Page 54 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)
E lizabeth sat before her vanity, gazing at her reflection without truly seeing it. The preparations for the ball had scarcely begun—her hair lay unbound, brushing her shoulders, and her gown for the evening was draped neatly over a nearby chair. A quiet knock startled her from her thoughts.
"Come in," she called softly.
The door opened, and her father stepped inside, his expression more serious than usual.
"Papa?" Elizabeth rose quickly to greet him in surprise. It was quite rare for Mr. Bennet to visit any of his children’s rooms—he preferred to summon them to his study instead of going to them. "Has something happened?"
"No, no," he reassured, closing the door gently behind him. "Nothing untoward has occurred. But I received something today, and I thought it best you see it without delay."
He withdrew a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to her. "The note is addressed to me, but the enclosed letter is for you. Mr. Darcy wrote asking my permission to pass it along. I thought it best to give it to you myself."
Elizabeth took the note in trembling fingers and unfolded it, her heart fluttering unsteadily as she read Darcy’s brief words to her father.
Mr. Bennet,
Enclosed you will find a letter I have written to your daughter, Miss Elizabeth.
I am aware that propriety forbids this intimacy, as we are neither engaged nor formally courting in the eyes of society.
I wish to be respectful of your family and your authority.
Thus, you have my full consent to read this letter first, should you desire, and only give it to her if you find it acceptable.
My intention is to clarify matters between myself and your daughter after our recent disagreement.
I leave the decision entirely to your judgment.
Respectfully yours,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Elizabeth’s throat tightened, and she raised anxious eyes to her father. "Did you—?"
"No," he said gently. "I did not. Whatever passed between you and Mr. Darcy is yours alone to resolve. I am always here should you wish my advice—but only if you ask for it."
Elizabeth sank onto the edge of her bed, fingers clutching the note tightly. "Oh, Papa," she whispered, voice thick with emotion. "I fear it is all such a tangled mess."
Mr. Bennet touched her shoulder lightly. "Then perhaps this letter will help untangle it."
She looked up at him, her heart aching. "But what if—?"
"Elizabeth," he interrupted softly, with gentle authority. "Read it first. Consider it carefully. And tomorrow, after the ball is done and you have had time to think, we shall talk, if you wish it."
He leaned down to place a tender kiss upon her forehead, then turned to leave, closing the door quietly behind him. Elizabeth sat still for several heartbeats, the letter heavy in her hand, her heart hammering in her chest.
Drawing a deep breath to steady her nerves, she broke the seal.
Miss Elizabeth,
Please forgive the presumption of this letter. I know it is not strictly proper to approach you in this manner, but circumstances require clarification, and I cannot endure the thought of leaving such misunderstandings between us unaddressed.
I begin by offering a sincere apology for my harsh words during our last encounter. My temper and anxiety have been tested greatly of late, but this offers no excuse for causing you distress. My respect for you ought never to have been overshadowed by my agitation, and I am deeply remorseful.
Two charges you laid against me in our recent quarrel: firstly, my cruelty in cutting off George Wickham, and secondly, my judgmental stance towards those attracted to their own sex. Allow me to respond frankly and openly to both accusations.
Mr. Wickham and I grew up side-by-side at Pemberley.
As the son of my father’s steward and my own godfather’s favorite, he was my frequent companion.
He was charming, lively, and attentive—particularly to young ladies.
His knowledge of feminine interests—lace, fabric, fashions—was impressive, and I naively attributed this skill to his desire to ingratiate himself among women for honorable courtship.
Later, at Cambridge, I came to see how mistaken I was.
During our time as university roommates, Wickham grew increasingly wild.
Drinking heavily, gambling recklessly, and boasting openly of conquests with women whose reputations he callously disregarded.
He cheated shamelessly in his studies, yet my sense of duty and long friendship caused me to look away, hoping he might improve.
That hope was shattered one night when, unexpectedly and shockingly, he made advances upon me, declaring sentiments that went far beyond friendship.
