Page 53 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

“But then my brother arrived, and by that point, I was just angry with him. Angry that he sent me to school but then took me out of it again. Angry that he sent me away. Something inside of me just… snapped, and I wanted to make him feel just as hurt and angry as I did.”

Elizabeth could scarcely breathe. “Georgiana… he is here.”

Georgiana looked at her in confusion. “My brother has come to call?”

“No,” Elizabeth shook her head frantically. “Mr. Wickham is here in Meryton. I had no idea he was the one you nearly eloped with until just now.”

Georgiana’s eyes grew large. “What do we do? What if he says something?”

“I must insist—promise me you will never be alone,” Elizabeth said fervently. “Never open the door to a caller without someone beside you. Avoid the drawing room if officers visit.”

“Yes, of course,” the younger girl’s voice was quiet and thick with tears. “I think… I think I would like to go to my room now.”

Elizabeth scarcely noticed Georgiana’s departure; her mind was swirling with the new revelations.

“He lied to me,” she whispered. “And I believed him.”

How could I have been so blind?

All this time—his flirtations, his charm, the polished manners and sly, sidelong glances. Elizabeth had listened, had even pitied him, been swayed by the tale he told of an unfeeling friend and a lost legacy. But now? Now she saw it clearly.

Mr. Wickham had not been a wronged man.

He had been a predator.

The rage that stirred within her was slow and burning. Not merely at him, but at herself—for ever having believed him, for letting him speak so freely of Mr. Darcy without pressing for proof, for not seeing what he had been so close to doing to a frightened, isolated girl.

She stood abruptly and crossed to her writing desk, hands trembling, where her dance card sat open. Her fingers traced the name written neatly beside the first set— Mr. Darcy . The sight of it no longer filled her with confusion or pain, only resolve.

He had saved his sister.

Whatever else might stand between them—whatever disagreements of belief or temperament—he had seen through Wickham long before anyone else.

And he had protected Georgiana, even when she had not wanted to be protected.

Elizabeth saw now that it must have broken his heart to do so. She understood that now.

Her pen hovered over the blank line beneath it.

The supper dance.

But am I ready to accept this? To accept everything?

Her hand ached to write his name for a second dance. Her heart ached more. Her heart longed to reward him for integrity, his devotion to those in his care. To rush to him and say yes, yes, yes —to love, to trust, to begin something new.

But her hand did not move.

What would he say if he knew about Papa?

Would he look at her with that same horror? Would he call off the courtship in disgust—or worse, marry her, and then one day forbid her from ever seeing Papa again? From letting their children know their grandfather? From ever seeing Mark again unless he, too, renounced their parent?

I could not bear it .

She clenched her eyes shut, the pressure of tears building behind them. It was not just about love. It was about risk. About trust. About handing her whole life over to someone who might not be able to accept its full weight.

She drew in a long breath and looked down at the card once more.

That single blank line seemed to burn with meaning.

“I am not ready,” she whispered, setting the pen aside. “Not yet.”

She folded the card, her heart aching with uncertainty, and tucked it away in her reticule.

There would be time. The ball was yet to come.

∞∞∞

Darcy descended the stairs just after breakfast, the sealed envelope in his hand a weight far heavier than paper should be. He found a footman near the entrance hall and handed it to him without ceremony.

“This is to be delivered to Mr. Bennet of Longbourn. Immediately. No delay.”

The servant bowed and took the missive, and Darcy watched until he had disappeared through the front doors.

The rain had slackened to a fine drizzle—thank heaven for that.

If the roads had remained impassable, the ball might have been postponed.

And if that happened… he was not sure his nerves could endure it.

He could not call at Longbourn, not today. The household would be bustling with preparations, and such an intrusion would be inexcusable. He would have to wait.

If she reads the letter… if she understands… if there is still hope .

He turned from the door, running a hand through his hair.

“Oh, there you are, Mr. Darcy,” came a familiar, saccharine voice.

He turned slowly to see Miss Bingley approaching from the drawing room, dressed in pale apricot with a spray of feathers in her coiffure. Her smile was warm, but her eyes sharp with calculation.

“I confess I have scarcely seen you the past few days,” she said, gliding toward him. “I feared you had taken ill, but Charles insists you have merely been… occupied.”

“I have been attending to family matters,” Darcy replied coolly.

“Ah yes—your cousin.” She sighed. “It is good he could arrive in time for the ball, though as the son of an earl, I can scarce believe that he would condescend to such a rustic event as a country assembly.” She tilted her head, her smile now just shy of mocking.

“But of course, your family is known for its sense of duty.”

Darcy inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “Richard is a man of honor. He goes where he is needed.”

Miss Bingley laughed lightly, brushing her gloved hand along the back of a nearby chair.

“How fortunate that he was needed at Netherfield, then.

And how fortunate that you are here. I dare say Hertfordshire has never known such refinement before.

Well, as I always say, it is the responsibility of the higher stations to set an example for those beneath them.

Darcy offered no reply. He had learned by now that responding to Miss Bingley’s barbs only encouraged her.

She stepped closer, adjusting a fold in her glove with meticulous precision. “Of course,” she continued, her voice sweetening, “the first set of the evening carries a certain… significance. It sets the tone, you know. The guests will be watching.”

Darcy said nothing.

Miss Bingley’s lashes fluttered. “Naturally, everyone shall be eager to see you dance. And who better to lead the way than someone of suitable rank and—compatibility?”

She glanced up at him meaningfully.

He turned to face her fully, his tone clipped but not unkind. “I regret to disappoint you, Miss Bingley, but my first dance is already spoken for.”

Her lashes fluttered. “Spoken for?” she echoed. “Oh, do not tease me, Mr. Darcy. You cannot mean—”

“I do.” His voice left no room for misinterpretation. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet has accepted the honor.”

The smile on Miss Bingley’s face froze. For one heartbeat. Two.

“I see,” she said at last, her voice cool and sharp as a winter breeze. “Of course. A… local favorite.”

He bowed slightly. “If you will excuse me, Miss Bingley. I have several tasks I must accomplish before dressing for the ball.”

She inclined her head with an elegant curtsy, but her eyes followed him like knives as he turned and strode toward the stairs.

As he climbed the stairs to the guest wing, he exhaled and passed a hand over his face. The confrontation had not lasted long, but it left a sour taste in his mouth. He had no interest in humiliating Miss Bingley—only in setting boundaries. Clear ones.

Elizabeth will be there tonight, he reminded himself as he entered his room. I will see her. I will know .

Back in his chamber, the fire was still low, the coals faintly hissing. He moved towards his bed, eager to close his eyes for a few moments—and froze.

Another note lay atop his pillow.

The same ivory paper.

The same neat hand.

I would rather see you dead, Darcy, than be with anyone else. I was born with a jealous disposition, and I am determined that you will be mine .