Page 47 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)
“He refused to speak to me, apart from telling me one evening that he never wished to see me again. I was never even informed of his father’s funeral until after the fact.
” His jaw tightened. “And when the will was read, and the living promised to me—one I had always assumed would be mine—he sent word through his solicitor that it would not be forthcoming. That it was not ‘compatible with my character or aspirations.’”
Her breath caught. “But that seems so—so arbitrary.”
He smiled faintly, though it did not reach his eyes. “He did send a small sum through the lawyer. Just enough to be called respectable. Not enough to do anything useful. Certainly not enough to prepare for another profession.”
She was quiet a moment. “And since then?”
“We have scarcely spoken. I saw him once—at Ramsgate. I was staying nearby and happened to see him with his sister. I called out, but he turned his back. He left that evening without saying goodbye.”
Elizabeth frowned, troubled by the story.
There was something in the telling that rang sincere—but something, too, that pricked at her conscience.
He spoke with sadness, but not bitterness.
Yet… there was a smoothness to the narrative, a polish to the way each detail unfurled. Still, what cause would he have to lie?
“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “It sounds very painful.”
“It was,” he admitted. “Especially where Miss Darcy is concerned. I was fond of her as a child. She seemed glad to see me again, but Darcy whisked her away.” He hesitated, then offered a rueful smile.
“But I understand she is here, even staying at your house? I would not wish to upset her or her brother by paying a call and causing a scene.”
“She is—” Elizabeth glanced down at her shawl. “She is in lessons during the mornings.”
“Then I shall be careful to call only before they are completed. I would very much like to continue the friendships I have made here thus far.” He gave her a dazzling grin.
She searched his expression, but he appeared to be in earnest. Still, the flicker of unease in her chest was small—insistent, but unformed. He had offered no true slight, made no direct accusation. Only a sad story. And yet, a whisper of doubt remained.
She pushed it away. There was no need for suspicion. Not yet.
“I hope you will enjoy Meryton, Mr. Wickham, and make many friends,” she said in a light tone.
He smiled again—wide, charming, warm. “With such neighbors as yourself, Miss Elizabeth, how could I not?”
∞∞∞
The morning air was sharp, but bright, and Darcy was grateful for the briskness that kept his mind alert.
The previous night’s rest had once been shallow at best. The latest note was folded and tucked into the inner pocket of his waistcoat in order to show it to Elizabeth.
His ire was still piqued at discovering that morning at breakfast that he had missed an opportunity to see her the evening before at a card party.
Miss Bingley had insisted everyone remain home the entire day, claiming she and Mrs. Hurst were being neglected.
She also had failed to inform them of Mrs. Philips’s invitation until the morning afterwards.
They rode to Longbourn at an early hour.
Fitzwilliam, unusually quiet beside him, stared often down the road behind them, as though a rider might gallop from London at any moment bearing orders that would allow him to remain.
If no such missive arrived, then his cousin would need to leave at first light the following day.
Even Bingley was unusually quiet, an uncustomary frown on his face. He, too, had been less than pleased with his sister’s deception the previous night, and Darcy was glad to see that the young man was finally seeing her for her true colors. Eventually, however, his scowl gave way to a smile.
“You are very merry this morning,” Darcy observed dryly
“Why should I not be?” Bingley grinned. “A fine day, and we are going to call upon angels.”
The three men were met cordially at the door and shown into the drawing room, where Mrs. Bennet greeted them with wry civility and informed them the young ladies were at their lessons.
“But,” she added, “the gardens are fair this morning if you wish for a stroll. I believe my second daughter is already out there. Jane and Kitty will be happy to show you the way.”
Darcy’s heart gave a strange thump at the suggestion.
As they prepared to step outside, Bingley paused. “Oh—before I forget. I ought to let you know—my sisters will soon make an announcement. We have chosen a date for the ball. November twenty-sixth. That should give Cook enough time to prepare the white soup.”
Mrs. Bennet uttered a little squeal and clapped her hands in delight before ushering her daughters and the gentlemen outside.
They stepped out into the crisp sunlight, and Darcy spied Elizabeth near a large bush.
She came over to them just as Fitzwilliam offered his arm to Kitty with a bow and a wink.
“Will you escort me to your favorite shrubbery, Miss Kitty?”
She giggled and led him away, and Jane and Bingley followed suit, only in a different direction.
