Page 67 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

T he fire popped quietly in the hearth as Darcy and Mr. Bennet settled across from each other at the chess table. Outside, snow dusted the windowsills, but inside the study, all was warm mahogany and the soft scent of books.

“Georgiana has made tremendous progress,” Mr. Bennet remarked, surveying the board with narrowed eyes. “I hardly recognize the girl she was when she first arrived.”

Darcy’s mouth softened. “I owe you and your family more than I can say. You have all done more for her than I ever could have managed alone. I do not know how I could ever repay you.”

“There is no need, son,” Mr. Bennet replied, sending his rook to another square. “What do we live for, Mr. Darcy, if it is not to make life less difficult for one another? I cannot be indifferent to the troubles of a young man who is solemnly carrying so many burdens.”

Darcy lowered his eyes, humbled. “I only wish society at large shared your view. I have never been more grateful than I am to have come to Meryton. I had not expected to find—” he hesitated, “—one of the best men of my acquaintance in a small country parish.”

Mr. Bennet’s hand froze above his bishop. He did not move, did not speak.

Darcy blinked. “Sir? Did I… say something?”

Mr. Bennet raised his gaze slowly. His eyes were suspiciously bright. “I wonder,” he said hoarsely, “if you will still think that way at the end of our conversation.”

A cold knot twisted in Darcy’s stomach. “Are… are you withdrawing your approval of my marriage?”

Mr. Bennet let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “No, no. Nothing like that.” He sat back in his chair. “But there is something you must know. A secret known to only two others in the world. If I tell you, I must have your solemn word it will go no further.”

Darcy hesitated. “Is it something that might bring harm to others?”

“Not directly,” Mr. Bennet said slowly. “If it were made public, it could cause pain. But its quiet maintenance harms no one.”

A thousand possibilities raced through Darcy’s mind. Something criminal? Dishonorable? He looked into the man’s grave eyes—those same eyes that Elizabeth had inherited.

He took a steadying breath and said, “I must be honest. I should not wish to keep secrets from my wife—once she is mine. And especially not about her own family.”

“Then it is fortunate that she is one of the two who already know,” Mr. Bennet said with a faint, crooked smile.

Darcy blinked. Elizabeth knows… what? “And I presume the other is your wife?” he asked.

Mr. Bennet’s expression changed. “No.”

Darcy’s heart thudded once, but before he could speak, Mr. Bennet continued, “But before I tell you who the other is, I must ask again—will you keep my confidence?”

Darcy paused. “Yes. I am willing.”

Mr. Bennet gave a slow nod. “The other is my valet, Stephens. Whom you met the other night.”

Darcy furrowed his brow slightly.

“I trust him with my life,” Mr. Bennet said simply, “because he is my life.”

The words hit like a thunderclap. A hush fell between them.

And then, halting at first, and then with clarity, Mr. Bennet told his story.

It was the tale of a boy who found himself watching other boys instead of girls when his voice changed…

of quiet feelings grown over years of companionship and loyalty.

Of shared faith and private vows. Of the rare moments they had claimed as theirs.

Of loyalty to a friend, and abandonment of a pregnant girl.

Of kindness and sacrifice. And then, finally, of Elizabeth discovering them that day, ten years ago, entirely by accident.

Darcy’s thoughts scattered—then scrambled to reassemble as he listened. This is what she feared. This is what she defended when we fought in the garden. Not her brother. Her father.

The weight of it—the trust, the risk—landed hard in his chest, causing his stomach to turn.

As Mr. Bennet spoke, memories from Darcy’s youth flickered through his mind.

The thick stone corridors at Pemberley, cold and echoing. The dormitories at school with their shared basins, thin blankets, and thick gossip. He remembered when his voice began to deepen and how suddenly the girls they passed on their walks became more interesting.

But there was more. The knowing glances between some of the older boys, the way they paired off. The rumors about what happened in the chapel vestry. What some of the masters tolerated—or worse, what they invited.

Words like molly were passed around in hushed tones, half-mocking, half-frightened.

There were always boys—young, shy, new—who found themselves caught in the snare.

Darcy had once seen one of them crying behind the gymnasium and had walked away, unsure what could be done that would not also ruin the boy forever.

It had repulsed him. Not the curiosity, but the whispers.

There had been overtures, but never from friends. Certainly never from anyone he respected.