I trust I do not offend your sensibilities when I tell you that he attempted to push physical attentions on me in a manner that was most alarming.
My response was one of disgust and anger—not merely at the act itself, but at the betrayal of the trust we had shared.
Perhaps I reacted more harshly than necessary; but understand that at the time, the fear of association with scandal and gossip of such nature overwhelmed me.
In my youthful pride, I feared damage to my own reputation.
Furthermore, his behavior had grown intolerable in many other ways, and this was but the final confirmation of his lack of moral principle.
I ended our friendship abruptly—perhaps cruelly—but it was never from malicious intent, only from hurt and confusion.
I acknowledge that my reaction to Wickham was harsh—perhaps cruel—but I behaved so out of hurt. The trust of a lifelong friendship was shattered in a single moment, and I responded in the shock of youthful pride and wounded sensibilities.
When my father passed away, I was very emotionally distraught.
His death occurred quite suddenly, in the middle of the summer, and it was necessary for the funeral to proceed immediately.
There were many sensitive negotiations occurring at the time, and the attorneys insisted the will be read immediately.
Upon seeing that my father had left Wickham the living at Kympton but only on the condition of ordination, I felt relief and sorrow for my old friend.
Knowing that he had not even begun the process to be ordained—and therefore ineligible for my father’s bequest—I nevertheless sent him the sum of three thousand pounds in lieu of the living.
My uncle, the attorneys, and my cousin all argued against this generosity, but I wished to do one last thing for my former friend.
Imagine my horror when, only a few years later, I discovered Georgiana and Wickham in an improper embrace at Ramsgate.
Knowing intimately his depravity, dishonesty, and selfish disregard for virtue, as well as his hatred towards myself, I acted swiftly to separate them.
My harsh treatment of him then was not out of mere prejudice, but out of sheer terror and protectiveness towards my sister.
I saw Georgiana behaving in a way that threatened her future, and my sole desire was her safety.
I could not allow her to be the victim of revenge towards myself, for why else would a man with desires such as his wish to align himself with my young sister?
Now, to the second charge. You asked if my disdain for men who are attracted to other men was sincerely held, or merely the result of overwrought emotion.
The truth, Miss Elizabeth, is that I have always considered such acts sinful, aligning myself with scriptural teachings and the expectations of society.
I equally disdain infidelity, dishonesty, and wantonness in any relationship, whether between men and women, or otherwise.
However, my cousin Richard recently challenged my viewpoint.
He rightly pointed out the hypocrisy in my sometimes selective condemnation of moral failings.
He made me see that I have often judged harshly, without considering the essential quality of a person’s character.
As Richard explained from his own experiences on the battlefield, character—honor, loyalty, integrity—is the true measure of a person’s worth, far more important than who a man chooses to love.
Character matters most. I judged Wickham harshly for his sin, but I was hypocritical in failing to equally condemn sins more socially acceptable, though equally abhorrent.
It grieves me deeply, Miss Bennet, to recognize that my harshness, my authoritative tone, and my demand that you avoid Wickham without explanation made you fear that I might seek to control you.
It was never my intention to cause you anxiety or to raise concerns that I might ever separate you from your family.
Your accusation regarding this has opened my eyes to a painful truth: my actions, however well-meant, could have harmed you irreparably.
I apologize sincerely and promise to strive earnestly to correct this failing in myself.
If you will allow me, I would like to explain one thing further: I have long held responsibility for many people—servants, tenants, and my younger sister—without having to consider another person as a true partner.
It is a new and humbling realization for me, and one I am committed to learning.
I desire deeply to have a true equal in marriage, someone whose wisdom I can trust, whose judgment I can value, and whose heart I can cherish.
I desire that person to be you, Elizabeth, if you could possibly forgive my faults and offer me another chance.
I love you. My heart is yours, entirely and without reservation.
Yet I recognize that trust cannot be commanded; it must be earned.
I hope that you can learn to trust me as I have learned to trust your judgment and your good character.
I pray you will allow me the opportunity to prove that your trust in me is not misplaced.