P&P What-Ifs #3 - The Voice of His Conscience
This was the first Pride and Prejudice variation I ever wrote, though it’s taken on many forms since. The heart of it, however, has always remained the same:
What if Mr. Darcy was haunted by an illusion of Elizabeth Bennet?
Not a ghost, but the embodiment of his guilt, his desire, his regrets. A voice conjured from memory and conscience, questioning every decision he makes after leaving Hertfordshire.
In this what-if, Elizabeth becomes something else entirely: the relentless voice of the truth he’s trying not to face.
The Voice of His Conscience
Soon after Bingley’s departure from Netherfield, his sisters implored Darcy to intervene in what they termed a dangerous infatuation with Miss Jane Bennet.
And so, within the day, Darcy found himself leaving Hertfordshire in the company of Miss Bingley and the Hursts, bound for Grosvenor Street with a shared purpose: to prevent Charles from taking any irrevocable step toward an engagement.
Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst arrived in Grosvenor Street in a state of mingled alarm and carefully staged indignation. They wasted little time in expressing their concerns. Miss Bennet, they insisted, felt no true affection for their brother. She would accept his offer only to satisfy her mother’s ambition.
Darcy listened without comment. Their complaints about the vulgarity of the Bennet family, the impropriety of the connection, and the supposed damage to Miss Bingley’s prospects for marriage were predictable, even tiresome. Yet beneath their self-interest lay a question he could not dismiss:
Did Miss Bennet return Bingley’s affections?
Darcy had observed her closely at the ball, and her composure had struck him as… indifferent. She smiled, yes, but did not glow.
And so, when he at last lent his voice to the discussion, it was not with malice, but with conviction, tempered, at least in his mind, by reason.
“The question, Bingley, is whether her regard truly equals yours. From all I observed… I fear it does not.”
The words struck harder than he had anticipated. Bingley faltered. He agreed to delay for a day. One more conversation. Then, he said, he would decide.
Darcy left them with a heaviness he could not name. He had said what he believed to be true. And yet, the matter refused to settle.
When Darcy arrived home, he was exhausted. Convincing Bingley to abandon his intention of proposing to Miss Bennet had proved more difficult than expected. He had never seen his friend behave in such a decided manner, obvious proof of the depth of his feelings for the eldest Bennet daughter.
Was he making a mistake by separating his friend from Elizabeth’s elder sister?
He sighed. Once more, he found himself thinking of her as Elizabeth, though he knew full well she was unfit to become Mrs. Darcy. If only her connections were better, or her dowry more substantial, he might persuade his family to accept a union with the woman who had unsettled his every thought.
It was with a guilty conscience that Darcy entered his study, the weight of the evening pressing heavily on his shoulders. He poured himself a glass of whisky, hoping to dull the ache of his thoughts—thoughts of her.
“I like this room. It is much like its owner,” said a familiar voice.
Darcy froze, the glass halfway to his lips. That voice.
He turned slowly. There she was. Standing near the fireplace, her eyes bright, her smile unmistakable.
Impossible.
Darcy blinked. Once. Twice.
She couldn’t be here. Not in London. Not in his private study.
“Miss Elizabeth?” he said, his voice hoarse. “What are you doing here? It is highly improper.”
She let out a soft laugh and moved toward his desk. “Am I truly here, sir?” she asked, reaching for a book—her hand passed clean through it.
The whisky glass trembled in his grasp.
Not real, he thought. She is not real.
“What is going on here, Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy asked, visibly perturbed.
She tilted her head and looked at him with amusement, then glanced pointedly at his drink.
“I believe I might be the product of your inebriated mind,” she said with a soft, teasing smile. “A mere illusion, conjured from your desires.”
Darcy looked down at the whisky in his hand, then took another sip. “Perhaps I have drunk too much. It would not be the first time a man imagined what he could not have.”
Elizabeth gave a delicate shrug. “Not my fault, sir. You were the one who paid me such… excessive attention. You danced with no other lady at the Netherfield ball, and then you disappeared entirely after raising my expectations.”
Her voice cooled, her words suddenly threaded with disappointment.
“Madam, you must understand. My position in the world forbids such a connection between our families.” His voice faltered as he saw her smile fade. “If only… if only your connections were better, or your dowry more substantial, then perhaps…”
She stepped closer, her expression softening with sadness.
“Is that the reason you persuaded Mr. Bingley to leave my sister? So you would not have to see me again?”
Her voice trembled with displeasure, each word landing like a quiet rebuke. “Have you separated two hearts for the sake of your own pride and comfort?”
Darcy looked away, guilt crashing over him. The vision—this figment of Elizabeth—was relentless in her clarity.
