Chapter 27 #2
Shaking his head, he rapidly made his way back to Mr. Bennet’s study, fearful that the capricious man would change his mind in the moments he was left alone. Instead, Mr. Bennet received him with unusual seriousness.
“I confess, sir,” he drawled as he untied the ribbon and spread the papers across his desk, “I did not expect so much ink to be expended upon my second daughter.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I would prefer too much ink to too little.”
Mr. Bennet made a small sound of amusement and began reading.
For several minutes, the only noise in the room was the faint crackle of the fire and the turning of pages. Darcy remained standing, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze resting upon the window but his attention fixed entirely upon the older gentleman’s expression.
At length, Mr. Bennet set down the first document.
“I must say,” he observed, “twenty thousand pounds is more than fair. Elizabeth will never accuse you of miserliness.”
“She shall never have cause,” Darcy replied evenly.
Mr. Bennet continued, moving methodically through clauses concerning pin money, inheritance, guardianship, and the dower house. Twice he nodded in approval.
From his position across the desk, Darcy began to read the inverted words. His brow furrowed, and he leaned over and pointed to a paragraph. “This needs to be amended.”
Mr. Bennet looked up. “In what way?”
“The language here,” Darcy replied, “permits certain interpretations regarding discretionary management of the settled funds. In theory, should I survive Elizabeth and choose to remarry, there is phrasing that could limit what reverts to her estate.”
Mr. Bennet’s brows lifted slightly. “I did not observe that.”
“It is subtle,” Darcy admitted. “And entirely legal. But it is not equitable.”
He moved to another paragraph. “And here—the guardianship clause presumes that any minor child would fall under my appointed trustees exclusively. It does not sufficiently secure Elizabeth’s voice should I predecease her.”
Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair, studying him. “And your solicitor drafted these provisions?”
“Yes.”
“And you object?”
“I do.” There was no hesitation in his tone. “I will not enter into a marriage contract that shields me from contingencies at her expense.”
Mr. Bennet regarded him for a long moment, something thoughtful—almost searching—in his expression.
“At least one of us,” he murmured quietly, “appears to have read the document with vigilance.”
Darcy did not respond to the faint edge beneath the remark. “I shall send an express to my solicitor today, instructing him to remove any ambiguous details that favor me unfairly. I shall be quite insistent upon the matter.”
Mr. Bennet’s mouth twitched. “Insistent, are you?”
Darcy’s jaw tightened slightly. “I will simply inform him that if I discovered similar ‘efficiencies’ in future drafts, I will find new representation.”
Mr. Bennet’s laugh was low and brief. “Well. That should suffice.”
He resumed reading.
It was nearly finished when Mr. Bennet’s hand stilled.
His gaze fixed upon a particular line near the end—standard language identifying the bride’s parentage and paternal consent.
He read it once.
Then again.
Darcy observed the shift at once. The indolent humor that so often animated Mr. Bennet’s features drained away. His shoulders stiffened—not in anger, precisely, but in something more restrained.
“There is a matter here,” Mr. Bennet said quietly.
Darcy stepped closer.
The clause was unremarkable at first glance: a formal declaration naming Thomas Bennet as father of Elizabeth Bennet, granting consent as required.
Mr. Bennet tapped the line with one finger.
“This wording,” he said, his tone controlled, “identifies me as her father in unqualified terms.”
Darcy frowned faintly. “Is that not accurate?”
Mr. Bennet’s jaw tightened. “It would be more correct,” he said after a pause, “to amend the phrasing to reflect that I am her legal guardian with permission to make decisions and act on her behalf.”
Darcy blinked. He had expected objection to financial stipulations, perhaps alterations to technical phrasing. Not this. “I… I am afraid I do not understand. Should that not be redundant?”
Mr. Bennet’s gaze did not waver from the page. “Strike the declaration as written. Substitute language indicating that I stand as her guardian and grant consent accordingly. Otherwise, I shall not sign.”
“But—”
“Mr. Darcy, sir.” The older gentleman’s voice was firm. “I am not protesting your desire to amend the documents. I do not see why my desire should not receive the same courtesy and respect.”
Darcy searched the older man’s face for some hint of jest. There was none. Instead, there was a tension wholly unlike the habitual indifference he had come to associate with Elizabeth’s father. A tightening around the eyes. A shadow he could not quite decipher.
“If that is your wish,” Darcy said carefully, “it shall be amended.”
