Page 44 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

G eorgiana collapsed into Elizabeth’s lap the moment the door closed behind the gentlemen, her slender frame wracked with sobs.

Elizabeth smoothed her hair back from her flushed face, then reached for the bellpull. When the maid arrived, she requested a salve and some soft cloths, and once the girl had gone, she knelt beside the weeping girl.

“I have a cooling balm that should help,” she said gently. “Would you like me to apply it?”

Georgiana nodded, her face still hidden in her hands.

Elizabeth waited until the maid returned, then helped the girl shift to her side and lifted the hem of her gown with as much dignity as she could preserve. No skin had broken, but the marks across her pale skin were already deepening in color.

They would fade soon enough. It was the ones inside—the shame, the confusion, the regret—that would take longer to heal.

Georgiana whimpered once, then stifled it with her fist. “I am sorry,” she whispered when it was done.

“You are welcome,” Elizabeth said. She set the cloth aside and gently helped Georgiana back to rights. “But there is something I need you to understand.”

She sat beside her, then carefully pushed up her sleeve and unwound the cloth around her arm. The neat row of black stitches still wept slightly beneath the linen.

Georgiana gasped.

“This,” Elizabeth said quietly, “was from one moment. One single moment. And I shall carry the scar for the rest of my life. There is no way to fix it. No apology, no tears, no remorse can undo it.”

Georgiana’s face crumpled, her lower lip trembling. “I—I am so sorry—I did not mean to. I—I truly did not—”

“I know,” Elizabeth said. “And I forgive you.”

The girl stared at her, her eyes filling once more. “But why?” she choked. “Why would you be so kind to me after I—I hurt you—truly hurt you?”

Elizabeth’s voice was low. “Because none of us are without sin.”

Georgiana blinked at her, confused.

Hesitating, Elizabeth’s heart thudded in her chest. This was not something she often spoke of aloud—not with such earnestness—but she felt it pressing on her now, unmistakably.

“I have made mistakes I regret. I have spoken cruelly in anger. When I was younger, I hit Kitty hard enough to leave a bruise. I have thrown things, screamed, slammed doors. I have hurt others. I have said things I could never take back.”

Georgiana blinked at her. She seemed to be listening, really listening—her breathing still ragged, but her gaze fixed and clear.

“Some of that is simply a part of growing up, and—just like everyone else in this world—I needed to be taught right from wrong. I had to fall and get back up again, and sometimes I hurt people along the way. That is why I forgive you—not because I am perfect, but because I know what it is to fail.”

Georgiana looked down, twisting her hands in her lap as Elizabeth continued. “It has taken you longer, however, because you were spoiled. You were allowed to do as you pleased, and that taught you that you could never be wrong.”

Georgiana flushed.

“It is not your brother’s fault,” Elizabeth added quickly.

“Nor your cousin’s. But they are men. Young, unmarried men with no mother or aunt to guide them.

They did their best. But no one really ever taught you how to be a young woman.

How to manage the tempers and feelings that come with growing up. ”

There was a pause.

“Do you remember,” Elizabeth asked softly, “the story of Jesus’s death?”

Georgiana shook her head, eyes glassy. “Not really.”

“Then I shall remind you.”

Elizabeth folded her hands. “The night before He died, Jesus went to the Garden of Gethsemane. He prayed there and suffered more pain than any man ever has. Pain so great, his sweat was like drops of blood.”

Georgiana’s eyes widened.

“Then soldiers came and arrested Him. He was whipped—whips with barbs on the end that tore through His back again and again. They shoved a crown of thorns on His head. They nailed His hands and feet to a wooden cross and left Him hanging in agony to eventually die. And still, they mocked Him. They offered Him no salve. No comfort. Not even water—just vinegar on a sponge. And He could have stopped it, but He did not.”

“Why?” Georgiana whispered.

“Because He loves us,” Elizabeth said simply. “Because we could not be forgiven on our own. And He wanted to make forgiveness possible. He suffered the pain and torment that meant for us as punishment for our sins. And because He did so, we can be forgiven.”

Georgiana’s eyes shimmered with tears again. Her lip trembled. “But I do not deserve—”

“No one does,” Elizabeth said gently. “That is the beauty of it. The prophet Isaiah knew about this hundreds of years before Christ was even born.”

