Chapter 22
It had been three days.
Three days of silence, sewing, and stories.
Three days of worry and waiting, of watching the door like it might swing open at any moment and bring with it everything they feared.
Three days of Wickham roaming the halls like a fox outside the henhouse, and Mrs. Reynolds faithfully delivering trays and diversion to the mistress’s chamber.
But it could not last.
By the fourth day, Mrs. Reynolds entered the room with tight lips and a pinched expression. “He is beginning to suspect,” she said grimly. “If we keep you shut away any longer, he will come up here himself. And if he finds Beth…”
Georgiana paled visibly.
Elizabeth reached for her hand. “You do not have to sit with him long. Only for meals. After that, return here. I shall be waiting.”
It was not enough to make Georgiana brave—but it was enough to make her move.
That evening, she dressed slowly in one of the looser gowns they had altered from her mother’s things—soft gray with a darker sash, and a fichu to hide the neckline. Elizabeth helped arrange her hair and offered her a final look of encouragement before she descended.
Elizabeth took the servants’ hall down to the dining room, where she stood near the corridor like a sentry.
Her hands twisted together in front of her apron.
She could not hear the exact words, but she could hear tones—Wickham’s voice rising and falling in annoyance, Georgiana’s soft and tentative replies.
Darcy passed her several times as he carried dishes in and out, grinding his teeth in an effort to remain silent. Each time he came close, his arm brushed up against hers—not enough to slow him down, but enough to ground her.
The whole household held its breath.
Inside the room, Wickham’s mood darkened by the minute. He was irritated by the roast, by the temperature of the wine, by the bread. He muttered about the lack of decent company and barked at Georgiana when she only ate small bites of her food.
By the time the tea tray was brought out, he was pacing behind his chair.
“I have half a mind to drag you upstairs myself,” he snapped. “You are my wife, and you will fulfill your duties.”
There was a pause, and Elizabeth tensed.
Georgiana’s voice—shaky but audible—answered at last: “You would not want to harm the baby.”
Another pause.
Wickham gave a disgusted scoff. “What does it matter? I prefer a woman who is not ill and simpering all the time, anyway.”
And then he was gone.
Elizabeth waited several minutes before she pushed open the dining room door. Georgiana sat perfectly still, hands clenched in her lap, lips pressed into a bloodless line.
Darcy stepped in behind her. “He has taken a bottle and his coat,” he said quietly. “He will not return soon.”
Georgiana gave a tight nod.
Elizabeth walked forward and touched her shoulder gently. “Come, Mrs. Georgiana. Let us go back upstairs.”
Darcy did not speak as they passed him—but as their eyes met briefly, Elizabeth knew they shared the same thought.
This reprieve would not last forever. And something had to be done.
∞∞∞
The morning light through the tall windows was soft and grey, falling over the bed where Georgiana sat stitching a length of muslin while Elizabeth sorted through a small basket of ribbons and lace.
For now the house was quiet—eerily so. Wickham had returned in the small hours, half-singing and half-cursing, but there had been no further disturbance.
Mrs. Reynolds had reported that he still slept off his drink, and so, cautiously, they worked.
Elizabeth glanced at the open door leading to the dressing room, every sense alert though she smiled and spoke lightly.
“Your stitches are improving, Mrs. Georgiana,” she said. “At this rate, your child will have a finer layette than any infant in Derbyshire.”
A faint blush touched the girl’s cheeks. “I only hope there is time enough. I am so slow—”
The words cut off with a small gasp.
The door slammed open.
George Wickham stood on the threshold, his coat unbuttoned, his cravat askew, his eyes bloodshot but alight with something far worse than drink. He leaned against the frame for a moment, surveying the scene, and then his mouth twisted into a smile that made Elizabeth’s stomach turn.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “No wonder you have been hiding away, Georgie. You have been keeping company with an angel.”
He stepped into the room. The scent of stale brandy clung to him.
Elizabeth froze where she stood, her heart pounding. Wickham’s gaze fixed on her, roving in a way that made her skin crawl. He came closer—too close—and reached out a hand to trail one finger down the side of her cheek.
“Where have you been hiding this beauty?” he murmured. “I do not recall seeing you before.”
Elizabeth forced herself not to flinch, not to recoil, though every nerve in her body screamed at her to move. She folded her hands tightly in front of her and lowered her gaze. “I am Mrs. Wickham’s maid, sir,” she said, her voice steady only through willpower.
