Chapter 28
Elizabeth Darcy
To Elizabeth, the journey back to Longbourn seemed to take place in fragments.
There was the ship from Guernsey, with her father wrapped in Darcy’s greatcoat against the wind and pretending not to need it.
There was Portsmouth again, all noise and wet stone and hurried arrangements, where Darcy sent off letters before they had even eaten and Mr Bennet endured a physician’s examination with the offended dignity of a man who believed his pulse ought to be a private matter.
There was the road north, endless and jolting, broken by inns where no one rested properly and by meals that were more often pushed about than eaten.
Everywhere, Darcy was efficient. He secured horses, paid bills, sent messages, questioned postboys, and watched Mr Bennet with a care that was so discreet her father could pretend not to notice it.
Elizabeth noticed all of it. She noticed the way Darcy slowed his steps when Mr Bennet tired, the way he chose the warmest room at each inn, the way he gave orders before discomfort could become complaint.
He did not crowd her father. He did not scold him.
Her husband simply arranged what he could, so that Mr Bennet might return to Longbourn alive, fed, and upright.
Elizabeth loved him for it, even when she was too tired to say so.
Mr Bennet, for his part, recovered a portion of his spirits with every mile that took them farther from Guernsey.
His colour improved. His wit returned. He made several observations upon the disagreeable nature of prison beds, the moral vanity of jailors, and the peculiar insult of being rescued by one’s newly acquired son-in-law before one had been properly introduced to him.
But beneath the dry remarks, Elizabeth saw shame.
It appeared in the silences after his jokes, in the way he looked at her when he thought she was turned away, in the fact that he had not yet fully explained what had taken him across the water and into a cell.
He had said only that he had found what he went to Guernsey to find.
That seemed to be a set of papers, which her father guarded with a seriousness she had rarely seen in him.
They were folded, wrapped, and kept close through every stage of the journey.
And whenever she asked what they proved, Mr Bennet answered only that they would be better explained at Longbourn. That was not enough for Elizabeth.
Elizabeth had waited until they were alone in the carriage before asking the question that had been pressing against her since Guernsey. “Why did you not tell us?”
Mr Bennet, who had been looking out at the road, did not pretend to misunderstand her. “Because I did not know there was anything to tell.”
“You may not have known, but you suspected enough to leave Longbourn. You suspected enough to cross the sea. You suspected enough to break into a house and get yourself thrown into prison.”
“That is an unflattering but not inaccurate summary.”
“Papa.”
He looked at her then, and some of the humour left his face. “Because, my dear, I thought I was pursuing a curiosity, not saving my family from disaster.”
“And it did not occur to you that your family might wish to know you were pursuing anything at all?”
“It occurred to me too late.”
Elizabeth sat back, angry again despite herself, and more frightened by the anger because he was alive to receive it. “That is a very poor answer.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “It is.”
They reached Hertfordshire in the late afternoon of a day that had turned grey and close, with clouds hanging low over the fields and a fine dampness in the air.
Elizabeth had imagined her return to Longbourn several times during the journey.
In one version, the house was quiet, and they entered with solemnity.
In another, her mother screamed before anyone could explain anything.
In the worst, Mr Collins had already succeeded in removing her mother and sisters, and they would find the house forever altered by his triumph.
The reality announced itself before the carriage had fully stopped.
Voices carried from inside the house. Not ordinary raised voices, which were no rare thing at Longbourn, but an argument so full of competing outrage that it could be heard from the lane, and even the servants near the door looked alarmed.
Elizabeth heard her mother first, high and shrill, then Lydia speaking over her, Kitty nearly crying, and Mr Collins’s voice rising above them all with the confidence of a man who believed volume could serve in place of sense.
Mr Bennet looked toward the house. “Ah. Home.”
“Papa,” Elizabeth said, warning and pleading together.
“I know,” he replied. “I shall endeavour not to enjoy myself too much.”
Darcy handed her down first. His hand lingered a moment at hers, steadying her. Mr Bennet stepped from the carriage after her, slower than he wished to appear. He straightened his coat as if it had not suffered prison, sea air, and days of travel.
