Chapter Sixteen
Mr. Bennet Notices
Mr. Bennet liked Darcy.
This disturbed him.
He had expected to dislike the man on principle. Ten thousand a year encouraged solemnity, and solemnity was rarely entertaining. Yet Darcy came to Longbourn and listened. Worse, he occasionally answered sarcasm with sarcasm.
Not brilliantly. Elizabeth still won.
But he tried.
One evening Mr. Bennet invited Darcy into the library after dinner. Elizabeth gave Darcy a look as he followed her father from the room.
Behave.
Darcy nearly laughed.
Mr. Bennet closed the door and gestured toward a chair. "Sit."
Darcy sat.
Mr. Bennet studied him for several seconds, apparently in no hurry to speak.
Darcy had endured examinations from ministers, magistrates, physicians, and Elizabeth's elderly Aunt Philips after she developed a fondness for brandy. None had been quite like Thomas Bennet's silence.
At last Mr. Bennet said, "My daughter likes you."
Darcy kept his face still. "I hope so."
"She likes very few fools."
"Comforting."
Mr. Bennet's eyes sharpened. "How long have you known her?"
Darcy's heart jumped. "Since the assembly."
"Hm."
Silence.
Darcy waited.
Mr. Bennet tapped one finger against the arm of his chair. "You behave as though she cannot surprise you."
Darcy thought of fifty-five years, four children, two lifetimes, a blue room chimney, and one diseased hawthorn.
"She surprises me constantly," he said.
Mr. Bennet's expression changed slightly. "That sounded sincere."
"It was."
"She has changed."
Darcy said nothing.
"Have you noticed?"
Danger.
Darcy answered carefully. "She is more patient than I expected."
"With Lydia."
"Yes."
"Mary."
"Yes."
"Her mother."
Darcy did not answer.
Mr. Bennet smiled. "Wise."
Then the smile faded. "She is less patient with me."
Darcy looked at him.
Mr. Bennet continued, "She used to laugh."
"At you?"
"With me."
Darcy knew the distinction. He also knew it was not always as clean as Mr. Bennet imagined.
The old alliance between father and favorite daughter had often been built at the expense of others. Elizabeth had regretted it deeply.
"Perhaps she wants more from you," Darcy said.
Mr. Bennet's brows rose. "An audacious answer from a guest."
"You asked."
"No, I did not."
Darcy almost smiled.
Mr. Bennet did too. "You intend to marry her."
Not a question.
Darcy met his gaze. "Yes."
"Have you asked?"
"Not yet."
"Why?"
"She asked me to court her."
Mr. Bennet went very still.
Darcy realized what he had said. "I mean--"
"My daughter asked you to court her?"
"No."
Darcy rubbed his forehead.
This was going badly.
"We agreed--"
Mr. Bennet stared.
Darcy stopped.
"Good God," he muttered.
A laugh escaped Mr. Bennet, then another. He leaned back and laughed until he had to remove his spectacles.
Darcy glared.
Mr. Bennet wiped his eyes. "I beg your pardon."
"You do not."
"No."
Darcy had liked him less in old age for moments like this.
Now he saw the appeal.
Eventually Mr. Bennet sobered. "Do not hurt her."
Darcy's irritation vanished. "I would rather hurt myself."
Mr. Bennet watched him carefully. "That is precisely the sort of answer that makes fathers nervous."
Darcy almost laughed. "Nevertheless."
Mr. Bennet nodded.
Permission had not been given. Not exactly.
But trust had begun.
When Darcy returned to the drawing room, Elizabeth glanced up from a book. One look at his face and she knew.
"He laughed at you," she murmured when Darcy passed near her chair.
"For several minutes."
Elizabeth's eyes brightened. "I am sorry I missed it."
Darcy glared.
She smiled into her book.
The Netherfield ball also produced a smaller change no one noticed except Elizabeth. During supper Mary sat beside Mrs. Cunningham, the clergyman's wife, who praised her choice of music and then offered a gentle correction about tempo.
Mary did not stiffen.
She asked a question.
Mrs. Cunningham answered.
Elizabeth watched the exchange and later approached the older woman. "Would you ever consider giving Mary lessons?"
Mrs. Cunningham looked surprised. "If she wished them."
"I think she might, if it did not sound like criticism."
The woman smiled knowingly. "Most people prefer improvement when it is not announced as correction."
Elizabeth laughed. "I shall remember that."
"Do. It may improve marriages too."
Elizabeth nearly choked.
Mrs. Cunningham looked concerned. "Are you well?"
"Perfectly."
The following week Mary began lessons.
Mrs. Bennet objected to the expense until Mrs. Cunningham said she would accept a modest fee because she enjoyed the company. Mr. Bennet, to everyone's surprise, offered to pay from his personal allowance rather than the household account.
Mary looked at him as though he had handed her a fortune.
"Thank you, Papa."
Mr. Bennet shifted uncomfortably. "If the result is less thunder from the drawing room, I shall consider it an investment."
The old joke was still there.
But Mary smiled.
Because this time it came after support rather than instead of it.
Elizabeth understood the distinction.
Darcy did too when she told him later.
"Your father is trying," he said.
"Badly."
"So did I."
Elizabeth looked at him. "You were magnificent at trying badly."
"Thank you."
"It was not praise."
"I have chosen to receive it as such."
She laughed.