Page 24 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

E lizabeth remained in the chair beside Jane’s bed through the night, though a room had been made ready for her elsewhere.

She could not bring herself to leave—not when her sister tossed and murmured in her sleep, her skin alternately burning and clammy.

She and the maid took turns tending her: fresh cloths on her brow, sips of broth and tea coaxed between parched lips.

Though Jane did not wake fully, she seemed soothed by their presence.

At last, the gray light of dawn crept through the drapes. Elizabeth had just settled into the chair again, her limbs heavy with fatigue, when a soft knock came at the door.

She rose and opened it to find Mark standing there, boots damp and gloves in hand. “The trunks came,” he whispered. “Yours and Jane’s. I had the footmen bring them up. I just came to say goodbye. I am riding back to Longbourn; Bingley’s servant returned with a horse for me.”

Elizabeth nodded, stepping into the hall and pulling the door nearly closed behind her. “Thank you. Be careful on the road—there is still a great deal of mud.”

“I will.” He hesitated, then added, “Do not be surprised if one or both of our parents appear before long, especially now that she is required to remain here. You know how our mother can fret.”

Elizabeth sighed, though her eyes softened. “Try to make it Father who comes. You know as well as I that Mama’s love is fierce—but her nerves do not belong anywhere near a sickbed.”

Mark smiled faintly and squeezed her hand. “Agreed. I will do what I can. Tell Jane I hope she improves soon.”

She nodded, watching him descend the stairs and vanish into the morning mist.

The trunks were brought in shortly thereafter, and Elizabeth made quick work of unpacking Jane’s fresh nightgown.

With the maid’s help, she washed her sister’s face and hands, changed her garments, and oversaw the airing and remaking of the bed.

Jane, still under the mildly sedating effects of the powders, slept deeper and more peacefully than earlier.

Elizabeth noted with satisfaction that her sister’s color had also slightly improved.

Assured of Jane’s rest, Elizabeth stepped into the corridor and quietly made her way down the stairs.

The house was still sleepy—only a few murmurs from servants below and the clink of dishes being arranged for breakfast. A turn about the gardens seemed the best antidote to the heaviness in her limbs.

The air was brisk and damp, and the ground soft underfoot. She had not gone far when she saw Mr. Darcy walking the path that wound near the shrubbery, hands clasped behind his back, his brow drawn in thought. She might have turned back—but he looked up and saw her first.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, stepping aside slightly to make room on the path. “How is your sister this morning?”

“Still fevered,” Elizabeth replied, falling into step beside him, “but she slept better just before dawn. Mr. Jones says she is in no danger, provided she is well cared for.”

“I am glad to hear it. I saw your brother ride out just now.”

“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “He has responsibilities at home, and not much time left before he returns to school. I confess I am disappointed. I had looked forward to spending more time with him—this is the second half of his visit, and I am passing it at Netherfield instead of at home.”

Darcy glanced down at her. “You are very close?”

Elizabeth smiled. “Very. We are twins, after all, and though we are brother and sister, the difference in our sexes never seemed to matter to us as children. It was like having an instant best friend—someone to conspire with, to tease, to race across the pasture or sneak into the orchard. Had it been only Jane and me, I should have grown up far too proper and serious.”

“Was he a good influence, then? Or a bad one?” Darcy asked, one brow lifting with mild amusement.

Elizabeth laughed. “A bit of both. He got me into trouble more than once—but he also shared his lessons, his tutors, his curiosity. I learned far more than I might have otherwise. I owe much to him, and I treasure what time we have when he is home.”

There was a pause before she glanced at him sideways. “Did you have anything similar? A sibling or cousin close in age?”

Darcy’s expression changed. A subtle shadow fell over his features, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter.

“My sister is ten years younger than I am. I was away at school when she was born. I have one cousin near my age—Colonel Fitzwilliam—and we spent much of our holidays together. He is as close as a brother, I suppose.”

“That must have been a comfort,” Elizabeth said gently. “Still, it must have been lonely at times.”

He shook his head slowly. “Not entirely. The steward’s son was my age, and we were allowed to play together as boys. He had a quick wit and a bold spirit. We spent many hours on the grounds.”

Her tone was still light when she asked, “And are you still close, now that you are grown?”

Darcy stopped walking.

