Elizabeth caught sight of Hill’s raised eyebrows.
“Mother and I have decided to switch roles,” she explained.
“Hmpf! I have never behaved as unreasonably as you have today!” Mrs. Bennet said. “Oh, that reminds me, Hill; tell Cook that there will be one additional person joining us this evening.”
The housekeeper sighed. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“And what, Miss Lizzy, is your Mr. Darcy’s favorite dish? Jane has requested white fricassee of chicken for dear Mr. Bingley. Although chickens are in short supply this time of year, I believe,” she added with a bright smile for Jane, “that we can spare one for our newest son. I should not bother asking about Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Bennet continued, “for he does not deserve it, but I am, above all, a good hostess.”
Elizabeth said nothing, hoping her frown would somehow dissuade her mother from asking again.
“Well?”
Her mother and Hill looked at her expectantly.
“I…I do not know,” Elizabeth admitted.
“You do not know his favorite dish?” Mrs. Bennet asked with the same tone of voice she might use to ask, “You do not know your own name?”
“We have not had a chance to discuss it,” Elizabeth said, taking a sudden interest in the pattern on the rug. Then she glanced up at Jane. “How is that you know Mr. Bingley’s favorite dish?”
Jane smiled. “When we were at Lucas Lodge, he mentioned it. We had a lovely conversation about the joys of country cooking.”
“And just what have you and Mr. Darcy discussed?” Kitty asked with a mixture of animosity and curiosity.
“I do not think that is proper to ask,” Mary said, even as she leaned forward.
Indeed, everyone seemed eager to hear her response; even Sam Johnson, the hound, raised his droopy head from the floor to look at her.
“We have discussed…” Death, family, duty, love—were these not more important topics than food? Of course, she could not say that, so she settled for what she supposed was a good shorthand for those subjects: “Shakespeare.”
Kitty groaned. “How can you be so dull, Lizzy? I would have expected that of Mary, but I thought you, at least, might find something witty to discuss.”
“I doubt he has a sense of humor,” Mrs. Bennet said, sniffing.
“Enough,” Elizabeth said, standing abruptly. “Hill, tell Cook to fix whatever she likes for Mr. Darcy; I am beginning to doubt it will matter. I am going for a walk.”
As she hurried from the room, Jane called after her, “Please wait, Lizzy!”
Elizabeth quickened her pace. She was almost to the front entrance when Jane touched her shoulder. “Do let me walk with you.”
She sighed. “Jane, I do appreciate your concern, but I think I would prefer to walk alone.”
Jane’s face crumpled. “We will never be quite the same, will we?”
“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, though she knew exactly what her sister meant. Still, she tried to laugh. “Jane, you are being rather dramatic. I do hope you forgive me; you must be angry with me for suggesting that you did not know Mr. Bingley well enough to accept him. I was simply anxious and—”
“I am not angry at all,” Jane cut in, the sharpness of her tone contradicting her words. “I am disappointed, not in what you said about Mr. Bingley. You know that I always welcome your advice. It is only…I thought you would have…why did you tell me nothing of your feelings for Mr. Darcy?”
Staring down at her hands, she said, “It all happened so quickly that I—”
“But when? How? Did you speak much at Netherfield? You spent so much time reading to me when I was ill that I hardly think you could have had much opportunity to speak with him then. And he spent only an hour at the ball last night and said nothing at all to you then!”
“We did speak when you were ill, not very often, but each time was…” She searched for the correct word. “…meaningful.”
“Meaningful?”
Elizabeth sighed, coming up against the same obstacle that she had faced in the parlor. How was it that something so tragic as her father’s illness could produce something so remarkable and unexpected as her feelings for Darcy? And how could she possibly put her feelings into words? Glancing behind Jane and seeing that no one else was in the hall, Elizabeth resolved to tell her sister the truth; after all, her father had given her leave to tell Jane about his illness, had he not?
