Page 69 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

D arcy watched Elizabeth’s face closely after he spoke—watched the brave little nod, the smile that did not reach her eyes, the slight tightening of her shoulders beneath her cloak.

His heart sank.

She said she understood. But something flickered in her expression—uncertainty, sorrow—and it struck him with far more force than any words.

He had meant to reassure her. He had spoken the truth. But in doing so, he had laid bare something unlovely. Something selfish.

You had not planned to be faithful to me? she had asked.

Even now, the echo rang in his ears.

Yes, I had , he had wanted to say. But only once I fell in love. Once I knew you. Before that… it did not occur to me that I might be judged by the same measure.

And in that moment, as they sat in the snowy hush of the Bennets’ garden, Darcy saw something clearly for the first time.

He had always drawn a line between what was expected of him before marriage and after—one was indulgence, the other commitment. But what was the difference, truly? Fidelity was not a switch to be flipped when a ring was exchanged. Love was not a thing one earned by contrast with what came before.

Elizabeth had been gracious, kind—she always was. But her eyes… they stayed with him all day.

He returned to Netherfield that afternoon, heavy with a sense of shame he had never fully felt before.

Sleep did not come easily that night.

Darcy lay awake in the guest chamber at Netherfield, the fire in the grate hissing low, casting long shadows along the paneled walls.

His eyes burned from exhaustion, but his mind refused stillness.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Elizabeth’s face—not in distress, not even in anger, but with that quiet, stricken look she had given him when she turned away after he spoke.

His actions, even though made long before he knew her, had caused something to dim inside of her.

And it haunted him.

He shifted under the heavy coverlet, staring up at the ceiling. You fool, he thought. You spoke plainly. You spoke honestly. And in doing so, you laid bare how little you deserved her.

He had not intended to wound her. Truly, he had not. But now, with the benefit of reflection—of hindsight—he saw the wound nonetheless.

He turned over restlessly.

Those women—the ones he had known before—meant nothing.

He had not loved them, had not courted them, had not sought them out with tenderness or hope.

They were the product of his father’s teaching, and years spent among men who spoke of desire as sport, who viewed chastity as a matter of female virtue, never male.

Gentlemen’s sons with gentlemanly appetites, spoken crudely about in clubs and behind library doors.

He had believed himself better than most, because he had been cautious. Respectful. Clean. He had never mistreated a woman, nor had he fathered a bastard. But neither had he ever considered them as anything other than a means of sating his desire.

But now, in the darkness, the lie of it all curled tight in his gut.

If Elizabeth had taken a lover before knowing me …

The thought struck hard and fast, and he clenched his fists beneath the covers.

If she had lain with another man—even once—would he not have felt it as a blow? Would he not have burned with jealousy? With grief? Would he not have questioned her judgment, her discernment, her purity?

The double standard slammed into him.

He pressed a hand to his eyes, shame rising like bile in his throat.

How dare he. How dare any of them.

He had been taught to believe that a man’s missteps were forgivable—natural, even. It was encouraged for a lad to sow his wild oats before settling down.

But a woman’s sins were permanent. Damning.

What rot.

He had not thought so deeply on the matter before. He had never needed to. But now, preparing to give his vows to a woman who had walked her whole life with integrity, with innocence, he found himself sickened by what had once seemed acceptable.

He threw off the covers and sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, palms pressed to his face.

The fire crackled.

He stared into the embers and whispered the Lord’s prayer, something he had done hundreds of times throughout his life.

But it felt like shouting into a void.

He bowed his head, tried again. Dear Lord… I do not know how to pray about this. I do not know what to ask. Forgiveness? A clean heart? Am I even capable of one?

The silence pressed in around him.

He had spent his life believing himself a man of conscience. Principled. Responsible. His sins had been the quiet, manageable kind—pride, stubbornness, aloofness. But this… this was harder to face.

This was about who he had been.

He buried his face in his hands.

There was no answer. Only the slow crackle of dying coals and the emptiness in his chest.

But he could not leave it there.

Tomorrow was Sunday. The second reading of the banns.

He would go to church. He would listen.