His jaw tightened, his shoulders squaring. “No,” he said, clipped and cold.

Elizabeth halted beside him, startled by the change. His face was like stone.

She drew herself up and curtsied. “Forgive me, Mr. Darcy. I did not mean to intrude on a private subject.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked back toward the house, her cheeks warm. The morning chill had not touched her before—but now it stung.

∞∞∞

Darcy watched Miss Elizabeth retreat to the house, her figure graceful even in haste, her shoulders held high though he had seen the flash of surprise in her eyes.

He exhaled a low curse under his breath.

What had possessed him to answer her so curtly?

The image rose unbidden: Georgiana sitting on Wickham’s lap on the shore, her arms wrapped tightly around her neck. He remembered the smirk Wickham had given him—defiant, insolent, triumphant—and his own roaring fury that had driven him forward like a cannon blast.

But that had not been their beginning. No. The beginning was long before—at school, when Darcy had still believed Wickham to be his friend, not the hate-filled, irredeemable degenerate that he was.

He grimaced and picked up his pace, rounding the corner of the shrubbery path and heading back toward the house.

The years had done little to dull the memory of those early betrayals.

Wickham had always been bold, even charming.

Professors excused his laziness; housemasters overlooked his lies.

But Darcy had seen the darker things: debts unpaid, reputations ruined, fortunes won and lost, whispers in corners about the wrong sort of appetites.

His father's hopes for Wickham—to enter the church, to one day be granted the living at Kympton—had turned his stomach. That such a man might one day speak of virtue from a pulpit, under Pemberley’s patronage? No. He would not allow it.

When his father died, Darcy had not even met Wickham to discuss the bequest. He had handed it off to his man of business, instructing him to settle the matter cleanly, and declined every request Wickham made for a personal audience.

The sum agreed upon had been generous—and it had bought peace. Or so he had thought.

But Wickham’s face still haunted him. The thought of anyone presuming they were alike—of anyone mistaking him for such a man—made his very soul recoil.

And yet Miss Elizabeth had only asked a simple question. A kind one, even. And he had answered with ice.

She did not appear again that day except at dinner, where Miss Bingley monopolized every conversation. Darcy had half-hoped for a moment to approach Elizabeth privately, to explain himself in some civil manner, but it had not come.

The next morning, he rose early and took a hard ride across the fields. The exertion was bracing, the cool wind clearing his mind, but not his conscience. The memory of her face—confused and hurt—remained with him.

It was just as he returned to the house, boots still muddy and coat damp from a patch of morning mist, that he caught sight of her once more.

She was walking alone across the lawn, her bonnet tilted back slightly, face turned toward the sun. Something in him lightened at the sight.

He veered toward her.

“Miss Bennet,” he called out.

She turned, blinking against the light, and her lips curved faintly when she saw him. “Mr. Darcy. I must compliment your punctuality. You seem determined to keep the same schedule as the dew.”

He approached, slightly breathless—not from exertion, but from the sudden need to say it plainly. “I came to offer you an apology.”

Her brow lifted.

“I spoke poorly yesterday,” he said. “You asked a kind question, and I gave a harsh reply. That was unfair of me.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, watching him carefully. “It was a clipped ‘no,’ as I recall. I was not overly wounded.”

“But I was wrong,” he said. “The memory you touched upon is one of betrayal. I reacted without thought, and I regret causing you discomfort.”

For a moment, she was silent.

Then, her expression softened. “Thank you. I do understand. We all have our ghosts.”

He exhaled, a true breath this time, the tension leaving his shoulders. “I had not meant to be sharp.”

“Then I shall not hold it against you.”

A smile touched her mouth, and she gave a sidelong glance to his boots. “Although, if I might be permitted to tease—you are certainly a bold man to come offering apologies while wearing half the field on your trousers.”

Darcy looked down and gave a huff of self-deprecating laughter. “Indeed. I ought not to be seen by anyone respectable in such a state.”

“And yet, here you are. Does this mean you think I am not respectable?”

He made to protest, then saw the smirk on her face and twinkle in her eye. He smiled ruefully.

She turned to walk, and he fell into step beside her, boots squelching faintly in the soft grass. The breeze tugged at her hem as they approached the house.

“May I escort you to the door?” he asked.