Yet, as she met Jane’s inquiring eyes, Elizabeth realized just how much of an unkindness it would be to announce that her father was dying. She imagined the dinner that evening: Jane’s face would be long and drawn; there would be tears in her eyes when she should have been laughing with Mr. Bingley. Perhaps worst of all, Jane would be bound to silence, unable to explain to Mr. Bingley the cause of her distress; at least Elizabeth could rely on Darcy’s understanding.
Shaking her head, she said quietly, “I cannot fully explain it, Jane. As I said, it happened so quickly.”
Jane’s shoulders fell. “I see. You must know how surprising—confounding, really, this is to us all. You cannot blame Mama or Lydia or any of our sisters for being unable to welcome this news. Nonetheless,” she said, turning back toward the parlor, “I do wish you happiness.”
“And I you,” Elizabeth replied, thinking of how cold they both sounded.
*
Darcy’s hands were shaking by the time he had completed the short walk from the entrance hall to Mr. Bennet’s study. As the maid opened the door and announced, “Mr. Darcy to see you, Sir,” he took a deep breath to steady himself.
It was only after the maid had shut the door behind him that he realized that Mr. Bennet was fast asleep.
Spinning on his heel, Darcy reached for the door handle, considered his options (Wait in the entrance hall like a fool? Go back to Netherfield like a coward?), and turned back towards Mr. Bennet. Still asleep.
With a heavy sigh (which would perhaps wake…no), he fell into the chair placed directly opposite of Mr. Bennet and gazed into the crackling fire. Clearly someone had been in the room recently enough to throw kindling into the hearth. Why had they not noticed that Mr. Bennet was asleep?
Darcy sat up straight. Bennet was asleep, was he not? Leaning forward, he stared intently at Elizabeth’s father. For a long moment, all was still—and then Mr. Bennet released a shallow breath, shifted in his chair, and began to snore.
Loath to wake him but unwilling to leave, Darcy stood and paced the room. He entertained himself for nearly a quarter of an hour by reading the titles of the books visible on the cases surrounding Bennet’s desk. He then spent several minutes convincing himself not to pick up the volumes stacked on the window seat, desk chair, and floor. When he spotted a leather folio half jammed between the a potted plant and the wall, he could not help but rescue it, for, despite his recent habit of tome throwing, he hated to see damage to books of any kind.
After glancing over his shoulder to see if Bennet was still sleeping, he opened the cover to find a pencil sketch of a young woman who could have been Elizabeth’s sister—but was not. The face featured Elizabeth’s lively smile, but the eyes were too narrow and the nose too long. Darcy squinted at the caption scrawled below the portrait: “My Love, September 2, 17__.”
Flipping through the other pages, he saw the young woman age: the smile lost some of its vibrancy, and the woman’s figure became fuller; she no longer appeared alone on the page but instead had a child in her arms, then two little girls at her side, and then three and four and five. Then she disappeared from the page altogether; the sketches at the back of the book focused almost solely on the Longbourn estate and, occasionally, Elizabeth and her sisters.
Heart pounding, Darcy shoved the folio back into its hiding place and wished he had been too polite to pry into Bennet’s mind. There had been nothing indecent about the sketches, but something in them had left him feeling cold.
Without knowing what else to do, Darcy fell into the chair placed across from Bennet; after
several minutes of watching the fire slowly die, he saw the older man shift, open his eyes, and yawn. Bennet’s mouth was wide open when he realized that he was not alone. Sputtering, he sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“Mr. Darcy?”
“Mr. Bennet,” Darcy said, standing quickly. Upon seeing that Bennet was feebly attempting to do the same, he added, “Please, Sir. There is no need…”
Bennet fell back into his chair with a grateful sigh. “Lord knows this is the strangest dream yet, though the physicians did warn me that the cancer provokes these kinds of musings. You are not actually here, are you, young man?”
Darcy cleared his throat. “I am, Sir.”
“You are here—now?”
“Yes, and you are awake.”
Rubbing his eyes once more, Bennet said, “Well, this is both a relief and a disappointment.”
Darcy looked away, having no idea how to respond.
“Oh, do not take offense! While I suppose sought-after young men such as yourself enjoy playing Morpheus to the young ladies, surely you do not hope to inhabit the dreams of old men!”
