Page 46 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)
T he next day dawned pale and chill, and Elizabeth rose with stiffness in her arm that reminded her of the bandage beneath her sleeve.
Mr. Jones had stitched the wound with great care, but the skin was still tender, and the area ached with even modest movement.
She selected a gown with long sleeves and draped a shawl across her shoulders, hoping it would not draw undue attention.
Hertfordshire had never been immune to gossip, but with no servants in the room at the time of the incident, and Mr. Jones a man of sense and silence, she hoped Georgiana’s name would remain unsullied.
For her part, Miss Darcy was remarkably subdued throughout the day.
Her eyes remained downcast, her speech quiet and respectful.
She completed her lessons without argument, folded her garments neatly, and ate her plain breakfast and midday meal without complaint.
It was the first day since her arrival that Elizabeth did not feel she had to brace herself for defiance.
Whether the change would last was uncertain, but for now, the peace was welcome.
When Mr. Bennet announced at dinner that the card party at the Philips’s was to be limited to those officially out, Kitty surprised them all by volunteering to stay home as well.
“I do not mind,” she had said softly. “Aunt Philips has invited the officers, and I do not enjoy such large crowds.”
Mrs. Bennet had beamed at her—though whether in pride or shock was uncertain—and Mr. Bennet had declared the statement worthy of commendation. Mrs. Bennet herself was reluctant to attend, but she could not refuse her sister’s invitation.
Mr. Bennet, perhaps sensing the delicate balance of calm that had settled over the nursery, chose to remain behind with the younger girls.
Thus it was that Elizabeth, Jane, and their mother climbed into the carriage as dusk fell, wrapped in shawls and quiet expectation.
The evening was cold, and the windows fogged faintly from their breath as they rattled toward Meryton.
“I only hope there are good cakes,” Mrs. Bennet muttered, clutching her muff tightly. “I declare I have not had a decent tart since Lady Lucas’s last gathering.”
Elizabeth hid her smile in the folds of her shawl. Her arm throbbed slightly as the carriage bounced, but she resolved not to think of it. Tonight was to be a reprieve—a few hours of cards, polite conversation, and, if she were lucky, no mention of Georgiana or flying porcelain.
As they descended from the carriage and entered her aunt’s warm sitting room, lit with bright candles and the glitter of polished decanters, Elizabeth took a breath and reminded herself to be gracious. Her stitches pulled beneath her sleeve, but she lifted her chin and stepped forward.
Jane’s countenance, so often placid and cheerful, betrayed a hint of disappointment upon their arrival at her aunt’s. The drawing room, already filled with the warm murmur of conversation and the occasional click of cards upon felt, was lively enough—but there was no sign of the Netherfield party.
“They declined,” Mrs. Philips told them with a sigh as she ushered them in. “Sent word this morning. Something about a prior engagement.” She sounded unconvinced.
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane. A prior engagement? With whom? The entire neighborhood had been invited.
It did not require much imagination to guess the truth.
Miss Bingley, no doubt, had grown peevish at their frequent absences from her drawing room and had resolved to keep her household firmly tethered to Netherfield.
Elizabeth even wondered whether the invitation had been shared at all with the gentlemen—or if Miss Bingley had replied on behalf of them all with no consultation whatsoever. It would not have surprised her.
Still, she resolved not to allow the slight to spoil her evening.
The room was agreeably warm and bright, and soon she was drawn into a game of whist with one of Mrs. Long’s nieces and two officers whose names she scarcely caught—Captain Carter and Lieutenant Denny, if she recalled correctly.
Charlotte and Jane were at the neighboring table, similarly engaged, and for a while Elizabeth allowed herself to be distracted by the easy rhythm of the cards and the hum of idle talk.
But after a few rounds, her arm began to ache beneath the bandages, and she excused herself for a drink.
She crossed to the sideboard, poured herself a small glass of shrub, and made her way to the fire.
The heat was welcome against her back, and she let herself relax for the first time that day.
Her eyes drifted across the room, noting the pairings and shifting alliances of card players, when a voice beside her spoke low and smooth.
“I thought I spotted a familiar face.”
