Chapter 44
A Woman Grown
Turning from the subject of Darcy for the moment, Bennet asked, “Elizabeth, how shall we comport ourselves now that you are a woman grown?”
The conversation had shifted beneath her feet before she was aware of it, and she doubted she liked the new direction. However, she would not back down. “What do you mean?”
He fetched a bottle of claret and two glasses, then poured for both.
He tipped his glass towards her; she followed suit. They clinked glasses, said, “Salut,” and took small sips. It was not Elizabeth’s first taste of claret, but it was the first time her father shared liquor with her as if she were an adult.
“Let us start with the obvious. You have single-handedly upended the life of the Bennet family since that ball at Netherfield. Almost nothing is the same as it was.”
“You overly generalise by saying I have done so.”
“All right, Miss Logic and Reason. Tell me one significant change that you have had no hand in, and I shall concede your point.”
Elizabeth snapped, “You are as bad as Mr Darcy. He made a similar demand, though on a different question.”
“I see… I see… And so, you have conversations with the gentleman at that level of discourse, yet you are still—what did you call it? Ah, yes… friends.”
“Yes, Father. We are friends, and I am no more inclined to predict any potential future state than I was earlier.”
Bennet leaned forward. “So let me show myself to be as occasionally implacable as your Mr Darcy. Can you give me any evidence that contradicts my emerging theory that you are now more the head of this family than I am—at least vis-à-vis measurable effect?”
Elizabeth fumed, and at last admitted, “I cannot.”
“Thank you for acknowledging that I have some understanding. Let me continue to expound on that point. You, your sisters, and your new brother all hold the opinion that your mother and I have made a poor business of raising you—correct?”
Elizabeth fought the desire either to lash out or collapse, but she rallied, dipped her head, and considered the question.
“You are correct that the opinion is widespread, though not universal. I can see Jane’s point, I can see the… ah… well, our family’s obvious defects, but I am—”
Forced to speak before she was fully prepared, she bought time with another sip of claret.
Her father broke the silence. “Not universal, but near enough. Let me ask you this, but first may I preface it with the disclaimer that I may well be one of those who agree with the sentiment, if I were to look at it objectively.”
“Agree! What can you possibly mean?”
“Keep in mind the qualifier. I said I might agree. That is not the same as a firm declaration, simply an admission of flexibility in the matter.”
“How likely?”
“Ah, you and your mathematics. I cannot say with any precision. Let us discuss it rationally. No need to put the cart before the horse, or the conclusion before the discussion.”
“All right, I will accept your qualification if you accept the caveat that I am the most likely holdout. I am not convinced I share the nearly universal disapproval. I believe it is more complicated. I also suspect Lydia and Kitty will come around sooner or later, since they have enjoyed a tremendously easy childhood, but are now being taken in hand.”
“I thank you for that, though I may have to sway you to my way of thinking. Is your opinion immutable?”
“I try not to cast my opinions in stone. Even casting them in ice gets me in trouble 9 times out of 10—or even pudding.”
“Let us try a thought experiment. I believe you have done quite a lot of that lately.”
Elizabeth frowned.
“Do not fear. I have not encountered anybody with a loose tongue. I simply surmised as much, and you confirmed it with your expression. May I presume there is no need for me to go tediously through the logic when you will figure it out for yourself anyway?”
“No.”
“Let us suppose you had children. Assume nearly infinite wealth, which might not be so far-fetched as one might surmise.”
“Either discuss or tease. Make up your mind.”
“My apologies. Where were we? Let us suppose you were preternaturally afraid for your children’s safety, so you decided not to expose them to any danger.
You have two nursemaids for each, one governess per child, and a footman standing guard every minute of the day.
Girls are not allowed to jump, skip, swim, climb trees, or anything else remotely amusing or dangerous.
Boys cannot ride, shoot, swim, skate, or go out in boats.
None are allowed out of the house if it is snowing, raining, or likely to do so within the fortnight. What would you end up with?”
Elizabeth shook her head in confusion. “I presume you would raise the most timid and worthless children that ever lived. None of them would know how to do anything, and the first cold that came through the house would carry them off. Should they manage to survive, they would have no—”
She stopped in the middle, guessing where the discussion was going, and took up the tale herself, continuing where her father left off. “No resiliency. No character. No real strength. To be honest, you have something close to a real example of that right here in Longbourn.”
