Page 50 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

D arcy stood at the window of the morning room, his arms crossed tight and his boot tapping a sharp rhythm against the parquet floor. Outside, the trees had begun to drop their gold-edged leaves, and a sharp wind stirred the air—brisk and biting. Still no sign of Bingley.

He crossed to the window again, pressing one gloved hand to the cold glass. The morning sun was weak, filtered through shifting clouds, but it caught at the gold-tipped edges of the trees. Longbourn lay just beyond the hills, and with it, Elizabeth.

He dragged in a breath.

It had been three days since he had lost his temper. Three days since their conversation in the garden had ended in that painful, charged silence.

He had not meant to frighten her. But he had. He had seen it—the flash of alarm in her eyes, the defensive set of her shoulders. Her voice had trembled, and though her words had been brave, she had stood as though braced for a blow. And that, more than anything, had haunted him.

He had let his temper overtake his better sense. Again.

Fool.

It mattered little that the topic was painful for him. That he had spoken from conviction, from what he believed to be the truth.

How was she to know?

All she had seen from her perspective was that her reasonable suggestion had provoked his wrath.

She had looked at him as if she no longer knew him.

He needed to see her again. To reassure her. To make her understand that he was not… that man. Not anymore. That his temper, though sharp, was not the whole of him. That she could trust him.

He had been so close to something precious. He could feel it—still, faintly, like the memory of warmth in the bones.

And then—ruin.

A fist closed in his chest.

You cannot escape, the note had read. My eyes are watching you. I see your every move.

He had found it upon his pillow last night, folded into ivory parchment with a scent he now loathed. He had stared at it for minutes before daring to unfold it, then nearly crushed it in his hand. How had it gotten there? Who had been in his room?

He had lost his temper entirely, nearly dismissed Bates on the spot before remembering himself. The servants had sworn they saw no one. The staff was tight-lipped and loyal, and yet someone had breached the inner sanctum of his chambers. Someone who knew far too much.

And worse—someone bold enough to toy with him in his own residence.

The unease was beginning to fester. He had taken precautions, of course—spoken privately with Fitzwilliam, requested additional measures from the footmen—but nothing had turned up. Not yet.

The only good news was Fitzwilliam’s letter, received that morning. He would return the following evening and remain for at least four days until after the ball. Darcy had never been so relieved to know his cousin would soon be near again.

But still—none of it mattered, not truly. Not when Elizabeth might already have made up her mind against him.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor made him turn.

At last. Bingley. Darcy strode for the door, his heart beating faster with every step.

He could not wait a moment longer.

∞∞∞

The wind had picked up in the last half hour.

Elizabeth tugged her shawl closer around her shoulders, grateful for the extra layer as she walked slowly alongside Mr. Darcy.

They had barely spoken since he and Mr. Bingley arrived, and when they finally stepped into the garden, the air between them was as thick as the gray clouds above.

Their breaths misted in the air, ghost-like puffs between them.

He cleared his throat. “Miss Bennet—”

“I—” she began at the same time.

They both stopped. She inclined her head. “Please, go on.”

Darcy’s jaw flexed. “I owe you an apology. For the other day. I… lost my temper.”

Elizabeth said nothing, but her hands were trembling.

“I have been under considerable strain,” he continued, his voice low.

“The situation with Georgiana, and these letters… another was left for me. On my bed this time.” He paused, visibly shaken.

“I very nearly dismissed my valet. I—” He broke off.

“There is no excuse. But I want you to know I am not a man given to rage. I do not—” He stopped again. “That is not who I am.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly. “I believe you.”

They walked a few more steps in silence, gravel crunching beneath their shoes.

He stopped walking.

A gust of wind rustled through the hedges, tearing the last golden leaves from their branches and sending them tumbling to the gravel path at their feet.

“It is what I believe,” he said at last. “I know my tone was beyond what was appropriate, but my words were accurate. I spoke my convictions, but I expressed them very poorly. I can only apologize profusely for that.”

Elizabeth turned her face from the wind, but not before he caught the flicker of sorrow in her eyes.

“And you truly believe it is—what did you call it? A perversion?” she asked softly. “You would look upon someone who feels those affections and see nothing but sin?”

