Page 105 of Companions of Their Youth
She took Georgiana’s hand gently in her own and quoted:
“He is despised and rejected of men;
a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief:
and we hid as it were our faces from him;
he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows:
yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.
But he was wounded for our transgressions,
he was bruised for our iniquities:
the chastisement of our peace was upon him;
and with his stripes we are healed.”
The words settled in the air between them, solemn and holy. Elizabeth felt the echo of them in her chest, a peace washing through her in waves. Georgiana sat still beside her, and in her expression was something new—something reverent. A stirring of awe.
“I try,” Elizabeth said softly, “to live like Him. I fail often. But it is the example I strive to follow—not because I fear punishment, or hope for reward, but because I love Him. Because He loved me first.”
She turned to face Georgiana fully.
“And one day, I hope you will do the same. Not because you want to walk to Meryton. Not because you wish to earn a new gown. But because your heart tells you it is right—because you want to love others as He loved you.”
There was a long silence.
Then Georgiana slowly leaned into Elizabeth, her head resting against her shoulder.
“I shall try,” she whispered.
Elizabeth wrapped her arm gently around the girl’s back, and together they sat, bathed in a quiet grace.
∞∞∞
They stood just outside the door, the three of them—Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Mr. Bennet—silent in the corridor where the light was dim and the air still.
No one had spoken since the latch clicked shut behind them.
Then Elizabeth’s voice rose softly on the other side of the door.
Darcy leaned his shoulder against the wall and closed his eyes.
He had meant to walk away—meant to let Elizabeth comfort his sister in private—but something had stopped him. A feeling. An ache. And now he stood there like a schoolboy outside the rector’s study, straining to catch every word.
The moment Elizabeth began to speak of Christ’s sacrifice, his breath caught. Her voice—so steady, so full of conviction—was not like any sermon he had ever heard. It was not rehearsed, nor theatrical. It was real. Personal. Her words did not preach. Theyreached.
And they reached him.
He listened as she described the lashes, the thorns, the crucifixion. A lump formed in his throat. Not only for the story, which he had heard since childhood—but because of the way she told it. With reverence. With empathy. With purpose. She was not lecturing Georgiana; she was opening her soul. Offering her own pain as a bridge to his sister’s sorrow.
Beside him, Mr. Bennet let out a quiet breath and folded his arms. “That is my Lizzy,” he murmured, a gentle pride softening his usual sardonic tone.
Darcy dared not speak. He feared that if he opened his mouth, he might weep.
