Chapter Sixty-Three
But your feelings did not last,” Mrs. Bennet reminded him, sadly. “We were happy together for some years, and then something changed.”
“I promised myself that as soon as I had a son, I would truly apply myself to the estate and make something of it. He, this unknown and unborn boy, would give me the impetus I needed.”
“But the boy never came,” Mary whispered.
“The boy never came,” Mr. Bennet repeated, nodding.
“And so I dug myself deeper and deeper into my studies, ignoring the fact that my family was dependent upon me and I was failing them. For a time, I began to think that I was like Henry the Eighth, failing again and again to have a son. I could not divorce or execute my wife, of course, but instead I began to resent her. I could hardly be angry at her for birthing only girls, as that would have been absurd, so instead I was angry at her for not understanding my obscure references in Greek and Latin. And for that, dearest Fanny, I can never forgive myself.”
Mrs. Bennet could only look down and shake her head, still teary-eyed.
“And then, as we all know, it was Lizzy who finally showed me that my inattention to estate matters would condemn my family to poverty. I was furious with her for showing me my failures and forcing me to pay attention to my responsibilities. It was completely wrong of me, for truly I should have thanked her. Allow me, Lizzy, to thank you now! Your numbers were spot on, by the way; your grasp of mathematics has always been excellent.” He smiled at her, and she actually smiled back.
“So you sold some books in order to raise money, Mr. Bennet?” Mr. Darcy asked.
“I did, and I am ashamed to say that it still hurts. You know how we bibliophiles love our books, Mr. Darcy.”
“What books did you sell? Please do not answer if this is too painful,” Mr. Darcy said.
Mr. Bennet sighed. “If you can credit it, I had a copy of the Wicked Bible.”
Mr. Darcy’s breath caught in his throat.
“And a first edition of Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language.”
“That would be hard to let go of,” Mr. Darcy agreed.
“And a Fourth Folio, one volume.” Mr. Bennet finished.
“You cannot mean –“
“Shakespeare; yes.”
“And you brought all of them to Hatchards?”
“I could hardly sell them here in Meryton,” Mr. Bennet said, sadly. “Not for anything even approaching their true value.”
“I can understand your unhappiness at parting with such treasures,” Mr. Darcy said, softly.
“But selling then funded my daughter’s dowries, and paid for a good many repairs to the tenant cottages, so they were of more value to me when sold than when sitting on my shelf.” Mr. Bennet straightened up and spoke firmly. “My regret now is more one of habit than anything else.”
“Good man,” Mr. Darcy said, approvingly. “Books have always been very important to the Darcys, but family and the estate must come first.”