“I saw no affection on her part,” he muttered. “I could not, in good conscience, let Bingley enter a marriage of unequal affections.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “You do realize I am a figment of your imagination, do you not? Every word I speak is merely drawn from your own mind. So if I believe Jane Bennet loves your friend, then it must be because you believe it too.”
She sighed and watched him for a moment longer, her features softening into something like pity as Mr. Darcy finally succumbed to sleep.
Darcy awoke with a start, his mouth dry and his head pounding like a war drum. The golden light of morning slipped through the curtains, far too bright for his liking.
He groaned and pressed a hand to his forehead. Never again, he vowed. Not that much whisky. Not that much guilt.
“Good morning, Fitzwilliam,” said a bright, unmistakable voice.
Darcy froze.
No. Surely not.
He cracked one eye open and there she was. Elizabeth Bennet was seated in the chair across the room, her expression entirely too amused.
“What the devil?” he muttered, bolting upright. “Am I still drunk?”
She rested her chin in her palm, lips pursed in exaggerated petulance. “Perhaps. You only slept for four or five hours. And I have been here the whole time, watching you snore.”
Darcy buried his face in his hands.
“This is madness,” he said. “I must be going mad.”
“Possibly,” Elizabeth replied cheerfully. “But madness is often a useful way to avoid truths one would rather not face.”
He rose and called for his valet, trying—and failing—to ignore her presence as she drifted after him like a shadow. No one else could see her. No one else spoke to her.
That left only one explanation.
She was entirely his own creation. A voice conjured from guilt, memory, and longing.
And she refused to go away.
As he went about his morning routine, Elizabeth continued to comment on everything; his shaving, his tie, the length of time he stared out the window. Always with that teasing smile.
He found himself pausing before speaking aloud now, as though waiting for her commentary. It was absurd and yet oddly comforting.
But comfort turned quickly to discomfort when she began to say things he could not dismiss, things that cut closer than any blade. She knew his thoughts before he did. Worse, she named them.
“Surely this cannot go on,” he muttered.
“That is up to you,” she said sweetly. “I am only here because you will not let me go.”
By the time Charles Bingley arrived, Darcy was on edge. He had dressed, paced, poured coffee, and tried—unsuccessfully—to ignore the not-quite-real woman seated on the settee, watching him with maddening patience.
She wore the same amused expression as before, but now her eyes glinted with something softer: expectation, judgment, and the fragile glimmer of hope.
Darcy hated how well she knew him. Even if she was not real.
“Darcy!” Bingley entered the study with his usual buoyant energy, though even he paused at the sight of his friend’s pale face. “Good Lord, are you ill? I have never seen you in such a state.”
Elizabeth rose and drifted behind Bingley’s chair as he sat.
“Just a bad night,” Darcy said shortly. “Too much whisky, nothing more.”
“And guilt,” Elizabeth added archly, leaning her elbows on Bingley’s shoulder. Darcy’s jaw tightened.
“Well,” Bingley continued, unaware of the spectral commentary, “I have been thinking, Darcy… About what you and my sisters said… about Miss Bennet.”
Darcy sat down, bracing himself. Elizabeth moved to stand directly beside him, hands clasped behind her back, as if she were a governess waiting to hear a lesson recited.
“Do you truly believe she held no affection for me?” Bingley asked. “Because… I thought she did. I still do. I cannot help but feel she was happier in my company than anyone else’s.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, glancing at Darcy.
Her look conveyed the simple, inescapable truth: He is right, and you know it.
Darcy hesitated, the words catching in his throat. The easy response was right there: Yes, I believe she cared little for you. It is best to forget her.
But then he saw Bingley’s open face, the hope buried beneath the uncertainty. He saw Elizabeth, arms now crossed, disappointment in every line of her imagined face.
“The truth is…” Darcy said slowly, “I saw no particular warmth in her manner. But—” he paused, meeting Bingley’s eyes, “—I also did not know her. Not truly. It is your judgment that matters. Yours alone.”
Elizabeth smiled—genuinely this time—and stepped back, as though giving him space.
Bingley brightened, relief softening his features. “Thank you, Darcy. I needed to hear that. I think… I think I must see her again. If only to be certain.”
“Then do so,” Darcy said quietly. “No one else can make that choice for you.”
Bingley stood and shook his hand warmly. “I will go to Longbourn tomorrow. It is time I say my goodbyes, or perhaps not.”
As the door closed behind Bingley, silence descended once more. Darcy released a long breath, his eyes drifting to the hearth where embers glowed faintly.
“That was not so hard, was it?” Elizabeth said, appearing at his side once more.
Her soft, affectionate tone pierced him to the core.
“You are not real,” he murmured, almost pleading. “You are nothing but a dream.”
She stepped close, her lips brushing his cheek like mist. “I am proud of you,” she whispered.
Let me know your thoughts, would you like to see this expanded into a full-length variation? Drop a comment, I always enjoy hearing from you.