Page 42 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

D arcy could not move.

His eyes remained fixed on the shattered porcelain strewn across the rug and the still-quivering figure of Elizabeth. She was standing stiffly, hand clutched tightly over her arm. The room was utterly silent, save for the uneven sound of her ragged breath.

Then he saw it: the crimson stain spreading beneath her fingers.

His body acted before his mind caught up. He crossed the space in three strides, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket.

“Here,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “It is clean.”

She did not flinch as he pressed it to her arm, though her jaw tensed.

The room stirred behind them. Mrs. Bennet’s breath caught in a whimper, her face pale and trembling.

Kitty sat on the settee with wide, wet eyes, Lydia at her side now, subdued into silence.

Mr. Bingley hovered near Jane, who had tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

She made no effort to wipe them away, simply watching her sister with quiet devastation.

Darcy had no words. His hands were steady, but his heart was not. The gash had bled far more than he wished to see. What if she had not stepped in front of her sister in time? What if the porcelain had struck her throat or temple instead?

He dared not complete the thought.

Mr. Bennet’s voice, firm but calm, cut through the thick silence. “Hill!”

The housekeeper appeared almost instantly, clearly having lingered just outside the door. Her gaze swept the room, took in the shattered vase, the blood, the silence. Mr. Bennet pointed his chin in the direction of his wife, and Hill crossed swiftly to Mrs. Bennet and took her arm gently.

“No,” Mrs. Bennet cried, her voice high and wavering. “No, I must stay—I must be with my Lizzy!”

“Dearest,” Mr. Bennet said, rising and touching her hand. “You shall only make yourself ill. Go upstairs now. I shall remain, and I will see to her.”

Mrs. Bennet hesitated, tears rising to her eyes, but at last allowed Hill to lead her from the room. Her ragged breathing echoed faintly down the corridor even after she had gone.

Mr. Bennet turned to Lydia. “Take Kitty up with your mother. And send a footman for Mr. Jones at once.”

Elizabeth lifted her head sharply. “Truly, Papa, that is not necessary. It is not so very deep.”

Darcy looked up at Mr. Bennet, who gently peeled the handkerchief away for the briefest glance. The blood welled up at once. “I believe stitches will be required,” he said.

Darcy groaned aloud, unable to help it. “Stitches.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward. “Let me see.”

Darcy made room as the colonel leaned in to inspect the wound. After a moment, he gave a single nod. “Your father is right. That will not heal neatly without assistance.”

Elizabeth gave a weak laugh. “Must I solicit a third opinion as well? Mr. Darcy, surely you will be on my side?”

He looked into her face—too pale, too brave—and felt any inclination to jest fall away.

“Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “I insist you be seen by the apothecary.”

Her smile faltered. “I see I am quite overruled.”

She sighed and settled back against the chair. Darcy resumed his place beside her, holding the handkerchief in place once more, though now it was soaked. His gloves were stained. He did not care. All that mattered was keeping pressure, ensuring no more blood was lost, no more harm done.

She had stepped between danger and her sister. She had taken the blow without hesitation.

And she might never know how much he admired her for it.

He clenched his jaw and looked down at her hand, still steady, still holding the linen where he pressed it. Steady, though her dress sleeve was torn and soaked, though her skin was pale, though she had to be in pain.

She was remarkable.

He would not forget this.

He would not let Georgiana forget it, either.

A maid was called in, silent and efficient. She curtsied, fetched a broom and dustpan, and carefully swept away the jagged remains of the vase. No one spoke while she worked—not even Kitty or Lydia, who sat huddled together on the settee, their expressions sober.

When the last shard had been collected and the door had closed behind the maid, the hush remained—deep, suffocating.

Elizabeth was the one to break it.

“Well,” she said at last, adjusting the handkerchief that still pressed against her arm, “as we are all to remain here until Mr. Jones arrives, we may as well address the matter which weighs most heavily on us all.”

Darcy tensed. He knew what must come next. They all did.

“Georgiana—or rather, her actions and the consequence,” Elizabeth said plainly.

Neither he nor Fitzwilliam spoke. Mr. Bennet remained seated by the fire, fingers steepled. The silence was its own reply.

Elizabeth gave a quiet sigh and continued, “We established the consequence for physical violence from the beginning. If injury was caused, it would result in a switching. That was agreed upon.”

