Page 29 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

“I must say,” she broke in gently, “I am impressed. Do you truly know the names of all your staff? And all of these people work in your London home?”

He blinked and pulled himself back from the brink of folly.

“Er, yes. I know all of them, even the kitchen’s errand boy.

Many of them come from Derbyshire. The household is long-established, and the majority of the London staff are children or grandchildren of tenants or servants at Pemberley.

I have known many since either their childhood or mine. ”

“That must help, to be able to trust them.”

“One would think,” he said grimly, “but such assumptions have proven false before. Still, there is generally never any gossip in London. Much to Miss Bingley’s disappointment.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened as she lifted her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Surely not! She asked your own servants about details of your household?”

“She sent her own staff to inquire after mine. It is more common amongst the ton than you might suppose.”

She laughed. “Well, I suppose the gossips of Hertfordshire must seem tame by comparison.”

Darcy smiled faintly and returned to his list, but her next observation startled him.

“They are all women.”

He blinked. “I… yes. I suppose I thought—well, it only makes sense.”

She tilted her head. “You should not rule out the possibility that a man wrote them. Or had someone written them on his behalf.”

He gaped at her. “You believe—surely not—what man would write such things to another man?”

Her mouth twitched. “You would be surprised.”

How on earth would she know about that sort of thing? He cleared his throat stiffly. “In any case, the style is feminine.”

“I agree. But for thoroughness, you ought to consider all possibilities. What if it were a lover of a male servant, and he was placing them on her behalf?”

He nodded slowly and began to add male names, though his mind had begun to drift again.

She was so near. Her hand still rested on the chair behind him. Her shoulder brushed his. Her profile, half-lit by the window’s filtered light, was exquisitely calm. The warmth of her presence dulled the sharp edges of his nerves.

He dared not look at her. He dared not move.

Part of him was suddenly, sharply aware of how easy it would be to shift, just a little, to turn his head, to brush his lips against her cheek in feigned accident…

He would never permit himself such liberty—but the longing had rooted itself firmly, stubbornly.

Just then, a sharp voice sliced through the quiet. “Mr. Darcy!”

They both turned.

Miss Bingley stood in the doorway, painted lips pulled into a cool smile, her eyes flicking between them with visible disapproval.

Darcy rose at once, stiffening. “Pardon me, Miss Elizabeth. I had promised Bingley a discussion before luncheon.”

Elizabeth looked amused, though she curtsied. “And I should check on Jane.”

He followed her out, folding the list and pocketing it. Miss Bingley was left behind in the library, her eyes narrowed and her expression souring by the second, with nothing but the dust motes and her peevish disappointment for company.

∞∞∞

As Elizabeth made her way toward Jane’s room, her thoughts were not of her sister, nor even the dinner ahead, but of Mr. Darcy.

He had looked so pale that morning—more than pale, stricken. She had watched his self-possession crumble, seen the fear he had struggled so hard to hide. And it haunted her still.

Whoever was tormenting him with those strange and unsettling letters had gone too far.

It was not right. It was not fair. He already carried so much—the burden of wealth, responsibility, family, propriety.

He was proud, certainly, and not always easy to read, but in the quiet hours they had spent speaking together, Elizabeth had begun to glimpse the man behind the reserve.

A man worn thin by worry, duty, and perhaps loneliness.

Who would be so cruel as to torment a respectable gentleman like him?

She hated the idea of someone toying with him. Whatever else could be said of Darcy, he did not deserve to be hunted like prey. And if there were some small thing she might do to ease his mind—to remind him that he was not alone—then she would do it gladly.

A plan formed in her mind as she stepped into Jane’s room and helped her prepare for dinner. Before joining the others downstairs, Elizabeth paused just long enough to ask one of the footmen if a chess set might be placed in the drawing room after dinner.

“On the side table near the fire,” she added with a smile.

In the dining room, Elizabeth sat between Jane and Mrs. Hurst, who was more occupied with her wine glass than her plate.

“Longbourn geese are far superior to any I have tasted elsewhere,” Elizabeth said lightly, casting a glance across the table toward Mr. Hurst, who was muttering about dry breast meat.

Mr. Hurst looked up, blinking. “Eh?”

She smiled. “I only mean that our cook swears by her method—she stuffs them with apples and herbs and never lets them dry out.”

Across the table, Mr. Bingley grinned. “That sounds promising! I shall have to beg the receipt from your Mrs. Hill.”

Miss Bingley sniffed. “Surely there are finer pursuits to discuss at table than geese.”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “Few things are more dangerous than offending a cook by questioning her goose.”

Darcy’s lips twitched. He did not laugh, but he did look up from his plate, his eyes catching hers.

Encouraged, Elizabeth pressed on. “The eldest son of Sir William Lucas once attempted to roast a duck himself. He had read a French treatise and thought himself quite the expert. The duck, alas, did not agree.”

“What happened to it?” Bingley asked, clearly delighted.

“It exploded,” Elizabeth replied with perfect solemnity. “Or so he insists. The kitchen staff described it merely as 'dramatically overdone.'”

Darcy gave a single, short laugh, which seemed to startle even himself.

Jane glanced between them with quiet satisfaction.

