Page 23 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

Mark shook his head. “I would enjoy it, but my mother would never allow it. My father is not a young man, either, and I imagine that by the time the next two years are up, he will wish to turn the running of the estate entirely over to me.”

Miss Elizabeth glanced at her brother, her smile fond. “Mark would have you think that he is all duty and no pleasure, but in reality, he gets much too seasick to enjoy going to the Continent. Just looking at a boat on the Thames in London causes him to turn green.”

Bingley roared with laughter. “That is quite unfortunate,” he remarked once he could speak. “I, for one, was relieved when the war with France meant I could not go abroad—I have no head for foreign languages.”

“That is true,” Mark said, “as you can scarcely write in English.”

Even Darcy had to smirk at this. Bingley’s handwriting really is dreadful.

“What about you, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bingley cooed from her place at the foot of the table, ignoring her brother’s chortling at the jest. “I imagine you, of course, had a Grand Tour.”

“I missed the opportunity,” Darcy said. “Though I had long looked forward to it.”

“Oh?” Elizabeth tilted her head, looking directly at him. “Was that due to the unrest on the continent?”

“In part,” he said. “But the greater reason was my father’s health. He suffered an apoplexy just days before I took my degree. I returned home at once. There was the estate to attend to, and my sister to comfort.”

She stilled at his words, her eyes meeting his, and he saw at once that she had not expected such gravity. He had surprised her.

“I am very sorry,” she said softly. “I did not mean to pry about so painful a subject.”

“It has been five years,” Darcy said, allowing himself a small smile. “The pain is no longer a sword’s wound—merely a paper cut with lemon juice poured on it.”

Her lips parted in surprise before she gave a breath of laughter, which she quickly stifled. Darcy’s eyes could not help but be drawn to her mouth.

Across the table, Miss Bingley gave a scandalized sniff. “Really, Miss Elizabeth. That is quite unfeeling. You ought to apologize at once to Mr. Darcy for reminding him of such a ghastly event.”

“I did apologize,” Elizabeth said calmly, turning back to her plate. “Besides, I believe it was you who initially asked the question.”

Miss Bingley pursed her lips. “Let us speak of something more agreeable. I received a letter yesterday from Lady Van Alstyne—do you know her, Mr. Darcy? She was at Madame St. Valéry’s finishing school with me. The gossip from town is quite amusing this season.”

Darcy inclined his head but said nothing.

Miss Bingley turned to Elizabeth, her expression saccharine. “And where did you attend school, Miss Eliza? Or were you kept at home with the servants?”

“I was educated at home, yes,” Elizabeth replied, her tone as mild as ever. “Perhaps you are unaware—not being the daughter of a gentleman yourself—that many daughters of landed gentlemen are taught by a governess, which was the case for me.”

Darcy blinked, then schooled his face into neutrality, though inwardly he applauded the elegant deflection. Her words had been perfectly measured: calm, courteous, and yet a masterstroke.

Mark bit back a grin. Miss Bingley flushed.

“Well,” she said with a brittle laugh, “Mr. Darcy sent his sister to school, and she is the daughter of an earl.”

Mrs. Hurst nodded emphatically. “Indeed, there were many daughters of good families at our school. Were there not, Caroline?”

They both turned to Darcy, expectant.

But he had been watching Elizabeth—how she had given her brother a tiny wink after her remark, the corner of her mouth tugging upward as she took a delicate bite of her food.

He cleared his throat. “I cannot speak for other families; I can only explain my own reasoning. My sister’s guardians—Colonel Fitzwilliam and myself—are both bachelors, and we felt unqualified to instruct a young lady in the finer points of her upbringing.

My aunt, Lady Matlock, recommended the school.

But after two years, it became clear that it was not the best environment for Georgiana’s character.

We removed her and hired a companion and private masters instead. ”

There was a pause.

Miss Bingley’s lips parted, then pressed tightly together. She looked ready to object or perhaps defend her alma mater, but instead she lifted her chin and said stiffly, “Indeed. Well. Dinner is concluded. Shall we return to the drawing room, Louisa?”

Mrs. Hurst murmured her agreement, and the ladies rose.

Darcy stood as well, his gaze lingering once more on Elizabeth’s face as she excused herself to return upstairs to her sister’s bedside. Her eyes met his, bright and full of mischief, and he felt again that strange sensation in his chest—unfamiliar and almost pleasant.

Almost.

∞∞∞

As the evening wound down, Darcy found himself walking upstairs beside Mark Bennet towards the guest wing. The younger man carried himself with the kind of quiet steadiness Darcy had come to admire—uncomplicated, sincere, and unobtrusively capable.

It surprised him, the ease with which he conversed with Mark.

In truth, he had expected the heir of Longbourn to be brash, perhaps idle or sullen.

Instead, Mark Bennet had proven thoughtful and well-informed, particularly in their earlier discussion of agricultural drainage.

