Page 62 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

E lizabeth shivered slightly; it was cold in her room.

She burrowed deeper beneath the counterpane, pulling the quilt high beneath her chin.

The fire had burned low sometime in the night, and no one had come to stir the ashes.

Understandable—the household had returned late from the ball, and no one, not even Cook, would expect the young ladies to rise early after such an evening.

No one but Elizabeth, that is—especially since she had returned home much earlier than the rest of the family.

Normally, she would already be halfway to Oakham Mount by now, her boots damp with dew and her cheeks pink from the morning air. But today… today was different.

Today, she was engaged.

She sighed contentedly and curled more tightly into herself, letting the warmth of the bed and the quiet of the early morning wrap around her like a cocoon.

Darcy’s lips had been soft and searching.

The memory of that first kiss—gentle, uncertain, reverent—still made her chest flutter.

But it was the second one, the one he deepened with such yearning, that had rooted itself in her very bones.

She could still feel the heat of his palm through the fabric at her waist, the subtle strength of his arm drawing her closer. No man had ever held her like that.

Darcy had made her feel cherished. Known. Claimed.

She pressed her fingertips to her lips and smiled, her whole body warming from within. How strange—and wonderful—that the man who had once seemed so proud and impenetrable should now be the very source of her comfort and delight. Her betrothed.

Her breath caught slightly at the word. Betrothed . She was to be Mrs. Darcy.

The room creaked gently above her.

She stilled, listening.

Another thump, followed by the unmistakable sound of giggling and something being dropped on the floor.

Lydia and Georgiana, no doubt. The former’s exuberance and the latter’s cautious attempts at adapting to it had resulted in many an early morning.

With some reluctance, she pushed back the counterpane and sat up, the chill of the morning air immediately making her shiver.

She dressed quickly in a plain morning gown and wrapped a shawl over her shoulders before heading upstairs.

She knocked once, and Lydia flung open the door with a grin, hair half-tumbled and eyes bright. “Lizzy! You have risen early! Come see—Georgiana’s hair is finally curling properly, just like mine!”

Elizabeth smiled and stepped inside, but turned to Georgiana with a gentle expression. “Georgiana, might I borrow you for a few minutes? I had hoped we might speak privately.”

Lydia’s face fell at once. “Oh, you always want to talk without me.”

Elizabeth kept her tone mild. “It is only a small matter… something about one of the soldiers in Meryton.”

Georgiana glanced at Elizabeth, then at Lydia, before straightening her shoulders. “It is all right, Lizzy,” she said softly. “I have already told Lydia everything—about Ramsgate. She has kept my confidence.”

Elizabeth blinked in surprise, but then gave a small nod. “Very well, then.”

She recounted the tale with careful brevity. “Lieutenant Wickham lured me away last night, angry with Mr. Darcy. He meant to use me to hurt him. But Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived in time.” Her voice softened. “I am unharmed, I swear.”

Both girls gasped—Georgiana with a pale hand to her mouth, Lydia with a dropped jaw. “What?” the youngest Bennet sister exclaimed.

“Where is he now?” Georgiana asked quietly, her voice tremulous.

“In the Meryton gaol,” Elizabeth replied. “He will most likely be hanged, or transported, or sent to debtor’s prison for the remainder of his life. Either way, he is out of our lives—permanently.”

Georgiana exhaled slowly, then nodded. “Good.”

Lydia suddenly leaned forward, brows furrowed in mock offense. “Wait—wait! You have been calling him Darcy ! Lizzy, so scandalous!”

Elizabeth laughed. “Well, that brings me to the second reason I came upstairs. Last night, before supper, Mr. Darcy asked Papa for permission for my hand. And during the final course, our engagement was announced along with Jane’s to Mr. Bingley.”

Georgiana let out a delighted little gasp and rushed to hug her. “Oh, Elizabeth, I am so happy! This is the most wonderful news!”

Then she turned and flung her arms around Lydia too, who squealed, “We are going to be sisters! For real !”

Their laughter and giddy celebration carried all the way down to the breakfast table, where Mrs. Bennet was already fluttering in a rapture of maternal delight.

“Oh, two daughters! Two!” she trilled. “And both to such good men!”

Mr. Bennet raised an amused brow over his teacup. “It helps that they are rich.”

