Page 60 of Companions of Their Youth
She had been content the previous night to sit quietly and let Miss Bingley dominate the conversation. It had not been mere disinterest, but unease. Darcy’s reserve had unsettled her more than she cared to admit, and she had no desire to provoke his ire again.
But now, the atmosphere felt different.
Once again, Elizabeth was sitting quietly through the meal, but this time she did not remain silent due to fear. Instead, her thoughts were elsewhere—drawn again and again to the unexpected apology Darcy had offered that morning.
And as Miss Bingley launched into another account of some ball in town—speaking, as ever, with elaborate casualness and one eye on Darcy—Elizabeth allowed her thoughts to drift.
It was not the apology alone—though it had been handsomely worded—but the manner of it. Calm, quiet, and serious.
Aside from Mark, no one had ever treated her that way. Jane never grew cross, so there was never need for apologies. Kitty and Lydia were like spring gusts or wayward tides—buffeting her in a moment, then vanishing as if nothing had occurred, leaving only the metaphorical damp hem of her gown behind. Theirmoods passed like weather. If they offered apologies at all, they were cursory, childlike.
Only Mark had ever truly met her on equal footing. Her twin—her second self. With Mark, there was no need to spell things out. A look, a raised brow, a sigh—and the whole conversation had already passed between them. But even he, thoughtful as he was, rarely made himself vulnerable in speech. He did not need to, at least not with her.
On the rare occasions they had quarreled—for what siblings didnotquarrel?—and one had genuinely hurt the other, words had been offered—not just an “I am sorry,” but a “Here is why I acted so.” That, to Elizabeth, had always been love: not just affection, but effort.
For all her father’s wit, he preferred solitude when out of temper; Mr. Gardiner, when displeased, simply went silent. They might apologize in time, but they never offered reasons. Never offeredherthe courtesy of understanding.
And that was why Mr. Darcy’s apology stayed with her. It was not only an indication of good breeding; it was an effort. It meant he respected her, saw her as an equal.
She cast a sidelong glance at him now as he sat across the table, his expression as impassive as ever. He answered Bingley’s question about some parliamentary measure with all his usual precision, his voice low and steady.
Yet she thought of how stiffly he held himself, how rarely he spoke without calculation—and it struck her anew that he was not a man who shared pieces of himself lightly.
So Elizabeth, remembering his expression that morning—the faint line of tension at his brow, the honesty in his voice—couldnot help but feel that something in him had shifted. Toward her. Or perhaps between them.
To have been offered even a glimpse felt… precious.
It was strange, this sense of being… seen. Not simply noticed, as a young lady to be appraised and dismissed, but seen. Darcy had acknowledged that he had erred. He had trusted her with something difficult. That trust—however slight, however unspoken—made her feel unexpectedly valued.
Not that she needed a man’s approval to feel her worth, of course. She had her mother’s affection, her father’s indulgence, and Jane’s kind-natured support. But still… this was different. She could not name it yet, but it warmed her, even as Miss Bingley’s words prattled on.
Her gaze dropped to her plate. A curl of bitterness crept in unbidden.
No man—other than Mark—has thought me worthy enough to receive an explanation for their behavior. And no woman, for that matter.
The contrast sat with her—quiet and unsettling. She lowered her gaze to her plate. A faint prickle rose at the back of her throat, the sort that came not with tears but with recognition.
She had grown used to being overlooked.
The warmth she had felt only moments before faltered, its light eclipsed by the slow shadow of long-buried resentment.
Why should it be so rare, to be spoken to honestly? Why should kindness—respect—feel like a revelation?
Mark would never have let her feel so invisible. He had always made space for her, even as a boy. They were equals—twins in spirit if not in name. And yet… his world was growing wider with every year. Cambridge. Travel. Tutors. Holiday visits with school friends.
And her world? Longbourn. Gracechurch Street. Occasionally a walk beyond Meryton.
It was not envy ofhim. She rejoiced in his opportunities. But the unfairness chafed. The same age. The same blood. And yet, how different the expectations.
She swallowed, her appetite dwindling, and tried to redirect her thoughts. But others followed in swift succession, no less troublesome, as years of repressed frustration began to bubble up within her.
Mrs. Bennet had always refused to let her children—especially Mark—travel far. “Too dangerous,” she had always said. “What if something happened? What if we lost him before the entail was broken?”
Elizabeth used to nod, used to understand.
But she had never seen the ocean. Never stood on a shoreline and heard the waves, never watched ships come in and out of port. And hundreds of people went each year, returned with stories of windswept cliffs and briny air, and survived it all just fine. But for her? No.
And all because she was the daughter. Not the heir.
