Page 64 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

T he days that followed passed in a blur of conversation with well-wishers, signatures and letters about marriage settlements, and strained civility with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst.

Darcy scarcely spoke to Elizabeth.

He saw her often enough, of course. He and Bingley called at Longbourn every day, but the house was never quiet.

Visitors streamed in from all corners of the neighborhood, bearing flowers, good wishes, and insufferable gossip.

Most had anticipated Jane’s engagement and come to coo over the eldest Bennet daughter, but they also knew of Elizabeth’s sudden betrothal to the somewhat taciturn Mr. Darcy of Derbyshire—and they had come to discover how it all came about.

Elizabeth bore it with grace, even humor, but their interactions were limited to stolen glances and brief exchanges between interruptions. Darcy longed to speak with her properly —to sit beside her in peace, to ask what thoughts still burdened her, to press her hand in more than fleeting comfort.

Instead, he found himself penned into drawing rooms and corners, speaking more with Mrs. Bennet and her neighbors than with his bride-to-be.

On one occasion, he had not been seated five minutes before a young mother attempted to thrust her mewling child into his arms while declaring how fine a godfather he would make .

He had never retreated so quickly from a settee in his life.

At Netherfield, things were little better.

Miss Bingley had taken the news of his engagement in a manner not quite so genteel as she no doubt intended.

At first, she had kept to brittle civility, making subtle jabs and asking whether Elizabeth would receive instruction in deportment before being presented at Pemberley. But after the third morning of watching Darcy set off for Longbourn again, the cracks in her composure finally fractured.

Darcy had just pulled on his gloves when Miss Bingley appeared in the front hall, her color high and her movements sharp with agitation.

“I must speak to you,” she said to her brother, ignoring Darcy entirely.

Bingley halted, brows lifted. “Now?”

“Yes. Now.” She looked between them with barely contained ire. “This,” she spat, “is madness . That you should ally yourself with such a family—so low, so vulgar, so loud—have you completely lost your mind, Charles?”

Darcy stopped cold, staring at her in wonder, and she rounded on him. “How many times this week have you gone to Longbourn? How many hours spent fawning over a family with no name, no refinement, no—”

“Caroline,” Bingley said warningly.

She rounded on him. “You are throwing yourself away on Jane Bennet! A sweet face, I grant you, but nothing else. She has no conversation, no connections, no sense. And as for Eliza Bennet—she is clever, yes, but she is also coarse. She will make a mockery of us. Of you!”

“I say!” Darcy protested hotly, but Bingley raised a hand.

“No,” he said flatly. “I will handle this.”

Miss Bingley blinked. “Handle what?”

“This,” Bingley said. “Your behavior. Your disrespect. I have listened to your insinuations and endured your bitterness for three days, but I will not allow you to insult the woman I love. Or her sister.”

“Someone must speak sense!” she burst out. “You will regret this marriage, Charles! You are about to make a fool of yourself in front of all of Hertfordshire!”

“And what would you have me do?” he asked. “Delay my engagement until you are satisfied? Cast Jane off because she does not meet your standards? I would sooner ask a fishwife to act as hostess than grant you the right to govern my happiness.”

That stopped her cold. “You cannot mean that.”

“I do,” he said. “If Louisa will not take your place, then so be it. We may do without a hostess altogether. Jane will be my wife in less than a month. And in the meantime, I am master of this house—and you, sister, will show respect or you will leave.”

She gasped. “You would turn me out?”

“I would,” he said calmly. “I must.”

Darcy watched the exchange in stunned silence. He had never seen his friend speak with such quiet command, never witnessed the steel that now lined his voice.

Part of him expected it would dissolve—that Caroline would cry or plead, and Bingley, soft-hearted as ever, would relent. But instead, she turned on her heel with a gasp of fury and stormed from the hall.

The next morning, she was gone—packed off to an aunt in Scarborough before the kitchen fire had even been lit.

Bingley merely shrugged and dug into his plate of ham and eggs.

And with that, the house was quiet again.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, for his part, had little time to notice household squabbles. He spent each day with Colonel Forster, finalizing the reports, gathering documentation, and preparing the materials necessary to convene the field court-martial.

