Chapter Seventeen
Upon entering the drawing room with his daughter, Mr. Bennet studied Mr. Darcy. He had high hopes that he would like the young man. However, as Elizabeth clearly was in fact in love once more, it was necessary to make his own judgement of the gentleman.
At least Mr. Darcy had killed Mr. Wickham, and that, despite a generalized distaste for duels, inclined Mr. Bennet even further in his favor.
Mr. Darcy immediately looked towards Elizabeth upon their entry. He let out a relieved sigh on seeing Elizabeth give him a reassuring smile.
George—what a delightful, perfect little fellow—immediately ran to his mother, and started talking about Mr. Darcy, Georgie, and asking if he could go out to the park.
That young boy really was quite perfect.
Certainly, he had some of Wickham’s look about him, of course.
But while Mr. Bennet had no intention of abandoning his long-established dislike of the man who’d stolen his daughter and then abandoned her merely on account of him being dead, George was chiefly Elizabeth’s in his mind.
The boy’s face in fact reminded Mr. Bennet a great deal of the face he saw every time he looked in the mirror.
While George was being promised that he’d be able to go to the park, just in a minute, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bennet looked at each other.
That young gentleman met Mr. Bennet’s gaze with a steady confidence.
Good.
Also, Mr. Bennet liked that the young man had looked towards Elizabeth immediately, and that they seemed to communicate easily without words.
Mr. Bennet sincerely hoped this trial of the married state would go better for Elizabeth than the first had.
As soon as George gave her a chance to speak, Elizabeth said to Mr. Darcy, “Papa wishes speak to you in private before he gives his blessing.”
Mr. Bennet raised one finger. “No, no. Tell Mr. Darcy the actual state of the situation; I wish to speak to him to decide if I shall give my blessing.”
“It shall come to the same thing,” Elizabeth laughingly replied.
Elizabeth still laughed easily.
Mr. Bennet was glad for it. His dear girl had changed greatly.
With Jane he had been there for the whole process, and even so it still often shocked him to see her as the beautiful young, kind, and elegant woman she had become.
But to see Elizabeth as this determined, confident, and beautiful young lady when in his memory she was still a coltish, enthused, and awkward girl—one day, probably the day before yesterday, she had been a tiny creature running about his yard and sitting on his lap to beg him to explain what the weird books with the funny letters said.
And then yesterday she was gone.
But now, she was here, and she was no longer a child. Not in any way. She was a woman full grown.
There were lines to her face. She had confidence. And when she lacked confidence, it was the uncertainty of an adult. Mr. Bennet had hoped to tell her that she did not need to solve her problems alone. Her father would help her.
And he would.
But she was the one who must be responsible for her own life.
Mr. Darcy stood up shakily. “To the dining room then.”
Elizabeth hurried to Mr. Darcy’s side and took his arm. “Let me help you.”
There was a flash of a frown across Mr. Darcy’s face, then he looked down at Elizabeth’s concerned face, sighed and smiled at her with some warmth.
Miss Darcy came to Mr. Darcy’s other side, but he refused his sister’s additional aid, saying, “I must exercise a little.”
They walked out of the room, with Mr. Bennet trailing, and then across the hall to a dining room with a large table and stiff wooden chairs around it.
Mr. Darcy sank into one of the dining chairs. His legs shook as he lowered himself. He started rubbing at his chest.
Elizabeth immediately grabbed his hand and pulled it away. “No.”
And Mr. Darcy grinned at her and with a smile like a child’s and theatrically put his hand under his leg.
Jove and deuce.
Mr. Bennet felt a piercing sensation. He was about to lose Elizabeth once again, forever. Part of him had always believed she would one day need to return to him when she went away with Wickham. And he’d been almost right.
They liked each other.
And their connection was not like the stupidity of Mr. Wickham’s flamboyant charm.
Elizabeth frowned at the way Mr. Darcy sat in the chair.
“This will not do at all. Not for any duration of conversation.” She went to the bell pull and when the particularly young maid who’d conducted him to the drawing room appeared a minute later, Elizabeth said, “Sally, have the footmen bring one of the divans and a footrest across from the drawing room for Mr. Darcy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The young girl looked inquisitively at Mr. Bennet, clearly curious about the father of Mrs. Wickham.
“Now, now,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “Off with you.”
