Darcy knew he could not soften this blow. “I want to marry before Christmas.”
Bennet stiffened. “That is but three weeks—”
“A family situation compels me —”
“And why does my daughter’s situation—my situation—not compel you to wait?” Bennet emitted a harsh laugh. “I will be dead in less than six months. You cannot wait that long?”
“No,” Darcy replied, meeting the older gentleman’s gaze directly. He was momentarily silenced when he realized that he was looking into an almost perfect match of Elizabeth’s eyes. Still, he forced himself to think of Georgiana; if he did not marry before Lady Catherine and Lord Matlock made a formal complaint, he would lose her. “No, I cannot wait.”
“I see. You would take from me my only comfort…”
When Bennet’s voice broke, Darcy could only offer a quiet, “Sir…”
“Why can you not wait? If this were any of my other daughters, I might assume the very worst reason was the cause of this short engagement, but it is a testament to Elizabeth—not to you, young man, but to Elizabeth’s good sense and consideration—that I will not make such an assumption.”
Difficult as it was, Darcy let the insult pass. “Suffice it to say that my family will not approve of my choice, and I should like to marry your daughter before they launch any objections.”
“So you would marry her in secret and then bring her into an unwelcome family. You are making a very fine case for yourself, Darcy.”
Too weary now to feel anger, he said only, “Elizabeth understands and accepts the situation.”
“Elizabeth does, does she? Of course she does.” Bennet sighed. “She must love you, then, for she only puts up with this sort of nonsense from those she loves. I think I am living—or dying—proof of that.”
Darcy rubbed at his temples; whatever he did, he was bound to make someone unhappy.
“My intent,” he said when he could think of nothing else to say, “is not to cause you pain.”
“No, I do not think it is. But you do intend to please yourself above all others.”
“You are indeed qualified to recognize the selfishness of others,” Darcy said, gripping the arms of his chair.
“You would dare judge me?” Bennet retorted, his face reddening. “Do you have any idea how difficult it has been for me—”
“I know precisely how difficult it has been for your daughter.”
Bennet gaped at him for a long moment before closing his eyes. “Do you not think,” he said, “that I curse myself daily for the pain I have caused her?”
The older man’s misery demolished any sense of righteousness that Darcy had felt with his line of attack. Still, he could not stop himself from saying, in a gentler tone, “You must tell the rest of your family, Sir—and soon. It is not right to make Elizabeth keep your secret.”
Opening his eyes, Bennet snorted. “Again with the advice. I wonder if my daughter knows what a paragon of virtue she has accepted?”
Darcy opened his mouth to protest, but Bennet waved his hand.
“Do not make this more difficult than it already is. Even before I grew sick, I lived in dread of this moment, when I would have to give up my claim on her. That it has to happen now…”
Listening to the older man’s labored breathing, Darcy could not help but fear that each word he had spoken this afternoon had been one more nail in the man’s coffin.
“Bring my daughter to me,” Bennet said, breaking the silence with a raspy voice. “I would like to congratulate her personally.”
*
He discovered her in the entrance hall; she was sitting halfway up the staircase, her elbows on her knees, her chin propped on her hands. When he spotted the tips of her slippers peeking out from beneath the hem of her dress, he felt a sense of buoyancy that belied the unhappiness of their situation.
He waited for her to look up at his approach, but she kept her eyes fixed on the window in front of her. Her cheeks were pale, and her lips were set in a rigid line; she looked much as he had felt during the interview with her father.
“Excuse me,” he said, coming to stand at the base of the steps. “I am searching for a the parlor. Perhaps you could direct me?”
She managed a weak smile. “I would not advise going to the parlor at this time. I have it on good authority that there are hostile forces lying in wait.”
“Ah. Have you retreated to the stairwell to plan your surrender?”
”Oh no, the stairwell is a very fine place to stage a rally, Sir.”
“And will you be leading the charge, Lieutenant Elizabeth?”
Her smile grew. “It is Colonel, and yes.”
“Then I have no doubt of victory.”
“As you can see, I have been reading military history. I never thought it would prove useful for domestic situations, but then, I have been told that young ladies should improve their minds through extensive reading.”
“That is very wise advice.”
She laughed, but it was a quick and shallow sound. Then she bit her lip. “My father…Did he refuse us?”
