Chapter 7
Seven
Mr Bennet sat in his bookroom, his eyes fixed upon the page before him, though he absorbed none of its contents.
He had felt deep shame upon receiving Colonel Forster’s letter nearly a fortnight before, and he had been painfully reminded of Lizzy’s words to him in May concerning Lydia.
As he had once teased his second daughter, his youngest had indeed made a fool of herself and learnt her insignificance in the world—but in a manner that threatened the reputation of them all.
Shortly after the letter arrived, Mr Bennet had set out at once for Brighton to retrieve Lydia.
During the carriage ride home, he had attempted a rebuke, only to endure her ridiculous protests and complaints.
The effort had exhausted him. By the time they reached Longbourn, he had little left to say.
Since their return, he had spoken scarcely at all, addressing no one beyond what was strictly necessary.
When Gardiner’s letter arrived requesting further particulars, Mr Bennet read it but left Jane to compose the reply in his stead.
He had not resumed conversation—not with his wife nor with his daughters.
Thus it was a considerable shock to find his second daughter in the drawing room—he had expected her to come to him first—and in the presence of strangers: Mr Darcy and a young lady who had identified herself, he believed, as Miss Darcy.
He did not fully comprehend what his wife was prattling on concerning Mr Bingley, but he had been deeply unsettled by Lizzy’s words of rebuke—particularly when he learnt that Mr Darcy had proposed to his dear girl and been accepted.
To have his daughter speak to him in the way she had done, to scold him for his failure to check his youngest daughter, was more than he could stand. He had left the room, unable to say anything in response, for she was right.
It was all his fault.
With painful clarity, he recalled one of the afternoons he had laughed when Lydia boasted of officers’ attentions, dismissing it as girlish folly. He had not been a very good father to his girls, preferring to laugh at their excesses rather than teaching them how to behave responsibly.
While he would have preferred to remain alone, he expected the knock when it arrived a few moments later.
However, he was surprised when, at his call, it was not only his brother standing at the door.
Instead, Elizabeth stood there, with Gardiner and Mr Darcy flanking her, and once again Bennet felt defeated.
Closing his eyes in resignation, he set the book aside.
“Well, come in,” he said, defeat lacing his voice.
The three walked in, and Mr Darcy and Gardiner, at the latter’s indication, moved chairs to join the one that already sat in front of the desk. Finally, Mr Bennet looked up.
Elizabeth did not immediately sit. She stood straight despite the strain he saw in her face, and for a fleeting moment he wondered when she had ceased to be merely his quick-tongued girl.
“Forgive me, Papa,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I was wrong to accuse you in the manner I did.”
Bennet was surprised at Elizabeth’s apology. His hand stilled upon the blotter. He listened as she continued.
“While I still believe that my questions are justified, that was not the appropriate place for that discussion. I am only grateful that Mary was not in the room at that time, for she would have scolded me. As it is, I knew as soon as you left that I was wrong to address you as I did, even if I stand by my questions.”
She was typically quick to grow angry and quick to react in that anger, but it usually took her much longer to realise that she had been mistaken, or, if she realised it sooner, she was slow to make the required apology.
For a moment, Bennet looked between Elizabeth and Darcy, who had now each taken their seats, and wondered if this was in some way his influence.
“Thank you, Elizabeth.”
Bennet remained seated at his desk, his fingers resting upon the blotter as though uncertain what to do with themselves. After a moment, he drew off his spectacles and set them aside with deliberate care.
“But I cannot blame you completely either.” He leant back, though the posture afforded him little ease. “Your words to me before Lydia left with Mrs Forster have been on my mind almost constantly since I brought her home.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I have never understood precisely what sort of instruction my wife had given my youngest daughters, nor how fully her lessons had been learnt. Now—perhaps too late—I have come to see the danger of never checking either my wife or my daughters. Instead of teasing you, I ought to have been offering instruction.”
The admission seemed to cost him something. His gaze shifted briefly towards the window before returning to the room.
“My mother was alive for the first five years of my marriage. I believed she had taught my wife enough—how to manage a gentleman’s household, how to conduct herself among our neighbours, how to guide the girls when the time came.
I see now that I was too willing to be satisfied.
I should have reinforced those lessons as our daughters grew, rather than leaving such matters to chance. ”
He exhaled, the sound quieter than usual. “I am thankful to you, Gardiner, and to your wife, for being the influence our eldest daughters needed. I cannot but think it was your example that helped Jane and Lizzy become as well behaved as they are.”
Gardiner nodded at this, though whether from agreement or discomfort Bennet could not tell.
Mrs Bennet was his sister; he knew what she was like and had wished for years that his brother would do something about his wife and daughters.
Even hiring a governess for them would have been better than doing nothing, but he expected that his sister had been unwilling to have someone come to the house and tell her how she ought to behave.
Fanny Gardiner, now Bennet, had never liked being told “no” to anything she wished.
“Regardless of what may or may not have occurred in the past, we need information, Bennet,” Gardiner said after several moments had passed.
“What has been done about Lydia? Do we know if she could be with child, or will the family be spared that embarrassment? She intended to elope with that blackguard, according to what we have heard, but do we know anything more?”
“Wickham became violently ill on the evening they were to depart for Scotland, or so he had convinced Lydia,” Bennet began.
“The coach he hired—using Lydia’s pocket money, since he had none of his own—was engaged to take them as far as London, but not any further.
Colonel Forster said he doubted Wickham meant to go beyond London, or that he ever intended to marry Lydia, for he had been heard to say he needed to marry an heiress.
