Page 65 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

Her younger sisters had brought the latest gossip to her room that afternoon, all a-titter.

Kitty, trying for solemnity, had said in hushed tones that “everyone was saying” Mr. Wickham would have died anyway.

The jaw was badly fractured, and he had refused food.

Lydia, with wide eyes and misplaced enthusiasm, had added that he had lost two more teeth and was spitting out any water or broth like a baby.

Georgiana just listened with wide eyes, taking it all in.

And now Elizabeth sat in silence, staring at the curve of melted wax.

Is this my fault? Did I kill him?

Not with intent. She had not meant to strike so hard. She had not wanted blood, or harm, or damage…only to survive. Only to stop him.

But it was her hand that held the poker.

It was her hand that wrote the words to provide testimony of what he had done.

Her hand helped sentence him to death, either by gun or starvation.

Does God hold me guilty?

The question settled into her bones like frost—but then, quietly, came another.

Or does He know that I was only trying to live?

She took a shuddering breath.

She had not chosen this. She had not asked for it. She had spoken the truth. Nothing more.

Wickham had made his choices—carried his bitterness like a torch for years. He had turned love into hatred. He had lured her away. He had raised the pistol.

She had only stopped him.

A warmth, faint but sure, spread through her chest.

Peace. It was not joy—she would never be able to rejoice in the suffering and death of another human being.

But it was clarity. And that was enough for tonight.

A knock at the door startled her.

“Come in,” she called, rising to sit more properly.

The door creaked open, and her mother peeked her head in.

“Lizzy?”

Elizabeth blinked. “Mama? Are you well?”

Mrs. Bennet looked pale—and oddly nervous. She clutched her shawl tighter about her shoulders and stepped inside, shutting the door behind her with unusual quiet.

“Nothing is the matter,” she said quickly. “Nothing at all. I just… I thought it was time we had a little talk.”

Elizabeth frowned. “About what?”

Mrs. Bennet hesitated. “About… well… about the wedding night.”

Elizabeth’s entire body went hot. “Oh.”

“Yes.” Her mother gave a weak smile and gestured toward the chair at the vanity. “May I?”

“Of course.” Elizabeth nodded, unsure whether to laugh or flee.

Mrs. Bennet sat and folded her hands tightly in her lap. “You see, my mother died before I was married, so I never had… this sort of talk. Everything I learned came from Mrs. Long and a few other ladies who were more frank than decent. But it was better than nothing.”

Elizabeth swallowed.

“And most mothers,” Mrs. Bennet continued, “do not say anything until the night before the wedding. To preserve a girl's innocence, you see. But—well—I know you and Mr. Darcy are a love match. And with how often you go walking and such…”

Elizabeth blinked, confused. “I do not—”

“I am not accusing you of anything improper,” her mother rushed to add, flushing. “But I thought… it was best to say something now. Just in case.”

She pressed a hand to her brow. “Let me begin again.”

She took a steadying breath, then looked Elizabeth square in the eye.

“What do you know,” she asked, slowly, “about how babies are made?”

“I know it’s probably similar to the animals I have seen on here on the home farm,” Elizabeth murmured, her face already warm.

Mrs. Bennet gave a sharp little breath—not quite a laugh. “Well. A little bit, yes. But not so… aggressive, so animal-like… At least not between couples who love and respect each other.”

Elizabeth blinked. “Oh.”

Her mother leaned forward slightly, clasping her hands atop her knees. “Mr. Darcy seems to be very kind. Attentive. I have seen the way he looks at you, Lizzy. I think you will find that when there is affection—real affection—it can be very enjoyable.”

Elizabeth’s blush deepened.

“I know many mothers,” Mrs. Bennet went on, her tone dropping conspiratorially, “who tell their daughters to lie still, not move, and ‘think of England.’” She grimaced. “A more wretched bit of advice I have never heard. That is a recipe for resentment… and worse. For infidelity.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

“I am serious, Lizzy” her mother said softly. “A man in love who does not feel loved in return—who senses coldness where there ought to be warmth—may begin to believe that passion itself is shameful. Or else he seeks it elsewhere.”