Her use of the word “us” caused him both pain and pleasure. “I do not know that he could ever refuse you, Elizabeth.” Darcy paused, hoping to find the right words. “However, there have been…difficulties.”
Wrapping her arms about her knees, she said, “Difficulties? Oh, surely not!”
He knew, by the arch tone of her voice, that she was attempting to lead them away from the subjects they needed to discuss. He also knew, by the surge of warmth in his chest, that he would allow himself to be led. “It is surprising, I know.”
“Do you mean to say,” she said, raising her eyes to his, “that he did not shout with joy and embrace you as the son he had always longed for?”
Climbing the stairs until he stood two steps below her, he held out his hand. “Oddly enough, he did not.”
“How strange,” she said, giving her hand to him. “Well, I do believe I warned you about the insensibility of this arrangement.”
“Hmm,” he murmured, pulling her to her feet. She swayed, and so he placed his other hand on her waist—to steady her, of course. “I believe I was the one to use that word.”
She leaned forward, ever so slightly. “I think we both used the word.”
“Far too many times,” he said, tugging his hand from hers so that he could brush his fingers across the nape of her neck. Then he made the mistake of meeting her eyes. They were as beautiful as ever—perhaps more so, for the sunlight filtering in from the tall windows behind him illuminated the golden specks in her irises—but they also reminded him of Bennet.
“I have badly hurt your father,” he admitted, dropping his hands.
She blinked. “You have? But how? Is he unwell?”
She had already taken two steps down the stairs before he was able to stop her. “He is as well as can be expected. But he is disappointed by the date of our wedding.”
She looked back at him. “The date? And just when is our wedding supposed to occur?”
He shook his head. “I know that I have not yet discussed the matter with you, but when your father inquired, I told him that our marriage would need to take place very soon, before Christmas. But he does not want to be without you when he…”
“Oh.” Her eyes fluttered closed. “Oh.”
“I cannot possibly ask you to place my well being above your father’s,” he said, wondering now how he could have ever thought otherwise.
Opening her eyes, she sighed. “And I could not ask you to place my well being above your sister’s. For Miss Darcy’s sake, we must marry quickly, but…” She glanced up at him with a beseeching gaze. “To leave him now…I do not think I could do that. Must we remove to Pemberley immediately after we marry?”
“No, but even London,” he said, “might be too far for you to arrive at his side when the time comes.”
She was silent for a long moment before asking, “Could we not stay here?”
/> “Here?” Darcy tried to keep from gaping. “At Longbourn?”
“Goodness, no! I cannot imagine you sleeping in…” She blushed. “I meant Hertfordshire. Could we not remain in Hertfordshire after we marry?”
“You are proposing that I lease a house in the neighborhood?”
“It will be a great expense to you.”
He waved away this concern. “A house in the neighborhood is a possibility.”
“Do you think so?” She released a long breath.
“It would not be a perfect solution,” he warned. “I will need to be in London for much of the Season—especially if Lord Matlock brings a formal complaint against me. I suppose I could travel between here and there when needed.”
“Another added expense,” she said, sighing. “I feel as if I have no right to suggest it.”
“No right? You are still planning on becoming my wife, are you not?”
She raised her brows. “If you still want me.”
He descended the two stairs that separated them. “I did not think there was a doubt about that.”
“You have forgotten our earlier conversations,” she said, placing a hesitant hand on his arm. “You have reservations, remember, and I am coy. Doubt will play second fiddle only to wit during our courtship.”
“I see.” He reached out and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “You want reassurance.”
She shook her head. “I wanted reassurance an hour ago. Now, I would be content with a kiss.”
“Then you will have to remain discontented, young lady!”
At the sound of Bennet’s voice, Darcy stepped away from Elizabeth so quickly that he had to grab hold of the banister.
“I thought,” Bennet said, leaning against his cane at the bottom of the staircase, “that I had asked you to bring her to me so that I might be the one to congratulate her personally?”
Darcy flushed.
“Papa,” Elizabeth said, hurrying down the steps, “you must understand that—”
“Oh, I saw enough to understand. Wait for me in my study, Elizabeth.”
She glanced back at him and made a little face before doing as she had been told.
Sighing, Darcy descended the staircase. “Sir, I apologize.”
