Page 121 of Companions of Their Youth
The chessboard was already set. Mr. Bennet gestured for him to sit. They played in silence for several moves, but Darcy’s hand hesitated over the pieces, his mind nowhere near the game. He lost his queen in a foolish exchange, then left a knight unprotected. Mr. Bennet clicked his tongue softly and moved a bishop with the practiced ease of a man who had played this game longer than Darcy had been alive.
After a few more turns, Mr. Bennet sat back and studied him. “My Lizzy has not been herself of late.”
Darcy swallowed hard. “We quarreled.”
“Ah.” Mr. Bennet’s eyes did not leave the board. “That does happen between spirited people. She was not angry when she returned inside—she was… distressed.”
“I do not understand.” Darcy’s voice was low, weary. “I apologized. I tried to listen. But I cannot renounce what I believe to be right, not even for her. And yet she looked at me as though I had wounded her.”
Mr. Bennet considered this for a long moment. “Well, that is the thing about beliefs, Mr. Darcy. They may be firm, but people are not made of marble. They bend and ache under pressure. Elizabeth is more passionate than she appears—she feels things deeply. And when she is angry or afraid, it all comes tumbling out in a torrent.”
Darcy nodded mutely.
Mr. Bennet’s tone softened. “This is part of why I suggested you wait before making any formal declaration. Feelings run hot when affection grows quickly. But do not give up. When her mind is settled and her heart a little less bruised, you may find her more willing to speak again.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly, drawing a slow breath. “I only wish I understood what I did wrong.”
Mr. Bennet sighed and made one final move. “That, my dear sir, is the central puzzle of manhood—and you are not the first to ponder it across this board.”
He rose from the chair and crossed to the sideboard, pouring them each a glass of port. He handed one to Darcy. “Sleep on it. Pray, if you are inclined. And try again. That is all any of us can do.”
Darcy stared down into the dark wine, the rain still tapping softly against the windows, and wondered whether all the prayers in the world could lead him out of this maze of hearts.
∞∞∞
Once back at Netherfield, Darcy shut himself in his room and sat in silence, letting the shadows lengthen around him. He had not the strength to remove his coat. Her words echoed in his ears like a bell—ringing, relentless, damning.
How did she know?
He pressed his hands to his temples. Wickham. Of course it was Wickham. Who else could have planted such suspicion in her mind?
How does she even know him?
And what had he told her? What twisted half-truths had he poured into her ears with that same oily charm he used on every unsuspecting soul?
But surely he would not have told her…that. It would be a completely inappropriate topic for any man to have with a maiden, especially a gentlewoman. He could not begin to imagine that Elizabeth would have entertained such a conversation.
His breath quickened. “She knows,” he muttered, rising to pace the floor.
He clenched his jaw. What had she said?This is not about theory anymore—it is about what you have already done.She thought him unjust. Condemning.
And then her fear…What if you forbid me from my family?
Darcy stilled.
What on earth did Wickham’s lifestyle have to do with her family? And if she knew about Wickham, surely she could understand! A man who lived like that had no place in respectable society. Darcy had not invented the rules. The world condemned such behavior. It was wickedness. Perversion.
He had only done what any gentleman would do to protect his reputation.
So why did Elizabeth look at him as ifhewere the one who had done wrong?
His mind snapped backward—unbidden—to the night that had changed everything between himself and Wickham.
They had been at university, alone in the rooms they shared. He remembered the firelight flickering across the floor, the smell of ink and damp stone, and the warmth of brandy still resting on his tongue. He had been speaking of Pemberley, of hisfather’s latest letter, when Wickham had suddenly grown quiet—unnaturally so.
Darcy had turned. And then—before he understood what was happening—Wickham had taken his hand. Held it. Looked at him with a softness he had never seen before.
Then came the words.
