Page 49 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

She allowed a small smile. “And she has not thrown a single object in three days.”

He gave a quiet huff of laughter, and the corner of his mouth twitched. The tension between them did not dissolve, but shifted into something gentler. Warmer.

The moment was interrupted suddenly when Miss Bingley called sharply, “Miss Darcy, do come here, my dear. I have something I wish to show you.”

Georgiana went at once, and Elizabeth had the sudden impression that her presence had been intentionally arranged.

Darcy took a half-step closer. “May I… might I have the first dance at the ball?”

Elizabeth met his gaze, her breath catching. “Yes,” she said simply.

He exhaled, and in that moment, she saw how tightly he had been holding himself.

“And,” he said, more hesitantly now, “would it be too much to request the supper dance as well?”

She paused.

His countenance fell ever so slightly—not in disappointment, but in quiet understanding. “Forgive me. I did not mean to press. I should not have asked.”

“No,” she said quickly. “I… I am only thinking. It is not that I do not—” She faltered, then composed herself. “It would signify more than a mere dance. That is all. I do not yet know if I am ready to make such a declaration.”

He inclined his head solemnly. “Of course. It is entirely your choice. I only ask that—should you find yourself inclined—I will wait to see if my name appears on your card that evening. If not, I shall not mention it again.”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice hushed.

Her chest ached. How could it feel like they had said so much and yet not enough?

It was Miss Bingley who shattered the quiet with a pointed sniff. “Gracious, how long we have stayed! It must be well beyond what is considered proper.”

Mrs. Bennet glanced at the clock in confusion. “It has not yet been a quarter of an hour.”

Miss Bingley offered her a smile that did not reach her eyes. “All the same.”

“We would not wish to risk impropriety,” Mrs. Hurst added archly.

Mrs. Bennet rushed forward, flustered and eager. “Oh, but I do hope you will remain a little longer. I had such hopes of discussing your lovely gown, Miss Bingley—”

Miss Bingley offered a thin-lipped smile. “Another time, perhaps.”

With cold curtsies and murmured goodbyes, the sisters swept from the room, Bingley apologizing with his eyes. Darcy bowed to Elizabeth once more. His eyes lingered on hers with a quiet intensity that made it hard to breathe. She felt his gaze even after the door shut behind them.

Elizabeth stood, hands folded, heart aching.

I love him .

The realization struck her more fully than before. She loved him—with all his faults, with all his pride and strength and sorrow.

But is love enough?

∞∞∞

The following morning brought some the officers to Longbourn for a formal call.

Georgiana and Lydia were above stairs, occupied with lessons and quite unaware of the social stir below.

Mr. Bennet, after greeting them, looked to his wife for direction.

She gave him a nod, and he promptly disappeared into his library, leaving the drawing room to the ladies and their callers.

Jane, lovely as ever, was as composed as she was indifferent.

Elizabeth knew her sister harbored no special interest in red coats or flirtation, and she did her best to engage their guests with grace, but her attention soon drifted.

It left the younger men undeterred; Kitty’s eyes sparkled as she teased one and blushed at another, and the two officers who had gravitated toward her became increasingly animated in their efforts to win her laughter.

Elizabeth had barely taken her place near the hearth when Wickham appeared at her side.

“Miss Bennet,” he said warmly. “Would you care to take some air with me? The day is unseasonably fair, and the garden path calls.”

Elizabeth hesitated, but only briefly. “A turn about the path would be pleasant,” she said with a curtsy.

They stepped outside into the pale autumn sun. Jane and Kitty had already led the rest of the party toward the hedgerows, the young officers laughing too loudly at something Kitty had said.

“I must thank you again,” Wickham began as they strolled behind. “For your kindness the other evening. Our conversation was the first I have had in some time that did not feel strained or… calculated.”

Elizabeth smiled. “That is a rare compliment indeed.”

“I mean it. Hertfordshire has proven far more welcoming than I expected. And far more lovely.”

