Page 39 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

Still pacing, Darcy rang for his valet and instructed him to inquire of Fitzwilliam’s batman whether he might care to ride out with him that morning.

Riding alone did not appeal. Although he logically knew that he was most likely safe from this unknown woman, the idea of being vulnerable on his own made his stomach twist in knots.

While he waited, he pulled back the curtain and stared out toward the fields behind Netherfield. The rising sun was still low on the horizon, but it cast a faint gold across the hedgerows. The mist clung to the earth like a shroud.

He turned back toward his desk and ran a hand through his hair.

Who is she?

The script was elegant—painfully refined. No servant wrote like that. And yet, what woman of quality would follow him? Who would even be able to come into the neighborhood without drawing attention?

But she was coming .

His heart pounded again, just recalling it.

The door opened, and Fitzwilliam entered without formality.

"Darcy," he said. The familiarity of his voice grounded him more than he cared to admit.

"Richard," Darcy returned. He reached for his coat. “I am glad you are awake. I needed to get out.”

“A ride?” Fitzwilliam gave him a long look. “You look like you have not slept.”

“I did not… not well, at least.”

Fitzwilliam did not ask more. He only gestured to the hallway. “Let’s ride until we forget what sleeping is.”

They mounted quickly, the cool morning air biting against their cheeks.

Fitzwilliam gave a short nod, and without a word, they set off—first at a canter, then faster, hooves pounding against the frost-hardened ground.

The moment they passed the edge of the Netherfield woods and reached the open fields beyond, Darcy urged his horse forward with a sharp cry and a dig of his heels.

The animal leaped into a gallop, and Darcy leaned low, the wind howling in his ears, tearing at his coat, stinging his eyes.

His hat nearly flew off; he pressed it down with one hand and bent lower still.

Faster. Faster. He craved speed—no, he craved escape.

The pounding rhythm of the horse beneath him drowned out the relentless echo of last night’s thoughts, the note on the tray, the perfect slant of that feminine hand: I am coming.

He could feel Fitzwilliam beside him, matching his pace, the colonel’s laughter rising into the air like a battle cry. But Darcy barely registered it. His vision tunneled. All that mattered was the beat of hooves, the rush of blood in his ears, the sharp taste of fear he could not shake.

The wind tore through him, dragging the tension out by force. For one wild, reckless moment, he did not feel hunted.

Only when the horses began to falter—flanks lathered, breaths coming in great, shuddering bursts—did he slow. Chest heaving, he pulled gently on the reins and sat back. His stallion’s sides were slick with sweat, steam curling up into the cold air.

Fitzwilliam drew up beside him, just as winded, his grin fading into something softer. He gave a low whistle. “Good Lord, Darcy. Trying to kill the poor beast—or yourself?”

Darcy shook his head, not trusting his voice. The exhilaration was already fading, replaced by a deep, weary ache that settled in his chest.

They walked their horses in silence for a while, the only sound the soft rhythm of hooves over winter grass and the snorts of the tired animals. Then Fitzwilliam asked, low and measured, “How are you truly?”

Darcy hesitated. “I should be ashamed to admit it.”

“Then do not be,” the colonel said quickly. “Not to me.”

Darcy glanced at him. “It nearly undid me, Richard. The note. I—I was not prepared. I felt as if I could not draw breath.”

Fitzwilliam nodded slowly. “Obsession is not a small thing. Especially when it turns threatening. I have seen what it can do, and what it can drive people to. It is not weakness to feel shaken.”

“I know that. In my mind, at least.” Darcy’s voice was tight. “But I cannot help how I loathe my own reaction.”

The colonel was quiet for a time. Then, after a long pause, he said, “I must report to my commander next week, but… I have been considering something. With the militia arriving in Meryton, I may be able to request a temporary reassignment. As oversight.”

Darcy turned sharply toward him. “You would do that?”

“If I am nearby,” Fitzwilliam said, “I can help you find out who this woman is. And I can keep an eye on Georgiana too.”

Darcy nodded slowly, swallowing the emotion that rose in his throat. “Thank you.”

“Speaking of Georgiana,” the colonel added, “we ought to pay a call soon, do you not think?”

Darcy hesitated, then shook his head. “I want to. More than I can say. But… no. Not yet.”

Fitzwilliam arched a brow. “She will think you abandoned her.”

“Yes,” Darcy said heavily. “But perhaps that is what it will take. We have tried everything else, and her behavior is more than just improper—it is dangerous.”

“I suppose you are right,” Fitzwilliam said reluctantly. “But we will call soon.”

Darcy nodded once. “Give her time to settle. Then we go.”

They returned to Netherfield as the morning wore on, the house bathed in sunlight and dew. As they handed over their reins, Fitzwilliam clapped his cousin’s shoulder.

“Worst case, I have about a week left before I must report. Let us use the time wisely.”

Darcy gave a grim smile. “Then let me show you the list of suspects I have compiled.”

∞∞∞

Elizabeth was tired.

Georgiana Darcy had been at Longbourn for less than twenty-four hours, and it already felt as though a month had passed.

Dinner the previous evening had been an exercise in strained civility.

Georgiana had scowled into her soup and replied with clipped, dismissive tones each time someone addressed her kindly.

When Jane complimented her gown, she replied, “It is not new.”

When Lydia asked whether she liked music, Georgiana merely lifted her chin and said, “I have been taught by masters,” before turning her attention to her bread roll as if the conversation were beneath her notice.

And tea—heavens. Elizabeth had endured tea with her on the sofa in the drawing room, explaining gently what would be expected of her: lessons after breakfast; chores appropriate to her age and station; such as keeping her room straightened; family walks; meals taken with the household.

Georgiana had listened in stony silence for a time before fixing Elizabeth with a look of imperious disdain and saying, “I do not see why I must be trained like a scullery maid. My governesses never required such things of me.”

No, Elizabeth had thought with some sharpness, but your governesses evidently fled the position for good reason.

Now, with breakfast already cooling on the sideboard, Elizabeth stood at the base of the stairs, her hand resting on the banister, preparing to go up—for the third time—to attempt coaxing the spoiled girl from her room.

“Leave her,” Mr. Bennet said behind her, his voice low and steady. He stood with his coffee cup in hand, his brows lifted with faint amusement. “A third summons would only make her queen of the castle. Let the breakfast go cold. Let her stomach rumble.”

Elizabeth hesitated. “She has not eaten since tea yesterday.”

“Nor, I dare say, has she spent the night sewing her apology into a sampler,” he replied. “Let her feel the consequence. Natural and unavoidable.” He took a sip of his coffee and added, “Besides, your face, my dear, looks as though it dearly wishes to be wrapped in a warm towel and left alone.”

That coaxed the faintest smile from her. “My face and I are not currently on speaking terms.”

“Then let your eyes rest and your spine remain vertical. The world will continue to turn if Miss Darcy misses a meal.”

With a breath, Elizabeth turned from the staircase and walked back toward the parlor. Georgiana might yet appear—hungry, haughty, or halfway human—but if she did not, so be it.

If Georgiana wished to isolate herself, that was her choice. They would not dance attendance on her whims.

No one would beg her to come down.