The next few mornings passed in much the same manner. Elizabeth would rise early, fetch a breakfast tray, and walk it up the narrow stairs to the mistress’s chamber. Each time, she knocked softly, entered upon silence, and was met with the same pale, wary eyes.
“I am not hungry,” Georgiana would say—or sometimes nothing at all.
Elizabeth never pressed. She set the tray down and offered simple courtesies, then left the room quietly to begin her next assigned tasks, which mostly consisted of cleaning out disused rooms with dust so thick it lay like snowdrifts across the mantels.
Mrs. Reynolds gave her a new room each day, and though the labor was wearisome, Elizabeth bore it without complaint.
Darcy she scarcely saw. He was sent to the stables most mornings and sometimes did not come in until long after sunset.
Their conversations, when they came, were little more than tired murmurs exchanged over a shared crust of bread before they fell into the narrow servant’s bed.
His hand would find hers beneath the blanket, their fingers curling together as if in silent reassurance—but that was all.
By the fourth morning, Elizabeth stood at the window of the bedchamber, waiting for Georgiana to speak. The girl had not even glanced at the tray today. Her eyes were fixed on her lap, her thumb worrying at a cracked fingernail until the skin beneath looked raw.
Elizabeth hesitated. “My youngest sister used to do that,” she said gently. “Bite her nails until they bled. Mama would scold her, but she never stopped. I think it was her way of holding the worry in.”
Georgiana did not look up, but her fingers stilled.
At last! Elizabeth rejoiced at this small acknowledgment of her existence. Not wanting to push the skittish girl, she retreated from the room with a curtsy.
The following morning, as she dusted Georgiana’s vanity table, a pale blue ribbon fell to the floor.
“Oh, my sister Lydia would love this shade of blue,” Elizabeth said lightly.
“Though with her coloring—like mine—it made her look dreadful. She cried for a week, then gave the dress to our sister Jane, who looks more like you, ma’am.
It suited her perfectly, and I imagine this ribbon would do the same for you. ”
Realizing she was rambling, Elizabeth stopped speaking. Georgiana did not reply, but Elizabeth could feel the girl’s eyes following her until she left the room.
The next day was when the walls finally came down.
After delivering the breakfast tray, Elizabeth was almost to the door when she heard a quiet voice behind her.
“You have two sisters?”
Elizabeth turned slowly, warmth blooming in her chest.
“Four, actually. I am the second of five daughters.”
Georgiana nodded once, almost absently. Her gaze had dropped to the tray again, but her voice came more clearly this time. “I think I would have liked to have had a sister.”
The admission hung in the air between them, fragile and precious. Elizabeth nearly cheered for joy—but she checked herself, keeping her hands still against her skirts.
“They can be troublesome,” she said with a small smile, turning to the hearth to bring the cold fire back to life. “But I would not trade them for anything. Even when they steal my ribbons and lose my books.”
Georgiana tilted her head slightly. “Do you have a brother, too?”
Elizabeth blinked, then shook her head. “No. My mother had five daughters and not a son among us. Which, as you might imagine, she has never quite recovered from.” She gave the fire a soft poke with the iron and added kindling.
“We do have a cousin, however, who stands to inherit everything. He is quite devoted to his duty. And to his sermons. And to the sound of his own voice.”
A sound that could almost have been mistaken for mirth came from the bed.
Elizabeth grinned over her shoulder. “He once spent a full hour explaining to my father why his hens were not laying eggs due to a spiritual failing.”
Georgiana’s lips twitched. “And was your father persuaded?”
“He fell asleep,” Elizabeth replied solemnly, “but it did not stop our cousin from writing a strongly worded letter on the subject.”
This time, Georgiana couldn’t help herself. She let out a sharp giggle—surprised, unguarded, and so rusty it sounded like it had not been used in years.