Bennet frowned, and she explained, “Anne was sickly for years and she never escaped Rosings until a fortnight ago. She has no accomplishments except a knowledge of literature that will put you to shame.”
“Aha! That makes some sense. Carry on, since you know where I am going better than I do.”
She grumbled but complied. “Suppose we took the opposite tack. All children had to sleep with a thin blanket in the stables, or with the pigs if they were naughty or the moon was new. They are fed only gruel unless they can win some contest of prodigious strength. Their parents never lift a finger except to mete out punishment. Any troubles they get into with villagers or schoolmates are theirs to solve. They spend all day, every day, in gruelling training for a life of toil and hardship.”
“I may be wrong, but you probably described your brother Collins’ upbringing, or near enough to it. His father was an illiterate savage.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, but Bennet said, “Woman grown. You are not going to get all missish on me, are you?”
“I suppose not. Shall we continue?”
“In that case, you would have either a completely broken person, or someone as tough as nails who could withstand anything. If their spirit was not completely broken, they could stand up to anyone and everyone. No problem would be too large for them to tackle. Any opponent would either come to heel or be smote.”
“I suspect, mathematically, you would get some reasonable distribution between dead or broken children and indestructible warriors.”
“Exactly. I will leave it as an exercise for the student to find an example closer than poor William. He endured a difficult upbringing with an unreasonable and ignorant father. Suppose the same idea were applied, but with a father who needed his son to be strong enough to carry the weight of centuries past and yet to come? No sleeping in the stables or among the pigs, but a long childhood of lessons and duty.”
“You would have a man who would not find the daughter of a country squire handsome enough to tempt him.”
“Exactly!”
Elizabeth finished her claret; he reached for the brandy.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened, but her father said, “Come, come, Elizabeth. If I am to be Father, then you are to be Elizabeth, and you will drink brandy with me.”
“Why do I feel you are trying to get me in my cups for some nefarious purpose?”
“Perhaps I am, but that is neither here nor there. Let us make a scale between those extremes. Where would you put my parenting style? Let us disregard how well or poorly I performed my duty to my family vis-à-vis dowries and the like. Let us speak about the rest.”
Elizabeth took a sip of brandy and grimaced.
“If we made a scale from, say 0-100, I would say Anne would be 20-30. Poor William probably hit 70-80, Mr Darcy probably 70, the Lucases perhaps 50, and you would be in the range of 60-70. You were harsh with Jane and me, yet not cruel about it. You grew lazy with the younger girls, but I suppose you could argue that training Jane and I to act in your stead constituted success. Your indolence forced us grow up as quickly as we could, though she obviously had the advantage. Jane has been doing 2/3 of Mama’s duties since she was 10, and I joined when I left my heathen savage period, and Mary slightly later.
We are all fairly resilient, so I suppose the result speaks for itself. ”
“Well done, Elizabeth. It is entirely too bad women cannot stand for Parliament. You can rationalise with the best, and I doubt very much that anybody enters one of your awkward conversations and emerges on the other side anywhere except where you put them. You are too generous with me, but I will chalk that up to your nature.”
“So, what conclusion does that leave us with, Papa?”
Bennet laughed heartily. “Too late, Elizabeth. You cannot stuff the chick back in the egg. Let me set your mind at rest. If you will give me leave to hold my own opinion in my own head, then I assert that your mother and I are, in fact, bad parents. Chance alone allowed all you children to come out reasonably well, but it could just as easily have gone wrong. Suppose Lydia had not discovered, by pure luck, that Wickham was a scoundrel. I taught her so poorly that she might well have ruined the family while I sat here smoking my pipe. She and Kitty were certainly headed in that direction.”
He sighed resignedly. “In the end, I suspect Mrs Gardiner and Miss Lucas are more responsible for the current robust state of our family than I am. That is indisputable.”
“I prefer to think better of you. I cannot rationally say whether that is a logical assessment or my need to put away childish things. I suspect every adult can find a hundred things to complain about in their upbringing, but if you do not put those grievances aside, you spend the rest of your life looking backward instead of forward.”
“Elizabeth, you are wiser than I am, and far more generous. I will make you one promise, though. I will do my best to guide my other two daughters.”
“Very well, but need I remind you there are 4 unwed daughters?”
“3 at the most, and God help any father who thinks he will navigate Elizabeth Bennet’s course in life.”