Page 48 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

E lizabeth trudged wearily up the stairs to her bedchamber, thankful that the day was over at last.

She knew sleep would not come easily, however.

Not with his voice still in her ears, and the echo of their argument burning through her thoughts.

All through the afternoon, her mind returned again and again to the garden path, to the echo of raised voices and the tight line of Mr. Darcy’s jaw. They had not exchanged a single word since returning inside, not even a glance that might invite understanding or repair.

When Georgiana descended to bid farewell to her cousin, Elizabeth had watched from a distance.

The girl was composed, demure—her bearing much altered from days past—but Elizabeth could not help but wonder what thoughts swirled behind that downcast gaze.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, for his part, had embraced her warmly, then turned to Mr. Darcy with a look heavy with concern.

“You will write,” he said, more command than request. “And if I can return, I shall.”

Mr. Bennet, ever steady, had offered reassurance. “You need not worry for them, Colonel. They are in capable hands, if I may say so myself.” His dry smile took in Elizabeth, but she could not return it. She merely nodded and stood aside as the colonel and Darcy departed.

Dinner passed in a daze. Elizabeth could scarcely remember what she ate—if she ate at all. The lively conversation that usually brightened their evening meals was merely a buzz in the background. Jane cast worried glances across the table, but Elizabeth offered only faint smiles in return.

She could not speak of it. Not yet.

Besides, no one else knows about Papa.

When tea was brought in, her father invited her to a game of chess.

She accepted with a grateful nod—anything to quiet the tumult of her mind—but her fingers moved without strategy, her thoughts too muddled to remember which pieces had been taken or how many turns had passed.

He defeated her soundly in fewer than twenty moves.

Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair, examining her carefully. “You are not yourself tonight, my dear.”

She offered a weak smile. “My arm aches, perhaps more than I realized.”

He nodded, clearly unconvinced. “Then you must retire early and rest it. I shall send up some willow bark tea.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

“Try to sleep, Lizzy,” he said, his voice unusually gentle. “You carry too much in that head of yours. Let it rest a while.”

She curtsied and left the room, the murmur of conversation behind her fading into silence.

As she climbed the stairs, one hand brushing the banister absently, she pressed the other lightly to her bandaged arm—though the wound did not pain her nearly so much as the hollow in her chest. She had not expected to quarrel with Mr. Darcy.

She had not expected to feel so deeply unsettled by it.

Elizabeth entered her chamber and closed the door softly behind her.

The fire had been banked low, but it still gave a modest warmth.

The maid was already waiting, and Elizabeth stood still as her gown was unfastened, each hook at the back slipping free beneath the maid’s fingers.

Her stays came next, and with their release, she drew a deeper breath at last.

Still, the constriction in her chest remained.

Her limbs ached with exhaustion, but her mind refused to rest. She dipped her hands in the basin, the water now lukewarm, and dabbed at her face with a cloth. The sting of cool linen against her brow did nothing to soothe the tightening in her chest.

She changed into her nightdress and reached for the shawl she had folded atop the chair—just a moment to hold it, to press it to her face. The scent of rosewater clung to it faintly. She would be grateful for the willow bark tea. But even that small comfort felt distant, irrelevant.

Seated at her small writing desk in the corner, she reached for the hair ribbon to bind her braid for the night. Her fingers moved mechanically, but her thoughts did not.

Could she marry a man like Mr. Darcy?

She had once thought the question impossible. But now—now it was not some idle fancy nor the prideful speculation of a gentleman’s interest. It was real. He had spoken with her father. He had asked to court her.

And she had said yes.

Well—almost yes.

But would he still wish for it if he knew the truth about Papa?

She pressed her lips together, the ribbon slipping from her fingers.

When would I tell him? she thought, rising from her chair and walking slowly across the room to bank the fire.

The poker scraped softly as she shifted the coals.

Should I tell him before we are betrothed?

Or wait until after? But if I wait—if I keep it secret—and he finds out…

She sank onto the edge of her bed, twisting her fingers in her lap.

I do not want to be dishonest. I do not want to build something false. But if I tell him—

Her heart gave a painful squeeze.

