Page 18 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

D arcy sat stiffly in the drawing room, posture as straight as ever despite the low flame flickering in the hearth. The lamps had been lit, tea had been poured, and the Bingley sisters had returned to their habitual pastime: critiquing everyone who did not resemble them.

“I do not know when I have been in such rustic company,” said Miss Bingley, her lace cuffs trembling faintly as she stirred her tea. “The ladies were overdressed and unrefined, and the gentlemen either too old or too young. Not one appeared to be the least bit genteel.”

Louisa Hurst gave a small, half-hearted nod from her chair, but her eyes flicked nervously to her brother, whose face was growing red.

Miss Bingley’s voice turned syrupy. “Surely, Mr. Darcy, you cannot delight in Charles forcing you into acquaintance with those of a status so far beneath your own?”

Bingley cleared his throat and shot his sister a warning look. Mrs. Hurst avoided her sister’s bewildered eyes, adjusting her shawl and looking down at her teacup.

Miss Bingley’s brow furrowed faintly as she turned toward Darcy again, awaiting agreement.

He raised one eyebrow. “Quite the opposite. The gathering reminded me very much of the ones I attend in Lambton—the village nearest Pemberley.”

She blinked. “Oh. But surely in Derbyshire the people are much more refined? Your estate is there, after all.”

Darcy allowed a short, dry chuckle. “As Pemberley lies nearly four days from London, and Meryton scarcely half a day, one might argue the people of Hertfordshire are more polished by proximity to the capital. It is along a main road for trade, is it not?”

Miss Bingley paled slightly.

He continued, his tone perfectly pleasant.

“Your brother is introducing himself to a community where he will be a figure of influence for the next year. It is his duty as a gentleman and a tenant of consequence to treat his neighbors with courtesy. As his guest, it is my responsibility to show him to best advantage.”

A brittle silence followed.

Miss Bingley uttered a faint, “I see,” and busied herself with a slice of cake she clearly had no desire to eat.

Darcy turned to Bingley and said more mildly, “I must admit I enjoyed myself more than I expected. The music was passable, and the assembly a valuable opportunity for acquaintance. It is an excellent introduction to life as landed gentry.”

Bingley smiled, clearly pleased.

Darcy set down his teacup and stood. “If you will excuse me, I find I am more tired than I realized. The journey yesterday and tonight’s activity have caught up with me.”

He bowed and quit the room.

As the door closed behind him, Miss Bingley’s voice rose—shrill and sharp with indignation. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he ascended the stairs. He hoped Georgiana would not grow into such a woman—but the latest letters gave him little hope.

In his room, he lit the lamp on his writing desk and broke the seal on two letters that had arrived just that evening.

The first, unmistakably, was in Georgiana’s hand.

The writing was familiar—he had taught her to form her letters himself when she was six years old—but the tone was acid, the ink pressed hard into the paper with angry strokes.

Deplorable and Odious Fitzwilliam,

I hate you. I shall never forgive you. You have ruined everything.

Colonel Fitzwilliam is a brute, and Mrs. Younge is a jailer.

They say I must write to you, but they cannot make me say what they want.

I hope you are miserable. I hope you miss me.

But there is no possible way you can be as miserable as I am without my dear George.

Georgiana

The words blurred for a moment as his eyes refused to believe them.

He read them again.

And again.

His breath caught, sharp and silent. The edges of the paper crumpled beneath his fingers.

He had known—of course he had known—that she would be angry. That she would grieve what she thought she had lost. But this…

Hate? She hates me?

The word echoed like a gunshot through his chest.

Georgiana. The same little girl who had once clung to his waist in tears when he left for university. Who had begged him for just one more story at bedtime, long after she was too old for such things. Who had trusted him with every secret of her childhood.

Now she could not even bring herself to call him brother.

“I hope you are miserable.”

“Well,” he murmured aloud, his voice hoarse, “then at least you may be satisfied.”

He sat heavily in the chair, the letter limp in his hand. The fire crackled faintly in the hearth, but he felt cold to the bone.

Was it truly so wrong to protect her?

He had seen the truth on that beach. Wickham, pale with guilt. Georgiana, clinging to a man who had only ever seen her as a pawn. Darcy had acted—perhaps harshly, perhaps without enough gentleness—but had he not acted in love?

