Page 57 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

Jane shook her head, and Darcy’s stomach sank. He turned around, searching the crowd for his cousin. “Richard.” He caught Fitzwilliam’s eye and motioned him over. “She is not here.”

Richard blinked. “Who?”

“Elizabeth.”

They exchanged a look, and Darcy’s pulse began to thrum faster. “Could she have stepped out? A breath of air, perhaps?” Richard suggested, his own eyes sweeping the crowd.

“I do not know,” Darcy said tightly. “But something is wrong. I feel it.”

And then—it hit him.

Wickham was gone as well.

Darcy’s breath turned shallow.

He spun back to the crowd, eyes sweeping every face. No red uniform adorning a familiar figure. No charming smile on a familiar face. No George Wickham.

“Richard,” he said, his voice low but fierce, “I do not see him. Wickham. He is not here.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face darkened. “And Miss Elizabeth is missing.”

Darcy’s entire body tensed like a drawn bowstring.

“I am going to locate her,” he said, already striding toward the doors. He looked at Mr. Bennet, who had been watching the conversation with concern on his face. “Stay here,” he mouthed to the older man, who nodded.

Darcy did not say what he feared.

But it pounded in his blood with every step.

He had to find her.

He had to get to her before Wickham did.

∞∞∞

The notes of the current set echoed faintly in Elizabeth’s ears as she slipped from the edge of the floor toward the refreshment table in search of another lemonade.

Her last partner had been amiable enough, but her attention had wandered far from the conversation.

She had scanned the crowd relentlessly for Mr. Darcy.

Not just for the next dance—but for what she must tell him.

Wickham. The letters. The look in his eyes.

She poured herself a small glass of punch, her hand trembling ever so slightly as she raised it to her lips.

Only one more dance until the supper dance.

Relieved to not have a partner so she could rest her aching feet, she took another sip from her cup. The sound reached her ears then—a low hiss, nearly drowned out by the strains of violins.

“Psst. Miss! Miss Elizabeth!”

Elizabeth turned, startled. A maid stood just beyond the arched entrance, her cap askew and cheeks pink with urgency.

Elizabeth stepped toward her. “Is something the matter?”

The maid bobbed a curtsy, her eyes wide. “Yes, miss—there’s girls from Longbourn, just arrived—I think they came on foot. One of ’em’s hurt bad, and they was asking for you, real urgent-like.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught. “Who? Who was injured?”

“I think one said her name was Georgie—or maybe Liddy? Hard to say; she were crying. I put ’em in the music room, miss. It were empty.”

Elizabeth looked around frantically. No sign of Mr. Darcy. No sign of Mr. Bennet.

And—her heart jolted—no sign of Wickham.

A slow dread uncurled in her chest.

“Go,” she said quickly, her voice tight. “Find Mr. Darcy. Or my father. Tell them—tell them to come to the music room at once.”

The maid nodded and darted off.

Elizabeth hurried down the hallway, her slippers barely making a sound against the marble tiles. The music room was familiar—she had passed it earlier that evening—and she reached the door in a matter of seconds. Her heart thudded loudly in her ears.

“Lydia?” she called softly, pushing the door open. “Georgiana?”

The room was dark. Oddly so. Only a single candelabrum burned near the far wall, and the heavy curtains had been drawn over the windows. The air was too still.

Elizabeth stepped inside cautiously. “Georgiana?” She crossed the room and lit a few nearby candles. “Lydia?” she called again.

The door slammed shut behind her, and she heard the distinct click of a lock being turned.

She whirled around with a startled cry, the hair on her neck rising.

Mr. Wickham stood before the door, pistol in hand.

Elizabeth froze.

He smiled—a twisted, awful parody of charm—and the noise of the weapon cocking echoed like a thunderclap.

“Good evening, Miss Bennet,” he said softly. “I have been expecting you.”

Elizabeth’s voice was caught in her throat. “Mr. Wickham—what is this? Where are Lydia and Georgiana?”

“There were no girls,” he said, still smiling. “Only a message. For you.”

She stared at the gun, then at his face. He was pale beneath his usual healthy glow, his eyes shining with something unhinged.

She could scarcely breathe.

The air in the room felt thick as treacle, heavy with the scent of wax and damp velvet. Wickham’s shadow stretched long across the floor, the flicker of the single candle behind him casting his features into sharp, monstrous angles.

Elizabeth’s thoughts raced.

He has a pistol. No one knows where I am . The door was closed behind him, and they were entirely alone.

You must stall. Reason with him. Appeal to whatever sense remains.

“Mr. Wickham,” she said, her voice low and calm—astonishingly so, given that her knees felt close to buckling. “You must know this is not the way.”

His expression twitched. “What way is left to me? He has taken everything.”

Think, Elizabeth. Think.

“I loved him first,” he whispered. “You understand that, do you not? I did. Long before you ever saw him. He was mine.”

“Mr. Darcy?” she whispered, praying her voice would not shake. “Is that whom you mean?”

“He cast me off,” Wickham went on, ignoring her. “But only because he feared what others would say. What it would mean for him. He loved me once, I know it. I saw it. And now—now he pretends I do not exist. That you matter more.”

Elizabeth lifted her chin, heart pounding. “Mr. Wickham, you are not well. Let me help you. Let me speak to him. We can—”

“Help me?” he barked, eyes glittering. “You would help me? The interloper? The usurper?”

