Chapter 35 Mr. Goulding
The following morning, as Thomas Bennet concluded a letter to Mr. and Mrs. Collins informing them of the date fixed for Jane’s wedding, he was interrupted by a firm rap upon the study door. The sound was heavy and intrusive, and he became uneasy.
He rose from his chair. “Come in.”
He was taken aback to see Mr. Goulding standing upon the threshold. Though the gentleman had reached his sixtieth year and his hair had turned white, it remained thick on his head; he had many wrinkles on his face and huge bags under his eyes. He was six years Bennet’s senior, yet he looked older.
Bennet motioned toward a chair. “Pray be seated, Goulding.”
Mrs. Hill hovered in the doorway, her expression attentive.
“Mrs. Hill, bring us tea.”
Goulding spoke at once. “No tea, thank you, Bennet. If you have brandy, I would prefer it.”
Thomas lifted his brows. “Of course.”
He glanced toward Mrs. Hill, who understood and withdrew.
“How may I be of service, Goulding?”
The older man regarded him with a look of inquiry. “You do not know why I have come?”
“No, I do not. Our estates do not adjoin, so I cannot suppose that my pigs have invaded your cabbages, nor that we are disputing drainage. I confess I cannot imagine what brings you to my door at so early an hour.”
He drew out his watch and examined it deliberately. “It is but half past eight. You alarm me, sir. What matter could be so urgent as to summon you here at this hour?”
Goulding’s complexion deepened.
“I do not believe you are wholly ignorant of my purpose in coming,” Goulding said.
Bennet shrugged, his hands turned upward. He waited in silence. It seemed to him that Goulding struggled to articulate his business; whether from reluctance or embarrassment, he could not yet determine.
At length, the gentleman reached within his coat and withdrew a letter, which he extended across the desk.
Bennet accepted it just as Mrs. Hill reentered with a tray. She set down two glasses and poured the brandy. Goulding received his, while Bennet took up his own but did not drink it. He unfolded the letter and began to read as Mrs. Hill replenished Goulding’s glass before withdrawing.
When he had finished, Bennet looked up.
“Ah. I begin to comprehend. Frances wrote this earnest letter while I lay abed, uncertain whether I should survive the influenza.”
Goulding’s color deepened.
“Were you aware,” Bennet continued, “that I was ill for weeks on end? Lizzy administered prescribed treatments for an inflammation that had settled upon my lungs and rendered breathing difficult. She saved my life.” He tapped the corner of the letter against the surface of his desk.
“And here is evidence of a final act of presumption committed by my wife. She wrote to you offering my daughter in marriage.”
He lifted his gaze to the gentleman seated opposite him. “She did not even wait for me to relinquish this world. She assumed I was dying and wrote in the belief that I should never know of it.”
Bennet frowned. “And I had lately begun to think more kindly of my dearly departed.”
He looked again at Goulding. “It has been several weeks since she passed on to her reward, and I had begun to forget the many ways in which she vexed me. This letter recalls her conduct and leaves me grateful for whatever peaceful days Providence may yet grant me, whether few or many.”
He drew himself upright. “Goulding, I need not inform you that I never consented to give my daughter to you in marriage. Indeed, she is betrothed to Mr. Bingley, the new proprietor of Netherfield.”
He dipped the letter into his cup and then cast it into the fire.
“I do not hold this matter against you, Goulding, and I shall never speak of it beyond this room. It is known only to us, and of course to my wife, but as she is no longer among the living, it is of no account.”
Bennet rose. “I trust you will likewise preserve silence, for if you do not, Mr. Bingley will demand satisfaction. He is most desirous of establishing a respectable household and will do all within his power to protect my dear Jane. Should he fail in that duty, I shall undertake it myself as her father.”
Goulding spoke no reply, yet he inclined his head in assent and withdrew from the study without turning back.
Thomas Bennet could not recall a time when he had been so incensed. The presumption of his wife in attempting to dispose of one of his daughters while he yet lived offended him deeply. She had not even extended him the courtesy of seeking his consent.
Was it any wonder that Jane had fled the house?
She had known her mother was resolved to give her to Goulding.
For what end? That her daughter might endure the temper of a man whose conduct was widely questioned?
Or had Goulding offered Frances the promise of security for herself in exchange?
He would never know. Yet the strength of his anger left him uneasy, as though it might overpower his reason if he did not master it.
Then his thoughts turned to Lizzy. He recalled the firmness of her voice when she had said, “Very well, Papa. I shall know how to act.” And she had acted. She had contrived to remove Lydia under a pretext and had secured assistance for Jane.
Lizzy had cause enough to resent him, as he now felt resentment toward Frances. He could see her clear brown eyes fixed upon him once more, the quiet resolve in them as she stood determined to save her sisters.
The anger within him ebbed, giving way to remorse. He prayed that Elizabeth might one day forgive him.
He resumed his seat and finished his letter to the Collinses. In his heart, he resolved to do better by the three daughters that yet remained under his protection.