Miss Bingley narrowed her eyes. “Cooking accidents are not exactly genteel conversation,” she murmured.

“But very human,” Elizabeth said, taking another bite. “And quite diverting, when no one is injured.”

For a few moments, the table lapsed into a more contented rhythm, punctuated by occasional remarks from Mr. Bingley and Jane about the weather and local walks.

Darcy was silent again, but not withdrawn—his gaze often found Elizabeth’s, and once, when she passed the stewed carrots down the table before he asked for it, he gave her a small, surprised nod.

“Have you ever read Cowper’s poem about the hare?” Elizabeth asked suddenly, directing her question across the table.

Mr. Hurst frowned. “Can’t say I have.”

Darcy looked up again. “You mean The Task ?”

Elizabeth smiled. “Yes. There is something very tender about how he writes of the creature. I always wondered if he had a pet rabbit as a child.”

“I believe he did,” Darcy said quietly. “He wrote several letters about it.”

Elizabeth brightened. “I thought as much! There is a line… what was it? Something about the soft and silent pace of their feet?”

Darcy's voice was soft but steady as he quoted, “'A solitary hare hath led me far.'”

Their eyes met again. The candles flickered, and Elizabeth felt a surprising warmth stir in her chest.

Miss Bingley set down her fork with more noise than necessary.

“I cannot see the point in rabbits,” she said. “They dig up the flower beds and leave droppings everywhere.”

Bingley gave a rueful chuckle. “Caroline was once chased by a rabbit when she was ten. It ran straight at her.”

Miss Bingley flushed. “It startled me. There is a difference.”

Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from laughing.

“I daresay even rabbits may have their moods,” she said with mock seriousness.

Darcy’s shoulders eased. His fork moved more steadily, and though he did not speak much more, he did not retreat. When Elizabeth stole a glance at him toward the end of the meal, she caught the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth—and knew she had earned it.

It was not much. But it was something.

When the ladies retired after dinner, Elizabeth lingered by the hearth, pretending an interest in the fire until the gentlemen joined them.

Darcy entered shortly behind Bingley, his gaze sweeping the room once before settling on her.

He was still pale, and the shadows beneath his eyes had deepened—but he inclined his head to her in acknowledgment, and she met his glance with an encouraging smile.

She rose and crossed to the chess table. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, her tone bright, “I was hoping you might indulge me in a game.”

Miss Bingley, who had just picked up a deck of cards, gave a sharp laugh. “Chess, Miss Bennet? Surely you are jesting. It is a gentleman’s game.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “And what is a lady to do when there are no gentlemen clever enough to provide challenge?”

“Miss Elizabeth has clearly not played with my cousin,” Darcy said dryly as he stepped forward. “Though she is bold to ask.”

Miss Bingley sniffed. “I cannot imagine dear Miss Darcy playing such a game. It is far too serious for a truly gently-bred young woman.”

Darcy looked down at the board, already beginning to set the pieces. “Georgiana is eager to learn. I see no harm in it. My aunt, Lady Matlock, plays well enough to beat my uncle half the time—though she does insist the knight should move in a straight line, and refuses to be corrected.”

Elizabeth laughed, delighted. “Perhaps that is the secret to her victories.”

He gestured to the chair opposite him. “Shall we?”

They played. And to Elizabeth’s delight, it was no mere performance of politeness—Darcy played earnestly, though not unkindly, and she gave as good as she got.

Their conversation was sparse during the game, but their expressions told more: her sly grin when she claimed one of his bishops; his raised brow when she countered a feint; the quiet hum of approval when she forced him into a longer match than expected.

In the end, he won—but not without effort. Elizabeth leaned back with a sigh of defeat and a gleam of triumph in her eye.

“That,” she said, “was the hardest loss I have had in some time. I shall have to inform my father and tell him I have finally been bested.”

“You play with him often?”

“Only since Mark left for school. Since he went, I have been my father’s only opponent, though he rarely lets me win.”

Darcy smiled faintly. “It is a rare thing, Miss Bennet, to meet a lady who plays so well.”

“It is a rarer thing to meet a gentleman who will admit it,” she replied, and their eyes met.

The warmth lingered.

At the end of the evening, Elizabeth paused before leaving the room. “Mr. Bingley,” she said, “might I ask that your carriage return us to Longbourn tomorrow?”

The request caught them all off guard. Bingley’s face fell.

“Tomorrow?” he echoed. “But Miss Bennet—are you quite well?”

“I am well enough,” Jane said, though her voice was uncertain.

Elizabeth placed a steady hand on her arm. “Our brother will return to school soon. I wish very much to spend his final days with him.”

A long pause followed. Darcy’s expression was unreadable, but Bingley looked genuinely disappointed. Then his face brightened again.

“Then let me invite your brother and father to join us here tomorrow,” he said eagerly. “We can spend the afternoon together—yes?”

Elizabeth hesitated, but Jane nodded in encouragement.

“That would be very kind,” the elder girl said sweetly. “Thank you.”

As they turned to continue upstairs, she glanced back once—and caught Mr. Darcy watching her with an expression she could not quite name.

Not admiration.

Not gratitude.

Something deeper.

Something warmer.

It made her heartbeat quicken as she turned away.