Chapter 26 Harsh Realisations
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
HARSH REALISATIONS
Mr Bennet greeted the gentlemen with civility but turned a sharp eye on Bingley.
The young man had been at Longbourn several days in succession, and Mr Bennet supposed it was time to ask him about his intentions towards his eldest daughter.
His wife had long spoken as though an engagement were a certainty, but given that the gentleman had vanished from the neighbourhood for more than a fortnight with barely a word to any of his acquaintances, Mr Bennet thought it prudent to determine whether Bingley’s return marked a change of resolution—or merely another instance of amiable inconsistency.
If the young man truly intended to remain, then he must either speak plainly or cease paying attentions he had no wish to fulfil.
It struck Mr Bennet as rather absurd that Mr Darcy—whose first appearance in the neighbourhood had been marked by hauteur, arrogance, and an almost comic inability to please—had managed to win his Elizabeth and was now on the verge of marriage while Bingley, whose amiability was as effortless as breathing, had yet to declare himself to Jane.
Such reflections convinced Mr Bennet that there was indeed some justice in the world, even if it often chose the most ironic of disguises.
Before Mr Darcy’s recent visit to his study, he would never have considered speaking so directly to a young man—or asking him outright about his intentions towards one of his daughters.
Such matters had always seemed best left to unfold—or unravel—on their own.
Yet observing Mr Darcy’s rather disciplined sense of responsibility, particularly after reviewing the marriage settlement the man had left with him two days earlier upon his return from London, Mr Bennet found himself uncomfortably aware of how indolent he had become.
Worse still had been the preceding ten days when his only companions were his wife and two youngest daughters.
He had long jested that they were the silliest females in all England, but several days without the company of his elder girls had convinced him that the jest contained more truth than exaggeration.
At breakfast one morning, Lydia was lamenting that the militia had been prohibited from paying calls at Longbourn and that her father’s new restrictions forbade her from going into Meryton.
Kitty echoed her distress, declaring that it was most unkind to deprive them of any amusement when there was already so little to be had in the country.
“How are we to endure such dullness, Papa?” Lydia cried, stabbing at her eggs. “There is nothing to do, no one to see, and you will not even let us walk into town to call on Aunt Philips!”
“Indeed,” added Kitty, with a dramatic sigh, “you cannot expect us to stay here day after day, redoing the same bonnets and hearing nothing of fashion or news, particularly when we are prohibited from speaking to any of the officers. We shall become quite melancholy without any company.”
Mrs Bennet, with all the gravity of a woman beset by calamity, declared, “It is cruel, Mr Bennet! You cannot mean to confine them so. They will forget how to behave in company! How shall they ever find husbands if they do not meet with the officers?”
“Kitty and Lydia, I should think,” he replied drily, setting down his cup, “that a few days of quiet reflection may do much to improve your manners—if not your tempers. As for Meryton, I am persuaded the town will somehow survive the loss of your daily visits.” He levelled a glower at his youngest girls as he spoke, but before more could be said, he added, glaring at his wife.
“Besides, Mrs Bennet, our daughters cannot afford to be the wives of soldiers, even an officer, whose expectations are less generous than the amount of your own annual pin money.”
His remark was met with twin protests from his daughters and a reproachful glare from his wife. Ignoring them all, he chose instead to retreat into his library, convinced that solitude was infinitely preferable to listening to their inane conversation.
Still, the matter nagged at him. If his household had become a sanctuary for folly, the fault lay at least partly with him.
Something must be done to improve them—though he was not yet certain what.
Perhaps his soon-to-be son might have some ideas on the subject; Mr Darcy, after all, seemed to take improvement as naturally as breathing.
Determined, therefore, to do better by his daughters—or at least to appear as if he meant to—Mr Bennet sat back and observed how the temporary master of Netherfield attended to Jane.
There was no doubting Bingley’s admiration, nor any mistaking Jane’s gentle, if somewhat uncertain, regard in return.
