Page 27 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

Debating whether to begin her morning with the book or a walk, she looked towards the window.

The garden was still wrapped in shadow. The sun had yet to crest Oakham Mount, and she deemed it too dim for a safe walk in unfamiliar grounds.

So instead, she drew a chair to the window, nestled into it, and opened the book with reverence.

Something fluttered from between the pages and landed in her lap. She frowned. A folded piece of paper—a bookmark, perhaps? But when she picked it up and went to place it back in the book, she saw handwriting.

At first, a strange hope surged in her chest. Had Mr. Darcy left a note for her?

She looked more closely. The hand was narrow, slanted, and unmistakably feminine.

Disappointment struck hard and sudden. Of course it would not be from him. Why would he write to me?

But then, if it was from a woman… Is he courting someone in London, perhaps? Or even a mistress?

She knew she should not open it. She knew she should simply slip it back into the book, pretend she never saw it.

Her curiosity, however, overruled her sense of propriety. She drew a deep breath and opened it.

I will follow you, Darcy… follow you wherever you may go. There is no ocean too deep, nor no mountain too high that will be able to keep me from you. You are my destiny, from now until forever .

Elizabeth’s mouth went dry, and her eyes scanned it again.

The writing was elegant, even graceful, but something about it set her teeth on edge. There was nothing overtly improper in the words, yet the effect of them—so breathless, so cloying, so insistently possessive—made her skin crawl.

This was no sweet billet-doux. It felt more like a… declaration.

She folded it at once and stared down at her hands. Guilt and unease waged a small war in her breast.

What do I do now?

She glanced back at the book and set it carefully aside. The note she slipped into her pocket—she dared not leave it lying about, and she resolved to return it at the earliest opportunity. But for now, the garden beckoned. She needed the fresh air to clear her thoughts.

She slipped out of the room quietly, leaving Jane still in peaceful slumber, and made her way through the house to the garden paths. The mist was still lifting from the hedgerows, and the lawns were silvered with dew. She was just rounding a laurel hedge when a familiar figure appeared ahead.

Darcy.

He paused as he saw her, then tipped his head. “Miss Bennet. Good morning.”

She curtsied. “Good morning, Mr. Darcy.”

“I hope your sister is continuing to improve?”

“She is, thank you. She slept soundly through the night and woke only once.”

He nodded, and for a moment they walked together in silence.

“I must thank you for the books,” she said at last. “Your taste is quite… varied.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Do you approve?”

“Very much. Though I hope you will not be scandalized to learn I had already read the tract on crop rotation, and not the novel.”

“Not at all. I rather suspected it.”

She laughed softly. “I have been fortunate to be encouraged in learning. My brother’s tutors never barred me from their lessons, and our governess was content to let me study what I pleased.”

He glanced at her with real interest. “That is uncommon.”

“I daresay,” she said. “But I can conjugate Latin verbs, calculate large sums, and have read both Plato and Homer—in translation, of course.”

He gave a short laugh. “Then you are more learned than several of my schoolmates. Most had their fags do their work for them, and reserved their time for racing, gaming, and worse.”

“I have always wished women could attend university,” she said frankly. “I would not have wasted the opportunity.”

“You believe young men do?”

“Many. Thankfully, Mark grew up hearing my complaints and has taken it more seriously than most.” She paused, then added, “I miss him dreadfully when he is at school.”

“I imagine it must be a trial after growing up so closely.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Our father misses him as well. Before Mark left for the first time, Papa began drawing me more into his evenings—asking for conversation and even teaching me to play chess.”

Darcy’s brow lifted. “And are you any good?”

“I play passably well. I beat my brother regularly, but my father was a master at school. He wins nearly every game.”

“A master, you say?” Darcy asked thoughtfully. “I myself am quite good at chess.”

Elizabeth’s eyes lit up. “Then you must play my father when you next come to call!” She blushed slightly, realizing how her words must sound.

“I mean… that is… well, my father frequently complains that no one nearby can challenge him. He is forced to play by mail, and the delay frustrates him beyond words.”

“I should be pleased to accept.”

They had nearly completed their circuit of the garden, drawing closer to the back terrace with every step.

The warmth between them—so tentative, so newly established—made Elizabeth loath to disturb it.

Yet the note weighed heavily in her pocket, a tangible reminder of what she had seen.

She had no right to read it. She had not meant to. But she had.

Twice she opened her mouth to speak, only to close it again. What if he thought her prying? What if he believed she had searched his gift for secrets? She had promised herself to return the letter at once, and yet now that he was beside her, she could not bring herself to say the words.

They turned back toward the house. Another minute, perhaps less, and the moment would be lost entirely. She felt the pressure build behind her ribs, the way it always did when she stood on the edge of doing something difficult—something right.

Elizabeth slowed her steps.

“There is something I must give you,” she said at last, her voice careful. “When I opened the novel this morning, something fell from it. At first, I thought it was merely a bookmark. I am sorry, if it lost your place.”

Darcy frowned slightly. “I… had not yet opened it,” he said, puzzled. “I purchased it just before I left town. Most likely it was a scrap left by the printer or even another patron of the bookshop.”

She hesitated, then reached into her pocket and drew it out, still folded.

“It is not blank,” she said softly. “There is writing. I—well—it opened as it fell, and I could not help but see…”

She did not finish the thought. Instead, she held it out to him with a guilty glance.

Darcy took the paper from her hand.

The moment his eyes scanned the page, the change in him was immediate. The color drained from his face, and his shoulders stiffened. His hand clenched tight around the note, and his mouth thinned into a line as hard and bloodless as stone.

Elizabeth stood very still.

“Mr. Darcy?” she said, barely above a whisper.

He did not answer.

∞∞∞

Darcy stared at the note, the elegant, slanted feminine handwriting scrawled across the paper like a spider’s web—beautiful, but ensnaring. He read the words once. Then again. Each syllable struck with greater force than the last.

I will follow you…follow you wherever you may go… forever.

His fingers tightened around the paper. His pulse thundered in his ears.

“How is this possible?” he whispered.

He had bought the book only a day before departing London. He had not even cracked the cover. How—how could this have happened? Who had touched it? Who had watched him? Who knew ?

It felt as though the earth had shifted beneath his feet. His breath came faster. Shallow. He could not get enough air. His heart was pounding—faster, harder. Panic crawled up his throat.

They had followed him.

Not just to London. Not just to the bookseller’s. But here.

Here.

To Hertfordshire. To Netherfield. To this house.

His eyes darted wildly to the hedgerows, to the winding paths that disappeared behind clusters of boxwood and holly, to the gray stone wall that bordered the garden’s edge.

The roses swayed gently in the morning breeze, but to Darcy’s frenzied mind, each shifting leaf became a figure ducking just out of sight.

He spun in place, his gaze sweeping the lawn, the terraces, the corners where shadow met sun, searching for the glint of a spying eye—for the slightest sign that someone was watching.

That she was watching.

His breath came in ragged bursts, shallow and rapid, as though the very air had thickened and turned against him. A fine tremor began in his hands and spread through his limbs, his skin clammy despite the growing heat of the day.

The garden, once serene, now seemed a trap. A stage set for his unraveling.

He could not breathe. He could not think.

A hand gripped his arm.

He cried out, jerking back, tearing himself away and turning to face the threat—

Only to meet the wide, worried eyes of Elizabeth Bennet.