Chapter 12 #2
“Pemberley,” Miss Bennet said, which was not an answer to the question but sounded like one.
The taller woman opened her mouth, but the shorter one, round-faced and relentlessly cheerful, spoke over her. “I have heard it is magnificent,” she said, addressing Darcy directly. “Is it very grand? Are there peacocks?”
“There are no peacocks,” Darcy answered.
“My cousin visited an estate in Shropshire with peacocks,” she continued, undeterred. “She said they were a great nuisance but very decorative. You should acquire some.”
Miss Bennet half-turned to him with an expression of perfect innocence. He looked back at her. Do not, he tried to convey with his eyes.
Her eyes brightened, and for perhaps the first time in his adult life, he found himself entirely without authority.
“Mr. Darcy has been considering it,” she said, leaning forward as though it were a very great secret.
The sharp-eyed woman, not to be outdone, stepped forward. “Never mind your peacocks,” she said to the first woman. “You two are to be married?”
“We are,” Darcy replied.
“And very soon, I hear.” There was no question, only a smug smile.
Miss Bennet smiled back with equal serenity. “Oh, it is not so sudden as it appears. Mr. Darcy was good enough to wait until I had recovered my health before pressing the matter.” She glanced at him with an expression of warm reproach. “Though now I think his patience has finally been exhausted.”
Truer words she could not have spoken.
The shorter one said, “Perhaps you might have peacocks at the wedding. Would that not be wonderful?”
Peacocks wandered onto terraces, peered into windows, and perched where they pleased. They were also given to incessant screaming and excessive moulting. A peacock at a wedding would be remembered, though this was hardly an argument in its favour.
“It has been such a pleasure,” Miss Bennet said, already moving. “Do enjoy the rest of your Sunday.”
He offered her his arm. After a moment he said, “I have been considering peacocks, have I?”
“I would rather promise her peacocks than discuss sea baths.”
“I am not certain peacocks are preferable.”
“They are.” She glanced up at him with a playful smile. “You are welcome.”
They were detained several times on their journey to the gate. When the last of the congregation had been satisfied and they had at last begun the walk back to her lodgings, he said, “You are very good at that.”
“At shepherding conversations?” She pulled her shawl closer against the sea wind. “When you meet my family, you will understand. Tact and redirection are survival skills in the Bennet household.”
“Your cough has not troubled you today,” he said. “Even when you sang.”
“I am very nearly recovered. We walked the full promenade on Friday without rest.” A pause. “You need not worry.”
“I am to be your husband,” he said carefully, “therefore your health has become a matter of some concern to me.”
She looked at him but did not speak, and then they were at her lodgings. Mrs. Morgan entered before them, and they said their farewells.
Mr. Bennet’s letter had said he would arrive on Monday, and the summons came at half past two. A brief note in Miss Bennet’s hand said only, My father would like to meet you.
Miss Bennet met him as he entered the house. She seemed calm at first glance, but her fingers were laced together before her, the pads of her thumbs pressed white against each other.
“My father wishes to speak with you alone,” she said.
“I expected as much.”
“He will be dry and possibly unkind. It is his way when he is upset. He will make observations that sound like jests but are in fact interrogations. If he quotes Shakespeare, you are in serious trouble.”
“I shall be alert for Shakespeare.”
She nodded. “Do not attempt to charm him, Mr. Darcy. He will see through it instantly.”
“That is unlikely to be a problem.”
She must truly have been anxious, for she did not even smile. “Do not apologise more than once. He respects a man who states his fault and then moves forward. Excessive contrition will make him suspicious.”
“What should I do, then?”
“Be honest. Be direct.” She lifted her brows. “And if he asks whether you care for me, do not say ‘She is stimulating.’”
He deserved that.
Mr. Bennet was seated in the parlour when Darcy entered. Without Miss Bennet and Mrs. Morgan, the room felt very empty and somehow also very small.
“Mr. Darcy.” Mr. Bennet did not rise. He was younger than Darcy had expected, and slight of build, with dark hair the same shade as his daughter’s but gone grey at the temples. His face was lean and clever, the sort of face that indicated he missed very little.
He remained in the straight-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, and regarded Darcy over the top of his spectacles like a man reading a book he had not yet decided was worth finishing. “Do sit down.”
Darcy sat.