Mr. Bennet nodded once, curtly.
Darcy did not press further. He had learned, over the past weeks, that Elizabeth’s family possessed layers he did not yet fully understand. Whatever lay beneath this particular request, it was not something Mr. Bennet intended to expose.
“I will send the papers back to London immediately,” Darcy said, “with both my changes and your own.”
Mr. Bennet exhaled, some measure of strain easing from his expression. “Very good.”
Darcy gathered the documents, sealing them once more for dispatch. As he did so, he made a quiet mental note to speak with Elizabeth. Not to complain against her father, but to better understand the situation.
After all, I cannot expect that Mr. Bennet’s relationship with his daughter, even his favorite one, would be akin to mine with my father as his male heir.
He went to join the ladies, finding them in the drawing room, as was their custom.
Elizabeth was engaged in conversation with Lady Anne and Georgiana regarding arrangements for Christmas greenery at Darcy House in London.
Elizabeth’s eyes shone as Lady Anne described holly garlands along the staircase and a tree in the great hall.
“It sounds perfectly lovely,” Elizabeth was saying.
Darcy paused in the doorway, momentarily content simply to observe her.
Lady Anne noticed him first. “Fitzwilliam,” she said warmly, “we are discussing how the house in town is about to be transformed.”
“Am I to be consulted?” he asked mildly.
Elizabeth turned at once, laughter dancing in her expression. “You may object… if you dare.”
Georgiana smiled shyly, shifting closer to Elizabeth as if already allied.
Darcy stepped into the circle, and whatever he had intended to say dissolved beneath the warmth of the moment.
He would speak to her later, he told himself.
There would be time.
The documents would soon be on their way back to London. The amendment would be made. Nothing urgent required immediate explanation.
And so, the question—small but unsettling—slipped quietly to the back of his mind.
∞∞∞
The fourteenth of December dawned gray and quiet over Longbourn. After a late night card party, Elizabeth was eager to take advantage of the laziness of the day before her last Sabbath as a single woman.
Only four more days left, and I shall be Mrs. Darcy.
Elizabeth allowed herself a small, private smile and sank deeper into the pillows, wiggling her toes in delight.
The winter light filtering through the curtains was pale and gentle, softening the familiar shapes of her room—the little writing desk beneath the window, the chair where Jane sometimes sat to brush her hair, the small shelf of books she had collected over the years.
She looked about her with sudden attentiveness.
How few mornings remained in this room.
Soon she would wake beneath another roof entirely, in a chamber overlooking the great lawns and woods of Pemberley. She would walk halls she had never known, as its mistress. Servants would look to her for direction. Guests would arrive beneath her roof.
The thought stirred something complicated within her chest.
A faint pang of sorrow—unexpected but not unwelcome.
Longbourn had been her whole world for nearly twenty-one years. Its quirks, its noise, its disorderly affections. Lydia’s laughter echoing through the corridors. Jane’s gentle voice in the mornings. Even Mary’s solemn lectures drifting from the pianoforte room.
All of it would remain here.
Elizabeth turned onto her side and pressed her cheek into the pillow.
But the sorrow did not linger.
It was swallowed quickly by something far stronger.
Anticipation.
She had never imagined that her life might unfold so—so generously.
To marry a man she loved was blessing enough.
Yet he was also a man her father respected, her mother admired, her sister cherished.
His family—Lady Anne with her quiet kindness, Georgiana with her shy sweetness—had welcomed her with warmth she had scarcely expected.
There would be music in Pemberley’s halls. There would be long walks beneath Derbyshire skies. There would be laughter—perhaps children’s laughter—echoing in a manner that she had only heard described to her.
She closed her eyes, the thought sending a pleasant warmth through her.
It was all so certain now.
Everything was perfect.
That afternoon Darcy would arrive with the final papers—the corrected settlements, now fully prepared for signatures.
And then there would be nothing left to hinder their union.
Elizabeth stretched slightly beneath the blankets, listening to the faint winter wind moving along the windows.
Soon the house would stir. Lydia would burst into the corridor. Mrs. Bennet would begin another round of anxious triumph over ribbons, gowns, and guest lists. The ordinary noise of Longbourn would reclaim the morning.
But for a few moments more she allowed herself the stillness.
Life stood poised upon the edge of something new—something vast and unknown—and yet, instead of fear, she felt only a deep, steady happiness.
Nothing in the world can possibly ruin this.