She glanced down at her arm, then back at them all. “I do not presume to say what must happen. I am the injured party—it would be improper for me to render judgment.”

Darcy’s eyes flicked to Fitzwilliam, who watched Mr. Bennet expectantly.

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly.

“At the risk of appearing partial toward my daughter, I must say that the consequence ought to be upheld.” His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it.

“Miss Darcy has little control over her temper, and while Lydia’s words were ill-considered, it is the ease with which your sister resorted to violence that concerns me most. If we allow this to pass unpunished, we will undo every bit of progress made thus far—and perhaps invite worse. ”

Darcy closed his eyes briefly. Georgiana. How did we come to this? He had only ever wanted to shield her. Always. From pain. From loss. From grief.

But instead, he had created a monster.

He turned to Fitzwilliam, who nodded grimly.

“I have seen more men than I can count turn their lives around after a lash or two knocked the pride out of them. This is no different. She is not a child—not truly. Some women younger than she are married and mothers by now. She must learn there are boundaries.”

Darcy inhaled slowly. His chest ached. “It breaks my heart to agree with you,” he said, voice low. “I have always seen her more as a daughter than a sister. But…” He glanced at Elizabeth. “We must begin as we mean to go on. If there is to be order, there must be consequence.”

No one contradicted him.

A moment passed.

“Then we must decide,” Elizabeth said gently, “who is to carry it out… and what instrument is to be used. A ruler? A birch switch? How many strokes, and where?”

It was not said lightly, nor cruelly. Only with the calm decisiveness of a woman used to unpleasant necessities.

Darcy swallowed against the bile rising in his throat.

Mr. Bennet spoke again, slowly. “From my own school days, and what I employed sparingly with my children, I recommend three lashes to the buttocks, with a light birch switch. Enough to leave a stinging welt, but not to draw blood or scar. And I must say plainly, I do not feel comfortable performing the act myself. She is not my daughter. The burden must fall to one of you two gentlemen.”

Darcy froze.

He looked across at Fitzwilliam and saw the same horror in his cousin’s eyes. The same turmoil. The same sickening dread.

He could not do it.

He could not raise his hand to her—not his little sister, not his mother’s daughter.

Perhaps Elizabeth read his expression, for she said, “We may ask Mrs. Obder. She has experience disciplining both her own children and the tenant school. I know she employs switches on occasion.”

“No.” The colonel’s voice was clear and resolute. “No, I will do it.”

Darcy’s head snapped toward him.

Fitzwilliam straightened in his chair, jaw tight. “I have wielded a whip many times, and for worse offenses. This will be less, and it will mean more if it comes from someone who loves her. She must see it as justice, not punishment from strangers.”

Darcy swallowed hard and gave a shallow nod. “Thank you.”

No one spoke after that.

Not for a long time.

After what seemed like an eternity within a moment, the silence was broken by a knock at the front door, followed moments later by the familiar voice of Mr. Jones.

Mr. Bennet rose to greet him, and within moments, the apothecary had been ushered into the drawing room.

His keen eyes went straight to Elizabeth’s arm, which still bore the blood-stained handkerchief pressed to the wound.

“Ah, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, frowning as he drew a small case from his bag. “Let us have a look.”

Darcy stood back and moved behind her, watching anxiously as Mr. Jones peeled the cloth away. Elizabeth winced but said nothing.

“Hmph,” Mr. Jones murmured. “Not terribly long, but it is deeper than I would like. A few stitches for safety’s sake. Best to avoid infection.”

He turned to retrieve a small needle and thread from his case, but when he reached for the laudanum bottle, Elizabeth shook her head at once.

“No, thank you.”

“My dear girl—”

“I would rather remain clear-headed,” she said firmly. “Please.”

Darcy clenched his fists as he watched her sit upright and grip the edge of the sofa, pale but determined.

Her jaw tightened as the first stitch pierced her skin.

Fitzwilliam stood like a statue by the fireplace, his eyes never leaving the scene.

Mr. Bennet muttered something about the stubbornness of Bennet women and paced away.

It took a mere few minutes, but to Darcy, it felt like an hour.

His eyes never left her face as she bit back her cries, only allowing a small tear trickle down her cheek.

Fists clenched at his side, he fought the urge to embrace her, to hold her tight, to press his lips against her hair and whisper in her ear just how incredible he found her.