Page 128 of Companions of Their Youth
Another note lay atop his pillow.
The same ivory paper.
The same neat hand.
I would rather see you dead, Darcy, than be with anyone else. I was born with a jealous disposition, and I am determined that you will be mine.
Chapter 27
Elizabeth sat before her vanity, gazing at her reflection without truly seeing it. The preparations for the ball had scarcely begun—her hair lay unbound, brushing her shoulders, and her gown for the evening was draped neatly over a nearby chair. A quiet knock startled her from her thoughts.
"Come in," she called softly.
The door opened, and her father stepped inside, his expression more serious than usual.
"Papa?" Elizabeth rose quickly to greet him in surprise. It was quite rare for Mr. Bennet to visit any of his children’s rooms—he preferred to summon them to his study instead of going to them. "Has something happened?"
"No, no," he reassured, closing the door gently behind him. "Nothing untoward has occurred. But I received something today, and I thought it best you see it without delay."
He withdrew a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to her. "The note is addressed to me, but the enclosed letter is for you. Mr. Darcy wrote asking my permission to pass it along. I thought it best to give it to you myself."
Elizabeth took the note in trembling fingers and unfolded it, her heart fluttering unsteadily as she read Darcy’s brief words to her father.
Mr. Bennet,
Enclosed you will find a letter I have written to your daughter, Miss Elizabeth. I am aware that propriety forbids this intimacy, as we are neither engaged nor formally courting in the eyes of society. I wish to be respectful of your family and your authority. Thus, you have my full consent to read this letter first, should you desire, and only give it to her if you find it acceptable. My intention is to clarify matters between myself and your daughter after our recent disagreement. I leave the decision entirely to your judgment.
Respectfully yours,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Elizabeth’s throat tightened, and she raised anxious eyes to her father. "Did you—?"
"No," he said gently. "I did not. Whatever passed between you and Mr. Darcy is yours alone to resolve. I am always here should you wish my advice—but only if you ask for it."
Elizabeth sank onto the edge of her bed, fingers clutching the note tightly. "Oh, Papa," she whispered, voice thick with emotion. "I fear it is all such a tangled mess."
Mr. Bennet touched her shoulder lightly. "Then perhaps this letter will help untangle it."
She looked up at him, her heart aching. "But what if—?"
"Elizabeth," he interrupted softly, with gentle authority. "Read it first. Consider it carefully. And tomorrow, after the ball is done and you have had time to think, we shall talk, if you wish it."
He leaned down to place a tender kiss upon her forehead, then turned to leave, closing the door quietly behind him. Elizabeth sat still for several heartbeats, the letter heavy in her hand, her heart hammering in her chest.
Drawing a deep breath to steady her nerves, she broke the seal.
Miss Elizabeth,
Please forgive the presumption of this letter. I know it is not strictly proper to approach you in this manner, but circumstances require clarification, and I cannot endure the thought of leaving such misunderstandings between us unaddressed.
I begin by offering a sincere apology for my harsh words during our last encounter. My temper and anxiety have been tested greatly of late, but this offers no excuse for causing you distress. My respect for you ought never to have been overshadowed by my agitation, and I am deeply remorseful.
Two charges you laid against me in our recent quarrel: firstly, my cruelty in cutting off George Wickham, and secondly, my judgmental stance towards those attracted totheir own sex. Allow me to respond frankly and openly to both accusations.
Mr. Wickham and I grew up side-by-side at Pemberley. As the son of my father’s steward and my own godfather’s favorite, he was my frequent companion. He was charming, lively, and attentive—particularly to young ladies. His knowledge of feminine interests—lace, fabric, fashions—was impressive, and I naively attributed this skill to his desire to ingratiate himself among women for honorable courtship. Later, at Cambridge, I came to see how mistaken I was.
During our time as university roommates, Wickham grew increasingly wild. Drinking heavily, gambling recklessly, and boasting openly of conquests with women whose reputations he callously disregarded. He cheated shamelessly in his studies, yet my sense of duty and long friendship caused me to look away, hoping he might improve. That hope was shattered one night when, unexpectedly and shockingly, he made advances upon me, declaring sentiments that went far beyond friendship. I trust I do not offend your sensibilities when I tell you that he attempted to push physical attentions on me in a manner that was most alarming.