Darcy and Elizabeth were asked to submit written statements, which they drafted separately—though Darcy noted, with no small satisfaction, that Elizabeth’s handwriting was nearly as neat as his own.

He reread his own statement twice before sealing it, omitting no detail yet careful with his tone. He wanted no sympathy—only justice.

The court-martial was coming. And with it, the last tie to Wickham would be severed.

z

At last, a week after the ball, Fitzwilliam returned late, his coat dusted with travel and his expression unreadable. Darcy met him in the library at Netherfield, rising from a chair the moment his cousin entered.

“Well?” he asked.

Fitzwilliam nodded once, slowly. “It is done.”

Darcy’s breath caught. “Guilty?”

“Guilty on all charges,” Fitzwilliam confirmed, sinking into a chair.

“The testimony left little doubt, and Wickham did himself no favors. He tried to escape the gaol two nights ago—used a cracked piece of his chamber pot to loosen one of the bolts. Made it as far as the yard wall before he collapsed.”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “Collapsed?”

Fitzwilliam exhaled. “He cannot eat. His jaw was worse than we realized—dislocated, fractured in two places. He’s starving slowly, and the surgeons say it would take months to heal. He refuses broth—they say he only spits it out.”

Darcy was silent.

“It will be death by firing squad—two days hence.”

Darcy exhaled slowly. He had known it was likely. Still, to hear it confirmed…

“He will be given a priest on the final morning. But until then, you are permitted to see him—if you wish.”

That gave him pause.

“I do not know,” Darcy said after a long moment. “I do not know what I would say.”

“You are not obligated,” Fitzwilliam said gently. “But I thought you should be given the choice.”

Darcy nodded once, distantly.

That evening, the Bennets hosted a small gathering. A few of the Lucases and other families were there, and the parlor swelled with music and conversation. Elizabeth stood at the pianoforte once again, helping Georgiana quietly turn pages while the younger girl played a simple English song.

Darcy took the opportunity.

He stepped closer, speaking low enough that only Elizabeth would hear.

“It is to be the firing squad,” he murmured. “Two days from now.”

She turned toward him just slightly, her brow furrowing. “So soon?”

He nodded. “They say it is mercy… and safety. He cannot eat. He tried to flee. They believe he is beyond reason.”

Elizabeth’s lips parted as if to speak, then closed again.

“They have given me permission to see him,” he added, not quite looking at her. “Before he is… taken.”

She turned another page, her voice calm and quiet. “Do you want to?”

“I am not sure. I thought I might. But… I do not know what good it would do.”

She turned a page for Georgiana, then said, just as quietly, “What you choose to dwell on will shape how you move forward.”

He glanced at her, but her face was calm, thoughtful.

“What would the purpose of such a visit be?” she asked.

“Purpose?”

“Will you go to comfort him? To condemn him? Or to punish yourself?”

He had no answer.

Then there was no more time to speak. The final chords rang out, applause filled the room, and they were swept into separate circles of conversation.

But her question lingered.

That night, Darcy stood at the window of his room and stared out at the darkened fields.

Why would I go? To see what was left of the boy I once called friend? To see the man who tried to destroy everything I loved?

He did not need the sight of Wickham’s face, ruined and furious, to carry that burden. He already carried it.

No.

He would not see him.

He would remember the Wickham who had once run through the halls of Pemberley with him, muddy and breathless, before vice and envy claimed him.

And then he would let it go.

Soon, he would have Elizabeth.

And in that future, there would be no room for ghosts.

∞∞∞

Elizabeth sat atop her bed, her arms wrapped loosely around her knees, her gaze fixed on the wavering candle flame on her bedside table. The night outside was still and quiet—peaceful in a way that mocked the storm inside her.

Mr. Wickham would be dead in two days.

She had thought she would feel relief. Safety. Vindication.

Instead, a dull ache rested in her chest, heavy and uncertain.

She had not dreamed in color since the night of the attack, but the dreams came all the same—dark corridors, his voice like a snarl, the scent of gun powder and sweat and blood.

Most often she failed to reach the poker in time.

In some variations she found it but was too late.

Sometimes the gun fired true. She would wake with her heart pounding and her mouth dry.