Page 52 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

D arcy did not immediately answer his cousin. He took a deep breath, still staring into the dying flames. “Elizabeth has rejected my courtship.”

Fitzwilliam did not speak. After a moment, he simply nodded for Darcy to go on.

“We argued,” Darcy muttered. “It was about… a great many things. I said something foolish—no, not foolish. I said what I believed. About sodomy. About perversion. She asked me if I truly believed it, and I said I did.”

Fitzwilliam’s brows flew high on his forehead. “What does an unmarried gentlewoman know about such things?”

Darcy shrugged. “I wondered the same thing. But then she told me she could not enter a courtship with me. She said she could not bind herself to someone who might one day forbid her from seeing her family. I thought it merely a matter of principle —an abstract fear. But then she said… she knows why I cast Wickham off. She knows the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That Wickham is… is…. well, that he appreciates the company of woman and men.”

Coughing on his brandy, Fitzwilliam sputtered, “You mean to tell me that George Wickham, the pretty boy who could charm any girl out of her skirts, the one who persuaded Georgiana to elope with him… is a molly ?”

“Yes,” Darcy said tightly.

“How long have you known?”

“Since he tried to kiss me at university.”

Fitzwilliam whistled low. “I had wondered what caused the breach between you two. So you threw him out?”

“On the spot. I told him I never wanted to see him again. That I would not expose him, for my sake as much as his, but that he was never to speak to me or approach me again.”

Silence followed. The fire crackled faintly in the hearth.

“I have loathed him ever since,” Darcy added. “What he did with Georgiana only made it worse.”

Fitzwilliam ran a hand through his hair, visibly unsettled. “Well, I will not lie, that is a blow to the mind. George Wickham of all people. But I cannot say I am disgusted—not about his preferences, at least. Shocked, yes. But I have known many kinds of men in the service.”

Darcy looked over in surprise. “You have?”

The colonel nodded slowly. “Yes. Quiet sorts, who kept to themselves and never looked twice at the barmaids. Others who were… not so shy. And a few who were open about it, as much as they dared be. Some of them were good soldiers. Brave. Loyal. Kept their heads when others lost theirs. One or two even saved my life.”

Darcy looked skeptical. “But surely—”

“Listen,” Fitzwilliam interrupted gently, “I have also served with so-called ‘upright’ men—pillars of English manhood—who did unspeakable things. Men who raped and pillaged when given the chance, who beat prisoners for sport or looted churches while quoting scripture. Some of them liked women. Some of them liked men. Some liked both, indiscriminately.”

His voice darkened. “There were monsters of every kind. What mattered to me, in the thick of it, was character. And that has very little to do with where a man lays his head at night.”

Darcy rubbed his hands over his face, weariness tugging at every muscle. “So you are saying that Wickham—”

“I am saying,” Fitzwilliam cut in, “that Wickham is a scoundrel not because of whom he desires, but because he lies, he manipulates, and he tried to seduce your fifteen-year-old sister. That is enough for me to hate him. I do not need to add his preference for men to the list.”

Darcy was silent for a long moment, his brow furrowed.

“You truly think that?” he asked at last.

“I do.”

The firelight flickered between them.

Darcy turned away, pacing to the window. “I still do not understand, Richard,” he said softly. “What does any of this have to do with Elizabeth refusing my courtship?”

Fitzwilliam looked at him as if he had grown another head. “Darcy, for a clever man, you are staggeringly obtuse when it comes to the fairer sex. Think. She said she could not trust you not to sever her from her family. Clearly, she was not speaking in theory.”

Darcy blinked.

“Darcy,” the colonel said flatly, “if she knows about Wickham, and she knows how you reacted to him, then clearly she is afraid.”

“Afraid of me ?”

“Afraid of what you might do if the same truth came out about someone she loves.” Fitzwilliam raised his brows meaningfully. “Think. She told you she could not bind herself to a man who might cut her off from her own family. And she said you would do that. Why?”

Realization began to dawn—slowly, like frost creeping across a windowpane.

“You do not think…” His voice faltered. “Her father?”

Richard shook his head. “Unlikely. A man might share something like that with his wife—but not his daughter, not in that age. But a brother? A twin?” He raised his brows. “That seems more plausible.”

Darcy leaned forward, head in his hands. “She said… she said I would never understand what a woman gives up when she marries. Her freedom. Her family. I thought she was speaking in general terms, but now—”

“You were asking her to take a leap,” the colonel said softly, “while standing on a cliff she knew might crumble.”

