Page 51 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

And as she reached the threshold, fumbling blindly for the door latch, she realized she could not tell whether the moisture on her cheeks was from the tears or the rain—or both.

∞∞∞

Darcy stood motionless in the garden long after Elizabeth had gone, the hem of his coat growing damp from the mist clinging to the air, the rain soaking into his hair and lashes.

His hands hung useless at his sides, and his chest ached with confusion and grief.

She had fled from him—again—and he had no idea why.

He had apologized. He had tried to explain. And still she had looked at him as if he were a stranger, a man she could not trust. A man she could not love.

Slowly, he turned and made his way back toward the house, each step heavier than the last. The rain was falling more steadily now, tapping against the windows like impatient fingers. Inside, the warmth of the entry hall was a strange contrast to the cold that had settled inside him.

He saw no sign of Elizabeth. A maid offered to take his hat and coat, but her murmured words barely registered.

“She is upstairs,” came Mr. Bennet’s voice from the doorway to the study. “Would you care for a game?”

Darcy managed a nod and followed him in, grateful to escape his own thoughts if only for a while.

The chessboard was already set. Mr. Bennet gestured for him to sit.

They played in silence for several moves, but Darcy’s hand hesitated over the pieces, his mind nowhere near the game.

He lost his queen in a foolish exchange, then left a knight unprotected.

Mr. Bennet clicked his tongue softly and moved a bishop with the practiced ease of a man who had played this game longer than Darcy had been alive.

After a few more turns, Mr. Bennet sat back and studied him. “My Lizzy has not been herself of late.”

Darcy swallowed hard. “We quarreled.”

“Ah.” Mr. Bennet’s eyes did not leave the board. “That does happen between spirited people. She was not angry when she returned inside—she was… distressed.”

“I do not understand.” Darcy’s voice was low, weary. “I apologized. I tried to listen. But I cannot renounce what I believe to be right, not even for her. And yet she looked at me as though I had wounded her.”

Mr. Bennet considered this for a long moment.

“Well, that is the thing about beliefs, Mr. Darcy. They may be firm, but people are not made of marble. They bend and ache under pressure. Elizabeth is more passionate than she appears—she feels things deeply. And when she is angry or afraid, it all comes tumbling out in a torrent.”

Darcy nodded mutely.

Mr. Bennet’s tone softened. “This is part of why I suggested you wait before making any formal declaration. Feelings run hot when affection grows quickly. But do not give up. When her mind is settled and her heart a little less bruised, you may find her more willing to speak again.”

Darcy closed his eyes briefly, drawing a slow breath. “I only wish I understood what I did wrong.”

Mr. Bennet sighed and made one final move. “That, my dear sir, is the central puzzle of manhood—and you are not the first to ponder it across this board.”

He rose from the chair and crossed to the sideboard, pouring them each a glass of port. He handed one to Darcy. “Sleep on it. Pray, if you are inclined. And try again. That is all any of us can do.”

Darcy stared down into the dark wine, the rain still tapping softly against the windows, and wondered whether all the prayers in the world could lead him out of this maze of hearts.

∞∞∞

Once back at Netherfield, Darcy shut himself in his room and sat in silence, letting the shadows lengthen around him. He had not the strength to remove his coat. Her words echoed in his ears like a bell—ringing, relentless, damning.

How did she know?

He pressed his hands to his temples. Wickham. Of course it was Wickham. Who else could have planted such suspicion in her mind?

How does she even know him?

And what had he told her? What twisted half-truths had he poured into her ears with that same oily charm he used on every unsuspecting soul?

But surely he would not have told her… that . It would be a completely inappropriate topic for any man to have with a maiden, especially a gentlewoman. He could not begin to imagine that Elizabeth would have entertained such a conversation.

His breath quickened. “She knows,” he muttered, rising to pace the floor.

He clenched his jaw. What had she said? This is not about theory anymore—it is about what you have already done. She thought him unjust. Condemning.

And then her fear… What if you forbid me from my family?

Darcy stilled.

What on earth did Wickham’s lifestyle have to do with her family? And if she knew about Wickham, surely she could understand! A man who lived like that had no place in respectable society. Darcy had not invented the rules. The world condemned such behavior. It was wickedness. Perversion.

He had only done what any gentleman would do to protect his reputation.

