Page 11 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

Finally, she asked, voice scarcely above a whisper, “But is it not all a sin?”

He looked at her then—really looked at her. “That is the question that haunts me.”

She dared to continue. “You and Stephens. Mama with someone else. Breaking vows. And you—you love a man. That is warned against in Scripture. Leviticus says it is an abomination. Romans—”

“Romans speaks of unnatural affections,” he interrupted gently. “Yes. I know. I have read them many times. Along with the verses about owning slaves, about women remaining silent, about stoning the disobedient.”

Elizabeth stared at him. “You sound like a heretic. But you go to church. You pray. And you have encouraged all of us to live our lives the way God would want. Is it… is it all a farce? A facade, to hide—?”

“No,” he interrupted, a bit harshly, before modifying his tone and repeating, “No, it is not a deception. I believe in God, and I believe in His word.”

Her brow furrowed. “I do not understand, Papa. How can you believe one way but act another way?”

He exhaled slowly. “Well, I also believe in grace, and charity, and mercy.”

She held her breath.

“I have tried to live a good life,” he said quietly.

“I have honored my father’s land and heritage.

I attend church and say my prayers—and God knows just how many times I have begged Him to change me.

I have educated my children. There are no mistresses, I have harmed no innocents, and I have loved only one person for the whole of my life—and I have done so in silence. ”

He set his glass down. “And yet, I have seen cruelty from those who hide behind righteousness. Some of the worst boys at Harrow, those who abused others without pity, went on to become clergymen. I have seen men of the Ton drink and gamble, keep their mistresses, abuse their wives—and yet be called honorable because they gave to charity and are considered gentlemen.”

Elizabeth’s hands clenched in her lap.

“I cannot change who I am. I did not choose it. But I can choose how I live. And if the God I believe in is as loving and as just as the Good Book says, then perhaps—perhaps—He will see the whole of my life, not just the part that the world condemns. He knows I have sacrificed much, that I have made choices that benefit others over myself. He sees that, and I trust Him to know my heart and judge me accordingly.”

She did not know what to say. Only that she could feel her father’s heart—his pain, his love, his longing to be seen.

So she stood, walked around the desk, and threw her arms around his neck.

“I love you, Papa.”

He closed his eyes and held her tightly. “And I, you, Lizzy. More than you know.”

∞∞∞

Elizabeth lay awake in the quiet darkness of her chamber, the blankets drawn high beneath her chin. The room was still, but her mind was a storm—full of too many thoughts to settle.

She had always considered herself steady, rational, unflinching. She had devoured her father’s books, kept a level head when Lydia threw tantrums, and comforted Kitty during thunderstorms. But tonight, she felt as though the ground beneath her feet had shifted in ways she did not understand.

She had heard everything her father said. And she believed all of his words about the events in question.

But believing was not the same as understanding.

She turned on her side and buried her face in the pillow. Her thoughts darted from one memory to another:

Stephens working hard to mend her favorite boots that she had left out in a rainstorm, or sneaking her an extra biscuit or two when she had been sent to her room without supper.

Her father murmuring poetry to her mother during her confinement with Lydia.

The long, warm evenings when they had all sat together with books and laughter and the dogs snoring beneath the table.

She had always felt safe in this house.

And yet—what she had learned tonight had unmoored something in her.

She tried to picture it. Her father… and Stephens.

Together. Not just as companions, but with the same sort of closeness she had imagined for herself one day with a man—tender glances, whispered affection, a kiss.

She had, after all, idly imagined what it might be like to kiss John Lucas when she was thirteen; and later, at age fourteen, she had daydreamed of the tanner’s son with the quick smile and crooked nose.

Her thoughts shifted—cautiously, almost against her will—to Charlotte Lucas.

She tried to imagine pressing her lips to Charlotte’s cheek, to her mouth…

And at once, her stomach turned. She felt vaguely ill at the thought, repulsed in a way she could not quite explain. She sat up briefly, pressing a hand to her middle. No, she could never love a girl like that. She knew it with certainty.

