Chapter 32 #2
Our family suffered much when you went away.
I tried even less following your departure, and we spent every bit of the income from Longbourn selfishly.
Because I would not stand up to my wife on the issue of you, I found myself giving in to my wife’s demands over and over again.
Now that I am dying, I realise far more of what I have done.
Longbourn is in worse shape now than it was when I inherited it.
I think my young cousin Collins is a good man though perhaps not well versed in estate management, but I think he will be a more diligent master than I have been.
He will do a better job than me, that is for certain, but mostly because few could do worse.
In the months following your return, I managed to set aside small amounts of the estate income.
I had intended it to serve as a dowry for my daughters eventually, but with this illness, I believe that it is insufficient to aid as it should.
I should have been taking these steps all their lives, yours included, to ensure they would be protected at the end of my life.
However, it seems as with most things in my life, I have waited too long.
There is nothing for it now, for it seems that I will shuffle off this mortal coil much sooner than I would have liked.
I truly believed my wife would have gone first, with all her nervous flutterings and complaints, but it seems that it will be me.
At least the heir appears to be a good man so perhaps my wife and daughters will be cared for, despite my lack of effort in that direction.
It is hardly adequate for an old man now on his deathbed to offer an apology.
I feel certain it cannot make up for what you have suffered in being sent away from your family, but perhaps you had a better life than what we would have offered you.
Had I raised you, you would have no doubt been full of conceit and sarcasm, just as I am, and unwilling to stand up for what is right, as I have done.
I would have made things far worse for you.
Though perhaps having you home would have helped me to be a better man and made me less indolent.
Regardless, there is little point in exploring these ideas now, but I do want to tell you how sorry I am for not being a better father and a better man.
By all accounts, you have married an excellent man, and when the time comes for you to bring a child into this world, he will no doubt prove to be all I am not and chose not to be.
I hope that this letter will help you, if even a little bit, to forgive me for my failures.
Sincerely,
Your Father, Thomas Bennet
Elizabeth shook her head as she read the letter through a second time.
Part of her would like to find it in her to forgive the man, but even his apology was worthless.
To wait to tell her now that she was ‘dear to him’, when he had made no effort in his lifetime to act remotely like a loving father, or even a concerned one, felt almost like a slap to the face instead of the apology he believed he was making.
Like everything else in his life, he hoped to ease his conscience so he could die in peace.
He might have felt better after writing this letter, but instead of evoking feelings of love or even of sympathy, instead she felt anger and annoyance.
Darcy saw these emotions as they flashed across her face and moved toward her. “Dearest, are you well?” he asked, his voice soft and filled with concern, as he sat on the settee beside her, drawing her into his arms.
Elizabeth shook her head, her movements slow at first as though weighed down by the heaviness of her thoughts. Then, with a suddenness that startled him, she shook her head again, as if trying to dispel the cobwebs clouding her mind. “My fa … Mr. Bennet has died.”
Darcy’s arms tightened around her. “Oh, Elizabeth …” he whispered, his breath warm against her hair.
Her voice was steady, though the weight of sorrow pressed upon her words.
“Mary’s last letter indicated this was not far away.
Of the family, he was the most ill. Then I received this,” she paused, holding up a letter, her father’s handwriting unmistakable on the pages.
“In the days leading up to his death, he wrote this … apology for not doing enough to protect me as a child.”
She looked at Darcy, her eyes searching his face as though trying to find the words to express the tangled emotions within her. “In it, he claims to have loved me. He read my letters to Mary—probably all the letters I wrote to my sisters—and thinks he knows about me and my life from those.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed as he listened intently, his heart aching for her, though he remained silent, not wishing to interrupt the flow of her thoughts.
“Truly, I am sorry he is gone, which means we can never be restored,” Elizabeth continued, her voice tightening with unshed tears, “but I am not certain we ever could have been. He is … was too selfish to truly love anyone besides himself.”
Her words hung in the air, and Darcy could feel the truth in them. The resentment she had harboured for years, the pain of neglect, all seemed to spill out, raw and exposed.
“If there is one thing I have learned from my aunt and uncle,” she said, her voice softening, “and from my relationship with you, it is that love is unselfish and wants the best for the object of its love. This claim of love from Mr. Bennet is selfish and is more about appeasing his conscience than any real affection for me. If he truly loved me or any of my sisters, he would have done more for us and not waited until he was dying to try.”
Darcy’s chest tightened at her words, and he instinctively pulled her closer.
He could feel her tremble, the weight of her grief pressing against him.
Yet, there was little he could say. He agreed with her, deeply so, and he thought she knew that.
Still, finding the right words to comfort her felt beyond his reach.
Instead, he held her, hoping she would feel the depth of his love in his embrace. His hand gently stroked her back as she nestled into him, her head resting against his chest.
For a long moment, they sat in silence, the crackle of the fire in the hearth the only sound in the room.
Darcy’s thoughts flickered briefly to her condition, worrying that the stress and grief would worsen her health.
But as if sensing his concern, Elizabeth shifted slightly and looked up at him, her gaze steady despite the sorrow lingering in her eyes.
“Do not fret, my love,” she whispered, her hand coming up to rest against his cheek. “I will be well. I promise. It was merely the shock of receiving first Mary’s letter and then his.”
He kissed her forehead, his lips lingering there as he whispered, “I know, dearest. I know. There is a finality to death, is there not? We might have wished for something different, something better, but now it is impossible.”
Elizabeth nodded, acknowledging his words, but she did not wish to dwell on the matter any longer.
Instead, she leaned into his embrace, allowing the steady warmth of his presence to soothe her as she grappled with the multitude of emotions swirling within her—grief, anger, regret—all threatening to overwhelm her.
Darcy held her close, offering his silent support, knowing that words were no longer necessary.