“Of course it does!” Mrs. Bennet declared without the faintest hint of shame. “But more importantly, they will treat my girls honorably. That is all I have ever wished for… and, of course, plenty of pin money for my beautiful daughters.”

The entire table burst into laughter at her shameless candor.

After breakfast, Elizabeth excused herself and returned to her room. She sat at her writing desk, pulled a fresh sheet of paper from her drawer, and dipped her pen.

Dearest Mark…

She paused, tapping the nib once, and then began to write—carefully omitting details that might arouse suspicion should the letter go astray.

No mention of pistols or court-martials, only that there had been a distressing incident with an officer, but that all was now well.

That Georgiana was thriving. That Jane and Bingley were engaged.

That she was engaged.

It took some time to get the phrasing right. When she had finally sanded the last line and sealed it, she sat back with a long sigh.

She was perfectly happy.

Almost.

One thought still lingered, tugging at the edge of her contentment.

Darcy did not know. About Stephens. About her father. About the deeper truths of her upbringing, and the shadow that still lingered at the edge of her family's history.

But should he?

She no longer feared his temper—no longer imagined him recoiling with cold condemnation. No, Fitzwilliam would not turn away from her. She believed that with all her heart. His affection, once given, was steadfast.

And yet… It is not my story to tell.

The truth belonged first to her father, and then to Stephens—men who had carried its weight far longer than she. Their silence had been deliberate, perhaps even necessary. For her to unearth it now without their leave… it felt like betrayal.

But what if they refuse?

What if they asked her to keep the past buried, even from her future husband?

And yet… when she married, her allegiance would shift. “A man shall leave father and mother and cleave unto his wife,” the verse echoed in her mind. It was not only about a man—it was a principle of marriage, of choosing one’s spouse above all else. She would owe her loyalty to Darcy.

She would soon vow to forsake all others, to cleave unto one man, to become his in name and loyalty both. Would that not demand complete honesty?

But could she betray the trust of the men who had raised her?

She rubbed her thumb along the edge of the desk, troubled. She could not decide alone. And thankfully, she did not have to.

Papa said I might come to him. That I could ask his counsel, always .

She straightened her shoulders, crossed the room, and opened the door. Her steps were quiet but certain as she descended the stairs and turned toward the one room she knew would never be locked against her.

∞∞∞

Darcy woke with a groan.

His head ached faintly, not from drink, but from exhaustion. The light filtering through the curtains was pale and overcast—he could not tell the hour, but it felt too early and too late all at once. He pressed a hand to his forehead and lay back against the pillow.

Then it all returned.

The ball. Elizabeth in his arms on the dance floor, her eyes bright with mischief and mystery. Wickham’s sudden appearance. The shot. The poker. The kiss.

He blinked hard and let out a long breath. How had so much happened in one evening?

It felt both like a dream and something far more real than anything else in his life.

Upon returning to the ball, Darcy’s first task had been to seek out Mr. Bennet. He found the gentleman near the card tables, a glass of port in hand and a mild smirk hovering about his mouth, as if half the room’s chaos amused him.

“She is home,” Darcy had said quietly. “I saw her to the door myself. Your man Stephens took charge of her.”

Mr. Bennet’s brow lifted and a small smile touched his lips. “Stephens, was it? Well, then I have no concerns.”

Darcy hesitated. “Your man has… a forthrightness that exceeds his station. He blocked my entry quite directly.”

To Darcy’s surprise, Mr. Bennet chuckled softly into his glass.

“Yes, he does that. Comes with age and long service. When someone has dressed your wounds, scolded you for climbing trees at twenty and thirty, and poured your brandy through every grief and joy, you tend to forgive a little impudence.”

Darcy nodded, subdued. It was a dynamic foreign to him—more intimate than any he had known with a servant. But it suited the Bennets.

After that, he offered polite nods and accepted congratulations from acquaintances and strangers alike. Most were gracious; a few merely civil. Miss Bingley’s attempts at icy commentary had no string. Many wondered where Elizabeth was, and the reply was that she had returned home with a megrim.

Darcy felt no desire to linger, especially without his betrothed at his side, so he begged leave of Bingley and excused himself from the remainder of the ball. He had done all that was expected of him in society’s eye, or so he hoped, and he was eager to find his bed.