Page 164 of Companions of Their Youth
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.
Andhewas 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.”
