Page 31 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

“Indeed, we must not put out the servants with such little notice,” Mr. Bennet interrupted rising to his feet and bowing slightly. “But you are most kind. Besides, my wife will want a full account of the day’s conversation—and I must leave time to embellish it to her liking.”

Darcy rose and bowed, feeling oddly warm with contentment. He watched as Elizabeth embraced her father and brother goodbye.

It was only when the door closed did he realize he had not thought of the letters once during the entire evening.

∞∞∞

The following two days at Netherfield followed much the same pattern as the first. Elizabeth tended to Jane, who was now able to come below-stairs for much of the day, and she continued her morning walks.

Mr. Darcy joined her each time, and though they rarely spoke of the note again, there was a new degree of understanding between them.

Something unspoken passed between their glances, a cautious trust forged in the shared shadow of unease.

At last, Jane was declared well enough to return home, and Elizabeth could not deny a certain reluctance to leave.

Still, the warmth of Longbourn—with its chaos, its comfort, and its sheer familiarity—soon reasserted itself.

Mrs. Bennet was beside herself with joy at the success of Jane’s stay, claiming prophetic insight all along.

Kitty and Lydia, full of excitement at any news from Netherfield, hung on every word of the sisters’ account, observing that Darcy’s pride seemed less offensive than it had been previously.

The morning after their return from Netherfield, Elizabeth was scarcely seated in the drawing room when Hill announced Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy.

“Oh, how very attentive!” Mrs. Bennet said, smoothing her fichu with a pleased smile. “But then, I suppose he must call. It would be scandalous not to inquire after dear Jane after so many days under his roof.”

Elizabeth bit back a smile. Her mother’s glee was evident, but it was not as shrill or overpowering as it might once have been. Indeed, the weeks of watching Jane suffer had sobered even Mrs. Bennet’s matchmaking tendencies—if only slightly.

“Do remember, Mama,” Jane murmured beside her, “he may be calling out of courtesy.”

“Nonsense, child. I know gratitude when I see it, and he is most grateful—for your gentle conversation, your complexion, and your excellent manners.”

When the gentlemen were shown in, Bingley went immediately to Jane with a warmth that could not be mistaken for mere politeness. He took her hand with such tender concern that even Elizabeth could not deny that the young man was besotted.

Though Darcy offered no explanation for accompanying his friend, it soon became clear that his time was not spent merely in dutiful silence. He took to playing chess with Mr. Bennet in the drawing room, and the two men began forming a rapport that Elizabeth had not expected.

Mr. Bennet, though often amused at society’s pretensions, respected intelligence above all else—and Mr. Darcy, for all his reserve, revealed a quick and strategic mind across the chessboard.

Elizabeth observed their interaction with a kind of quiet pleasure.

She had rarely seen her father engage with any gentleman so fully.

Gone was her father’s habitual irony, replaced by a subtle attentiveness. And Darcy—though still composed—was visibly enjoying the challenge. He even made a small sound of admiration when Mr. Bennet reversed a sequence she had seen him use to defeat Mark a dozen times.

At one point, her mother leaned over and whispered, “Well, I never thought he would warm to anyone. Mr. Darcy, I mean. I daresay your father has bewitched him.”

Elizabeth turned back to her embroidery to hide her smile. Her mother might be softened, but she had not changed entirely.

As soon as the game ended—where, once again, Mr. Bennet had left the victor—Darcy and Bingley took their leave. They returned again the following day, however, beginning what would become a steady ritual over the following sennight.

Each morning, Hill announced their arrival, and each morning, Mrs. Bennet contrived not to look too triumphant—though she never quite succeeded.

“They have come again, Jane,” she would say, fussing with her eldest daughter’s ribbons or hairpins. “It is not possible to mistake the cause, and I should not be surprised if a declaration is made before the week is out.”

Jane always blushed prettily and said very little, while Elizabeth found herself watching not Bingley’s quiet attentions, but the man who followed him.

Though Darcy spoke but little, there was an ease to his bearing that had not been there before. He greeted Mr. Bennet with a respectful nod, filled with a subtle warmth, and allowed himself to be defeated daily at chess with a dry comment and a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“Ah, I see you are letting me win again, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet said one day after executing an especially cunning trap.

Darcy, moving his knight without lifting his gaze, replied, “If I were letting you win, sir, I should be far less surprised each time it happens.”

Elizabeth looked up from her place by the hearth and caught her father’s grin. “Very good,” Mr. Bennet said. “He has learned to fence with words as well as pieces. We shall make a conversationalist of him yet.”

Mrs. Bennet leaned in to whisper to her second daughter, “He is very quiet, is he not? I wonder what he is thinking of. Something serious, no doubt.”

Elizabeth kept her thoughts to herself. In truth, she wondered about that as well.

For his part, Darcy spoke little to her when they were not alone, although he conversed regularly with her father over the chess board.

Yet whenever their eyes met, she found in his expression a growing familiarity—not boldness, but something close to longing.

And it unsettled her more than she wished to admit.

∞∞∞

The road to Longbourn passed swiftly beneath Darcy’s horse, but not swiftly enough for his liking.

The crisp air stung his cheeks as he rode, but he hardly noticed.