“If you still love him,” she said slowly, “then why threaten his happiness? Do you not see that hurting me would only ensure he would never forgive you?”

He flinched. Slightly. Just enough.

She followed the movement of his hand—still clutching the pistol—and made herself glance away, as though unbothered.

A glint caught her eye, and her heart skipped a beat.

There, atop the sideboard near the window—a porcelain vase.

Heavy, broad at the base, likely ornamental but solid. If she could reach it…

“I only wish to talk,” she continued, keeping her tone gentle, calculating the distance. Twelve steps. “To understand. He never told me anything about your past. You must believe me. I knew nothing of what came before.”

Wickham’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of uncertainty disturbing their fevered glow. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.” She took one step sideways, feigning a shift in posture. “Mr. Darcy is a proud man,” she went on. “And he fears vulnerability more than anything else. If he cast you aside, perhaps it was not because he hated you, but because he did not know how to respond to your… your affection.”

His eyes narrowed, but his grip on the pistol faltered—just slightly.

“Yes,” she said, voice warming. “That must have been it. Men like him do not always know how to respond to—” she hesitated, “—to affection. Especially when it defies society’s rules.”

Another step. Nine more. Her fingers itched with anticipation. Forcing a smile, she took yet another step. “I do not want to come between anyone. Truly. I have seen arrangements before. We could… we could all be family.”

For a moment, the madness in his eyes dimmed. The gun lowered even more, now pointing at the floor. He blinked at her. “Family…”

“I have seen it before,” she said, speaking quickly now. “In town. At a cousin’s dinner, a gentleman who preferred the company of men. His wife knew, and they lived quite amicably. There are arrangements to be made, if all parties are willing.”

“Darcy would never…” he began.

“He would,” she said firmly, desperate to keep him talking, to distract him from the next step she took. “If it meant peace. If it meant Georgiana’s safety. If he knew that you regretted Ramsgate—”

Wickham’s face hardened. “That was not my fault! I thought it could work, that if I married her, he would have to see me. I would be in his life once more, and he would be forced to acknowledge me again.”

She forced down the bile rising in her throat. Her palms felt slick, her heart racing with each beat, but she kept her tone soft, even kind. Another step. She was halfway there.

“Of course. But perhaps Georgiana was too young. Too impetuous. Perhaps she misunderstood your intentions. But I could help her understand. It could be the four of us, at Pemberley. You and Mr. Darcy, and Georgiana and I… there need not be jealousy. Not if you still care for him.”

“You think Darcy would allow that?” he said bitterly.

“He might. For peace. For Georgiana’s safety. For… for you.” Another step. So close. “If you came with honest repentance. If you truly loved him.”

Another step. She was nearly within reach. Her hand twitched at her side, eager.

“I would support you. It could all be repaired,” she said. “You could be part of his life again.”

She took one final step, heart thundering. Her fingers brushed the porcelain.

But the madness in his eyes reignited like flame on oil.

“You lie,” he hissed. “You want me out of the way. You want him all to yourself!”

She tensed, every muscle ready to flee. “Please, Mr. Wickham. I meant every word.”

“You think I do not see what you are doing?” he bellowed. “You will not take him from me!”

The pistol jerked upward, pointing at her again.

Elizabeth acted on instinct.

With a cry, she seized the vase and hurled it with all her strength toward his head.

It missed—but not entirely. The corner struck his shoulder, with a sickening crack, shattering into shards and making him stagger back with a howl of pain. She darted for the side door—but he was faster.

Wickham let out a terrible roar and lunged.

∞∞∞

Darcy moved urgently down the candlelit corridor. “Elizabeth!” he called again, louder now, his voice echoing

Nothing.

Only the murmurs of music and laughter fading behind the closed doors of the ballroom. The air was too still. Every shadow seemed to mock him.

“She would not leave without telling someone,” he said, more to himself than to the cousin striding swiftly at his side. “She would not miss the supper dance—not without cause.”

Fitzwilliam quickened his pace. “Where would she go? Could she be ill? Stepped onto a balcony for fresh air?”

“She would not go outside alone.” Darcy’s pulse was pounding in his ears. “Not tonight. Not with him here.”

Wickham.

Darcy had scanned every corner of the ballroom. Every alcove. Every pair of dancing feet. And neither she nor Wickham was there.

“Blast it all,” he muttered. “Where are they—”

A sound shattered the quiet.

A crash—sharp, violent. The splinter of porcelain or glass against wood.

Followed by a roar. Inhuman.

Then—

A gunshot.

Both men froze.

Darcy’s heart stuttered, then surged.

His breath left him in a sharp exhale, and he took off at a sprint.

“Elizabeth!” he shouted, his voice ragged with panic.

Richard was at his heels, boots slamming the floorboards behind him. They turned the corridor—past the drawing rooms, past the linen closet—

Another shout.

A woman’s cry. Muffled. Terrified.

Darcy felt something primal rise within him, a rage so white-hot it eclipsed fear. His vision tunneled. His mind screamed only one word:

Faster.

They rounded another corner, and then—

The music room.

The door was closed. Darcy turned the handle, but it was locked. The sounds of a struggle bled through: scraping furniture, a man’s voice, low and guttural.

Darcy did not hesitate.

He slammed into the door with his shoulder. It shifted, breaking slightly, but remained closed. He rammed it again, causing the latch to give way, wood cracking under the force. The door burst open—