“Her maid?” His grin widened. “A pity. Pretty thing like you should not be wasted pressing gowns and fetching ribbons. Perhaps I can change that.”
Georgiana’s voice, thin but determined, broke the moment. “Beth is married, sir. Her husband works in the stables.”
Wickham’s laughter filled the room. “A husband, is it? Then the man is a fool to let you out of his sight. Perhaps he does not… please you as he ought?”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. She took an involuntary half-step back.
“Perhaps,” Wickham continued, his tone oily, “you wonder what a real man is like.”
Elizabeth’s fingers clenched around the sewing scissors in her apron pocket, but before she could speak—or act—the door opened sharply.
“Beth!” Mrs. Reynolds’ voice cut through the tension like a blade. “You are wanted below at once.”
Wickham turned lazily toward her. “Always taking my toys away, Mrs. Reynolds.”
The housekeeper’s expression did not change. “I will not say it again, Beth.”
Elizabeth curtsied quickly and fled, the pounding of her heart loud in her ears. Only once she was safely in the corridor did she allow herself a breath.
Behind her, she heard Mrs. Reynolds’ calm, measured voice: “Perhaps, sir, you might prefer to take your luncheon in the study. I will have it brought at once.”
And the door shut firmly between them.
∞∞∞
The kitchen was too warm.
Darcy stood by the back table, sleeves rolled, drying the last of the supper dishes.
He had just stoked the fire for Cook, who was grumbling over a sauce that refused to thicken properly.
The scent of boiling beef hung heavy in the air.
Mrs. Wells muttered to herself about overcooked carrots and men who ordered meals like kings without lifting a finger to hunt them.
He was about to ask whether more firewood was needed when the door opened behind him. He turned.
Elizabeth stood there, pale as paper, her hands trembling so badly that she pressed them together to still them. Her eyes darted to Cook, then back to him.
“Beth?” he said softly, stepping forward. “What—?”
“I need a moment,” she whispered. “Please.”
Darcy nodded tightly and guided her through the scullery and out into the narrow corridor, where the air was cool and still. She leaned back against the wall, breathing fast, her arms wrapped around herself.
He took one look at her face—her wide eyes, the shaken lines of her mouth—and the tight coil in his chest snapped.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice low and urgent.
She shook her head. “He came into her room—Georgiana’s room. I think he thought she was alone.”
His breath caught. “And you were there?”
“Yes.” She still would not meet his gaze. “He—he touched me. My face. He said things. Awful things. About my husband not pleasing me—”
A coldness settled in Darcy’s bones. He stepped forward, his fists clenched. “He dared to lay his hands on you?”
She lifted her head, finally looking at him. “He did not hurt me, William.”
“I do not care,” he snapped. “I will kill him. By God, I will—”
“No!” She grabbed his arm, gripping it hard. “You cannot. You are a servant. He is the master here. If you so much as raise your voice, he could have you beaten or thrown out—or worse. And then what would I do?”
His jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring. “I will not let him near you again.”
“You will not have to.” Her voice trembled, but her eyes were steady now. “I will stay below stairs, or in my room, or with Georgiana. But I will not move about the house without you beside me.”
Darcy was still breathing hard, but he nodded. Slowly. “Good. Yes. I will stay at your side whenever I can. And I will speak to Mrs. Reynolds.”
“I believe she already knows. She was the one who came in and got me out.”
He exhaled through his nose, furious and helpless and aching with gratitude. He reached for her hand and pressed it between both of his own.
“I swear to you,” he said quietly, “if he ever tries again—”
“You cannot,” she whispered. “Not yet. Not while we’re in this world. We will get through this, together.”
Her words struck deep. Slowly, he nodded. “Together.”
She squeezed his hand once, then let go.
And with only a glance between them, they returned to their places in the quiet war that Pemberley had become.
∞∞∞
The next two days passed in a strange, suspended tension.
Each morning, Elizabeth was escorted by Darcy down to the kitchens. He remained near her through every task—hauling coal, polishing woodwork, trimming wick lamps—his presence a constant, quiet shield.
If Wickham left the house, Elizabeth would hurry to Georgiana’s side, the two women resuming their quiet projects and conversations in the safety of the drawing room. Georgiana’s nerves were frayed, but she tried to hide it behind smiles and stitching. Elizabeth did the same.
It was a pattern—tense, quiet, survivable.
Until the morning it shattered.