Chapter 9
NINE
In the evening, soon after Mr Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw Darcy rise also and follow him; her agitation on seeing it was extreme.
It was plain that her father did not much like her soon-to-be betrothed, but at the same time, he must want this wedding, to keep Longbourn in his own family and see her well settled.
It vexed her that Papa had not yet even tried to like him!
If his anger had been with Darcy’s father for selling an old family estate, that certainly should not affect his feelings for the son!
Still, it had taken very little time for them to fall in love, and he well might be concerned that they did not know their own minds; if he forced them to wait until her twenty-first birthday, it would be the longest six months of her life.
After several minutes he emerged again; she could not tell, by his expression, how the conversation with Papa had progressed. In a few minutes he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty, and, pretending to admire her work, whispered, “Go to your father. He wants you in the library.”
Entering, she saw that her father was pacing the room, looking grave and anxious.
“Sit down, Lizzy, sit down. I have given Mr Darcy my permission to ask for your hand in marriage—indeed, what with the entail, I could hardly refuse him. He believes you will agree. I must tell you—I must urge you—to decline!”
“What do you mean by this, Papa?”
“I mean that he has come here with the specific intent of ruining your life! He is out for revenge, I tell you! He has swooped in like a-a vulture, identified my favourite child, the one whom it would hurt me most to see hurt, and has chosen you for destruction.”
“Papa, you are irrational.”
“You do not know! You do not know!”
She could see that he had worked himself into a state of unreasoning fear; using her calmest voice, she tried to reach him. “Tell me what I do not know, then.”
He threw himself into his chair, leaning back, covering his eyes briefly before clutching the arms of his chair with a white-knuckled grip. When he finally spoke, it was to the ceiling. “How much do you know of our family history?”
How odd, that both he and Darcy should ask her that question! “I know that Oliver Bennet had two sons, Bertram and Joseph. Bertram inherited Longbourn, and Joseph married into the Darcy family and took their surname.”
“Joseph was the eldest. Did you not ever wonder why he did not inherit Longbourn?”
“I-I suppose I believed Bertram to be the eldest.”
“No. Joseph was the son of Oliver’s first wife, who died in the birthing of him. Longbourn belonged to the family of his second wife, Elaine.”
“Well then, it makes sense that it was for her son.”
“Yes, that much. But it is not all. Elaine hated Essex, and Portridge Manor, Oliver’s estate.
She urged him to remove to Hertfordshire, to her family’s land—Longbourn.
But of course, it was a much smaller property.
She pressed for improvements, a larger manor house, additional lands.
These, she was given—at the expense of the Portridge properties.
The needs of its tenants were utterly ignored, as the place was pillaged to make Longbourn flourish.
By the time Joseph was old enough to realise what was happening, it was probably already too late.
There was nothing in the law to prevent Oliver from doing as he wished with Portridge.
That did not stop Joseph from trying—all of his life he spent, trying to save the place, including surrendering his own name and marrying down in an attempt to keep it. ”
“And…and our relation, Bertram, did nothing to make recompense when he inherited?”
“Oh, he felt guilty over it. I have read the letters Joseph wrote him—by turns beseeching him for assistance, or bitterly threatening lawsuits that most likely would have been hopeless. But Bertram’s journals mostly blame his father Oliver, and invent a lot of excuses why he could not assist, or why Joseph’s estate management skills were lacking. ”
Elizabeth could hardly take it all in. It sounded terrible; nevertheless, this all happened in the long ago past. “It is a nasty tangle indeed. Yet, it took place, what, a hundred-fifty years ago? Why ever would you think Mr Darcy would still be bitter?”
He finally looked her in the eye. “Every son since Joseph sacrificed everything they could, trying to save that place. None of them ever forgot. When George Darcy—the father of your would-be bridegroom—finally gave it up, he wrote to me. He told me that while I enjoyed my comfortable, pleasant home, I should remember its foundation was built on the bones of a child’s life—that he could no longer tolerate watching his seven-year-old son shiver in unheated rooms and pretend he was warm in a threadbare coat.
That the struggle was over, that the Bennets of Longbourn had won the prize, and he hoped I could at last rest easy, knowing that the Darcy children had finally and forever lost their birthright. ”
Darcy really had not told her much, not nearly enough—but he had hinted. Could it be true? Would he really go so far for revenge? “He mentioned…he mentioned a letter you wrote his father.”
Mr Bennet scrubbed his face. “Yes. I was young, stupid, and of course meant to break the entail myself. I believe your mother was carrying you at the time. I offered all kinds of helpful advice, telling George not to sell it all, not to be an idiot, that he could rebuild with some hard work and modern farming techniques. I was brim-full of ideas back then. Naturally, like my great-great grandfather Bertram before me, I offered no ready cash for implementation.”
He reached across to seize her hands. “Do you see, Lizzy? He does not love you. Hatred, instead, is his driving force.”