Darcy glanced at Elizabeth. She was now standing just beyond the rose arbor, the wind tugging a few errant curls loose from her bonnet. She turned toward him with a smile that made the frost feel like sunlight.
“I am glad you are here,” she said softly.
Darcy inclined his head and fell into step beside her. They walked in silence for a moment, their footsteps crunching faintly on the path.
“There was another letter,” he said suddenly, reaching into his coat and withdrew the folded paper. “This arrived the day before yesterday while I dressed for dinner.”
She took it, her brow furrowing as she unfolded it carefully. Her lips parted as she read.
“I will finish what we have begun,” she read aloud. Her voice was steady, but her hand trembled ever so slightly. “This is the same handwriting as before.”
He nodded. “Same paper, same scent. Postmarked London.”
“But it was hand-delivered?” she asked.
He nodded again.
She drew a breath and looked around the garden instinctively, her gaze sharpening.
“Whoever she is,” Darcy murmured, “she must be near. To have brought it so quickly. And bold enough to approach the house. To know I am here.”
“But there have been no new arrivals in the neighborhood. None that could have handwriting like this, that is. Believe me, my mother would have known.”
He exhaled tightly. “Then she is hiding.”
She paused, then asked hesitantly, “Are you… are you really so certain that the author is not… not a man?”
He blinked at her. “A man?”
“Yes.” She glanced up at him. “I do not mean to be indelicate, but perhaps… perhaps a gentleman who misread a friendship?”
It was as if the air changed. Darcy took a single step back, spine stiffening. “I beg your pardon,” he said sharply. “What are you implying?”
“I am only asking you to consider it. The note… the intensity, the fixation—it could be anyone.”
“That is vile.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “Because the notion that a man might feel love for another man offends your sensibilities?”
“Because it is unnatural,” he snapped. “Disgusting. Against every order of nature and God.”
“And what do you know of it?” Her voice rose in frustration. “Do you think people choose to live like that? To suffer rejection, exile, scorn?”
“They ought to be scorned.”
“Why?” she demanded. “Because their affection makes you uncomfortable? Because it does not fit into your expectations of the world?”
“Because it is wrong .”
“Says who?”
“The Church! The scriptures! For a man to lie with another man… it violates the laws of God and the order He set forth in Scripture. It is condemned in every holy text I have ever read, and I will not pretend otherwise to appease your sensibilities.”
She took a breath, then lowered her voice—still fierce, still shaking. “What if someone was born that way, Mr. Darcy? You think they ought to be miserable their whole life? Alone? Hidden?”
He stared at her, breath tight. “It is a perversion of what was ordained from the beginning. I will not call light what the Lord Himself has called darkness. You are condoning sin.”
“I am showing mercy ,” she said emphatically. “I know it is a sin, but I also know that I am not the judge of another soul, and neither are you.”
“You speak of it as if it were a harmless preference—like tea instead of coffee.”
“No,” she snapped. “I speak of it as something real . As something that some people cannot change, no matter how much they might wish to. And for some poor souls, it means living without love forever, because society would rather cast them out into the darkness than admit such feelings exist.”
The wind stirred the hem of Elizabeth’s gown, but she felt no chill—only the heat of her indignation, of her trembling restraint. Her heart thundered in her chest. She had not meant to speak so fiercely, had not planned to bare such thoughts, yet once the words began, they could not be contained.
And now, she stood before him, flushed and breathless, the force of her own passion leaving her shaken.
His gaze did not waver. His jaw was taut, his mouth set in a grim line, but it was not disdain in his eyes—it was something else.
Shock, yes. Conviction. But also, something troubled. Something like doubt.
She swallowed hard. She had not meant to argue. She had not meant to stand before him like a thundercloud—but how could she not? How could she listen to condemnation without answering it?
Her hands, clenched tightly at her sides, began to ache.
She forced herself to breathe deeply. Slowly.
She had spoken what she believed. She did not regret it.
But how strange, how terrible, to feel this yawning gap stretch open between them when they had, only moments before, walked together in such harmony.
The garden held its breath around them. Even the birds had stilled.
“Excuse me?”
They both started—just slightly—and the moment shattered like glass. A maid’s voice called from the path behind them. “Mr. Darcy? Miss Elizabeth? You are wanted indoors.”
Elizabeth turned away first, her voice carefully level. “Let us go in, then.”
He nodded, following her in silence—yet neither could shake the weight of what had just passed between them.