Page 25 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

“You may,” she said with mock gravity. “Though I warn you—I shall deny knowing you if the housekeeper faints at the sight of your dirt on her cleaned floors.”

“An excellent plan,” he replied dryly. “Though if she does faint, I suppose you will have to offer her tea and reassurances. Your sister is sleeping, after all, and I doubt Miss Bingley would think of it.”

“Then I suppose I must take the risk.”

And though they said no more, Darcy felt the warmth of her company, her forgiveness, and her wit lingering in the space between them—more healing than the morning air.

∞∞∞

Elizabeth descended to dinner that evening with a lighter heart than she had carried the night before, even after spending a day ensconced with Jane.

The change in her spirits surprised even herself.

She had not expected Mr. Darcy to approach her that morning—still less to apologize with such frank civility.

He had not only acknowledged his sharpness but gone further, sharing enough of his past to make clear that it had cost him something. That, above all, lingered with her.

She had been content the previous night to sit quietly and let Miss Bingley dominate the conversation. It had not been mere disinterest, but unease. Darcy’s reserve had unsettled her more than she cared to admit, and she had no desire to provoke his ire again.

But now, the atmosphere felt different.

Once again, Elizabeth was sitting quietly through the meal, but this time she did not remain silent due to fear. Instead, her thoughts were elsewhere—drawn again and again to the unexpected apology Darcy had offered that morning.

And as Miss Bingley launched into another account of some ball in town—speaking, as ever, with elaborate casualness and one eye on Darcy—Elizabeth allowed her thoughts to drift.

It was not the apology alone—though it had been handsomely worded—but the manner of it. Calm, quiet, and serious.

Aside from Mark, no one had ever treated her that way.

Jane never grew cross, so there was never need for apologies.

Kitty and Lydia were like spring gusts or wayward tides—buffeting her in a moment, then vanishing as if nothing had occurred, leaving only the metaphorical damp hem of her gown behind.

Their moods passed like weather. If they offered apologies at all, they were cursory, childlike.

Only Mark had ever truly met her on equal footing.

Her twin—her second self. With Mark, there was no need to spell things out.

A look, a raised brow, a sigh—and the whole conversation had already passed between them.

But even he, thoughtful as he was, rarely made himself vulnerable in speech.

He did not need to, at least not with her.

On the rare occasions they had quarreled—for what siblings did not quarrel?—and one had genuinely hurt the other, words had been offered—not just an “I am sorry,” but a “Here is why I acted so.” That, to Elizabeth, had always been love: not just affection, but effort.

For all her father’s wit, he preferred solitude when out of temper; Mr. Gardiner, when displeased, simply went silent. They might apologize in time, but they never offered reasons. Never offered her the courtesy of understanding.

And that was why Mr. Darcy’s apology stayed with her. It was not only an indication of good breeding; it was an effort. It meant he respected her, saw her as an equal.

She cast a sidelong glance at him now as he sat across the table, his expression as impassive as ever. He answered Bingley’s question about some parliamentary measure with all his usual precision, his voice low and steady.

Yet she thought of how stiffly he held himself, how rarely he spoke without calculation—and it struck her anew that he was not a man who shared pieces of himself lightly.

So Elizabeth, remembering his expression that morning—the faint line of tension at his brow, the honesty in his voice—could not help but feel that something in him had shifted. Toward her. Or perhaps between them.

To have been offered even a glimpse felt… precious.

It was strange, this sense of being… seen. Not simply noticed, as a young lady to be appraised and dismissed, but seen. Darcy had acknowledged that he had erred. He had trusted her with something difficult. That trust—however slight, however unspoken—made her feel unexpectedly valued.

Not that she needed a man’s approval to feel her worth, of course. She had her mother’s affection, her father’s indulgence, and Jane’s kind-natured support. But still… this was different. She could not name it yet, but it warmed her, even as Miss Bingley’s words prattled on.

Her gaze dropped to her plate. A curl of bitterness crept in unbidden.

No man—other than Mark—has thought me worthy enough to receive an explanation for their behavior. And no woman, for that matter .

The contrast sat with her—quiet and unsettling. She lowered her gaze to her plate. A faint prickle rose at the back of her throat, the sort that came not with tears but with recognition.

She had grown used to being overlooked.

The warmth she had felt only moments before faltered, its light eclipsed by the slow shadow of long-buried resentment.

Why should it be so rare, to be spoken to honestly? Why should kindness—respect—feel like a revelation?

Mark would never have let her feel so invisible. He had always made space for her, even as a boy. They were equals—twins in spirit if not in name. And yet… his world was growing wider with every year. Cambridge. Travel. Tutors. Holiday visits with school friends.

And her world? Longbourn. Gracechurch Street. Occasionally a walk beyond Meryton.

It was not envy of him . She rejoiced in his opportunities. But the unfairness chafed. The same age. The same blood. And yet, how different the expectations.

She swallowed, her appetite dwindling, and tried to redirect her thoughts. But others followed in swift succession, no less troublesome, as years of repressed frustration began to bubble up within her.

Mrs. Bennet had always refused to let her children—especially Mark—travel far. “Too dangerous,” she had always said. “What if something happened? What if we lost him before the entail was broken?”

Elizabeth used to nod, used to understand.

But she had never seen the ocean. Never stood on a shoreline and heard the waves, never watched ships come in and out of port. And hundreds of people went each year, returned with stories of windswept cliffs and briny air, and survived it all just fine. But for her? No.

And all because she was the daughter. Not the heir.

Even London had been a point of contention. Jane was permitted to visit the Gardiners often—too proper, too angelic to be denied. But Mark? Rarely. And Elizabeth hated being separated from him. They were two halves of the same whole.

Still, once in a while, the need to see something new would overcome her, and she would stay with her aunt and uncle in Cheapside for a few weeks.

There she had learned more than just decorum and manners.

She had seen calm households, watched the gentle flow of adult life lived without sharp tempers or loud voices.

She had learned to blend in, to observe, to moderate her own fire.

But even there, she had been a child in their eyes. If Mr. Gardiner had a dark day, he offered a sincere, timely apology—but never a reason. It was simply expected that she understand.

So when Mr. Darcy, of all people, had stopped her on the lawn that morning—had taken the time to clarify, to speak plainly, even awkwardly—it had struck her more deeply than she liked to admit.

She cut her meat with care, her gaze downcast, though her thoughts were fixed on the man sitting across the table.

He did not smile much. He was very reserved. His personality was every bit the opposite of what she thought she would prefer.

But he had spoken.

And in doing so, he had seen her. Not as a mere guest, not as some Bennet daughter, but as someone worth explaining himself to.

And for Elizabeth Bennet, who had long lived in the shadows of brighter sisters, stricter fathers, and stifled freedoms… that meant more than she could say.