Page 8 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

“P apa!”

Ten-year-old Elizabeth burst through the front door, her feet skidding slightly on the polished floorboards. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her ears. “Papa! Where are you?”

She did not wait for Stephens or Hill or anyone else. She knew where he would be—it was where he always was at this time of day.

The study.

She did not knock.

She flung the door open and froze.

Mr. Bennet and Stephens were in an embrace, their lips on one another’s. At her entrance, they sprang apart as though they had been burned. Her father’s face was pale—then red—and his voice rang out sharper than she had ever heard it.

“Lizzy! What have I always told you? You must knock on the door!”

She blinked, too stunned to speak. Her father never shouted. Never.

But the panic returned, sharper than before, and her words tumbled out in a rush. “It’s Mark—he fell—he is hurt—it is really bad—Papa, come quick!”

Mr. Bennet was already moving. “Where is he?”

“Near the old elm by the north wall,” she said breathlessly, turning and running. “Please hurry!”

“Stephens!” her father called as he followed. “Send someone for Mr. Jones. Tell him to bring his son and his splints!”

He kept pace with her easily despite his age, his boots pounding against the packed earth path that led through the orchard. “What happened?” he asked.

“William was shaking the limb,” Elizabeth said. “He was laughing—he said it would be a fun ride—but then the branch broke and Mark fell. He landed funny. His arm—it is hanging all wrong.”

Her voice caught, and she bit her lip hard. She could not cry now. She had to help.

Mr. Bennet’s expression grew grim. William had been surly since returning home for the summer from Westminster, where he had just finished his second year of school. Mr. Bennet had attributed his behavior to the typical attitude of fourteen-year-old boys.

But this…this was something more than youthful angst.

They found them near the tree—Mark crumpled on the ground, sobbing, Jane kneeling beside him, and William standing a few paces off with his arms folded, face sullen.

Mr. Bennet knelt immediately. “Mark, I have you,” he murmured, carefully lifting the boy into his arms. Mark whimpered in pain, his left arm limp and bent unnaturally.

“William, follow,” Mr. Bennet snapped. “Now.”

William obeyed with a scowl, his hands shoved into his pockets.

Back at the house, Mr. Jones and his son arrived swiftly. The elder Jones looked weary from the ride; the younger, a little older than thirty-five, carried a leather case with practiced ease. They set Mark in the nursery, and the young doctor took over, examining the arm with firm, competent hands.

“A clean break,” he said after some time. “Upper radius. We will need to set the bone and bind it in a splint. He will recover fully, but the pain will be considerable for a few days.”

Mark whimpered again as they worked, his face pale with tears. Jane held his hand tightly. Elizabeth stood at the foot of the bed, fists clenched so hard her fingernails dug into her palms.

The binding was methodical. First, the bones were carefully aligned, and then stiff wooden splints, wrapped in linen and padded with wool, were bound tightly against Mark’s arm. The younger Jones checked the fingers, ensuring blood flow had not been cut off, then nodded in satisfaction.

“He is quite fortunate. It could have been much worse.”

When they were gone, Mr. Bennet summoned the remaining three children into the drawing room.

He stood before the fireplace, arms crossed. “Now,” he said, his voice measured, “I want to know what happened.”

William gave a shrug. “It was just an accident.”

Elizabeth stepped forward, fists still clenched. “It was not!”

Everyone turned to stare at her.

“He tried to kill Mark,” she said fiercely.

Jane gasped. “Lizzy!”

“I saw him,” Elizabeth went on. “He was shaking the branch on purpose. He said Longbourn should have been his, and Mark stole it. That he was going to make it right.”

“Elizabeth!” Mr. Bennet barked.

But she did not flinch.

Mr. Bennet turned to William slowly. “Is that true?”

William’s face twisted. “No.”

But the lie hung in the air like smoke.

Mr. Bennet looked to Jane. “Jane. Have you heard anything like this?”

Jane fidgeted, twisting the edge of her sash. “Yes,” she whispered. “He… he said things sometimes. About Mark. But I thought it was just because he was sad. I did not think—he must have been joking, mustn’t he?”

Mr. Bennet’s voice was quiet. “William. Where did you get these ideas?”

William’s jaw tightened. “My father. Before he died, he always said Longbourn was ours. And at Harrow… the boys—once they found out I was older than Mark but not the heir—they laughed. Even my one friend said I should fight for what was mine. So, I did.”

Silence.

The only sound was the ticking of the tall case clock in the corner and the faint murmur of bees outside the open window.