Darcy leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. “But I would never—if it were her family, I would—”

“Would what?” Fitzwilliam interrupted. “Would you allow a known sodomite to dine with your wife and children? Be welcome at Pemberley? Be entrusted with your heir? Because that is the standard she is measuring you against.”

Darcy was silent.

Fitzwilliam’s voice was gentler when he next spoke.

“As I said, I have served beside many men, Cousin. Some who loved their wives dearly and were monsters in other ways. Some quiet fellows who never looked twice at a woman. And a few who—well, who found solace in each other’s company.

But on the battlefield, what mattered was courage, honor, and loyalty.

That was the measure of a man—not who he shared his bed with when the world went dark. ”

Darcy closed his eyes.

Fitzwilliam’s voice softened. “This is not about theology, or politics, or what the law says. This is about trust. About whether the woman you love believes you are safe enough to entrust her family to.”

The weight of it landed like stone on Darcy’s heart. He stared into the fire for a long time, not speaking.

At last, he said, “I am a fool, Richard.”

“You are,” Fitzwilliam agreed cheerfully. “But you are also a fool in love, so do something about it.”

Darcy rose from his chair. He crossed to the desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, and reached for a pen.

“What are you doing?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“What I should have done before,” Darcy replied, dipping the nib into ink. “I am writing her a letter, and I am going to tell her everything .”

∞∞∞

The morning of the ball arrived, and the gray, drizzling skies matched Elizabeth’s mood far too well.

It was not the downpour of the last several days, but the sun and its warmth was still absent.

She had slipped away to the back parlor for a moment’s quiet, relieved to find the room unoccupied.

But as soon as she closed the door, her composure gave way.

The tears came before she could stop them—silent, aching sobs she could not name the source of, though she knew their roots ran deep: confusion, heartache, fear… and perhaps a grief for something that had never truly been hers.

She was startled when the door creaked gently open.

Georgiana stood there, clutching a book to her chest.

Her face changed at once. “Miss Elizabeth?” she asked softly. “Are you… are you unwell?”

Elizabeth turned away, brushing at her cheeks. “Forgive me. I only needed a moment.”

Georgiana entered the room and closed the door behind her. “Shall I fetch someone? One of your sisters, perhaps?”

“No,” Elizabeth said quickly, trying to summon a smile. “Truly, it is nothing. I was just… thinking.”

Georgiana stepped closer and sat on the edge of the window seat beside her. “I cry sometimes, too,” she admitted. “Especially when I first arrived. I hated everything. The rules, the plain food, the lessons… you. All of it.”

Elizabeth huffed a small laugh at the girl's honesty. “I know.”

“But now…” Georgiana swung her legs slowly. “I do not hate it anymore. Not even the mush.” She wrinkled her nose, making Elizabeth laugh through her tears. “I like knowing what each day will bring. And the rules—they make me feel safe. As if someone cares.”

“I do care,” Elizabeth said, reaching for her hand. “We all do.”

Georgiana’s fingers tightened. “I know. I know that now. And I know I cannot stay here forever.” Her voice trembled. “But I do not want to leave and forget everything. What if I go back to London and I slip again? I do not trust myself.”

Elizabeth felt a pang of protectiveness—and sorrow. She did not know how to ease such fears. But Georgiana was not finished.

“What if…” The girl’s voice turned wistful. “What if you came with me? To London. And then to Pemberley, maybe? You could help me stay good. You could be my sister.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard.

Georgiana’s eyes lit up. “Could you not marry my brother? Then we really would be sisters!”

Tears pricked again at the corners of Elizabeth’s eyes. She leaned forward and gently kissed the girl’s brow. “No, dearest.”

Georgiana blinked in surprise. “But… do you not love each other?”

Elizabeth said nothing.

The girl looked away. “I do not know what love is. I thought I did—this summer. At Ramsgate. I was so sure.”

Elizabeth stilled. “Ramsgate?”

Georgiana flushed and looked down at her lap.

“Mr. Wickham made me feel special. He called me beautiful and clever and said we should run away together before my brother tried to marry me off to someone old and dull. I thought it was romantic. He was always kissing me and… touching. It felt exciting, even though I knew it was wrong.”

Elizabeth’s stomach turned cold. “Mr. Wickham?” she repeated.