He found, to his own mild astonishment, that he was glad—no, eager —to be returning.

That he should accompany his host on calls was expected.

That he should anticipate an hour at Mr. Bennet’s chessboard with something close to pleasure was rather more surprising.

He had not meant to enjoy the man’s company.

But somehow, over the course of these visits, something like camaraderie had bloomed.

Mr. Bennet was wry, intelligent, and wholly uninterested in empty flattery.

He asked sharp questions and made sharper observations, and Darcy had come to value their conversations more than he had anticipated.

"Tell me honestly, Mr. Darcy,” the older man had said one day, moving a rook with deliberate care. “Did you bring that bishop forward because you thought I would not notice, or because you wanted me to notice?”

Darcy had laughed—actually laughed —and replied, “I believe I am not as clever as I assumed.”

Mr. Bennet smirked. “Then you will be well-prepared for fatherhood.”

Grimacing, Darcy moved a pawn. “I think that being guardian to my sister has me well-acquainted with the feeling already.”

“You said she is fifteen, did you not?” Mr. Bennet had asked, brows raising. “A difficult age, I daresay. I have four daughters, Mr. Darcy, and not a one of them passed through their years of maturing from girlhood to womanhood without some form of calamity.”

“I was not prepared for it,” Darcy had admitted, his gaze fixed on the board. “I knew her as a quiet child—shy, even—and suddenly there were tears, moods, tempers I did not recognize. I confess it frightened me.”

“Perfectly natural,” Mr. Bennet said. “Jane never gave us a moment’s worry—angelic temperament, all sweetness and light. But Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth, seated nearby with her embroidery, had looked up in wary alarm. “Papa—”

Mr. Bennet ignored her protest. “Elizabeth had a streak of fire. Her courses brought out tempers the devil himself would shrink from.”

Darcy, caught entirely unprepared for this level of candor, had flushed scarlet to the tips of his ears. Elizabeth groaned and bent lower over her stitching. “Papa!”

“Oh, hush, my dear. Mr. Darcy needs to understand these things. He has a girl of his own to raise.”

“Not his daughter,” Elizabeth muttered.

“No, but a sister young enough to count.” Mr. Bennet moved another piece. “Kitty wept over everything for nearly a year, poor girl. And then there was Lydia.”

The tone of that remark caused all present to glance toward the hearth, where Lydia had just left a discarded novel and gone out to the garden.

“She was… wild,” Elizabeth said softly. “Too much indulged. I believe we all spoiled her.”

“We were told she would be our last,” Mr. Bennet added with a sigh. “After she was born, the midwife said we ought not expect another. So we gave Lydia whatever she wanted. Too much of it.”

Darcy leaned forward slightly. “You say she was wild. In what way?”

“Oh, the usual. Tantrums, deception, vanity.” Elizabeth glanced at her father. “Do you recall when she cut up all Kitty’s ribbons because she wanted some as well? She thought Mama would relent and take her into Meryton if Kitty had none.”

“I do indeed. And that she wore Jane’s slippers out of doors in the rain, claiming they were hers.”

“Ungovernable,” Mr. Bennet said, shaking of his head. “And might have remained so, had we not finally had the sense to let her feel the consequences of her actions.”

Darcy frowned thoughtfully. “Consequences?”

“Natural ones,” Mr. Bennet said. “You see, if she threw a fit and refused crumpets in favor of tarts for breakfast, we told her to go make the tarts herself.

She wished for the crumpets after all, but we told her she had rejected them and there was no going back.

‘Make them yourself or go hungry,’ I told her.

It was all Darcy could do to prevent his jaw from dropping at the idea of it.

Mr. Bennet continued, “If she left a gown on the floor and it was wrinkled—well, she had to figure out how to wash and press it. The servants showed her, but she had to actually do it herself. Same for dishes left about or messes after her tantrums.”

Darcy glanced toward the window, where Lydia’s silhouette could be seen in the garden beyond. “But did it not… break her spirits? Cause her to feel unloved or unwanted?”

“She felt that way at first,” Elizabeth said with a wry grin. “She would scream for hours that no one loved her and that she hated us all. It nearly broke Mama’s heart.”

“But we stayed firm,” Mr. Bennet said, “and it did not destroy her. She is as lively as ever, but now she is more thoughtful. When the housemaid sprained her ankle, Lydia even volunteered to fetch water for her so the girl did not have to hobble. She learned some compassion—finally.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly, clearly remembering. “I think she realized that being the youngest did not make her the most important.”

“It must be a great comfort to have her on a better path,” remarked Darcy.

“It is,” Mr. Bennet said, glancing at Elizabeth fondly. “And it helps that her sisters are good examples.”

Darcy had spent the remainder of the day and long into the night thinking about what he had learned.

It was very unusual for a gentleman to discuss the rearing of his children, but Darcy found he only admired the man for his candor.

Perhaps I can apply some of this to helping Georgiana , he thought hopefully. When I return to town, I shall.

As Longbourn came into view, he sat a little straighter in the saddle. He would see her again, yes—but he would also see them . A family unlike his own. A father who had begun to feel, in some indefinable way, like something long missed.

He dismounted, handed his reins to a waiting groom, and mounted the steps two at a time.

It felt like he was coming home.