Page 168 of Companions of Their Youth
Darcy watched Elizabeth’s face closely after he spoke—watched the brave little nod, the smile that did not reach her eyes, the slight tightening of her shoulders beneath her cloak.
His heart sank.
She said she understood. But something flickered in her expression—uncertainty, sorrow—and it struck him with far more force than any words.
He had meant to reassure her. He had spoken the truth. But in doing so, he had laid bare something unlovely. Something selfish.
You had not planned to be faithful to me?she had asked.
Even now, the echo rang in his ears.
Yes, I had, he had wanted to say.But only once I fell in love. Once I knew you. Before that… it did not occur to me that I might be judged by the same measure.
And in that moment, as they sat in the snowy hush of the Bennets’ garden, Darcy saw something clearly for the first time.
He had always drawn a line between what was expected of him before marriage and after—one was indulgence, the other commitment. But what was the difference, truly? Fidelity was not a switch to be flipped when a ring was exchanged. Love was not a thing one earned by contrast with what came before.
Elizabeth had been gracious, kind—she always was. But her eyes… they stayed with him all day.
He returned to Netherfield that afternoon, heavy with a sense of shame he had never fully felt before.
Sleep did not come easily that night.
Darcy lay awake in the guest chamber at Netherfield, the fire in the grate hissing low, casting long shadows along the paneled walls. His eyes burned from exhaustion, but his mind refused stillness. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Elizabeth’s face—not in distress, not even in anger, but with that quiet, stricken look she had given him when she turned away after he spoke.
His actions, even though made long before he knew her, had caused something to dim inside of her.
And it haunted him.
He shifted under the heavy coverlet, staring up at the ceiling. You fool, he thought. You spoke plainly. You spoke honestly. And in doing so, you laid bare how little you deserved her.
He had not intended to wound her. Truly, he had not. But now, with the benefit of reflection—of hindsight—he saw the wound nonetheless.
He turned over restlessly.
Those women—the ones he had known before—meant nothing. He had not loved them, had not courted them, had not sought them out with tenderness or hope. They were the product of his father’s teaching, and years spent among men who spoke of desire as sport, who viewed chastity as a matter of female virtue, never male. Gentlemen’s sons with gentlemanly appetites, spoken crudely about in clubs and behind library doors.
He had believed himself better than most, because he had been cautious. Respectful. Clean. He had never mistreated a woman, nor had he fathered a bastard. But neither had he ever considered them as anything other than a means of sating his desire.
But now, in the darkness, the lie of it all curled tight in his gut.
If Elizabeth had taken a lover before knowing me…
The thought struck hard and fast, and he clenched his fists beneath the covers.
If she had lain with another man—even once—would he not have felt it as a blow? Would he not have burned with jealousy? With grief? Would he not have questioned her judgment, her discernment, her purity?
The double standard slammed into him.
He pressed a hand to his eyes, shame rising like bile in his throat.
How dare he. How dareanyof them.
He had been taught to believe that a man’s missteps were forgivable—natural, even. It was encouraged for a lad to sow his wild oats before settling down.
But a woman’s sins were permanent. Damning.
What rot.