So how, then—how could her father love a man?

She did not know. And that frightened her. He had always seemed so knowable, so constant. And yet this part of him had lived, hidden and deep, for decades.

Although she had known about it for five years, she had pushed it from her mind. Willing herself to believe it was all a mistake, that she was erring in her recollection.

But no, he was a sinner, one of the worst.

And yet…

He had married her mother when she was disgraced and alone. Raised another man’s daughter as his own. Provided for them all. Loved them all. Carried the guilt of one inaction so heavily that he had remade his entire life around atonement.

What kind of man did that?

A good man , her heart whispered.

Yes, a very, very good man.

She turned onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

And he believed in God. Deeply. Devoutly. Not in the performative way many of the gentry did—parading into pews with polished boots and memorized responses—but in the quiet, personal way that could not be faked.

He prayed. She had seen him. Alone, before the hearth, his lips moving, his brow furrowed.

And he had not turned away from faith out of bitterness. He had not said, “They think I am damned anyway, so I may as well give up.” No—he had tried. Day after day. Year after year. To be the kind of man he believed God might still look on with grace.

Tears prickled unexpectedly at her eyes.

She turned onto her side again and pressed her hands together beneath her cheek.

For the first time in her life, she did not repeat the catechism out of habit or whisper the Lord’s Prayer as an obligation.

This was something different.

She cleared her throat softly, almost embarrassed in the dark.

“God,” she whispered, “I… I do not understand.”

The tears came now, not fast, but steady.

“I do not understand any of it. It frightens me. I do not know what made my father this way—if he was born like this, or if his experiences with school changed or warped him.”

Her mind recoiled in horror at what her father had described, and she could only be grateful that Mark had been kept home, that he had not been forced to endure what her father had.

That must be why Papa allowed Mama to keep him home.

She swallowed.

“I know what he is doing is a sin in Your eyes. Your Word is clear on that. But I know he is good. And I know he loves people the way You say we are supposed to. And he has done his best. And I know—I know—he loves You. So please…”

Her voice broke.

“Please forgive him. Please protect him. Please have mercy on him.”

She sniffled, then whispered more quietly, “And please… please help me find someone one day. Someone I can love. Someone who will love me the way my parents never could love each other. Someone who will choose me. And I will choose him.”

She closed her eyes.

Please .

“Amen.”

She lay there in silence, not knowing if what she had done was right. It was not a prayer so much as it had been a conversation, but there was no real way to know if God had heard her… or if He even really existed.

And then, it came.

Not in a thunderclap or a dream or any grand thing, but in the deep stillness of her heart—a profound, overwhelming calm.

A warmth that wrapped around her like a blanket, deeper than breath, softer than words. It was not heat like fire, but like light—soft, golden, safe. It was almost as if someone had wrapped a thick quilt around her soul.

Her breath slowed. Her fingers, which had remained curled so tensely against her collarbone, finally uncurled and relaxed into the sheets. The tightness behind her eyes eased. The storm of thoughts in her mind began to scatter, like birds lifting from a tree and flying home.

And she knew.

She did not know how she knew, but she did.

That somehow, beyond her sight and far beyond her wisdom, God was real. And God was listening. And God was holding them all.

There were still no answers.

But God had heard her, and He would take care of her.

Of Papa. Of Stephens. Of everyone.

She no longer needed to decide if something was right or wrong for someone else. She no longer needed to fear the answers. She could trust the One who had made her. The One who had made her father.

She released a long breath and smiled through her tears. The weight slipped from her shoulders.

And she fell asleep with peaceful dreams of love and light and warmth, of arms surrounding her in love.

She dreamed of sunlight through trees and a voice that said her name with joy.

She dreamed of home.

And she woke with the knowledge that she was not alone—and never had been.