Chapter Seventeen #2
“You also cannot gain forgiveness through marriage. You cannot undo Mr. Wickham’s killing, not through any means.”
“No, no, no. That is not it. That is—yes, simply giving her money would feel wrong for that reason. It must be more, have more substance. But that is not—I need to know she is happy. To see her well. And George and Emily as well. I can care for them. I know that she might marry someone else. She would. But…but I think, I hope…I have many capabilities. I have virtues to go with my flaws. I have seen her inner character. Her fundamental goodness. How she has cared for me, when she had every reason to despise me. And the children, I have sworn to be their father in truth. I cannot trust anyone else with this task. And I have a duty to see it done well.”
“A duty because you killed Mr. Wickham? It is not an ordinary thing to marry the widow of a man you killed in a duel.”
“A duty because I promised my father that I would care for Mr. Wickham.”
“It is impossible to fulfil that promise.”
“The promise passes to his children and his wife, and I can care for them.”
“I—” Mr. Bennet sighed. He rubbed at his chin. “Do you love her?”
Darcy blinked.
The younger gentleman became completely still for a while. He had a frown on his face. Mr. Bennet let him think. He would speak when he was ready.
At last Mr. Darcy said in a different tone of voice, “It is duty. Duty. I have a duty to marry her.”
“That is not what I asked,” Mr. Bennet said softly. “I asked if you love my daughter.”
“I…I do not know. I admire her greatly. But…I couldn’t marry her for that reason. I can only marry her because I killed her husband, and I now have a duty to care for her that is superior to my duty to my family name.”
Mr. Bennet was torn between a desire to sigh, to laugh, and to offer the young man a glass of his own alcohol. “Your family duty matters a great deal to you—might you one day resent my daughter for not being the sort of match you had expected?”
“Of course not, it is my duty to marry her.”
“You may not be aware of this, but there are many persons who come to resent having done a thing that was their duty. You, of course, would never regret such a thing, so I inform you of the existence of such people to explain why I made that inquiry, despite it seeming to be obvious nonsense.”
“You are like her,” Mr. Darcy replied in a tone that was fond.
Mr. Bennet laughed. “Am I?”
“Yes, exceedingly. I can see much of her mannerisms that I love…admire…think well of in you.”
Mr. Darcy frowned again.
It was yet more difficult for Mr. Bennet to not laugh.
“I see you smiling at me,” Darcy said. “And it is much as she would smile at me. I suppose—I think highly of your daughter. More highly than I have thought of any other woman I know. But that is not why…If I did not have a duty to marry her, I could not. My preferences do not come into it.”
“Jove! Quite a pair. The both of you.” Mr. Bennet leaned back and he studied the chandelier. “This is quite a big place for a summer lodging for only your sister.”
“Yes, I suppose.” He frowned. “I let Mrs. Younge select the place, and she thought the prominence of it was important, and that it would benefit Georgiana to manage such an establishment. Likely trusting her in this showed as much ill judgement as trusting her in every other thing.”
“Miss Darcy’s governess?”
“Companion. We had taken her out of school. She had hated it. And had no friends. I had not known it was so bad until she confessed that to Elizabeth while I was waking from sleep—we made a pretense of saying that her education was complete. And I suppose she has no additional need for languages or painting.”
“Poor girl. Elizabeth likes her very much.”
“Oh, yes. Your daughter has been a perfect friend to her. It is something—she understands in a way I never could how Georgiana feels at present, and she has been unceasing in her kindness and compassion toward my sister—at a time when many would, and do, despise her. She has been a picture of true Christian charity.” At saying that Darcy paused and frowned at Mr. Bennet.
“Though she has told me that you did not teach her to care for the rites of the church.”
Mr. Bennet shrugged. “I made her attend service every week. What I also did was allow her to read as she would, and to develop her opinions as she would—Mr. Darcy, are you happy that your duty orders you to marry my daughter?”
“Yes.” The young man answered instantly. And then he smiled. “Without any doubt.”
“Well then. Well then.” Mr. Bennet sighed. “I confess—I’d hoped. I’d so hoped that she would come to live with me again. And bring the children as well.”
Mr. Darcy nodded. His eyes showed that he understood.
“It is a hard thing. I hope it shall be hard for you when the day comes. For Emily as well as any other children you have. Giving a daughter away, letting her go. Even when you think she has made a good choice, it is a hard thing.”
“I know,” Darcy replied. “But—I hope, I truly hope—what is it that they say. Think of it not as losing a daughter, but as gaining a son?”
Mr. Bennet laughed. “I do not know if my blessing has any meaning, but you have my wishes for happiness in marriage, and my belief that the two of you are far more likely to find it than she ever could have with Mr. Wickham. The two of you are likely to find more happiness than I have in my own marriage. But promise me one thing.”
“What do you ask?”
“Always remember this answer you made right now, at the start of your partnership in life. That you were happy it was to be her.”
“I shall.”