So why did Elizabeth look at him as if he were the one who had done wrong?

His mind snapped backward—unbidden—to the night that had changed everything between himself and Wickham.

They had been at university, alone in the rooms they shared.

He remembered the firelight flickering across the floor, the smell of ink and damp stone, and the warmth of brandy still resting on his tongue.

He had been speaking of Pemberley, of his father’s latest letter, when Wickham had suddenly grown quiet—unnaturally so.

Darcy had turned. And then—before he understood what was happening—Wickham had taken his hand. Held it. Looked at him with a softness he had never seen before.

Then came the words.

“I love you.”

And then the kiss.

It had been brief. Feather-light. Barely a brush at the corner of his mouth.

But it sent a jolt through Darcy’s body as if he had been struck. His chest went cold. His stomach lurched.

He stumbled back, heart pounding with something too tangled to name—revulsion, yes, but also betrayal. Fear. Anger. Confusion.

“You are disgusting!” he had roared, the words erupting from his chest before he could think.

Wickham had gaped in astonishment at the hateful words spewed by the figure across the room. “Wh-what do you mean?” he stammered.

“I mean you repulse me! How dare you, George?”

Wickham shrank back, the look on his face hurt and confused. “But I thought—”

“You thought you could profess your love and then kiss me?” Darcy thought he might vomit just saying the words. “When have I ever given you any indication that such regard from you would be well-received?”

“We have spent so much time together, and I—”

“Yes, because we have been in the same proximity as one another! By your logic, I would have accepted the attentions of many people over the years.”

“Please, I just meant-”

“I know exactly what you meant.” His voice had turned sharp, nearly cruel. “You meant to debase everything between us. You meant to trap me—pull me down into your corruption.”

“I would never! I love you. Does that mean nothing to you?”

What does he mean, he loves me? Darcy thought in astonishment. What would people say about me if they knew my closest friend was a sodomite who thought himself in love with me? What would they think that made me?

“It means less than nothing,” Darcy responded coldly. “Nothing would signify that I feel indifference, but your attempts at an embrace are utterly repugnant.”

“Is there nothing I can do?” Wickham begged in desperation.

“You can leave and not return. I never wish to see you or speak to you again. Do you understand?”

Wickham scrambled backwards towards the door.

“Please,” he begged, “do not tell anyone of this.”

“Of that you can be assured.” Darcy’s voice was frigid. “And I do not do it for your sake, but for my own. I would not wish to be tied to you under any circumstances, and I cannot allow your depravity to taint my reputation.”

“Thank you—”

“GO!”

Wickham fled into the night. Darcy stood frozen, breath ragged, hands trembling at his sides.

And then, alone, he sank into the nearest chair, staring at the fire until it blurred. He could still feel the ghost of the kiss on his skin. Still feel the coil of revulsion in his gut.

But beneath it all, buried deep—was something else. A grief he could not explain. A loss he could not name.

Wickham had been his friend. His brother , in all but blood.

And in a single moment, it had all been shattered.

∞∞∞

The following day passed in a restless haze. Darcy barely touched his luncheon and could not bear to read. The sound of the grandfather clock ticking down the hallway only heightened his irritation.

Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived late in the afternoon, greeted Bingley in high spirits, and clapped Darcy on the shoulder with a warm, “Glad to be back in this madhouse.”

Darcy offered a wan smile and a half-hearted greeting.

Dinner passed with little conversation. Darcy could scarcely recall what he ate. He nodded at all the proper intervals, said all the right things, but felt as though he moved through fog. When Fitzwilliam suggested a game of billiards afterward, Darcy agreed out of habit, not enthusiasm.

They played in the old room with its dark paneled walls and faint smell of smoke and chalk. Fitzwilliam won the first game easily, offering jests about Darcy’s concentration.

Darcy forced a weak chuckle. Then another.

By the third game, the colonel had stopped joking. He sank the final ball, leaned against the table, and picked up his brandy.

“Well,” he said after a long drink, “you are either nursing a wounded heart or plotting a duel. Which is it?”

Darcy sighed. He rubbed his hand over his face. “Neither. Or both.”

Fitzwilliam raised a brow.

Darcy stared down into his glass. “We quarreled. Elizabeth and I.”

“A lovers’ spat?”

“A complete disaster.”

The colonel crossed his arms. “Tell me everything.”