And he had rejected them with such firm disgust—nearly violent, in one case—that word spread quickly: Darcy is not to be messed with. He had thought it a shield. A proof of moral character.

And Wickham—

Darcy’s hands curled into fists against his knees.

Wickham had agreed with him in those early years. Had scoffed with him, had made sport of those they suspected. Soft-handed Tomlins, lace-loving Darnell, that blushing boy from Harrow who carried flowers in his Bible.

But then—there had been that night at university. A bottle too many, a fire burning low. Wickham’s sudden closeness, his voice low, too warm, the press of a hand on Darcy’s sleeve.

He swallowed hard. Now… now that same feeling pressed at his chest. The same tightening of the lungs, the same sick twist of betrayal and confusion.

Except this time, it was not Wickham.

It was Mr. Bennet.

A man Darcy admired. Trusted. Respected as a father. A mentor. A friend.

And he was the same?

The thought choked him—a poisonous thread wove through every thought, every assumption. Men like that—dishonorable, manipulative, dangerous.

The room tilted slightly. He pressed a hand to his thigh beneath the table.

He should be angry. He should be disgusted.

Instead, he felt—lost.

He had never felt so many things at once: confusion, shame, anger, wonder, betrayal, fear—and reluctant admiration.

This was no acquaintance living a dissolute lifestyle.

This was Mr. Bennet, Elizabeth’s father, who treated Darcy like a son.

This was the man who had helped reform Georgiana. Who had shown Darcy the value of kindness without pride, patience without performance.

This was the man who read Scripture daily, who taught his daughters truth and compassion, who laughed at absurdity but never cruelty.

Darcy’s mouth was dry. He forced himself to look up.

Mr. Bennet had not pleaded or defended. He had simply… shared the truth, with full expectation of being rejected.

And yet he shared it anyway.

How has Elizabeth borne it all these years?

Ten years, she had carried this burden. She had not told a soul. Had not judged, or mocked, or grown bitter. She had simply… loved her father. Defended him. And now, entrusted Darcy with that truth.

Ten years she had carried this quietly, loyally, while still growing into the woman who now held Darcy’s heart.

Her words from that wretched day in the garden came to his mind. I know it is a sin, but I also know that I am not the judge of another soul, and neither are you.

Suddenly, they made sense.

And she was right. How many men had Darcy condemned in his heart? How many had he scorned for what he believed their affections meant?

Did I know anything about their character? Or did I just label them as corrupt? Debauched? Depraved?

The holy words from the book of Matthew floated to his mind. Judge not, that ye be not judged.

He stared at Mr. Bennet, who sat stiffly, gaze locked on the chessboard. The older man’s shoulders were rigid, his mouth tight with tension. He was braced. Waiting. As though expecting a storm. As though waiting to be struck.

He is waiting for rejection. But he will not find it in me.

“I knew this subject was important to Elizabeth,” Darcy said at last. “But I had always assumed it was about her brother. I could not imagine a father sharing something of this nature with his daughter.”

Mr. Bennet barked a laugh. “Nor I. And had she not walked in at that moment, she would still be ignorant. At first, I thought it had ruined everything. I had exposed this young girl to a topic she was not mature enough to understand. I also put my family in very real danger, had it been anyone other than Elizabeth. But my dear girl kept the secret. And when she was old enough, I allowed her to ask her questions—hard ones.”

He fell silent, and Darcy raised his eyebrows. “It could not have been easy to come up with answers.”

Mr. Bennet chuckled. “No, indeed. Lizzy has always been the brightest of all the girls. I did my best to explain things as I understood them.”

Darcy leaned forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees. “She is who she is because of it.”

He looked up, voice steadier. “Her grace. Her conviction. Her refusal to let anyone be cast out as less worthy. That compassion was shaped by loving you.”

“She had… many questions. About faith. Salvation. Sin. I do not pretend to know how I will be judged—I did not have all the answers then, nor do I now. But I do not believe God has turned His face from me.”

“I do not believe He has either,” Darcy said quietly.

They sat in silence, the fire whispering at their backs.

Then Mr. Bennet cleared his throat and asked, “Now that you know… what will you do?”

Darcy looked up. “Do?”

“Yes. You could call off the marriage. Or go through with it, but forbid her contact with me. With the family. Keep your children away from a man such as I. There is always the risk Stephens and I might be discovered. Imprisoned. Condemned. We live in that shadow every day.”

Darcy stared at the chessboard.

“That never even crossed my mind,” he said honestly.