Upon the girl disappearing, Elizabeth said to them, “She’s still quite young. She does not yet know how to watch us while making a pretense of having a total disinterest in the doings of Quality, but I like her. I think we shall keep her when we leave—Darcy, you do not mind?”
Mr. Darcy had been studying Mr. Bennet, while supporting himself with his arms on the table, rather than relying on the muscles in his stomach and back. He glanced towards Elizabeth, “Oh, Sally? What would you mean for her to do? I do not think she has enough experience yet for a lady’s maid.”
“No, not that. I think I would make her a nurse for the children. She has more than half served as one the past weeks. And she likes to be useful, at least when she knows how. And she can learn. That is the chief point. And I’ve talked with her enough to know that she would be happy to go elsewhere as an adventure. I will, though, teach her to read.”
Darcy nodded. “If one takes on a servant as a project, it is unkind to abandon them later. But you know that.”
Elizabeth laughed and smiled at him. “Thank you for both your sage advice, and your awareness that it is not necessary.”
The footmen bustled in, moving the table slightly aside to make room for the sofa.
With help from Elizabeth to stand up, Mr. Darcy sat on the sofa and reclined in a way that he clearly found easier to manage. Mr. Bennet sat in one of the dining chairs.
After she smiled at them both, Elizabeth left the room.
Now it would be his chance to see what Mr. Darcy was made of.
The two gentlemen studied each other for half a minute before Mr. Darcy said, “Elizabeth has thought a great deal of you. I am glad that you came.”
“Even though it was to insist that she not marry for material considerations?”
“I wish to see her happy.”
Mr. Bennet felt that pain again. He was going to lose her again.
When he had not said anything else in response to that, Mr. Darcy asked, “What do you wish to know about me? Do you wish to have any confirmation about my estate and family connections? Or some additional knowledge about my character?”
“Elizabeth has said a great deal in praise of your character,” Mr. Bennet replied smiling.
“All of it praise. And though, in general, I disapprove of duels, I cannot condemn you on that basis. I dare say that I would have fought a duel under such circumstances as you did and I cannot help but be pleased by the outcome.”
“Elizabeth has told me of how her feelings are often torn about the matter. But I have a duty to only feel the ill effects. One does not gain the right to kill a man merely because his death will be useful to others. Even if the consequences are good, the act was wrong. It will always be a stain on my soul.”
“And what does that mean to you—that it shall be a stain on your soul. Those are pretty words, but just words. Action speaks louder.”
“Yes. A man should be judged by how he behaves, not what he says,” Darcy agreed.
“I do not know what I can do—I have, at your daughter's advice, donated a great additional sum to several orphanages. But that is—I cannot buy absolution. I can only live better, kinder, and in a way that does more to make others happier. And I must never again do such a thing—yet, were something of that nature to happen again…”
“With your daughter perhaps?”
“I do not know. I do not even know what I hope that I would do.”
Mr. Bennet nodded. “To not be certain about yourself is far more praiseworthy than to be confident, yet wrong.”
“That is my view of the matter.”
“Mr. Darcy, I am confident that you have more than enough wealth that my daughter, and her children would wish for nothing. That is not a concern. What I wish to know is this: Why do you want to marry Elizabeth?”
“It is my duty.”
Mr. Bennet frowned. “That is not—Will you be kind to her? Do you like her? What do you imagine married life will be over the years—this is a permanent decision. It is not a gift. It is an act of choosing to live together. It is irreversible and permanent. A man should not enter marriage without solemn consideration. You should only marry if you want to live with your partner, if you wish to spend time with them, if you wish to talk with them, and if you think that you will still find them delightful once the delight in their loveliness has faded.”
“I do not mean to marry her because of how lovely she is.”
“Duty is not a basis for a happy and satisfying marriage.”
“I cannot. I cannot watch Elizabeth as she struggles and let her walk into a difficult world alone. I have observed how she makes herself smile and laugh, but she worries about the future—I cannot. I cannot leave her to be on her own. She deserves a better life.”
Jove. They both talked about each other like lovers might, and they both refused to say that affection as such was what drove them.
A proper couple. Mr. Bennet pressed his fingers together.
“I must ask, while my pride forbids me from asking for money on my child’s behalf, the question is obvious: Why not just give her money? ”
“I cannot buy forgiveness for my crimes.”