His priorities seemed simple, but admirable: steward the land, protect his family, and live with integrity.

It spoke well of Mr. Bennet as a father—an idea that lingered in Darcy’s mind with quiet significance.

They spoke little as they ascended, but the silence between them was companionable. At last, they reached the landing and went to go their separate ways.

“I hope Miss Bennet sleeps well,” Darcy said. “I imagine her sister’s presence will be of great comfort for her recovery.”

Mark gave a slight smile. “She always does better with Elizabeth. Jane hates to be fussed over, and there are few people she allows to fuss at all.”

Darcy inclined his head. “It is fortunate you were able to come when you did.”

They paused before turning to separate corridors. For a moment, Darcy hesitated.

“You will make a good master of your estate one day,” he said.

Mark blinked, clearly surprised. “Thank you. I hope so.”

“Your concern for your tenants, your sister, your family—it is not so common as it ought to be.”

Mark smiled faintly. “My father says we serve the land, not the other way around.”

Darcy’s mouth lifted just slightly. “A wise sentiment. My own father was much of the same mind. It is not a common viewpoint among landowners, unfortunately.”

“No, many of my schoolfellows would rather play at being heir than actually learn something about those under them.”

They exchanged a final nod before parting.

Darcy turned into his own chamber, where the warmth of the fire and the soft lamplight did little to ease the heaviness in his limbs.

It was more than fatigue—it was the deep weariness of responsibility, pressing down behind his eyes and between his shoulders.

Hosting guests, deflecting Miss Bingley’s insinuations, watching Elizabeth without letting it show—none of that truly tired him.

But managing Pemberley from a distance as harvest neared, navigating Georgiana’s restless moods and the slow unraveling of her innocence.

And then there were those letters. Thankfully none had arrived in the week or so he had been at Netherfield. Maybe she lost interest in me now that I am gone from London.

He sat heavily in the chair beside the fire and rubbed a hand across his brow.

What was he supposed to do about Georgiana? She was not the girl she once had been—playful, curious, wide-eyed. She was still clever, still dear, but there was rebelliousness in her now, and he had not the slightest idea on how to help correct her.

And on top of all that, someone—a woman, based on the script—was watching them. Watching him . Following. Writing. Knowing things they should not know.

His valet, Bates, knocked quietly before entering with his nightclothes. “Evening, sir. I trust dinner was tolerable.”

Darcy gave a tired nod. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet made it tolerable.”

The valet gave a barely perceptible smirk as he set the items down and began the practiced routine of preparing Darcy for bed.

The valet helped him out of his coat and waistcoat, laying them across the foot of the bed before smoothing the sheets and setting out his robe.

“Would you like the fire kept in, sir?”

Darcy nodded. “Yes. Just for an hour or two.”

As Bates moved to gather the shoes, he paused.

“Oh—one more thing, sir. A letter arrived for you today. Unusual delivery, this one. It was found on the back stoop. The deliveryman must have dropped it.”

Darcy turned toward him slowly. “From whom?”

“No return address, but it was postmarked from London. I am sorry it did not arrive with the rest of the post. I placed it on the side table.”

Darcy said nothing, his gaze already fixed on the table.

The valet hesitated. “Is there anything else you require, sir?”

“No. That will be all.”

Once the door closed behind him, Darcy crossed the room in two swift steps, heart beginning to pound—not in alarm, not yet, but in that cold, bracing way that a man feels when instinct precedes reason. The envelope was cream-colored. Heavy. Feminine script.

The same handwriting.

His fingers clenched before he forced them to loosen. He broke the seal and unfolded the single sheet inside.

No matter what move you make, or what steps you take, I am watching you. Darcy, why can you not see that you belong to me?

Darcy stared at the words, the script as tidy as ever—but to his eye, it might as well have been carved in blood. His fingers tightened around the parchment.

When he first began receiving the notes, he had dismissed them as the delusions of a foolish admirer. Perhaps some brazen young society miss at whom he had smiled at a ball.

But then came the note that mentioned Georgiana. Specific details. Things no stranger could know. That had chilled him to the bone.

This, though—this was worse.

This one had found him at Netherfield.

He was not merely unsettled. He was furious. And yet beneath that fury was something else—something far more unwelcome.

Fear.

It was not a sensation he knew well. He had not felt it—true, bone-deep fear—since the night he stood helpless beside his father’s bed, knowing that soon he would be left alone to carry the burden of the wellbeing of hundreds of souls, including his young sister.

And now, standing in a borrowed bedchamber miles from home, with the fire crackling merrily in the grate, Fitzwilliam Darcy shivered. Goosebumps rose on his arms, and he could not shake the feeling that eyes were watching him.

He folded the letter with care, slid it into a secret drawer of his writing desk, and turned the key with a decisive click.

Then he looked to the flames again—but no warmth reached him.

And outside, the wind howled.