Chapter 19 #2
“Mama,” Elizabeth said with composure that belied the color in her cheeks, “Mr. Darcy has requested to speak with Papa.”
Mrs. Bennet blinked.
“Mr. Darcy—?”
Her eyes darted between them, comprehension dawning in uneven stages. Before the exclamation forming on her lips could fully escape, Bingley said something animatedly to Jane, and Mrs. Bennet wheeled at once toward that brighter prospect.
“Oh! Yes, yes—Jane, my dear—”
Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged a brief glance—half amusement, half exasperation. Then, seizing the opportunity, they slipped from the room together.
The study door loomed ahead, and Darcy’s pulse quickened. Whatever awaited within, he would not be found wanting.
Mr. Bennet looked up from his desk as they entered, spectacles perched low upon his nose, quill still in hand.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said evenly. “To what do I owe the honor?”
Darcy inclined his head. “Sir. I have come to request a private conversation, if you will permit it.”
Mr. Bennet’s gaze shifted to Elizabeth.
“Very well,” he said. “Lizzy, that will do.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Papa, I believe I ought—”
“You believe a great many things,” he replied dryly. “At present, I should like to hear Mr. Darcy’s thoughts uninterrupted.”
She flushed. “But—”
“No.” His tone sharpened, not unkindly, but firmly. “You have said what you needed to say, I presume. I should like to hear what Mr. Darcy has to say without assistance.” He lifted a brow. “Unless you suspect he requires it?”
Color rose in her cheeks. Darcy offered her a faint, steadying smile.
“I assure you, Miss Elizabeth, I am quite capable of speaking for myself.”
Her eyes searched his for a moment, then she inclined her head and withdrew, the door closing softly behind her.
Silence settled.
Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair. “Now then, Mr. Darcy. Let us see what sort of man you are.”
“An honorable one, I hope,” Darcy said.
Darcy did not sit until invited. He stood, hands loosely clasped behind his back.
“I seek your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter.”
Mr. Bennet regarded him without expression.
“You seek to court Elizabeth.”
“I do.”
“And what precisely does that mean to you, Mr. Darcy? A fortnight of agreeable conversation? A season’s amusement?”
“It means,” Darcy replied steadily, “that I consider her a woman of uncommon worth, whose character I greatly admire, and that I would wish—should she continue to favor me—to make her my wife.”
Mr. Bennet’s eyes sharpened.
“Your finances, Mr. Darcy? Can you afford to take a wife?”
Darcy hesitated briefly, then said, “While I typically do not discuss my income on so slight an acquaintance, I understand the need for a father to ensure his daughter is well-cared for. My estate in Derbyshire yields approximately ten thousand pounds per annum. I possess a townhouse in London, no debts of significance, and investments managed by a steward of long-standing integrity. My sister’s dowry is secured, and my stepmother’s jointure protected. ”
Mr. Bennet’s brow lifted slightly at the thoroughness. “Tell me about the other women you have courted in the past.”
Blinking in mild confusion at the sudden change in topic, Darcy said, “I am not entirely certain what you mean, sir; I have not courted any other women.”
“Not in London? Not during your travels? No disappointed heiress nursing wounded pride?”
“No, sir.”
Mr. Bennet tapped his fingers lightly against the desk.
“You are accustomed, I imagine, to society above ours.”
“I am accustomed to society of varying kinds,” Darcy replied. “I have found that rank is no guarantee of virtue.”
“Very good.” Mr. Bennet’s mouth twitched faintly. “Then tell me this: what is it you like most about my daughter?”
Darcy did not look away.
“Her mind,” he said at once.
Mr. Bennet stilled.
“She sees clearly,” Darcy continued. “She is quick without being cruel, observant without being petty. She possesses wit, but does not wield it thoughtlessly. She is fiercely loyal to her family. She is capable of indignation where it is deserved and mercy where it is needed.”
He drew a breath, voice lowering slightly.
“She does not flatter. She does not pretend. She challenges me—frequently—and I am the better for it.”
Mr. Bennet’s expression shifted, almost imperceptibly.
“And her faults?” he asked quietly.
Darcy’s lips curved faintly.
“She is inclined to assume she understands a man entirely after two conversations.”
A pause.
“But she is also willing to revise her judgment when presented with truth.”
Mr. Bennet’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment.
“You speak of her as though you respect her.”
