Page 55 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)
I have always borne responsibility alone.
To have a partner—to have you—is an honor and a responsibility I am unaccustomed to, but one I deeply desire.
I acted wrongly in demanding your obedience rather than seeking your counsel.
For this, I humbly ask your forgiveness.
I promise to strive always for openness, mutual respect, and trust.
Tonight at the ball, if you are able to forgive me and give me hope, I beg that you would grant me the honor of the supper dance, in addition to our first set.
If you remain uncertain, I will understand if only the first set remains mine.
And should you wish to sever our understanding completely, I ask you to remove me from both dances, and I promise never to trouble you again.
I remain, with deepest sincerity and hope,
Your devoted servant,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Elizabeth sat in stunned silence long after she finished reading the letter, the paper trembling slightly in her fingers.
She had expected pride. She had expected excuses—justifications for his harshness, perhaps even condemnation for her assumptions.
But she had not anticipated humility. She had not anticipated a genuine reflection on his own actions and the admittance of fault where it was due.
Her eyes traced the elegant lines of his handwriting again and again, lingering over particular phrases that struck deep into her heart.
I acknowledge that my response to Wickham was harsh—perhaps cruel—but I acted from hurt and betrayal. The trust of a lifelong friendship was shattered in a single moment, and I responded in the shock of youthful pride and wounded sensibilities.
Her heart softened at the raw honesty of his confession. The depth of his anguish—his fear that others might see him differently, unfairly linked to a scandal not his own—had never occurred to her. She had never considered the vulnerability beneath his proud exterior.
She reread his description of Wickham at university—his womanizing, drinking, gambling, and deceit.
Elizabeth flushed with shame at her own na?veté.
She had been so quick to believe Wickham's charming manner, so eager to cast Darcy in the role of the villain. Her own pride had blinded her as thoroughly as Darcy’s had blinded him.
Character matters most, he had written. I judged Wickham harshly for his sin, but I was hypocritical in failing to equally condemn sins more socially acceptable, though equally grievous.
Elizabeth's breath caught at this admission. For Darcy, of all men, to openly admit such hypocrisy—it was more than she had thought him capable of.
Yet, it was his words about partnership and equality that moved her most deeply.
I have always borne responsibility alone.
To have a partner—to have you—is an honor and a responsibility I am unaccustomed to, but one I deeply desire.
I acted wrongly in demanding your obedience rather than seeking your counsel.
For this, I humbly ask your forgiveness.
I promise to strive always for openness, mutual respect, and trust.
Tears blurred her vision as she read these words again.
He understood. He understood her fears, her doubts, her need to be more than merely an ornament or possession.
He respected her judgment—trusted her, valued her.
It was everything she had hoped for, everything she had feared he might never offer.
Yet her gaze returned to the line about removing his name from her dance card if she wished to end all connection. It was such a stark, aching image. To erase him from her life entirely… Her chest tightened at the thought.
Could she trust him completely, with everything—even the secret she carried about her father? Could she trust him never to forbid her from seeing her family?
Her fingers tightened around the paper. Her heart warred within her, caught between fear and hope, uncertainty and desire.
But as she slowly folded the letter, her eyes lingered once more on his closing words:
I love you. I trust you. I pray you will grant me the chance to prove that your trust in me is not misplaced.
Elizabeth exhaled shakily, her tears falling freely now. She did not know what the future would bring, nor how he would respond when he finally learned the truth about her father. But she knew she could no longer imagine a future without him.
With trembling fingers, she pulled out her dance card. Taking up her pen, she carefully and deliberately filled in his name beside the supper dance, feeling as though she were signing her own heart over to him with every letter she wrote.
Her heart still held fears and doubts—but stronger than all was hope, blossoming fragile and beautiful within her breast.
∞∞∞
Darcy tugged anxiously at the cuffs of his evening jacket, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
The receiving line at Netherfield stretched interminably before him, and he silently cursed Miss Bingley’s insistence that he and Colonel Fitzwilliam participate.
Bad enough he was forced into superficial greetings and polite inanities; worse still was having to wait, endlessly, for Elizabeth’s arrival.
What if Mr. Bennet had never given her the letter?
What if he had read it himself and withheld it—deeming Darcy’s admissions inappropriate, his explanations insufficient?
The knot of anxiety in Darcy’s stomach tightened.
He had placed himself entirely at her mercy, his heart laid bare on the page.
She held his future in her hands—and he had no idea whether she had even seen his words.
Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned toward him, his voice low and teasing. “If you shift about any more, Darcy, they will think you have fleas.”
“Be quiet,” Darcy muttered through clenched teeth.
“Worried about your dances, are you?”
“Mind your own affairs, Richard.” Darcy scowled.
Fitzwilliam’s grin widened. “I would rather mind yours. They are infinitely more entertaining.”
Darcy shot him a fierce glare. “Richard, for once in your life, please hold your tongue.”
Fitzwilliam chuckled softly but mercifully fell silent.
The doors opened again, and Darcy’s breath caught painfully in his chest.
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet entered first, followed closely by their daughters. Darcy scarcely noticed Jane’s graceful beauty or Kitty’s wide-eyed delight. His entire world narrowed in on Elizabeth alone.
She moved gracefully into the room, delicate cream silk whispering softly against her figure.
