Page 41 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

Still, it was difficult not to enjoy the attention.

When it was at last time to return home, Elizabeth stepped out onto the cobbled street with her sisters, their arms laden with brown paper parcels tied in twine.

Mrs. Philips had disappeared back into her sitting room, no doubt to peer through the curtain and monitor the officers’ reactions to her nieces.

The officers were beginning to follow them out the door when Kitty gave a little shriek and pointed down the lane.

“Look! It is Mr. Bingley—and Mr. Darcy! And… is that Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

Sure enough, three horses were approaching at a steady trot, the riders recognizable even at a distance. Wickham, who had been casually adjusting his gloves, glanced down the road and then back toward Elizabeth. Something subtle shifted in his expression.

“I am afraid, ladies,” he said with an elegant bow, “that I have business that cannot be put off any longer. I trust we will meet again.”

His smile lingered a moment more, and then he turned on his heel and vanished with practiced grace around the corner. The other two officers exchanged confused glances, then bowed and followed after their friend.

Elizabeth blinked, mildly taken aback.

Bingley was the first to reach them, swinging down from his horse with bright eyes and flushed cheeks. “Miss Bennet! What a fortunate meeting! We were just on our way to call at Longbourn—Darcy insisted.”

Behind him, Darcy dismounted with somewhat more reserve, while Colonel Fitzwilliam gave them all a cheerful salute before sliding off his own horse with the ease of long practice.

“May we escort you back?” Bingley asked eagerly. “It seems fate has made the decision for us.”

Jane consented with quiet grace, and he offered his arm at once. The colonel turned to Kitty and Lydia, both of whom accepted his attention with visible glee.

Darcy’s eyes were already on Elizabeth. “May I?”

She gave him a faint smile and took his arm. They began to walk slowly, allowing the others to move ahead, their cheerful voices fading with distance.

“I hope you do not mind our approach,” Darcy said after a few steps. “I very much wanted to call these last few days, but… Fitzwilliam and I agreed to wait.”

Elizabeth gave a small nod. “It was wise. The first few days needed to be grounded in new habits and consequences. I fear an indulgent visit would have undone it all.”

He looked troubled. “And how has she borne it?”

“She has not run off, slapped anyone, or broken a plate since the second morning,” Elizabeth said dryly. “That is the kindest way to summarize it.”

He let out a slow breath. “Then she is improving?”

“There has been… some progress,” Elizabeth allowed. “She no longer looks quite so stunned when we follow through on discipline. She resents it, of course, but the shock is fading.”

“I worried she might feel abandoned.”

“She likely does. But it is not true abandonment; it is holding firm to consequences. She must learn the difference.” Elizabeth paused, then added more softly, “You do her no favors by shielding her from discomfort.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But it is difficult, Miss Elizabeth.”

The sound of her name in his voice startled her, but she did not object.

“You are doing what many would refuse to even attempt,” she said. “Trust the process.”

He glanced down at her, something warm flickering in his gaze. “Thank you. Truly.”

They walked a few more steps before Elizabeth, sensing the heaviness of the topic, opted to shift it.

“My father has sorely missed his chess companion,” she said lightly. “He has grown rather despondent without a proper opponent.”

Darcy’s mouth curved. “That cannot be helped. I suppose I had best return this afternoon and give him a proper rout.”

Elizabeth grinned. “I am sure he will be delighted to try.”

The house was pleasantly warm when they arrived, the scent of roasted apples and cinnamon lingering faintly in the front hall. Elizabeth handed her bonnet and gloves to the maid, barely managing to contain her smile as her father emerged from his study, already alert at the sound of new voices.

“Well,” Mr. Bennet said, eyes twinkling as they landed on Mr. Darcy, “the prodigal son returns.”

“I believe I am more Jonah than prodigal,” Darcy replied with quiet humor.

“I only hope you have not been swallowed by the whale.” Mr. Bennet gestured toward the drawing room. “Come, sir. My patience is exhausted. If I must play with Elizabeth again, I shall begin moving pieces at random out of sheer despair.”

“You wound me, Papa,” Elizabeth said with mock indignation.

He kissed her cheek lightly as they passed. “You play a fine game, my dear.”

Darcy gave a small bow as he followed Mr. Bennet inside. Elizabeth trailed behind, her curiosity piqued as always by the strange, developing bond between the two men. It was not the easy camaraderie of equals, nor the formality of mere acquaintance.

It was—something else.

Almost familial.

She shook aside the thought and watched as the first pieces were set into place.

Settling into the window seat with her embroidery hoop, she had an excellent view of both players: her father with his habitual slouch and half-smile, Darcy leaning slightly forward in concentration, fingers resting on the edge of the table like a cat ready to pounce.

“I see you have returned to your favorite opening,” Mr. Bennet said, moving his knight.

“It worked for me once. I thought I would tempt fate,” Darcy murmured.

“Fate is a stingy mistress. Best not to give her too much credit.”

Elizabeth bit her lip to suppress a smile.