Now she reviled him for it.

He dropped his head into his hand and stared down at the letter again, trying to reconcile the scathing words with the soft-voiced sister who had once written poems for him in her childish script.

It was all done for her sake, he reminded himself. Better a sister who hated him than one married to a man who would have ruined her.

But the ache in his chest did not care for logic.

Only for loss.

He sighed heavily and sank into his chair before picking up the second letter, which bore the tidy, controlled script of Mrs. Younge.

Mr. Darcy,

Your sister is well in body but quite volatile in spirit. I am thankful for Colonel Fitzwilliam’s presence—without him, I fear she would become completely ungovernable.

I must be honest, Mr. Darcy: she blames me for everything that occurred in Ramsgate and has taken to addressing me with outright scorn. I no longer believe I am the best companion for her. I have exhausted every tactic known to me. I am no longer effective in this role.

Additionally, I fear that when she is presented to society, her behavior will reflect poorly not only on herself but on those responsible for her upbringing.

Miss Darcy’s behavior—both now and in the future—may affect subsequent positions, as I doubt any patron or patroness would place confidence in a governess whose charge behaves with such impropriety.

That having been said, I will remain with Miss Darcy until a replacement can be secured, but I ask that it be accomplished within the month. I have recently been offered a position as a governess for a family traveling to India—a lifelong dream of mine—and the compensation is generous.

If you desire, I can provide you with a few names of ladies who specialize in difficult charges. I hope you will understand my decision and allow me to part with thanks for your past trust and patronage.

Respectfully yours,

Agnes Younge

Darcy exhaled slowly, folding the letter with deliberate care and setting it beside the other.

He should not be surprised. Mrs. Younge had always been practical, firm, and fair. He had chosen her because she was competent. But even she had reached her limit.

He stared down at the desk, the two letters laid out like dueling declarations.

His sister hated him.

Her companion had given up.

Richard, for all his warmth and dedication, could not remain her full-time warden forever.

And he… he had no idea what to do next.

He pressed his hands to his temples and let his elbows rest on the edge of the desk. His thoughts were sluggish, weighed down by the burden of failure. He had done everything he was supposed to do. He had chosen a respectable school. Hired respectable companions. Intervened when disaster loomed.

And it had not been enough.

“Not enough,” he said aloud, bitterly. “Never enough.”

He pulled a clean sheet of paper toward him and reached for his pen, beginning with the easier task—his reply to Mrs. Younge.

Madam,

You have my sincere gratitude for your honesty and service. Please do not resign until you leave in a month. I will, of course, provide a raise and bonus for your loyalty. Kindly send along the names and contact details of the women you recommend.

F. Darcy

He sealed the note and set it aside before reaching for a fresh sheet of paper, this one to be sent to Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Richard,

I hope this finds you well, though I fear it will not be so. I have just received letters from both Georgiana and Mrs. Younge, and I confess I scarcely know which alarms me more.

Georgiana’s words are full of grief, anger, and rebellion—directed chiefly at me, though not sparing either you or Mrs. Younge. It is painfully clear that she sees all of us as jailers keeping her in the gaol rather than guardians.

Mrs. Younge, for her part, writes with calm clarity that she can no longer serve as Georgiana’s companion and will be leaving her post within the month.

She has accepted a position with a family traveling to India, and while I cannot fault her for seeking a more pleasant future, the timing is as poor as it is unavoidable.

I must ask you, as her co-guardian and as the man who has known her almost since her birth—what is to be done? You see her more clearly than I can from afar. Has her conduct been as alarming as Mrs. Younge suggests? Did I make the wrong choice in Ramsgate? Have I made some irreparable error?

Fitzwilliam Darcy

He folded the letter to Richard and sealed it with wax, the sharp scent filling the air. That task, at least, was clear: Richard would give him the truth, blunt and unvarnished, with none of Mrs. Younge’s delicacy or Georgiana’s fury.

But the next letter...

He stared at the blank page before him, fingers curled tightly around the pen. How did one respond to a sister who claimed to hate him? Who saw betrayal in every protection? No argument would win her. No lecture would reach her. And yet silence felt like surrender.

He dipped the pen again, hesitated—then began.

Georgiana,