Candlelight illuminated the faint gold embroidery along her gown’s neckline and hem, and a slender satin ribbon accentuated her curves.
Short, puffed sleeves ended in scalloped lace, revealing slender, graceful arms that still hid the mark from where she had been stabbed.
The ivory fabric clung to her curves, seeming to glow softly in the warm candlelit room.
Her dark curls were arranged elegantly atop her head, threaded with tiny pearls that gleamed softly in the candlelight, a few tendrils artfully framing her face.
She wore no jewels but those in her hair, and yet she outshone every other lady in the room.
He could scarcely breathe.
Did she read the letter? Does she understand?
The Bennets moved slowly down the line, exchanging pleasantries with Miss Bingley and Bingley himself. With each step closer, Darcy’s heartbeat quickened. His pulse hammered painfully in his ears, drowning out all other sound.
At last, she stood before him. He bowed deeply. “Miss Elizabeth.”
“Mr. Darcy,” she murmured, dipping into a graceful curtsy. Her voice was soft, but he detected a faint quiver.
When he rose, his eyes immediately sought her wrist. Her dance card swung gently from a delicate satin ribbon, frustratingly hiding the names. Did she choose to leave both dances blank? Had she reconsidered and scratched his name from the card altogether?
The uncertainty threatened to break him. How could he stand here, not knowing?
Elizabeth hesitated, as though sensing his turmoil. In one smooth, deliberate gesture, she caught the little card between her slender fingers, turning her wrist so that the elegant handwriting became plainly visible to him.
There was his name—once, and then again clearly marked for the supper dance.
A surge of relief and joy so profound it nearly staggered him flooded through his chest. His eyes rose to meet hers, hope blazing in their depths.
She offered a soft, tentative smile, her gaze holding his for a long, precious moment.
The warmth in her expression eased every fear that had plagued him since their quarrel.
“Thank you,” he whispered hoarsely, gratitude and tenderness interwoven in the quiet intensity of his voice.
Her cheeks flushed a becoming pink, and she inclined her head, lingering for a heartbeat longer before she moved gracefully down the line, leaving him staring after her.
Fitzwilliam leaned in again, quietly amused. “Feeling better now, Cousin?”
Darcy drew a shaky breath, still staring after Elizabeth. “Infinitely.”
An eternity later, the musicians struck the first notes for the opening set. Darcy, whose eyes had not left Elizabeth’s form, crossed the room with long strides and extended his hand to her. His heart was pounding painfully against his ribs as her slender fingers slid into his palm.
Her gentle warmth steadied him, and as they took their places facing each other, he felt the oppressive tension of the past several days begin to ease.
“You are beautiful,” he said softly, and her cheeks turned a becoming pink.
“Thank you,” she replied in a whisper, lowering her gaze.
“Before we say anything else,” he said quickly as they moved through the first steps, “I owe you a sincere apology.”
Her eyes rose to meet his, soft and searching. “And I owe you one as well. Your letter… it explained so much. I ought never to have judged you so harshly.”
“No,” he said earnestly, guiding her gently through a turn, the soft sweep of her gown brushing against his legs. “Your judgment was well-founded. I spoke rashly, without explaining myself. I can see that clearly now.”
She tilted her head slightly, her expression softening further. “I understand, Mr. Darcy—more than you know. I realize now why you reacted as you did, especially where Georgiana was concerned…”
“I acted out of fear.”
“There is something you should know.” Her tone grew serious, even urgent, as they moved again into formation.
“What is it?” he asked, a faint alarm rising within him.
“I spoke with Georgiana,” she said quietly, leaning closer as they stepped nearer. “She told me about Ramsgate. She confessed what Mr. Wickham had persuaded her to do—how dangerously close he had come to destroying her.”
Darcy tensed instinctively, but Elizabeth’s gaze calmed him.
“She told you everything?”
Elizabeth nodded gravely. “She is ashamed, but safe. But you should know, Mr. Darcy, that Mr. Wickham is aware that she is here in Meryton.”
Darcy nearly missed the next step, barely recovering himself before causing a disruption to the entire set. A chill washed over him, followed by swift anger. “He knows?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth confirmed softly, her eyes wide with concern. “I fear for her safety. I have warned her to stay close to home and never be alone. But you must be vigilant.”
His jaw tightened, and a protective fury burned through him. “He will not harm her again. I will ensure it.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened briefly in reassurance, and he drew comfort from her steadiness. “But tell me—has he approached her directly?”
She flushed lightly and shook her head. “Only myself, and only in passing, as part of a larger group. He never revealed anything about Ramsgate, and I had no reason at first to doubt his character.”
“I should have warned you,” Darcy said, regret weighing heavily in his voice. “I wanted to protect Georgiana by keeping it secret, but instead I left you vulnerable.”
“You could not have known he would appear here,” she replied firmly. “But we must plan together now to ensure her continued safety.”
Before he could respond, a flash of bright scarlet moved at the edge of his vision. His breath caught painfully in his chest, and his gaze snapped toward the figure entering the ballroom.
Elizabeth’s hand gripped his tighter, silently demanding his attention. “Mr. Darcy?” she whispered urgently. “What is it?”
Darcy forced himself to breathe. “Wickham.”