The apothecary was called, and somehow or another the plans were uncovered.
Fortunately for us, Lydia had not given him her virtue—she had planned to wait until they had left Colonel Forster’s protection, which is the only thing that saved her. ”
“What of Wickham?” Darcy’s tone was sharp, and Bennet blinked at the vehemence of it.
“The apothecary suspected he had been poisoned,” Bennet replied.
The words seemed to settle heavily upon the room.
“He died a day or two before I arrived.” Bennet’s gaze shifted briefly towards the hearth before returning to the men before him.
“Whatever poison he had been given made him violently ill. He suffered for several days before he finally succumbed. Lydia was aware that Mr Wickham had died, but was mostly concerned that her plans to be the first to marry were foiled.”
No one spoke.
“Colonel Forster looked into the matter, of course, but they were unable to determine who administered it.” He paused, as though weighing how much to disclose. “There were several young ladies whom he had taken advantage of. At least two are carrying his child.”
Elizabeth drew in a quiet breath.
“He had promised marriage to more than one of them, yet it was clear he never intended to honour any such promise.” Bennet’s mouth tightened.
“The colonel said there were several suspects, but none could be definitively named. Too many had the opportunity—not only the ladies themselves, but their brothers and fathers as well.”
He folded his hands upon the desk.
“The colonel suspects someone discovered Wickham’s intention to desert and resolved to prevent it permanently.”
The room fell quiet at this pronouncement.
Darcy nodded at hearing this, standing and stepping to the window.
He looked out for several moments before finally turning and saying, “I cannot feel sympathy for him. He was given any number of opportunities to improve his lot in life, but he preferred to take advantage of others, never taking any responsibility for his actions. He wanted the life of a gentleman without any of the obligations.”
Bennet leant back in his chair, studying the man before him anew.
“He claimed you left him destitute,” Bennet said, his gaze sharpening as he searched Darcy’s face for offence, wounded pride, or any other crack in the polished exterior that might reveal the man beneath it.
“I recall my daughters and others speaking of a denied living. In fact, in the winter, Elizabeth was quite vociferous about how little she liked you because of your mistreatment of that cad. Perhaps you had a reason, but could you not have warned us that we welcomed a snake into our midst?”
Bennet watched as Elizabeth’s eyes slid shut and her cheeks bloomed in apparent mortification.
He wondered about that and noticed the glance Darcy cast his second daughter.
For a brief moment, he wondered if this might be enough to break the engagement.
He had not yet decided whether such an outcome would be disaster or deliverance.
With that thought still unsettled in his mind, he was surprised when Elizabeth opened her eyes again. Instead of shame, he saw they blazed with determination.
She did not rush to speak.
Instead, she stood and walked to Darcy, standing beside him and placing her arm through his. She murmured something to him—though he could not tell what—before turning back to her father.
“Papa, you are correct that Lieutenant Wickham was a snake,” she said. “He flattered us all, and, like so many, I believed the lies he told me about his mistreatment. However, in April, I encountered Mr Darcy again and learnt the truth of the matter from him.”
Elizabeth related a portion of what she had learnt—carefully omitting all mention of Georgiana—yet allowing her father sufficient insight into Darcy’s character. “Had you listened to me then, I might have said more,” she concluded quietly. “But you dismissed me.”
The words struck him more keenly than any accusation she had made earlier that day.
He remembered too well the ease with which he had laughed, the complacency with which he had waved her concerns aside.
It had been simpler to indulge his own amusement than to consider that his daughter might see what he had chosen not to.
There was no girlish indignation in her tone now, only calm certainty.
Bennet felt a pang of regret. And no small measure of pride.
His daughter stood before him not as a spirited girl to be indulged, but as a woman to be respected.
“Very well, Lizzy,” her father said at last. “I have been forced to acknowledge that I have not been the father I ought to have been. But what would you have me do now?”
Before Elizabeth could answer, Gardiner interjected. “What does the neighbourhood know?”
Bennet glanced at his brother-in-law, recognising the deliberate turn in the conversation.
Gardiner had never been one to linger long in recriminations; he preferred action to reflection.
Though Bennet suspected he deserved a great deal more censure than he had yet received, he could not help but feel a measure of gratitude for the reprieve.
“The servants know that I was obliged to go and retrieve Lydia, so they must suspect she has misbehaved, though they do not know the full story. Of course, they have heard Mrs Bennet lamenting that Lydia has not married, but they will dismiss her complaints concerning Lieutenant Wickham as nothing more than her usual alarms, particularly if the news spreads that the man has died. I suspect the arrival of Mr and Miss Darcy will give everyone far more to speak about.”
“Well, that is good,” Gardiner replied. “If you will go and formally announce the engagement, we can begin to make plans for the wedding. That will redirect any talk from Lydia onto Elizabeth, and with Mr Darcy the bridegroom, any speculation about Lydia ruining herself should quickly be silenced. We can let it be known that you went to Brighton to fetch her back for her sister’s wedding. ”
Bennet glanced instinctively at Elizabeth as if asking for her permission, but before he could determine anything, Mr Darcy spoke.
“Might I speak with Mr Bennet for a few moments?” He did not look at Bennet as he spoke, but at Elizabeth.
Bennet was struck by the expression in the man’s eyes as they rested upon his daughter, and he felt an unexpected measure of satisfaction at the sight.
Mr Darcy might not have been the match he would once have chosen for Elizabeth, but it was plain that the man cared for her.
Watching this made him a little more resigned to the match, even as he had hoped his Lizzy would have remained with him forever.
He knew, however, that it would not come to be.