Page 43 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

“There now,” said Mr. Jones said at last, wiping away the last bit of blood. “You have done well. I will leave you with some powders. Have them mixed with water and applied as a paste three times a day.”

He packed up his bag and gave them all a parting nod before taking his leave.

As the door shut behind him, Elizabeth stood slowly, her arm now bandaged in clean linen. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet but steady.

“It will not grow easier if we wait, gentlemen. I propose we move upstairs.”

No one argued.

Darcy could scarcely breathe as Mr. Bennet went out the front door. A moment later he returned, holding a slim, flexible switch cut from the birch tree in the back garden—light, whippy, no thicker than a pencil.

Its very simplicity made it more dreadful.

Of course, Darcy had endured a few canings and a few beatings during his time at home and school. There was scarcely a child in all of England who had never felt the sting of a switch or a ruler or a belt on their bare backside.

But it was another thing entirely to do it to the young woman whom he once held in his arms as a babe.

The four of them climbed the stairs together—Elizabeth walking slowly but resolutely. Darcy trailed just behind her, his feet leaden. His gut churned as they reached the top landing of the third floor and turned toward the nursery wing.

They opened the door to see Georgiana curled on her bed, her face buried in the coverlet, her frame trembling.

Darcy’s heart twisted at the sight. His baby sister—tall and elegant, yes, but still so painfully young—was crumpled like a discarded doll, weeping into the linens of a room she had deemed beneath her only days before.

When she heard them enter, she sat up at once, face ashen and eyes wide with panic.

“I did not mean to!” she cried. “Oh, Miss Elizabeth—I am so terribly sorry! I did not think—”

Darcy stepped forward at last, unable to hold back. “That is precisely the point, Georgiana. You did not think.”

She flinched. Good. Let it sting. He had said too little, for too long.

He looked at her squarely, voice low and steady. “You nearly struck Miss Lydia with a vase. You did injure Miss Elizabeth. What will it be next time? A candlestick? A fire iron? Will someone end up in a grave before you learn to curb your temper?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but Mr. Bennet was already speaking—his voice sharp and unrelenting.

“You are sorry now, Miss Darcy. But you were not sorry when you threw a porcelain vase with the intent to strike someone. What would have happened if you had struck someone in the head? Or worse, what if a child or babe had been present?”

Georgiana began to cry anew, her mouth trembling as she covered her face.

Then Fitzwilliam took a step forward. “You are the niece of an earl. You have been taught better than this. That kind of behavior is not impetuousness—it is evidence of a spoiled child who does not care about anyone but herself.”

Georgiana gave a choked sob. “But I do care! I do! I was just—angry. I—I hated being laughed at—”

“No one laughed at you,” Mr. Bennet said sharply. “You were corrected. And you could not endure it.”

He folded his arms. “It has taken less than a week to see how little self-control you have been taught. Miss Lydia spoke out of turn—yes—but that was after you insulted her mother, her family, and her home. You are sixteen years old, Georgiana. That is an age where your behavior should be beyond childish fits of rage.”

She hiccupped, shoulders shaking. “I did not mean it—I swear it—please, I will do anything—anything to make it right—”

“You cannot,” Elizabeth said gently, stepping forward.

Her voice was compassionate, but firm. “Some things cannot be undone. An apology will not remove the stitches from my arm. This is why we learn discipline. Because when we act in anger, we lose control—and often, we hurt others, even those we do care about.”

“I understand!” Georgiana said quickly, clutching her hands. “I swear to you, I will never do anything like that again!”

Elizabeth looked at her, long and searching. Then she gave a single, solemn nod. “I believe you.”

Georgiana let out a breath of relief—until Mr. Bennet stepped forward again.

“But an apology, even one that is accepted, does not erase the consequence. Do you remember what it was?”

Georgiana froze. Her lips parted in horror.

“You cannot mean—surely you would not—”

“No,” Mr. Bennet said evenly. “I will not.”

Her shoulders sagged, her face full of unspeakable relief.

Until Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward and said, “But I will.”

“No—!” Her voice broke into a wail. “Please—please—Richard—do not do this!”

“I have seen men whipped for lesser offenses,” Fitzwilliam said, not unkindly. “And they became better men for it. I would rather you hate me for a week than become someone I no longer recognize.”

Georgiana turned to him, horror etched on her face. “Fitzwilliam—please—you cannot agree to this—you are my brother—”

“I am your brother,” he said quietly. “And I love you more than life itself. But it is for that very reason that I will not protect you from consequences of your actions any longer.”

She sobbed.

Elizabeth straightened and stepped back. Fitzwilliam gestured silently to the writing desk.

“Lean forward.”

She hesitated—then obeyed, trembling.

Darcy turned toward the window. He would not watch. He could not. But he would stay. He would bear witness to her shame and her pain, as he should have long ago.

Skirts were lifted. Pantaloons lowered.

Three sharp, clean strikes.

Each one cracked through the air like a pistol shot.

Each one drew a wretched scream from Georgiana’s throat.

Each one was agony for them both.

When it was done, Elizabeth stepped forward and gently helped her stand, murmuring reassurances as she assisted in putting the girl’s clothing to rights. Georgiana’s face was wet with tears, but she clung to Elizabeth’s arm like a child lost in a storm.

Darcy looked to Fitzwilliam, whose face was grim, eyes shuttered.

Mr. Bennet let out a breath. “Let us leave her to rest.”

Without another word, the three men turned and stepped from the room, the door closing softly behind them.

The door latched shut behind them with a quiet finality, yet the sounds within—the soft rustling, Georgiana’s sobs, Elizabeth’s soothing murmur—seemed to linger, etched into the stillness of the corridor.

Darcy leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. His knees felt unsteady beneath him, and his heart was still thudding unevenly in his chest. He drew a slow breath. Another. It did little to calm him.

Beside him, Fitzwilliam stood rigid, arms folded tight. He stared at the opposite wall without seeing it, jaw clenched.

“I hated every moment of that,” the colonel said at last, voice low and raw. “And yet—God help me—I would do it again if I thought it would save her.”

Darcy swallowed hard. “I know.”

“I should have seen this coming. Ramsgate was not the start of it, only the moment it could no longer be ignored.”

Darcy nodded. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “You did what I could not. I am grateful.”

A pause. Then Fitzwilliam let out a breath and murmured, “I pray it was not too late.”

Mr. Bennet, who had been silent until now, shifted his weight slightly and clasped his hands behind his back.

“It is never too late,” he said quietly. “At least, not for the young. But yes—it is a heavy, heavy burden to guide them. I know something of it.”

Darcy turned to look at him.

“She is a long way from where she ought to be,” Mr. Bennet went on. “But the fact that she felt remorse at all… that she pleaded, that she understood what she had done—those are good signs. Hopeful signs.”

Fitzwilliam exhaled.

Darcy stared at the floor. “Then I shall cling to that hope,” he said softly. “Because I know not what else to do.”