Worthy of Her
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Despite the frost on the lane to Longbourn and Mr. Bennet’s dismissal of the young people ransacking his library, Darcy was determined to call on Mr. Bennet.
He had promised Elizabeth as much, and he could see no reason for the delay.
He, accordingly, dressed with care, asking Vernon to re-tie his cravat for the third time in a knot so precise, symmetrical, and irreproachable that Mr. Bennet would rather cross his eyes than refuse such a stiffly starched piece of neckwear.
Or so he assured himself, mounting Hercules—who, unlike his master, seemed entirely untroubled by the prospect of parental interviews—and setting out for Longbourn.
Today, he would comport himself as a gentleman of ten thousand a year, not as the reckless soul who had surrendered an inheritance or stolen a kiss among the apple trees, but as a suitor intent on earning a father’s blessing for a woman who deserved nothing less than formality and sincerity.
Hill admitted him briskly through the door and showed him into the library.
Darcy heard the hurried footsteps and Mrs. Bennet’s loud whispers to her younger daughters to disappear, no doubt rearranging themselves into the best eavesdropping positions.
Elizabeth would be upstairs, having no intention of enduring her mother’s scrutiny, and Jane would stay to console her in case things went south.
Darcy found Mr. Bennet seated at his desk with his pipe in hand. Cleo was curled in her usual spot on a pile of correspondence, and she greeted him with a yawn.
“Mr. Darcy.” Mr. Bennet did not rise. “I wondered how long you would wait. I expected you yesterday, but I suppose my daughter’s library expedition distracted you.”
“I did not wish to intrude upon the celebrations, sir.”
“Celebrations.” Mr. Bennet’s mouth curved.
“Is that what we are calling Mrs. Bennet’s seven-hour dissertation on wedding breakfasts?
I confess I found the wine cellar more appealing company.
” He gestured to the chair opposite. “Sit. You look as though you are about to face a firing squad rather than an elderly gentleman with poor circulation and a fondness for his own voice.”
Darcy wiped stray cat hairs from the armchair and sat. The cat lifted her head, assessed him with her imperious gaze, and leaped from the desk to settle in his lap. Darcy scratched behind her ears, and the purring was immediate and loud.
“She has defected,” Mr. Bennet observed. “I raised that cat from a kitten, and she abandons me for a man in a well-cut coat. I begin to understand how King Lear felt.”
“I am certain her loyalty to you remains unshaken, sir.”
“Her affection extends to whoever provides the warmest lap and the most reliable source of cream. You, Mr. Darcy, have apparently qualified on both counts.” He drew on his pipe, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “But you have not come to discuss feline allegiances.”
“No, sir.” Darcy kept his hand from drifting to his cravat, and cleared his throat. “I have come to ask for your second daughter’s hand. To propose to Miss Elizabeth.”
“Have you indeed.” Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and regarded Darcy over the tops of them with an expression of such studied neutrality that it bordered on theatre.
“I seem to recall giving you rather specific instructions some weeks ago, Mr. Darcy. About wooing. Flattering. Chasing her across muddy fields, or whatever it is gentlemen of ten thousand a year do when they wish to make themselves agreeable.”
“You did.”
“And I recall stipulating that once her temper was sufficiently softened, you might come to me for my blessing.” He paused, allowing the silence to do its work. “Tell me, sir. Have you wooed her?”
“I have,” he said. “Although I confess the methods were unorthodox.”
“I gathered as much. My intelligence reports suggest your courtship has included, in no particular order: rewriting the family entail, surrendering your claim to this estate, hiding a letter in a wall, departing for Derbyshire at considerable speed, and returning with your sister and your friend in tow like a man assembling reinforcements.” Mr. Bennet tilted his head. “Have I omitted anything?”
A flush crept up Darcy’s neck, grateful that the matter of wassailing had escaped Mr. Bennet’s intelligence. “The circumstances were, I admit, somewhat unconventional.”
“The entire affair has been absurd from start to finish—a comedy of errors that would have made Shakespeare weep with envy.” Mr. Bennet’s eyes glinted.
“And yet my daughter, who spent most of October informing anyone who would listen that you were the most disagreeable man in England, now runs to your carriage as though you were the last ship leaving a burning port.”
“She—”
“I watched her, Mr. Darcy. We all did. She picked up her skirts and ran.” The amusement faded from his face.
“I have not seen Elizabeth run toward anything since she was twelve years old. She walks, she strides, she occasionally stomps when provoked. And she is usually walking fast, walking away, but not running. You, it seems, have made my daughter run toward a man. Most unusual.”
“I like to believe that I have earned her good opinion,” Darcy said.
“Her opinion, perhaps, but as you once said to my wife that the country can in general supply but few subjects for character study, and hence her good opinion may necessarily be limited.”
“I regret any suggestion that her country upbringing is limited.”
“You need not flatter me.” Mr. Bennet puffed on his pipe. “However, I wish you to acknowledge that Elizabeth has never been farther than London, and that only in the company of her uncle and aunt, whom she is familiar with and who cosset her like a fragile piece of porcelain.”
“Mr. Bennet, I am aware of her attachment to her family and home.”
“Yes, you must have observed. Our Elizabeth has walked every acre of this estate. She knows the tenants by name—their children, their ailments, and the state of their roofs. She has roots deeper than that oak in the south meadow, and you are asking me to help you transplant her to Derbyshire.”
“Where she will be loved and admired by my household, Mr. Bennet. My sister already delights in her, and I can assure you that I will do everything possible to ensure she has the happiness she deserves. She will have a carriage and the ability to travel, and her family will be encouraged to visit…”
Mr. Bennet held up a hand, a pained look crossing his face.