She took Georgiana’s hand gently in her own and quoted:

“He is despised and rejected of men;

a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief:

and we hid as it were our faces from him;

he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows:

yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.

But he was wounded for our transgressions,

he was bruised for our iniquities:

the chastisement of our peace was upon him;

and with his stripes we are healed.”

The words settled in the air between them, solemn and holy. Elizabeth felt the echo of them in her chest, a peace washing through her in waves. Georgiana sat still beside her, and in her expression was something new—something reverent. A stirring of awe.

“I try,” Elizabeth said softly, “to live like Him. I fail often. But it is the example I strive to follow—not because I fear punishment, or hope for reward, but because I love Him. Because He loved me first.”

She turned to face Georgiana fully.

“And one day, I hope you will do the same. Not because you want to walk to Meryton. Not because you wish to earn a new gown. But because your heart tells you it is right—because you want to love others as He loved you.”

There was a long silence.

Then Georgiana slowly leaned into Elizabeth, her head resting against her shoulder.

“I shall try,” she whispered.

Elizabeth wrapped her arm gently around the girl’s back, and together they sat, bathed in a quiet grace.

∞∞∞

They stood just outside the door, the three of them—Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Mr. Bennet—silent in the corridor where the light was dim and the air still.

No one had spoken since the latch clicked shut behind them.

Then Elizabeth’s voice rose softly on the other side of the door.

Darcy leaned his shoulder against the wall and closed his eyes.

He had meant to walk away—meant to let Elizabeth comfort his sister in private—but something had stopped him. A feeling. An ache. And now he stood there like a schoolboy outside the rector’s study, straining to catch every word.

The moment Elizabeth began to speak of Christ’s sacrifice, his breath caught. Her voice—so steady, so full of conviction—was not like any sermon he had ever heard. It was not rehearsed, nor theatrical. It was real. Personal. Her words did not preach. They reached .

And they reached him.

He listened as she described the lashes, the thorns, the crucifixion.

A lump formed in his throat. Not only for the story, which he had heard since childhood—but because of the way she told it.

With reverence. With empathy. With purpose.

She was not lecturing Georgiana; she was opening her soul.

Offering her own pain as a bridge to his sister’s sorrow.

Beside him, Mr. Bennet let out a quiet breath and folded his arms. “That is my Lizzy,” he murmured, a gentle pride softening his usual sardonic tone.

Darcy dared not speak. He feared that if he opened his mouth, he might weep.

He glanced sideways at Fitzwilliam. His cousin’s face was unreadable at first, but then his jaw shifted and his eyes blinked rapidly, as though he had dust in them.

“She is a remarkable girl,” the colonel said at last, very low, before abruptly walking away and going down the stairs.

Darcy could only nod his agreement towards his cousin’s back. He felt… small. Humbled. As though he had just witnessed something holy.

She had spoken with the wisdom of a minister and the heart of a sister. She had not only forgiven Georgiana—she had invited her to become something better. Not for duty. Not for propriety. But for the sake of love.

Darcy swallowed hard.

He had known Elizabeth Bennet to be clever, principled, lively. But he had not known this. He had not seen the depth of her soul. And in that moment, he thought— How could I ever have been so blind?

He had cared about her before.

But now… now he loved her.

Impulsively, and before he could question the propriety of it, he turned to Mr. Bennet.

“Sir,” he said quietly, his voice steady but earnest. “I must beg your pardon for speaking without full consideration. But I can no longer keep my intentions silent. May I have your permission to court your daughter?”

Mr. Bennet turned to look at him, folding his arms slowly. “Court? My Lizzy?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Elizabeth.”

The older man studied him for a long moment.

It was not the amused, distant glance Darcy had seen when Mr. Bennet listened to society’s absurdities.

This was searching. Penetrating. As though he were weighing not only the words spoken, but every word unspoken.

Darcy stood still beneath the scrutiny, hands clasped tightly behind his back.

He felt… exposed. As though every defense had been stripped away. As though his soul lay open, raw and waiting.

Finally, Mr. Bennet inclined his head slightly. “You are a good man, Mr. Darcy. And I believe you have come to admire my daughter for the right reasons. Therefore, I give my tentative approval.”

Darcy let out a breath he had not realized he was holding.

“But,” Mr. Bennet continued, “I will not bind my daughter to anything. You may seek her approval, if she is willing to accept a courtship.”

“Of course,” Darcy said, bowing his head in acknowledgment.