He fancied he saw a trace of hesitation in her eyes, and decided that a father might reasonably wish for some assurance before the household’s peace was entirely thrown into confusion—particularly when he caught the speculative gleam in his wife’s eye as she likewise watched the pair.
At length, having seen enough, he spoke. “Mr Bingley,” he began, his tone deceptively mild, “I would ask you to join me in my study. You have been in our neighbourhood for several months now, and I believe we are overdue for a conversation—are we not?”
The effect was immediate and, to Mr Bennet’s private amusement, entirely predictable.
Poor Bingley coloured to the roots of his hair, stammered something indistinct, and cast an imploring glance towards Jane, who blushed in sympathetic confusion.
Mr Darcy, of course, remained impassive, displaying the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth as he glanced towards Elizabeth.
Elizabeth, after exchanging a knowing look and a faint smirk with her intended, caught her father’s eye across the room.
She gave the slightest roll of her eyes, her lips curving in suppressed amusement.
The look was brief but eloquent—a silent acknowledgement that she, too, found the scene entirely in keeping with his mischievous humour.
Yet beneath her amusement lingered a quiet warmth, almost pride, as though she were pleased to see him at last taking an interest in his family and acting as a responsible father ought to do.
Mr Bennet hid a smirk behind his hand. The contrast between the two gentlemen could not have been sharper: Darcy, all gravity and deliberation; Bingley, good-natured enthusiasm wrapped in perpetual uncertainty.
Still, he supposed, the world required both kinds of people.
If his Jane were to have a husband, one who looked at her as though the sun rose and set by her favour was perhaps not the worst she could choose.
Still, there were questions he needed to ask, and since he had only heard snippets of what had led to the gentleman’s long absence, he decided it was time he discovered what the young man was about.
They were seated in his study a few minutes later, each with a glass in hand. Mr Bennet said nothing, curious to see how long the young man would fidget before he found his courage. It did not take long.
“Mr Bennet,” Bingley began, his voice perilously near a squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Mr Bennet, I have asked to call on your daughter.”
Mr Bennet merely inclined his head, offering no reply. Experience had taught him that a nervous man spoke far more freely when left to fill the silence himself.
“I… I know I have not always been the most constant man,” Bingley continued in a rush, “and I have flirted with quite a few ladies in London—most of whom ceased to interest me after a fortnight—but Miss Bennet is not only lovely, she is truly kind. She has held my regard since I met her in October, and I would have already sought a courtship if not for my sister.”
“Yes,” Mr Bennet said, his tone as mild as ever, “let us speak of your sister. I have heard nearly as many accounts of her as I have of you. My Jane once described her as a good friend, even though nothing has been said of late. I suppose that could be attributed to her departing Netherfield. Still, my younger daughters admired her fashion, even if they found her manner less than welcoming and said she looked at them with disapproval. Not that I would judge anyone for doing so, for I have learnt their behaviour is lacking. And Lizzy—well, she has said the least of all, which I have learnt is seldom a sign of approval. The general impression, I believe, is that your sister’s manners are… rather haughty and supercilious.”
Mr Bennet watched with quiet amusement as the young man’s complexion deepened to an alarming blotchy shade of red. It was plain that courage was not Mr Bingley’s strongest suit—though, to his credit, he was at least making the attempt.
“My sister harboured… certain designs upon my friend,” Bingley said at last, speaking slowly while arranging his thoughts into some semblance of order.
“I knew of them, as did Darcy, and he assured me more than once that nothing would induce him to marry her, regardless of what she might attempt.” He paused, gathering himself before continuing.
“When your daughters were at Netherfield, Caroline grew quite put out by the attention Darcy paid to your second daughter. Even before he understood it himself, Caroline recognised his interest—and while he resisted the attachment at first, something must have occurred then that caused both Mr Darcy and Miss Elizabeth to reconsider their first impressions of each other.”
He chuckled lightly, then added, “I believe your daughter had to overcome her initial impression of him, while my friend was required to summon the courage to defy his family’s expectations.”