She turned. The man who stood beside her had been introduced in passing earlier, but only now did she have the leisure to study him closely. Lieutenant Wickham—trim in his scarlet coat, his dark eyes bright with mischief—gave her a bow that was just on the playful side of proper.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, with a smile both easy and admiring. “I hope I am not intruding? You appeared to be in need of a diversion, and I thought I might offer one.”
“Not in the least,” she replied, returning his smile with a touch of curiosity. “It is always pleasant to have a bit of company near the fire.”
“Especially,” he added, glancing over his shoulder at the card tables, “when the air over there grows stifling with competition.”
“Do not tell me you are afraid of a little whist, sir.”
“Not at all. But I confess I have a greater admiration for observing than for playing.” His gaze lingered on her a moment too long to be entirely casual. “The company, you see, is better here.”
Elizabeth felt a faint flush rise to her cheeks. It was artful flattery, to be sure, but not unpleasantly done. And with his uniform neatly pressed and his manner so disarmingly sincere, she could understand why he had already turned a few heads since arriving in Meryton.
You have accepted courtship from Mr. Darcy. Do not allow your vanity to be gratified by a handsome face and smooth tongue .
“It was very kind of my aunt to invite so many of the officers,” she said, shifting the conversation.
“Indeed. We were quite delighted. A welcome change from barracks and drills. It is not every day one enjoys such hospitality in a new town. Your aunt is a generous hostess.”
“She is indeed,” Elizabeth replied. “And new arrivals in the neighborhood are rare enough. It is a pleasure to have so many new faces among us.”
Wickham nodded. “I understand we are not the only newcomers. A certain estate—Netherwood, I believe?—recently gained new occupants as well.”
“Netherfield,” she corrected gently.
“Ah yes, Netherfield,” he said, flashing a grin. “I thought I heard a name I recognized as one of the inhabitants. A Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes, he is one of Mr. Bingley’s guests. Do you know him?”
Wickham’s expression sobered slightly. “I once knew a man with that surname. A long time ago.” He took a sip from his glass. “But surely it cannot be the same man. He was once my dearest friend. Now… well, I would not expect him to acknowledge me.”
There was something in his voice that piqued her interest—melancholy, perhaps. Regret? Or something else entirely? “Mr. Darcy is from Derbyshire, master of Pemberley.”
“Then it is him. My, my… what an odd coincidence. Of all the towns in all the kingdom…. For us to both be here at the same time…”
Elizabeth watched him curiously. His tone was light, but something in his manner—something in the way he looked not at her but into the flickering firelight—hinted at a deeper history. A wound, perhaps, barely scabbed over.
“You seem surprised,” she said gently.
He smiled, but it was a weary expression. “I am. Surprised, that is. Mr. Bingley’s fortune came from trade, did it not?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“And Darcy—” Wickham gave a soft laugh. “Well, I daresay he would not ordinarily condescend to such company. His mother was the daughter of an earl. His father, one of the wealthiest landowners in the North. He was raised to expect only the highest and best.”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “Mr. Bingley is all warmth and generosity. I can see how even someone a bit aloof might come to like him. They seem to be good friends.”
Wickham looked at her now, sharply. “Do they now? I can only hope so. Our own friendship did not last. It is strange,” he added, almost as though musing to himself.
“We grew up together. My father was the steward at Pemberley, and old Mr. Darcy—God rest him—was my godfather. Treated me almost as a second son.”
“You were close, then?”
“Like brothers.” He gave a soft, self-deprecating shrug.
“Inseparable. I was often at Pemberley. We went up to Cambridge together—though he was a year ahead—and shared rooms at college.” He paused, his mouth pressing into a thin line.
“And then, quite suddenly, everything changed. He became cold. Distant. Told me he no longer wished to associate with me.”
Elizabeth blinked. “No explanation?”
“None that made any sense. He never spoke of it directly—just arranged for separate quarters and made it clear I was no longer welcome.” He sighed and leaned back slightly.
“I suppose I had taken up with some rather lively company, perhaps a little too merry for his tastes. But that is what young men do, is it not? A bit of carousing, some foolishness—but nothing criminal. He disapproved. That was all it took.”
Elizabeth stared at him, hardly knowing what to say. “But surely… you were friends? Could you not have—”