“My daughter has given me an account of recent events,” Mr. Bennet began. “She has been admirably thorough, which is her nature, and admirably restrained, which tells me the truth is worse than what she has shared.”
Darcy opened his mouth, but Mr. Bennet held up a hand.
“I did not come to Ramsgate to hear your defence, Mr. Darcy. I came to determine whether my daughter will be safe in your keeping. Those are different objectives, and I should like to pursue the latter without being distracted by the former.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Then let us be efficient.” Mr. Bennet uncrossed his legs and leaned forward slightly.
“Elizabeth wrote that circumstances made a proposal necessary. Your letter told me the same in fewer words. Neither of you told me what those circumstances were, which means either that they are too delicate for paper or you are both attempting to assuage me.”
“The circumstances are indeed too delicate for a letter, sir. I am prepared to tell you everything, but some of what I must share involves someone whose privacy I am bound to protect.”
Mr. Bennet studied him. “Miss Darcy.”
Darcy stilled.
“My daughter speaks of Miss Darcy with considerable warmth and a particular tenderness she reserves for a person who has recently been in some distress.” He paused. “I am an indolent man, I admit, but I am not a stupid one. What happened to your sister?”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “She was lately imposed upon by a former friend of my family, but more than that is not my story to share.”
“And yet it is the story that explains why my daughter is marrying a stranger.”
“It is adjacent to that story. It is not the same.”
Mr. Bennet regarded him for a long moment, then removed his spectacles and polished them slowly.
“Mr. Darcy. I have travelled a hundred miles in great haste to give my consent to a marriage I do not understand. You may protect your sister’s dignity, or you may earn my trust, but I am not certain you can do both. ”
Darcy drew a breath. He knew what Fitz would say. He also knew his duty to Miss Bennet. “What I tell you must remain in this room.”
“I am many things, Mr. Darcy, but I am no gossip.”
Darcy told him the story, offering as few details as possible.
Mr. Bennet listened without interruption. His expression did not change. When Darcy finished, the silence stretched for what felt like a very long time.
“So,” Mr. Bennet said at last. “My daughter saved your sister from ruin. And in return, this man ruined Elizabeth.”
“Inadvertently. I was his target. But yes, sir.”
“And you proposed because honour demanded it.”
“I proposed because it was the right thing to do.”
“They are the same thing, Mr. Darcy.”
“With respect, Mr. Bennet, they are not.” He had not planned to say this, but it came out with a conviction that surprised him.
“Honour would have permitted me to offer a settlement. Enough to give Miss Bennet independence, to protect her family from the worst of the scandal. That is the least honour required. But it would not be right.”
He stopped. He could feel the edge of something he was not ready to examine, and Mr. Bennet was watching him with an expression of acute attention.
“Because?” Mr. Bennet prompted.
“Because this was my fault, not hers. Because Miss Bennet deserves better than to be paid off and sent away.”
The tension in the room eased into something less adversarial. Mr. Bennet heaved a great sigh.
“I will not pretend to be pleased,” Mr. Bennet continued.
“A father’s ambition for his favourite daughter does not include a rushed marriage to a stranger, however wealthy that stranger may be.
But Elizabeth has accepted you, and I have learned, over the course of twenty years, that arguing with her is rather like arguing with the weather.
One may express one’s objections, but the rain falls regardless. ”
“She is . . . determined.”
“She is the most stubborn creature in three counties, Mr. Darcy. More stubborn than her mother, which is saying something, and considerably more intelligent. If she has decided to make this work, she will. The question is whether you are equal to the task.”
“I intend to be.”
“Intending is easy. Following through when she is angry with you, when she is frightened and will not admit it, when she falls silent and you do not know why—that is the difficult part.”
Mr. Bennet removed his spectacles and fiddled with them. “I have not always been equal to it myself, particularly of late. That is my chief regret.”
Darcy did not know how to respond to this admission, so he said nothing.
“Now.” Mr. Bennet replaced his spectacles. “Tell me something about my daughter that you admire.”
There were many things . . . Darcy’s mind went blank. “She has a quality of . . .” He faltered. “That is to say, her mind is . . .” He could feel his face warming. “Miss Bennet possesses . . .”
Mr. Bennet watched this display like a man observing a carriage accident he was powerless to prevent.
“She is,” Darcy tried once more, with the desperation of a drowning man reaching for anything solid, “not easily described.”