The front door opened before they reached it. Hill stood there, pale and wide-eyed, with one hand pressed to her chest. “Miss Elizabeth,” she said, then seemed to remember herself and curtsied in confusion. “Mrs Darcy. Oh, Lord bless us, you have found him!”
“Where are they?” Elizabeth asked.
“In the drawing room, ma’am. Mr Collins has been at it this hour and more, and Mrs Bennet said she would not be turned out of her own house by a man with such knees, and Miss Bennet has been trying to keep peace, and Miss Lydia said —”
A crash sounded from within, followed by Lydia’s voice declaring, “I did not throw it at him. I threw it near him.”
Mr Bennet raised his brows. “I see Lydia has been left in charge of diplomacy.”
Elizabeth did not wait. She went down the hall with Darcy beside her and Mr Bennet following, and the argument grew clearer with every step.
“My dear Mrs Bennet,” Mr Collins was saying as Elizabeth reached the drawing room door, “no one could be more sensible than myself of the delicacy of your situation, nor more sincerely disposed to act with tenderness toward the female members of this afflicted household. But duty, my dear madam, duty must be obeyed, especially when Providence, the law, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh have combined to place me in a position of responsibility.”
“Lady Catherine may come and be responsible for my nerves herself!” Mrs Bennet cried.
“I shall not leave Longbourn. I came here on the day of my wedding, and I have scarcely left it since. I have borne five daughters in this house, which is more than you have ever done, Mr Collins, and I should like to see you attempt it before you give lectures on affliction.”
“Mama,” Jane said, in a voice strained by the effort of remaining calm.
Mr Bingley stood beside her, not touching her, but close enough that his whole posture seemed arranged around the intention of protecting her. His usual good humour had vanished. He looked at Mr Collins with open dislike, and Elizabeth loved him for it at once.
Kitty stood near the sofa, red-eyed and trembling.
Lydia was planted beside the mantel with both fists clenched, as if she intended to defend the fireplace personally.
Mary must have travelled from London to support her family, for she stood clutching a copy of Sir William Blackstone’s Commentaries on the Laws of England to her chest as though she had tried to compress all the learning of a study in law into the past week.
Charlotte Collins stood a little apart from her husband, pale with embarrassment and fatigue, one hand pressed to her brow.
“My dear,” she said to Mr Collins, “I beg you to consider whether this is the most prudent manner of proceeding.”
“The most prudent manner, Charlotte,” Mr Collins replied, “is seldom the manner most immediately pleasing to those whose feelings, though natural, are not founded upon a proper understanding of legal expectations. As the future owner of Longbourn, I must think beyond the present agitation.”
“You are not the owner of Longbourn,” Lydia snapped.
“Not yet,” Mr Collins said, with a smile he seemed to think gentle. “But we shall see what the law has to say about that.”
Mrs Bennet gave a cry that might have been rage or impending collapse. Jane moved to her mother’s side; Mr Bingley went with her.
Elizabeth had taken in all of it in the space of a few seconds. Her mother’s distress. Jane’s exhaustion. Mary’s determination. Kitty’s fear. Lydia’s fury. Charlotte’s misery. Mr Collins’s bloated satisfaction.
Then Mr Bennet stepped past her into the room.
“I am delighted to report,” he said, “that the rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”
The room went silent. It was not the ordinary silence of surprise.
It was a complete removal of sound, as if Longbourn itself had drawn in a breath and forgotten how to release it.
Mrs Bennet stared. Jane went white. Mary dropped her book on the floor.
Kitty’s hands flew to her mouth. Lydia blinked twice, as though suspecting a trick.
Mr Collins turned very slowly, and the colour drained from his face in a manner Elizabeth would have enjoyed more if her own heart had not been hammering.
Jane reached him first. “Papa,” she said, and then she was in his arms.
Kitty followed with a sob, and Lydia after her, though Lydia was crying before she reached him and seemed deeply offended by the fact.
Mary went after them, crying silently. Mrs Bennet rose, sat down again, rose once more, and cried out, “Mr Bennet!” in such a tone of joy, reproach, hysteria, and indignation that no one could have said which feeling had command.
Mr Bennet held his daughters as well as his strength allowed. His face changed when Jane embraced him. The amusement fell away. For a moment he looked only like a man who had come very close to never seeing his children again and understood, too late, how much he had risked.