Elizabeth was quiet, absorbing this.

“The marriage bed,” Mrs. Bennet continued, more gently now, “can be one of passion and love and true fulfillment—but only if you can talk to each other. Even if it’s awkward.

Even if you feel foolish saying the words.

You must tell him if something frightens you.

Or if something pleases you. You must trust him enough to be honest.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly, feeling a heat in her face that had nothing to do with shame. “I heard… I have overheard matrons in the village say it was wanton. For a wife to be… too eager.”

Mrs. Bennet let out a soft sigh. “Unfortunately, that is what most women believe. And in some marriages, it may be true. There are men who prefer quiet, dutiful wives who do not trouble their pride. But you, Lizzy—” she smiled, “—you are not marrying such a man.”

Elizabeth swallowed against the tightness rising in her throat.

“The reason I bring this up now,” she added, looking everywhere but directly at Elizabeth, “is because… well… you are in love. And you are a passionate girl.”

Elizabeth turned crimson. “Mama! I would never—!”

“I know, I know,” her mother said with a wave of her hand and a slightly amused smile.

“But love does not always wait politely. Kisses lead to more. Soon, holding hands will not be enough, and you will long for more than chaste glances and carriage rides. And those feelings are not wicked—they are natural. But it is dangerous, and there is a reason they should be kept under control until after you are safely married. Otherwise, you could end up as an unwed mother.”

Jane.

Most of the time, Elizabeth did not even consider the fact that her sisters were not, in fact, her full siblings. The recollection that Jane was conceived with a soldier who abandoned her mother hit her with full force.

She opened her mouth to protest, to say that Darcy would never abandon her. “But—” she began.

Mrs. Bennet cut her off. “Yes, yes—I know. Mr. Darcy is honorable. You think he would never leave you. But, Lizzy…” her voice faltered, “what if there were an accident? A fall from a horse. A fever. A carriage overturned on a country road. Things happen. And if vows have been anticipated before a church and a ring, and then something prevents the wedding…” She shook her head.

“The disgrace would fall on you. On all of us.”

Elizabeth sat very still. She wished to apologize, to say she was sorry for bringing up such unpleasant memories, but she could not.

If she spoke now, her mother would know that she knew. Their relationship would be irrevocably changed, and most likely not for the better.

So she said nothing.

Mrs. Bennet took a shaky breath and continued, “I only mean that it is worth waiting. You will have your whole married life for passion. But the foundation—that must be built first. On kindness. Compassion. Trust.”

Something in Elizabeth’s chest cracked open. She stood quickly, walked across the room, and bent to kiss her mother on the cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I do understand. And I promise—I will take every precaution. I will not be alone with him before the wedding.”

Mrs. Bennet smiled then—a little teary, but pleased. “That is all I ask. I want you to be as happy in marriage as I have been. Because passion alone, though compelling, is not enough. But love with friendship and respect…” She nodded. “That can last.”

“Yes, Mama. I understand—that is what I want as well.”

Mrs. Bennet hesitated, then added, “You usually confide in your father. Or Jane. But if there is anything… anything at all… that you would rather not speak to either of them about, I hope you know you may always come to me. Or even Mrs. Gardiner— she and I have spoken enough for me to know her mind on these matters. No questions would be too awkward. No judgment. Only a mother’s love. ”

Elizabeth swallowed against the tightness rising in her throat. Mrs. Bennet rose from her seat and hugged Elizabeth tightly, then pulled away with a brisk sniff and straightened her shawl.

“I shall leave you now. But remember—you may come to me. Anytime.”

“I will,” Elizabeth whispered.

When the door shut behind her mother, Elizabeth sat quietly in the candlelight, the words still echoing through her mind.

She had never thought of her mother as particularly wise. Not until now.

And when the time came—if she ever had doubts, or fears, or questions she could not bring to her husband—she now knew exactly where she would turn.