“I would not claim to be the subject of anyone’s dreams, Sir.”
“Be that as it may, I am relieved to find that you are not a product of my imagination.”
Darcy could not help but ask, “Then what, Sir, is the cause of your disappointment?”
“Ah, I am very tired, and so I would also prefer to be asleep. It seems I cannot rest enough these days.”
“I have no wish to disturb you.”
“I rather think you do,” Bennet retorted with a quirk of his lips.
Darcy flushed. “Your servant—indeed, your wife seemed to think that you were awake and receiving visitors.”
Bennet waved a hand toward the chair across from him. “Please, sit. Pay me no mind. As for my wife, she would not know if I were dead or alive.”
Flinching, Darcy remained standing.
“Ah, yes, you know too much for that jest to be very amusing.”
Remembering the sketch of a young Mrs. Bennet, Darcy felt that he did indeed know too much.
“You will not sit?” Bennet asked again.
“I prefer to remain standing,” he replied, folding his hands behind his back and staring intently at a spot behind Bennet.
After a long moment of silence, the older man said, “I see my daughter was correct, but then, that is no surprise.”
Darcy, who had almost worked up the nerve to speak, blinked. “Excuse me?”
“My daughter, Elizabeth. She has called you odd.”
Darcy opened his mouth, then closed it. His jaw tightened. “She said that.”
“She did.” Bennet smiled. “I believe she meant it as a compliment.”
“Ah.” Darcy took a deep breath. “It is actually Elizabeth—” At Bennet’s widening eyes, Darcy said, “Er, Miss Elizabeth—er, Miss Elizabeth Bennet about whom I wish to speak.”
“Is that so?” Bennet asked, his smile slipping.
“Yes, Sir.”
“And may I speculate as to the reason you wish to discuss her?”
“I should like to speak for myself.”
“No doubt you would!”
Darcy flushed at the sudden hostility in Bennet’s raspy voice. Before he lost his nerve, he said, “I have asked your daughter to marry me, and she has accepted.”
“Perhaps you do not realize,” Bennet said, struggling to his feet, “that I have already refused one of her suitors this morning?”
Darcy felt his skin grow hot then cold. “Are you refusing me, then, as well?”
Bennet wagged a finger, took a step forward, and stumbled. He would have fallen had Darcy not caught his arm. For several seconds, Bennet leaned against him, breathing heavily. Then, finally, the older man looked up at him and said, with a kind of sardonic sadness that made Darcy think of Elizabeth, “You are the kind of man I would hardly dare refuse anything.”
After guiding Bennet back to his chair, Darcy settled himself in the seat across and said, “Let me assure you, Sir, that I have the means to provide for your daughter—indeed, for all of your daughters, when the time comes.”
“Well,” Bennet replied with a twist of his lips, “you do not mince words, do you?”
“I felt it best to speak plainly.”
“Indeed. Very well, then. What are you worth? Eight thousand a year? Nine? Ten?”
“Twelve,” Darcy replied, his shoulders stiffening.
“And how many estates? Do you have a home in London? What about a barouche? I hear it is all the rage now to have at least one or two of those.”
A muscle in Darcy’s jaw twitched. “As I said, I have the means—”
“It is little wonder,” Bennet cut in with a wave of his hand, “that, with such tender rhetoric, you were able to form an attachment to my daughter after—what is it? Perhaps two conversations, one of them the marriage proposal itself?”
“While we have not had many conversations,” Darcy bit out, “they have been meaningful.”
“Meaningful? Indeed!”
“If you are suggesting that my behavior toward Eliz…toward your daughter has been disrespectful…” Darcy stopped, thinking suddenly of the previous night’s kiss.
Bennet leaned forward. “My daughter, as you very well know, is in a precarious situation, one that I, selfish old fool, have foisted upon her. The very least I can do now is to ensure that she does not bind herself to a man she would not consider were the circumstances otherwise.”
“Your daughter, to her great credit, might not have considered me had the circumstances been different. She would not have overlooked my flaws for the sake of catching a wealthy man, and for that, I respect her very much.”