If I tell him, will he turn away? Will he be angry I did not say something sooner? Will he be disgusted? Will he—

She shut her eyes.

Would he end it?

There was always the possibility of waiting until after they married to tell him.

But would he be angry with me for withholding the truth? Or worse still, would he forbid me from ever seeing Papa again?

The thought made her stomach twist. Her father’s laugh, his dry wit, the quiet evenings playing chess—how could she ever bear such a loss?

Would Papa even want her to tell? She had never asked. He would say it was her life now—her husband’s house, her husband’s name. He would not wish to cause scandal, not even for his own sake. But she did not know what he would say about this .

Would he want me to risk it? Or would he rather I stay silent and safe?

She leaned back against the pillows, curling slightly to her side, her bandaged arm cradled carefully atop the coverlet.

Whoever she married would deserve to know the truth, would they not? Her loyalty would be to her husband, and the scriptures do say that a man should leave his parents and cleave unto his wife.

But Darcy’s anger that afternoon tormented her.

There were moments—just brief glimmers—when she could almost believe he might understand. That perhaps love might soften his sharp edges, or that the strength he had shown these last days might stretch wide enough to hold even this.

But then she remembered the garden.

I will not call light what the Lord Himself has called darkness .

She turned her face into the pillow and drew a long, trembling breath.

She did not want to lie.

She did not want to lose him.

Please, Lord… what do I do?

∞∞∞

A few days later, Elizabeth was no closer to a determination than she had been the evening of her argument with Mr. Darcy.

It did not help that she was reminded of him constantly with his sister living with them.

This particular morning, Georgiana had already completed her first lesson and was sitting amiably with Lydia and Kitty, helping them sort music for their practice hour.

Hill entered the drawing room to announce that Mr. Bingley and his party had arrived to pay a call.

Mrs. Bennet bit back a squeal, and Jane flushed with anticipation.

The Netherfield occupants had not been to Longbourn since that wretched morning, having been guilted into visiting the other residents of Meryton.

Elizabeth rose at once, smoothing her skirts.

A flicker of something fluttered in her chest—anticipation, or perhaps unease.

It had been two days since she had seen Mr. Darcy, and though she told herself she had no reason to dread the meeting, her steps were slower than usual as she went to greet their guests.

Mr. Bingley was his usual cheerful self, Jane's blush upon seeing him matched by the warmth in his eyes. Beside him stood his sisters, wrapped in fine shawls and hauteur, Miss Bingley's expression pinched from the start. Darcy, a step behind, inclined his head to Elizabeth with the barest smile.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, voice low and steady.

“Mr. Darcy,” she replied, curtsying. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

They looked at one another, and his gaze held hers—steady, intense. The air between them felt strained, as if both sought the right words and found only silence. There was something unreadable behind his expression, something that felt like yearning barely contained. She could scarcely breathe.

And then it passed. He looked away, and her lungs remembered their function.

Mr. Bingley, undeterred, launched into his reason for the visit. “We have come to issue our formal invitations. My sisters and I will be holding a ball at Netherfield on the twenty-sixth of November. We very much hope the entire Bennet family will attend.”

Mrs. Bennet all but squealed in delight. “A ball! Oh, how lovely! Such news, such happiness!” She turned and beamed at Jane, who was already turning pink.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, had barely heard the details. Mr. Darcy had stepped slightly closer—so close that the back of his fingers brushed against hers as she folded her hands before her.

The touch was nothing. Accidental. Fleeting.

And yet it sent a current through her that made her fingers tremble.

“I hope,” Darcy said in a low voice, “that my sister is continuing to conduct herself well.”

“She has done quite well,” Elizabeth said softly. “These past days have shown marked improvement. There is still some spiritedness, of course, but no tantrums. And she has begun helping Kitty and Lydia, even offering guidance with the pianoforte.”

Darcy turned to her more fully then, and the look in his eyes startled her—relief, perhaps even a glimmer of pride.

“She is befriending your sisters, then?”

“They laugh together,” Elizabeth said with a small smile. “More than once, they have whispered secrets and giggled behind their hands. I believe it may grow into a true friendship.”

His expression softened further. “That is more than I had hoped.”