And perhaps, in the place where God’s voice was known to speak—in the steadiness of a sermon or the stillness of a prayer—he might find what he lacked.

Redemption.

∞∞∞

The second calling of the banns passed in a blur.

Darcy sat beside Bingley in the pew at the small Meryton chapel, his gloves in his hand. His heart felt like a weight behind his ribs. Jane sat with her mother just ahead of them. Elizabeth, radiant even in her modest Sunday gown, sat flanked by her sisters and father.

He barely heard their names read aloud. If only Fitzwilliam were here, he thought—but his cousin had returned to London after the execution, promising to return in time for the wedding.

It should have been a moment of joy. But he felt raw. Exposed.

When Reverend Sanderson mounted the pulpit, Darcy steeled himself.

He had met the man only once before, briefly, to arrange the banns. An elderly clergyman with a soft voice and wispy white hair, Mr. Sanderson had struck him then as courteous but unremarkable.

But today, Darcy hung on his every word.

The sermon was taken from the Gospel of John. A familiar story—the woman taken in adultery, brought before Christ in the temple by those seeking to stone her. He had heard it dozens of times. Perhaps hundreds.

But never like this.

Darcy sat motionless as the parson’s voice filled the little country church.

“Master, this woman was taken in adultery, in the very act…”

He could hardly breathe.

He saw the woman in his mind—cowering, ashamed. Exposed before a crowd that condemned her. Filthy, guilty, alone.

He saw himself .

Not her gender. Not her station. But her brokenness. The helplessness of knowing she had sinned. That no argument would exonerate her. No act could erase what she had already done.

And yet Christ had stooped and written in the dust. Had silenced the crowd.

“He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone…”

Darcy stared down at his gloved hands.

Then—words that he knew by heart, but which struck him now like thunder.

“Neither do I condemn thee. Go, and sin no more.”

He sat frozen long after the final hymn.

It was Bingley’s voice that stirred him. “Darcy? Shall we go?”

“You go ahead,” he said softly. “I shall walk. Tell Elizabeth for me?”

Bingley gave him a curious look but nodded and followed Jane and her family out into the winter morning.

Darcy turned back inside.

He found Mr. Sanderson just outside the vestry, removing his robe with slow, deliberate hands.

“Mr. Sanderson,” Darcy said. “Might I speak with you? Privately.”

The old man looked up, eyes gentle behind thick spectacles. “Of course. Come with me.”

The parsonage was warm and modest, the hearth giving off a faint crackle, books stacked neatly on every surface. Mr. Sanderson gestured to a chair by the fire and took the one opposite him.

They sat in silence.

Darcy stared at the flames, struggling for words. How did one begin such a thing?

At last, the old man spoke. “I can see you are troubled, Mr. Darcy. I assure you, whatever you say here to me will be kept in the strictest confidence.”

The words opened something in him.

It came out in a rush—not with all the sordid detail, but the truth of it. His sins before Elizabeth. His double standards. His shame. His fear that his past might tarnish the vows he had not yet made. His desperate desire to be worthy of her.

When he finished, he felt exhausted. Emptied. He could not bring himself to look up.

Mr. Sanderson sat back and folded his hands. “Very impressive, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy blinked. “Sir?”

“Not many would come to a clergyman with such humility,” he said. “Far easier to bury it. To carry it in silence. But you brought it into the light. That is where grace begins.”

Darcy swallowed hard. “What can I do? To be… forgiven?”

The old man reached for his Bible, his fingers finding the page without needing to check.

“Isaiah,” he said. “Chapter one, verse eighteen.”

He read aloud in the clear, ringing tones of one who knew the passage by heart:

“Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”

Darcy shut his eyes. The words settled in his chest like balm.

They prayed together—no flowery language, no elaborate confession, just quiet words, honest and simple. When they finished, the old man laid a hand gently on his shoulder.

“You may feel unsettled still,” he said. “But do not let that keep you from the final part of this journey. You must speak with the one you love. Tell her what God has done in your heart.”

Darcy nodded slowly.

“Thank you,” he said.

Outside, the air was sharp and cold. He drew in a breath that cut straight through his lungs.

Netherfield was to the left.

But he turned right.

Toward Longbourn.

∞∞∞