“I do.”
“And you would not silence that wit once it is inconvenient to you?”
“I would not dare,” Darcy replied dryly.
The faintest huff of laughter escaped Mr. Bennet before he could prevent it.
He rose and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back.
“You must understand, Mr. Darcy, that Elizabeth is not easily governed. She has spirit.”
“I would not wish her otherwise.”
“She may laugh at you.”
“I hope she will.”
Mr. Bennet turned.
“And if she grows tired of Derbyshire? Of expectations? Of… your relations?”
Darcy’s expression sobered. “I would hope that would not be the case, but she will have my support in all things that are right. And she will have a home where her judgment is valued.”
The room was quiet.
At length, Mr. Bennet sighed.
“I confess, sir, I expected to find more arrogance in you.”
“I have been accused of it before,” Darcy said evenly. “Sometimes justly.”
Mr. Bennet studied him one final time.
“Elizabeth is dearer to me than any of my children, though I do not often show it. If you injure her, I shall consider it a personal affront.”
“You would be justified.”
A beat passed.
“Very well,” Mr. Bennet said at last. “You may court her.”
Darcy did not exhale, though relief surged through him. “I thank you, sir.”
“Do not thank me yet. You must still persuade her to endure you.”
Darcy’s eyes warmed. “I shall endeavor to make that task a pleasant one.”
Mr. Bennet moved toward the door. “Let us see whether she is prepared to endure her mother’s effusions about this,” he muttered, almost to himself. Then, more briskly, “You may inform her of my consent. I suspect she has been pacing.”
Darcy bowed. And for the first time since entering the study, his heart felt entirely steady.
Mr. Bennet paused only long enough to fix him with one last measuring glance. “Remember, sir,” he added quietly, “I have entrusted you with my most beloved child. Do not make me regret it.”
“I shall not,” Darcy replied with a gravity that brooked no doubt.
Satisfied—or as near to it as he was ever likely to be—Mr. Bennet reached for the latch.
The door opened.
Elizabeth stood directly beyond it.
She was not, perhaps, pacing. But neither was she merely passing by. Her posture was too alert, her expression too carefully arranged. One hand hovered near the doorframe as though she had meant to knock and had not yet found the courage.
For the briefest instant, father and daughter simply looked at one another.
Mr. Bennet’s brows rose.
Darcy, just behind him, felt a sudden, fierce tenderness at the sight of her—so brave in the drawing room, so composed in argument, and yet so transparently anxious now.
Mr. Bennet looked at her for a long moment, then he laughed.
“My dear Lizzy,” he drawled, “you need not look so stricken. Were you expecting to hear cries for mercy? Or perhaps the sound of Mr. Darcy fleeing through the shrubbery?”
Elizabeth flushed. “Papa—”
“You may relax,” he said more gently. “The gentleman has survived his examination.”
“And?” she pressed, unable to disguise the tremor in her voice.
Mr. Bennet allowed the silence to stretch just long enough to make her color deepen.
“And,” he said at last, “I have given him leave to attempt to make you happy—if he can.”
Relief swept across her features with such force that Darcy felt it like a physical warmth.
“Thank you, sir,” she said softly.
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Bennet waved a hand. “Let us see what your mother makes of it. That alone will be worth the effort.”
He led the way toward the drawing room, Elizabeth and Darcy following side by side.
The moment they entered, Mrs. Bennet turned expectantly.
Well?” she demanded. “What was it? Has something happened? Why are you all so solemn?”
Mr. Bennet folded his hands behind his back and assumed an air of importance. “I have an announcement.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes widened, darting between Elizabeth and Darcy. She opened her mouth to speak, but her husband cut her off. “I hope you have ordered a good dinner, my dear, as we have a guest joining us this evening.”
Whatever the room had expected him to say, it was not that. “Papa?” Elizabeth asked, bewildered.
Mrs. Bennet straightened at once. “A guest? This evening? Oh, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley, of course you must stay for dinner!”
“The person of whom I speak,” Mr. Bennet continued, quite imperturbable, “is a gentleman and a stranger, whom I have never seen in the whole course of my life.”
Now even Darcy was confused. Elizabeth stared at her father. “A stranger?”
“Entirely so.”
Mrs. Bennet gasped. “A stranger? To dine? At Longbourn? Without so much as a card left beforehand? Mr. Bennet, you cannot mean it.”