As the game progressed, the room fell mostly silent save for the ticking of the clock and the occasional crackle of the fire. Elizabeth watched the interplay with increasing interest. Darcy was certainly a skilled player, but her father had a gift for unpredictability.

Once or twice, Darcy leaned back and narrowed his eyes, as though rethinking everything. Mr. Bennet made his moves with deceptive laziness, hiding the keen edge of his mind beneath a half-lidded gaze.

At last, a breathless few moments passed—and Mr. Bennet murmured, “Checkmate.”

Darcy exhaled heavily, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Well played.”

“Always is,” Mr. Bennet said. “You nearly had me this time.”

They reset the board, but the next game began at a more leisurely pace, allowing conversation to unfurl between moves.

“So,” said Mr. Bennet, drawing out a pawn, “is the general consensus that Miss Darcy should remain with us, Darcy?”

“That depends on your report.” Darcy’s mouth tightened. “I imagine she is still... uncontrollable?”

“Yes, to some extent,” Elizabeth replied. “but she has also begun to realize that she is not in charge of the household, and that her demands will not be met.”

“Children tend to flourish when they know someone else is at the helm.” Mr. Bennet added. “They need structure and rules, something against which to chafe.”

“She may flourish into a cactus,” Darcy muttered, studying the board.

Elizabeth laughed, genuinely this time. “That may be, but even cacti bloom—when watered with consistency and sunlight.”

“Perhaps,” he said, and then looked up at her. “I am grateful for your help. Both of you.”

Mr. Bennet merely grunted. “You may express your gratitude with your next move—preferably a foolish one.”

The game resumed, and Elizabeth watched her father’s knight cut a clean path across the board and land triumphantly at Mr. Darcy’s king.

With a satisfied exhale, Mr. Bennet leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Checkmate, I believe.”

Darcy stared down at the board, frowning with something between frustration and admiration. “Indeed. I am rather out of practice,” he said at last.

“And I rather never lose,” her father replied with a smirk. “But I commend the effort. You kept me on my toes.”

Darcy glanced toward Elizabeth, catching her smile and softening under it. “Then I have no regrets.”

It was at that moment that raised voices echoed faintly from the stairwell—Mrs. Hill’s firm insistence, followed by a high, furious tone that could only belong to one person. A door flung open above, and heavy footsteps raced down.

Georgiana burst into the room, cheeks flushed with exertion and eyes blazing. “You are here?” she cried, staring at her brother and Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Why did no one tell me my brother and cousin had arrived?”

The entire room went still.

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat, rising from his seat. “Because you are not yet out, Miss Darcy, and thus not expected in company.”

Georgiana’s head snapped toward Lydia, who sat composedly on the settee beside Kitty. “And yet she is here! She is younger than I am!”

“Lydia finished her lessons early today and was therefore present when your brother and cousin, along with Mr. Bingley, escorted us home from Longbourn. She has also learned to behave herself in company. Have you finished your work for the day?

Georgiana's mouth opened, but no sound emerged.

“I thought not,” Elizabeth said. “Then you may return to the schoolroom.”

Georgiana turned away from her and fixed her glare on the men. “You will not let them treat me this way,” she said, her voice rising. “You cannot allow me to be degraded in such a household. I am the granddaughter of an earl! These people are—are no one!”

Everyone froze. Mrs. Bennet, her mouth twitching between affront and mortification, turned bright red but said nothing. Jane looked down at her hands. Kitty fidgeted with her sleeve.

But Lydia stood up.

She folded her arms and met Georgiana’s furious gaze without blinking. “Better to be no one than to be someone who acts like a spoiled brat. At least we do not throw tantrums and insults when we do not get our way. You have the manners of a fishmonger’s wife.”

“You little—!”

With a guttural cry, Georgiana snatched a porcelain vase from the side table and hurled it across the room.

Everything happened in an instant. Elizabeth lunged forward, shoving Lydia down and shielding her body as the vase struck her shoulder and shattered, shards scattering across the floor. A sharp sting flared across her arm.

Gasps broke out. The colonel shot to his feet. Mr. Bennet strode forward, face thunderous.

Elizabeth winced but waved off Jane’s cry of concern. “I am all right,” she murmured, touching her sleeve and coming away with a thin line of blood.

Georgiana, panting, looked not triumphant, but stunned.

Mr. Bennet turned to her, his voice like ice. “Go upstairs. At once. We will speak when you are calm—and not before.”

Georgiana looked between the angry faces, then fled the room with a sob, her steps echoing down the hall and up the stairs.

Elizabeth looked down at her torn sleeve, the bright smear across her fingertips. Her heart was still racing, but not from pain. She met Mr. Darcy’s gaze from across the room. He had not moved—he was still sitting, white-knuckled, staring at the broken shards of porcelain on the carpet.

For the first time since Georgiana’s arrival, Elizabeth thought she saw it in his eyes—not anger, not frustration, but shame. And something deeper still.

He said nothing.

Nor did she.

There was, just then, nothing to be said.