Page 45 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

“One more thing,” Mr. Bennet added. “Let us keep this private for now. A few weeks, I think, is enough time to be certain this is not an impulse brought on by heightened emotions in a tender moment. If, at the end of that time, you are still certain—then we can announce it to the family and neighborhood. Not before.”

Darcy nodded solemnly. “You have my word. Although, I would like to request being able to confide in my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. He is a man of honor, and I can vouch for his discretion. But he is like a brother to me, and I value his counsel.”

Mr. Bennet gave him one final, appraising look. “Very well, then. Lizzy will most likely wish to write to Mark as well. All I can say is, God help you, lad.”

Darcy managed the ghost of a smile.

God help me indeed. I believe I shall need it.

∞∞∞

Elizabeth remained by Georgiana’s bedside long after the sobbing had stilled. The girl’s breathing evened, her shoulders finally slackening beneath Elizabeth’s gentle touch. She continued to rub soothing circles along Georgiana’s back until the rise and fall of her breath gave proof of sleep.

Only then did Elizabeth rise, her body weary and her arm throbbing. She extinguished the candle, adjusted the coverlet, and slipped from the nursery with a soft click of the door.

As she descended the stairs, she was surprised—though, upon reflection, she ought not have been—to find that the gentlemen had not yet departed.

Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Mr. Bingley were still in the drawing room, joined only by Jane and Mr. Bennet.

The air was quiet and subdued, and a low fire crackled in the grate, casting soft shadows along the walls.

“I am so sorry to have kept you waiting,” Elizabeth said at once, startled by the lateness. The clock on the mantel showed nearly five in the evening, meaning that she had missed lunch.

Mr. Bennet waved a hand. “Think nothing of it. I would invite our guests to stay for dinner, but as your mother remains a little overwrought—Hill says she refused all broth and now lies in a darkened room—I suspect we shall all take trays tonight.”

Bingley stood with an affable smile. “No matter, sir. My sister will have ordered dinner already. No doubt she is wringing her hands at our delayed return.”

As Bingley and the colonel exited the front door, Elizabeth stepped toward Darcy quietly and offered a faint, rueful smile. “I am sorry for all that has happened today.”

He shook his head at once. “You owe no apology, Miss Elizabeth. You have done more than anyone could expect. It is I who must beg forgiveness—for letting things reach this point.”

Her brow furrowed. “No. You loved her. You did what you thought best. That cannot be condemned.”

“But I did not stay to guide her,” he said, voice low. “I taught her good principles, but left her to follow them alone—and so she followed them in pride and conceit.”

Elizabeth paused, then said gently, “Most young people—of any age—are naturally self-focused. Even the best of parents cannot always prevent it. But with time and guidance, they usually grow into decent human beings.”

Darcy looked at her then, the shadows of the evening softening the sharp lines of his face. “But you are more than decent. You are…” He paused, as though the word evaded him, or perhaps as though he feared saying too much. At last, he settled on, “Wonderful.”

Elizabeth felt the warmth rise in her cheeks.

He hesitated. “Miss Elizabeth—I know it has not been long, but I cannot stay silent any longer. I admire you—deeply. I asked your father for permission to court you.”

Her breath caught. “You did?”

He gave a small nod. “He granted his tentative approval—conditional upon your own, of course. And he suggested we keep the matter quiet until the end of the month. He fears we may be… caught in the emotion of the moment.”

Caught in the moment indeed.

Her heart was fluttering so fiercely she could scarce breathe. He had asked her father. Before speaking to her. How strange… and how lovely. How old-fashioned and careful and sincere. The knowledge of it settled in her chest like warmth from a fire, spreading slowly through her limbs.

“May I hope for your approval?” he asked softly.

She hesitated. I do not know him well. Not yet. And yet… she did. She had seen him proud and private. She had seen him gentle, and shaken. She had seen him weep, rage, bend, and rise again. She had seen him love—awkwardly, imperfectly, and fully.

She gave a slow nod. “Yes. Yes, you may.”

A breath escaped him. Something nearly like wonder passed across his features. He took her hand—bare and ungloved—and bowed over it.

His lips brushed the inside of her wrist, just where the skin was softest. The kiss was reverent, light as air.

But it lingered.

And with it lingered something else: the feel of his breath, the faintest tickle of his hair, the quiet brush of his mouth against her skin. She had been kissed by suitors before—but never like this. Never with such care. Never with such unspoken gratitude. She felt it echo down to her very bones.

When he drew back, she found she could not look at him, for fear her face might betray the strange exhilaration stirring inside her.

The door cracked open.

Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned in with a rakish grin. “Darcy, unless you mean to starve your companions into mutiny, you had best come.”

Elizabeth turned toward him, schooling her features. “They are more likely to freeze to death.”

Darcy glanced back, puzzled. “It is not all that cold, especially for November.”

“No,” she said with a sly smile, “but I fear Miss Bingley’s ire could chill the air until the tea ices in the pot.”

Laughter met her words, and with a final glance—one that lingered just a little too long—Darcy departed.

Elizabeth watched him go, her heart a tremble of hope and uncertainty.

He asked to court me, she thought, her fingers brushing the place where his lips had touched. And somehow, impossibly… it already feels like something I have waited for all my life.

∞∞∞

Darcy leaned back against the velvet squabs of the carriage, the rhythmic jostling of the wheels doing little to calm the humming in his chest.

She said yes .

He replayed it again and again—the surprise in her eyes, the way her lips parted in astonishment, and the smile, just the barest curve, when she finally agreed to a courtship.

It had not been a grand gesture, nor a moment steeped in poetry or perfection.

But it had been real. Earnest. And it was enough.

He was still smiling to himself when Fitzwilliam shifted beside him and said casually, “You appear unusually pleased for a man whose sister just injured a young lady with a vase.”

Darcy cast him a look.

Fitzwilliam smirked. “Ah. So that is it.”

He said nothing.

Bingley, who was gazing dreamily out the opposite window, sighed. He is either thinking about Miss Bennet or his late dinner… I cannot tell which .

Darcy cleared his throat. “Bingley.”

“Hm?”

“I must ask a favor. Please do not speak to your sisters about what transpired at Longbourn today. Georgiana’s misstep must be kept quiet, for her sake.”

Bingley turned from the window, nodding earnestly. “Of course. Poor Miss Elizabeth! Poor Miss Bennet—she was so distressed! I hardly knew what to do. But she did seem to rally, especially when I offered her my handkerchief.”

Fitzwilliam snorted.

When they arrived at Netherfield, Miss Bingley descended upon them with theatrical horror.

“Wherever have you been? Dinner has been waiting for half an hour—Cook was beside herself! Oh, Mr. Darcy, you must come in this moment, you are so chilled—”

“I must change,” he said shortly.

“But it shall only take a moment! You must escort me to dinner—”

Darcy made for the stairs. She seized his arm, trailing after him like a barnacle affixed to a ship’s hull.

He said nothing. When they reached his chamber, he simply stepped inside and shut the door.

Firmly.

Her protest echoed down the corridor.

Darcy exhaled, pressing his fingertips to his temples. The sharp contrast between Elizabeth’s clarity and Miss Bingley’s insipid coquetry was almost painful. How had he ever found such company tolerable?

When he rang for Bates, the valet arrived within moments, but he bore more than fresh garments.

“A letter, sir. Hand-delivered from Meryton.”

Darcy’s blood ran cold.

The paper. The wax. The familiar, elegant script.

With leaden fingers, he broke the seal and opened it.

I was meant to be yours, and we were meant to be one. Do not give up on us now, my love. I will finish what we have begun .

He sat down hard in the chair by the fire.

God help me. She is here .