Bennet slumped back into his chair. “And it is on the basis of this respect alone that you wish to marry her?”
Darcy knew what he was meant to say here, and he almost said it—except, as he was about to speak the word, he saw, in a flash, that same word written in pencil: My Love, September 2,17__.
“I…I care for your daughter, Sir.”
“Care for her?” Bennet scoffed. “I care for my horses, my dog, my books! You merely care for her?”
Darcy’s gaze turned to the folio, jammed between the potted plant and the wall. “Then perhaps it is fortunate for your daughter’s sake that you and I define the word care in very different ways.”
Bennet paled, opened his mouth, and then began to cough—to the point that he was rocking forward in his chair, tears leaking from his eyes.
Spotting the half-finished cup of tea across from him, Darcy jumped up. “Drink,” he advised, using one hand to guide the cup to Bennet’s lips while patting him awkwardly on the back with the other.
Darcy could do nothing but watch as Bennet’s shoulders sagged—and then stiffened as a stray cough forced them upward in a spasmodic jerk. This seesaw continued for over a minute until Darcy said, “I will retrieve Miss Eliz…”
“No!” Bennet managed before coughing again. After taking several slow, deep breaths, he ran his hands, spotted with age, through his thin, silver hair and reached for his handkerchief with trembling fingers. As Bennet wiped the cloth—the initials E.B. were embroidered onto one of the corners—across his chapped lips, he said, “No, please, I am well.” Then, with a ghost of a smile, he added, “As well as can be expected.”
Darcy felt a wave of pity—for Bennet, of course, but mostly for Elizabeth. Resuming his seat, he leaned forward and said quietly, “Your daughter is the very best of women, Sir.”
Bennet met his eyes. “If you are able to recognize that, then I suppose that can have no substantial objections, Mr. Darcy.”
The two men were silent for a long moment; Darcy wondered if the interview had come to an end when Bennet said, “My wife will be unhappy. True, you are quite rich, but you are not a favorite with the good people of Meryton.”
“I am not marrying the good people of Meryton.”
Bennet raised an eyebr
ow.
Darcy amended, “I am marrying the very best person in Meryton. But I am not inclined to give credence to the gossip of…” He stopped, realizing that he was digging himself into another hole.
“Ah, that is much better,” Bennet said, lips twitching. “I, too, am inclined to ignore the busybodies. Yet the news I hear of Mr. Wickham is too troubling to disregard altogether.”
“Whatever he has told you—”
“He has told me nothing, as I have never met the man. But Mrs. Bennet—granted, she is not the best source of information—has been quite adamant that you have acted badly toward this gentleman. What do you say to this?”
Darcy fought the urge to throw something. Would Wickham ever stop haunting him? “I say that Wickham is a liar.”
“That is a very serious claim. I assume you have evidence to support this assertion?”
Darcy frowned. He knew he should tell Bennet of Georgiana, but his pride led him to say only, “I cannot offer particulars out of respect for the young lady involved.”
“Ah, it is that kind of trouble, is it?” Bennet grimaced. “I had thought it had something to do with money.”
“It has to do with both,” Darcy replied. “Sir, I advise you to keep your daughters as far from George Wickham as possible—your youngest daughters especially. Their—” Darcy paused, thinking how best to phrase his concern. “Their spirited manner might make them vulnerable to his particular brand of charm.”
Bennet raised an eyebrow. “You are already taking over the duties as head of household, I see. Do you have any other advice for me? Perhaps you would like to take a look at my ledgers?”
Barely repressing a sigh, Darcy said, “Forgive me if I seem officious, but I only wish to spare your daughters the pain that I could not spare my—” He cleared his throat. “I would not wish them to suffer.”
Bennet ran a weary hand across his face. “Of course. Of course.” He managed a small smile. “You have caught me feeling sorry for myself, Darcy, and so I must take it out on you. Well, enough of that. I will…” He waved a hand. “…do something about my two silliest daughters. And how soon will you want to steal the only reasonable daughter I have? Jane tries, but her good nature works against her.”
This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 14
