Chapter Twenty-One
Elizabeth and Her Father
Elizabeth confronted her father in December.
Not dramatically.
That was precisely why it mattered.
The evening had begun ordinarily. Mary attempted a moral observation after dinner and tangled herself in the phrasing. Lydia laughed. Kitty followed. Mr. Bennet added a dry remark about Mary's talent for making wisdom sound exhausting.
In her first life Elizabeth would have laughed too.
The older Elizabeth heard the joke and saw Mary's face.
She did not smile.
"Papa."
Mr. Bennet looked over. "Yes, my dear?"
"That was unkind."
Silence fell.
Mary stared at Elizabeth.
Mr. Bennet's expression hardened slightly. "I was teasing."
"Mary did not enjoy it."
Mary looked down.
Mr. Bennet glanced at her and then back to Elizabeth. "My dear Lizzy--"
"No, Papa."
The word came softly.
Mrs. Bennet froze.
Elizabeth's heart pounded. She loved him. That had been the problem. Love had made excuses.
"Lydia is foolish sometimes," Elizabeth said.
Lydia frowned. "Thank you."
Elizabeth ignored her. "Kitty follows when she ought to think for herself. Mary tries too hard to sound accomplished. Mama says things we wish she would not."
Mrs. Bennet gasped. "Lizzy!"
Elizabeth continued before courage failed. "And you laugh."
Mr. Bennet stared.
"It is easier," Elizabeth said, her voice trembling now. "It is easier than helping."
No one spoke.
Darcy was not there.
Good.
This belonged to them.
Mr. Bennet stood.
For one frightening moment Elizabeth thought he would answer in anger. Instead he walked into the library and closed the door.
Mrs. Bennet rounded on Elizabeth. "How could you speak to your father in that manner? He has always adored you."
Mary interrupted quietly. "She was right."
Everyone turned.
Mary's eyes were wet.
Lydia stopped smiling. Kitty looked ashamed.
Mrs. Bennet sat down heavily.
Elizabeth went upstairs and cried.
An hour later a knock sounded on her door.
Mr. Bennet entered.
He looked older than he had that morning.
"You wounded me," he said.
Elizabeth swallowed. "I'm sorry."
"No." He sat in the chair beside the window. "Do not apologize merely because truth hurts."
Her eyes filled.
He looked at his hands. "I have been lazy."
Elizabeth said nothing.
"I told myself I was above the foolishness of this house. It was convenient. I could retreat, laugh, and pretend observation was the same as responsibility."
"Papa--"
He looked up. "Why now?"
Danger.
Elizabeth could not tell him the truth.
She chose one instead. "Because I love you enough to want more."
His expression broke.
He reached for her hand.
"That sounds like something an old woman would say."
Elizabeth laughed through tears. "You have no idea."
The next morning Mr. Bennet asked Kitty to show him the sketchbook she had been hiding for months.
Kitty assumed he was mocking her.
He asked again.
By the following week one of her drawings hung in his library.
Small things.
But Elizabeth had lived long enough to know families often changed by inches rather than declarations.
The weeks after Elizabeth's confrontation with her father were uncomfortable in the way useful changes often were.
Mr. Bennet made an effort, then retreated, then tried again.
Mary remained wary of his jokes. Kitty did not suddenly become confident.
Lydia still mistook correction for persecution whenever correction interfered with fun.
Elizabeth had to resist congratulating herself each time something went better than before.
One afternoon Mr. Bennet came into the drawing room while Kitty and Miss Harcourt were examining a set of botanical sketches. He asked a question about shading. Kitty answered cautiously. He asked another.
Lydia, bored, announced that Kitty's tree looked like a cabbage.
Kitty's face fell.
Elizabeth opened her mouth.
Mr. Bennet spoke first. "Then perhaps you should draw one yourself and demonstrate the distinction."
Lydia stared.
The remark was dry enough to be recognizably him, but it defended rather than diminished.
Kitty looked at her father in surprise.
Mr. Bennet looked uncomfortable with everyone's attention. "Do continue, Catherine."
Kitty smiled and did.
Elizabeth said nothing.
That evening she found her father outside the library.
"Thank you."
He frowned. "For what?"
"Kitty."
Mr. Bennet looked away. "I am attempting not to be a complete failure before breakfast."
Elizabeth's eyes stung.
He noticed and immediately became alarmed. "Do not cry. Your mother cries enough for this family."
Elizabeth laughed.
Mr. Bennet smiled. "There. Much better."
It was not perfection.
It was him trying.
Elizabeth was learning that people deserved credit for difficult inches, not only completed journeys.
Darcy was learning the same lesson with Georgiana. She had good days and bad. Some mornings she laughed with Bingley over breakfast; some evenings a letter bearing an unfamiliar hand made her pale before she even opened it.
Once, after a dinner in Meryton, an officer mentioned Ramsgate casually as a fashionable resort. Georgiana went silent.
Darcy noticed.
He did not ask in front of everyone whether she was well.
Later, in the carriage, he said, "Would you like to talk?"
Georgiana stared out the window. "No."
The old Darcy might have insisted that silence would only increase distress.
This Darcy nodded. "All right."
Ten minutes later Georgiana said, "Thank you."
Darcy looked at her. "For what?"
"For letting no be no."
The words followed him for years.