“I see,” Mr. Bennet said at last.

His voice was steady, but his eyes were full of something Elizabeth had never truly seen before.

Sadness. Real, deep sadness.

“William, return to your room,” he said. “We will speak again when I have decided what is to be done.”

The boy left without a word, his face a mix of resentment and shame. Just wait until I get him alone , Elizabeth thought. He will pay

“Jane, you may go too.”

Jane hurried after him, her eyes swimming with tears.

But when Elizabeth turned to leave, her father said, “Not you. Wait.”

She stopped. The door clicked shut behind Jane.

Mr. Bennet walked slowly to the chair by the hearth and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. For a long moment, he simply looked at Elizabeth—his strong-willed, clever daughter who was now, undeniably, no longer a little girl.

“Come here,” he said softly.

She stepped forward.

“Tell me again exactly what happened.”

She did. Every word. Every motion. Every part of it.

When she finished, he leaned back and looked toward the ceiling, closing his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said finally. “You did the right thing. Even though it was hard.”

Elizabeth’s voice trembled. “Is William going to be sent away?”

“I do not know,” Mr. Bennet said. “But something must change. That much is certain.”

He opened his eyes again and looked at her—really looked. “Lizzy, we must speak about what you saw earlier…when you opened the door.”

She flushed and looked down at the ground. “I am sorry, Papa. I know I should have knocked.”

His voice was softer now. “Yes. But that is not what I am asking. What do you think you saw?”

There was a long pause as she hesitated, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “It looked like… like you and Stephens were… were kissing .”

Mr. Bennet did not move for a moment. Then he sighed and leaned back, one hand pressed against his forehead. “I see.”

“I did not mean to—I would not have—” Elizabeth stopped, twisting her hands in her skirt. “I was not spying, I swear.”

“I know,” he said. “I believe you.”

Another pause. The clock ticked three times.

“I imagine you are confused,” he said quietly.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

“What you saw… was not a mistake. And you are not wrong about what it was.”

Elizabeth raised her eyes to his face. “But… I thought… you love Mama.”

“I do,” Mr. Bennet said. “Very much. Your mother is a kind and good woman. She has been a blessing to me and to this house. I would do anything for her.”

“Then why—?”

“Because… there are different kinds of love, Lizzy. Some that the world sees and praises. Some it does not understand.”

His voice was gentle, careful. “Stephens is… someone I have cared for, for a very long time. Longer than you have been alive. I have known him since he and I were about Mark’s age. He has stood beside me through illness, grief, loneliness. And sometimes, we forget how to be only friends.”

Elizabeth stared at her shoes. Her heart beat so loudly she was certain he could hear it.

“Does Mama know?”

He hesitated. “Not everything. But she knows that Stephens is dear to me. And she has never had reason to feel unloved.”

“Is it wrong?” Elizabeth whispered.

Mr. Bennet was quiet for a long time. “That, my dear, is a question for the ages. And one that I would like to discuss further with you, but not at this time. You are not quite old enough to understand all of it. When you are fifteen years old, we will discuss this again.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“In the meantime, Lizzy, I need you to promise me, swear to me, that you will not tell anyone what you saw.”

“Of course, Papa.”

“I mean it, Elizabeth Marie.”

She knew he was serious; he never called her by her full name. “I will not tell anyone, Papa.”

He slumped back in his chair, the firelight flickering across his face, casting deep shadows beneath his eyes.

“Good girl,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the hearth. Then, after a long pause, he spoke again—his voice lower, and steadier.

“Lizzy, you must understand something else. What you saw today… if others knew of it, Stephens and I—” He hesitated. “We could be arrested. Put on trial.”

Her head jerked up. “But… why?”

“Because in the eyes of the law,” he said carefully, “affection like that between two men is not only considered immoral—it is illegal. The punishment is not a fine, or a scolding.” He swallowed. “It is prison. And sometimes… worse.”

Elizabeth’s face went pale.

“They have hanged men, Lizzy. For far less than a kiss.”

Her breath caught.

“Which is why I need you to promise me, not just as your father, but as someone who loves you more than anything in the world, that you will never speak of what you saw. Not to Jane. Not to Mark. Not to Mama. Not even when you are grown.”

She nodded at once, her voice tight with fear. “I will not. I swear, Papa.”

He looked at her, his eyes full of a weariness that did not belong to the quick-witted, sardonic man she had always known. “Say it.”

“I swear I will never tell anyone what I saw,” she said. “Not ever. I promise.”