She flushed faintly but said nothing. His words were charming, certainly, but her heart was not quite open to such ease today. Her thoughts were still unsettled from the day before.

He seemed to sense it. “Are you well? You seem pensive.”

“A little thoughtful this evening,” she agreed lightly. “There has been a great deal to consider as of late.”

“Indeed,” he murmured.

They walked in silence for a moment. Elizabeth glanced at him—and that was when she noticed it.

His gaze had drifted away. Not toward her, but at the people walking in front of them.

She frowned. At first, the sting was simple. A woman’s instinctive pang—Was he watching Kitty? Admiring her figure instead of listening to her?

But no.

It was not only her sister he watched.

He was also watching the officers.

Lieutenants Denny and Pratt were in profile, laughing with Kitty, their shoulders squared confidently, coats snug across their backs, the tight lines of their breeches drawing the eye with every long stride.

And Wickham was certainly looking.

The realization struck like a silent blow. She turned her gaze quickly away, her cheeks warm, unsure how to process what she had just seen. He was still talking, but she barely registered his words.

“...no easy thing to be cast off by someone who once knew you so well,” he was saying. “To have been so close, only to be—what? Abandoned? Judged? I still do not understand what made him hate me so.”

Elizabeth forced a breath. “Perhaps it is not for lack of understanding, but a difference of… principles.”

He glanced at her then, his eyes wary. “You speak as if you agree with him.”

“I—no. That is, I do not presume to judge either of you. I only meant that Mr. Darcy seems a man of strong convictions.”

A flicker of emotion passed over Wickham’s face—too quickly to name, but it almost appeared to be hatred. “Yes. Strong convictions. Unbending. Inflexible. And above all, proud.”

Elizabeth offered a weak smile, but her thoughts were no longer in the present. They were spiraling.

Wickham’s university expulsion. The vague “lifestyle” Mr. Darcy found objectionable. The sudden break in friendship. And now this.

Could that be the reason for their falling out? The predilection of his best friend towards not only women… but men as well?

Was it possible?

She felt as though her lungs had shrunk in her chest.

It had been a theory before. A fear. A shadowy what if—lingering in the background of every tender glance Mr. Darcy gave her, every warm word exchanged, every hopeful thought about the future.

What if he found out about Papa?

What if he could not forgive it?

But now… now it was not a what if . It was not theoretical. It had already happened.

He had cut off his closest companion—his childhood friend, his university mate, a man he had once trusted implicitly—all because of…what? His proclivities? Perhaps not even an act. Just a leaning, a preference.

And Darcy had turned away.

Elizabeth’s stomach turned. The garden around her blurred into misted autumn sunlight and the low murmur of Kitty’s laughter ahead.

He had already done it.

He had drawn the line in the sand—and Wickham, for all his charm and apparent honesty, had been left on the other side of it.

Her father…

She pressed a hand to her side, fingers curling into her shawl. What would Mr. Darcy do if that truth ever came to light? If he knew that the respectable Mr. Bennet, squire of Longbourn, was living a secret, hidden life? That he committed a crime so shameful he could have been hanged for it?

Would he recoil?

Would he call off the courtship?

Or—if a marriage had already occurred—would he forbid her ever to speak to her father again? Would he use it against her? Against them ?

A rock had settled in her chest, heavy and cold.

All her reason whispered that Darcy had grown.

That he was no longer the harsh young man Wickham described.

And yet… the note in the book. His horror at the idea that it might have been written by a man.

The vehemence of his tone when they quarreled.

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

That had not been the voice of a man merely upholding principle.

It had been personal.

Deep.

Fixed.

And suddenly she felt like a fool for ever thinking it might be otherwise.

She had hoped… perhaps even believed… that one day she could tell him. She just did not know when , but she knew that that she must tell him. She could not marry with such a secret between them.

But now she realized that she could not tell him at all .

Because if she did, she would lose him.

Or worse—lose Papa.

And that thought—that unbearable possibility—was what shook her most of all.

How can I choose?