“I do, indeed. About a month ago, I received a letter from my cousin, Mr. Collins. It is he who is to dine with us, as he will be visiting us for a week complete from his living in Surrey.”
A stunned silence followed.
“Mr. Collins?” Jane echoed softly.
“The same,” said Mr. Bennet. “He has recently taken orders and is now established in a respectable living. He expresses a strong desire to mend the breach between our branches of the family. I thought it charitable to indulge him.”
Mrs. Bennet pressed her hand to her chest. “Your cousin? The heir?”
“The very one who will, upon my demise, turn you all into wanderers among the hedgerows,” Mr. Bennet said mildly.
This broke the spell.
“Mr. Bennet!” Mrs. Bennet cried. “How can you speak so of such dreadful things? And he is coming here? To stay? For a week?”
“For a week complete,” Mr. Bennet repeated with satisfaction. “We shall have ample opportunity to grow intimate.”
Lydia clapped her hands. “Oh! Perhaps he is handsome.”
Mary sat up straighter. “A clergyman,” she murmured approvingly. “That is most edifying.”
Elizabeth felt a curious mixture of irritation and dread. “And you did not think to mention this before today?”
“My dear,” her father replied dryly, “had I announced it sooner, your mother would have expired of anticipation.”
Mrs. Bennet looked as though she might yet do so.
Darcy, who had been standing very still, glanced from Elizabeth to Mr. Bennet and back again, piecing together the implications. The heir. The entail. The precarious future of the Bennet ladies.
Elizabeth caught his eye and lifted her brows ever so slightly, as if to say, You see now why I wished to remain with you.
Mr. Bennet folded his hands once more. “I trust you will all exert yourselves to be agreeable. It would not do to frighten away the man who stands ready to inherit your home.”
The room erupted at once into exclamations—Mrs. Bennet lamenting, Lydia speculating, Mary moralizing. Elizabeth turned slowly toward her father and fixed him with a reproachful look.
He merely chuckled at the rising storm.
“My dear,” he said loudly over the din, “pray do not exhaust yourself. There is another item that may interest you.”
Mrs. Bennet whirled.
“What could be more important than the man who will send us to the hedgerows upon your death?”
Mr. Bennet lifted one brow.
“Mr. Darcy has requested permission to pay his addresses to your daughter Elizabeth. I have given it.”
For a moment — a blessed, stunned moment — there was silence.
Then—
“Mr. Darcy?” Mrs. Bennet cried, clutching at the back of a chair. “A man with ten thousand a year wishes to court Elizabeth?”
“The very same,” Mr. Bennet replied mildly.
“Oh! Oh, my nerves! Lizzy! My own Lizzy! To think I should live to see it! And Mr. Collins coming the same day…”
Kitty began laughing. Lydia demanded to know whether there would be new gowns. Mary murmured something about the providence of Heaven.
Jane rushed to Elizabeth and embraced her warmly.
“My dearest Lizzy,” she whispered, her eyes shining.
Elizabeth, overwhelmed, could only laugh helplessly as her mother launched into rapid calculations of settlements, wedding breakfasts, and future grandchildren.
Darcy stood very still amidst the chaos, his expression caught somewhere between astonishment and amusement.
Bingley clapped him on the shoulder with boyish enthusiasm.
“My dear fellow — congratulations!”
Darcy bowed slightly, though his eyes sought Elizabeth’s through the commotion. Mr. Bennet, observing the uproar he had so expertly engineered, seemed thoroughly satisfied.
“Now, now,” he said, waving a hand. “We shall exhaust Mr. Darcy before he has even spent a day in courtship. Mrs. Bennet, compose yourself. Girls, cease shrieking. Mr. Bingley, rescue whoever is nearest to fainting.”
“I believe,” Darcy said quietly to Bingley, “that should safely withdraw to allow the family time to prepare for their guest.”
“A prudent strategy,” Bingley agreed.
They made their excuses amid the clamor, slipping out while Mrs. Bennet was extolling the superiority of Derbyshire over Hertfordshire and planning which neighbors must be told first.
As the door closed behind them, Darcy allowed himself one final glance back toward the drawing room — toward Elizabeth, who stood flushed, luminous, and smiling in the midst of delightful disorder.
And he thought, not for the first time, that he would gladly endure far greater chaos than this, if only to stand at her side within it.