He flinched. “I believe it is a disordering of natural law,” he said carefully. “Not merely a personal defect, but a rebellion against the order God Himself established. I do not say such things lightly.”

“No,” she said. “I do not suppose you do anything lightly, Mr. Darcy.”

Her voice was quiet, but the words struck him like a blow.

They walked a few more paces in silence. He could see their breath curling in the cold air, hear the steady crunch of gravel beneath their boots, and yet it all seemed very far away.

Elizabeth’s hands were tucked into her muff, but he saw the tension in her shoulders. The storm was not over—it had only just begun.

“I cannot accept your courtship,” she said abruptly, stopping mid-path.

He turned, stunned. “What?”

“I cannot,” she repeated, her voice firm, though it trembled at the edges. “It would not be right.”

His pulse surged. “Why not?”

She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again. A flush rose in her cheeks, not from cold, but from something like anguish.

He stepped toward her. “Tell me.”

Her eyes searched his face. “Because I would always be afraid of you.”

The words stunned him into stillness.

“Not because I believe you to be cruel,” she hurried to add.

“Not in the usual sense. But because I have seen your anger, and I have heard your condemnation. And I have imagined—truly imagined—what it would be to be bound to someone who might one day turn that judgment upon me, or upon someone I love.”

His brows drew together. “Elizabeth, I would never harm you.”

“Not with your hands, no. But words can do their own sort of violence.” Her voice was rising now, her cheeks bright. “What would you do if someone in your own family turned out to be… like that? What if it were your cousin? Or your child?”

“I would not allow such a scandal to attach itself to my name.”

She drew back. “But it may not be something you can control. How can you be so proud, so arrogant as to think so?”

He felt a flare of heat rise in his chest. “I have already said I was wrong in how I spoke to you—”

“This is not about that day,” she interrupted, her voice breaking. “This is about what it revealed. I thought I knew you. I thought you could be—”

She stopped herself. The wind swept between them like a wedge, cold and cutting.

“I know about Mr. Wickham,” she said at last.

He gaped. “Wickham? What does he have to do with anything?”

“You cast him off, did you not?”

“Yes. And I would do so again.” The words came too fast, too harsh. “You do not know what kind of man he is, Elizabeth. How in heaven’s name did you meet him?”

“He has joined the local regiment. I have seen him at gatherings—he has been kind and seems deeply hurt by your estrangement.”

Darcy’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Kind? He is not the sort of man with whom young ladies of good breeding should associate—I… I forbid you from speaking to him again!

The words were out before he could stop them, and they hung heavily in the air between them.

Elizabeth was stunned, then furious. “You forbid me?”

His face was like stone, and her heart nearly broke at the sight. “Yes. I—”

“You are not my father,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “And I would never choose to bind myself to a man who will try to forbid me from contact with anyone, including my family.”

“Your family?” he echoed, confused. “What does Wickham have to do with your family?”

The question hung between them, trembling in the air like a wire stretched taut.

“I cannot tell you,” she whispered.

He stepped forward. “Elizabeth—”

“No.” She held up a hand. “You speak of scandal as though it is some contagion to be avoided—but life is not so neat. You may pretend otherwise, but one cannot build a marriage on fear and control.”

“You are twisting my words—”

“And you have proven yourself to be the last man in the world whom I could ever marry!” Her voice trembled now.

“You cannot accept that people make mistakes. That there is grace beyond disgrace. I love my family, Mr. Darcy. Fiercely. And I cannot marry a man who might one day look at someone I love and decide they are too shameful to associate with.”

He opened his mouth—only to realize he had no idea what she meant. The conversation had veered wildly, from Wickham to family to secrets, and he was too shaken to find the thread.

“Elizabeth, I do not understand—”

Silence fell between them, stretched tight like a string about to snap.

“Please,” she said, her voice hoarse, “let me go.”

She turned and fled up the path of the dying garden toward the house, skirts whipping behind her, hair coming loose from its pins as the wind howled around her. The first fat drops of rain began to fall, cold and insistent, dotting the stone walk and soaking into the wool of her pelisse.

She did not slow. She could not.