“She is not fragile, and she is a determined young woman. I am sure she will tell you all is well and rise to the responsibilities of mistress of Pemberley. However, she is at heart a country girl, the daughter of a gentleman of modest estate. I do not believe she even understands the difference in station or the lifestyle of an aristocrat such as yourself, Mr. Darcy. I mean no insult, but my Elizabeth believes, as her mother does, that dining with twenty-four families is sufficient society. She has not been to finishing school, has not attended Mrs. Beaumont’s tea-pouring lessons, has not the art of speaking behind a fan, or even of walking with a yardstick strapped to her back and books atop her head.
Her mother speaks too freely, and Elizabeth believes battling her mother’s nerves is a competitive sport.
That wit and spark that has so enchanted you will be mocked and disparaged by your society. ”
“You cannot know that.” Darcy felt the prick of sweat on his forehead and the panic that his petition might be refused. “I will protect her. My name alone is sufficient.”
“Name, perhaps, will buy whispers behind her back instead of outright slights.” Mr. Bennet’s mouth twitched.
“But name will not alleviate the daily weight of living among people who believe your wife married above her station. Dinner parties where the seating arrangement is a declaration of war. Drawing rooms where a woman is measured by her connections before she has opened her mouth.”
“What will you have me to do?” Darcy looked at Mr. Bennet—at the sharp eyes, the lined face, the pipe-smoke curling between them—and understood, with sudden clarity, what this interview was really about.
He, too, if he had a daughter, would be in a similar state—a father who loved his daughter and was terrified that she would not be happy.
“I cannot deny you the proposal or refuse you,” Mr. Bennet said.
“It will be Elizabeth’s decision. But I ask you to count the costs for her.
Elizabeth will not only be far from family and familiar faces, or the land she grew up on, but she will be, for the first time in her life, truly away from home. ”
The truth pressed close, and for a moment Darcy felt the old unease—the memory of formal dinners, the endless, echoing rooms of Pemberley, grand as any cathedral yet curiously uncertain of their purpose.
He had loved those rooms, but he had also learned the distinction between magnificence and comfort, and the peculiar loneliness that could flourish in the midst of both.
“Pemberley has two hundred rooms,” Darcy said, “and for most of my life, the only ones that felt like home were the library and the kitchen garden where my mother kept her roses.” He paused, aware that he was giving Mr. Bennet something he did not give easily—the interior of his life, laid open.
Cleo’s purr vibrated against his ribs. “What Elizabeth did for Longbourn, she can do for Pemberley. She would bring the warmth, care for its tenants, delight in its beauty, and enliven the family and the grounds. I would give her free rein to entertain, invite her sisters, and even set up a schoolhouse for the tenant children, as my mother had wished. She will make Pemberley hers, as she made Longbourn hers, because she cannot help it. It is her nature.”
“And you will not object when she rearranges your two hundred rooms to her liking?”
“I will hand her the keys and rejoice in her high spirits.”
Mr. Bennet regarded him through a veil of pipe smoke, the fire’s crackle and Cleo’s purr weaving a quiet duet. It was as close to agreement as possible, tinged with grief on one side and anticipation on the other.
“You said the roads go both ways,” Mr. Bennet said.
“Yes. She will come home whenever she wishes, as often as she wishes. I will bring her myself, or she will travel with her own horses and carriage with her maids, and if she wishes to spend a month at Longbourn in the spring and another in the autumn, the household at Pemberley will arrange itself accordingly.”
“Even during the London season?”
“I would happily forgo every London season for the rest of my natural life if Elizabeth preferred to be in Hertfordshire.”
Mr. Bennet removed his pipe and pointed the stem at Darcy.
“Now I know you are in love. Only a besotted man would surrender the London season without a fight.” The amusement was back—genuine now, warm beneath the irony.
“My wife will be devastated, of course. She has plans for Elizabeth’s London season that involve a quantity of silk sufficient to outfit a frigate. ”
“Then I would say your wife and family may proceed, as I still intend, as their third cousin, to make the introductions. However, Elizabeth and I may prefer to stay home in our library, to which you, sir, will also be welcome… along with this cat.” Darcy lifted Cleo from his lap and brushed off the hairs.
“Well then, I shall not detain you longer.” Mr. Bennet rose from his chair.
“You have my blessing, sir, and my daughter. Try not to let Mrs. Bennet in on this until Elizabeth has accepted, as she and my younger daughters will hound you, hoping to get a proverb or homily in, or inquire about inviting officers to the wedding breakfast, or chase you with a yardstick.”
“A yardstick? Whatever for?”
“Why, Kitty will insist you walk with it in your back, and Lydia will proclaim that only she is tall enough to marry you.” Mr. Bennet chuckled dryly.
“May I suggest walking to the northern boundary, as the lady will be quite concerned about a certain tree torn up by its roots, and it is a good deal too far for Mrs. Bennet’s company of nerves. ”
Outside, a horse whinnied—probably his own, growing impatient at the hitching post. Mr. Bennet glanced out the window. “I believe Elizabeth and Jane are in the garden, attempting to avoid another seven hours of wedding breakfast menu queries.”
Darcy shook Mr. Bennet’s hand, then straightened his cravat—the same knot, precise and irreproachable—and turned toward the door. Behind him, Mr. Bennet’s voice followed, mild and amused and carrying the weight of everything he had not said.
“Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy paused at the threshold.
“She is the best of them, you know. The very best of all of them.” His voice was quiet now, stripped of wit, and it was the most honest thing Thomas Bennet had ever said to him. “Be worthy of her.”
“I intend to spend my life attempting it, sir.”
“Good.” The irony returned, gentle as a well-worn coat. “Because if you fail, I shall send the cat after you, and Cleo, I must warn you, is far less forgiving than I am.”
The chuckle followed Darcy out of the library and down the passage, and he carried it with him into the cold, clear morning like a gift he had not known he needed.