“Whatever for?” Bennet asked. “For offering to remain in Hertfordshire or for trying to kiss my daughter? I am grateful for the first and, while I do not like the second, suppose that I must accept that a man should be allowed to show affection to his future wife.”
“How long were you standing here?”
With great effort, Bennet raised his free hand and grasped Darcy’s shoulder. “Long enough to know that you more than care for her, after all.”
Chapter Twelve
It was not until the next morning that anyone at Longbourn had cause to remember Mr. Collins; their forgetfulness might have continued into the afternoon had they not received word from Sir William Lucas’s man that their cousin was resting comfortably at Lucas Lodge after spraining his ankle the previous evening.
“How does a man sprain his ankle while taking tea?” Mr. Bennet asked, not bothering to conceal his smile. “His wrist, I could perhaps see, for my cousin does seem too fond of stirring sugar into his tea. But his ankle?”
The servant, who stood awkwardly at the door of Mr. Bennet’s study (Sir William Lucas always spoke to his servants in the hallway), seemed to have no idea how to respond to such a question.
Neither did Elizabeth, though she knew her father well enough to recognize the rhetorical nature of the inquiry. She felt she should have been more concerned about her cousin’s welfare—or at the very least, more amused (for although she did not know the precise cause of his injury, she felt certain that some ridiculous behavior on Mr. Collins’ part was at the root of it). Yet Elizabeth was too preoccupied with a sudden and terrible realization: her cousin would undoubtedly write to Lady Catherine the moment he heard of Elizabeth’s engagement to Mr. Darcy.
“Gus,” Elizabeth said, remembering the servant from her many visits with Charlotte, “have you spoken with anyone else in the household this morning?”
The young man shifted his weight from foot to foot, keeping his eyes downcast as he did so. “Lady Lucas asked me to come here directly, Miss, so that you didn’t worry about your cousin. I’m only glad to find someone in the family awake so early in the morning. I would’ve come last evening, but it was very late by the time the doctor had left.”
“I am surprised Sir William did not offer his carriage,” Elizabeth said.
“Oh, he did, Miss, but Mr. Collins swooned when he tried to make his way from the house to the carriage. After that, her ladyship felt it best that rest at the house.”
“I should say so,” Mr. Bennet said. “Well, do tell Lady Lucas that we are grateful for her hospitality, and assure Mr. Collins that he need not hurry back to Longbourn on our account.”
Elizabeth did not know whether to be appalled or grateful that no one in her family had given Mr. Collins a moment’s thought last evening. She supposed they might be excused, for it was unprecedented that not one but two suitors were invited to dine with the family. With little time to prepare for the meal, the household had been in an uproar; this frenzied feeling did not die away when the food was served. If anything, the tension grew with each course, for although there was a universal feeling of joy at the attendance of Mr. Bingley, the party was quite divided over Mr. Darcy’s presence. Elizabeth had to admit that her betrothed’s behavior—he was a stiff and silent as he had ever been—did little to endear him to those who wished him elsewhere.
After he had dismissed the servant, Mr. Bennet turned to his daughter, who was pouring a fresh cup of tea for them both. “That was an odd question you asked, and Gus seemed rather unwilling to provide a direct answer.”
“I have heard it said that Gus is rather fond of Sarah.”
“Your maid?” Mr. Bennet laughed. “It seems that love is inescapable these days. I was not aware that you concerned yourself with our servants’ private affairs.”
Elizabeth put down her cup. “Normally I would not. However, I have little doubt that Gus has already spoken with Sarah, who must have told him of all that has occurred here, which Gus will then relate to the other servants at Lucas Lodge. Lady Lucas is certain to know of my engagement before breakfast, at which time she will complain of it to anyone who will listen, and if Mr. Collins has woken from his swooning fit, he will no doubt be a receptive audience.”
“At times,” Mr. Bennet said, eyebrows raised, “I forget that you are in any way related to your mother. This is not one of those moments. Why should you care what Mr. Collins or Lady Lucas think? You have the approval—albeit reluctant approval—of your parents.”
“You may remember,” Elizabeth began, not sure that she should speak of it at all, “that Mr. Collins’ beloved patroness is Mr. Darcy’s aunt?”
“Ah. I begin to see the trouble. Mr. Darcy did admit to the likelihood of his own family’s disapproval—almost in the same breath that he asked me to approve, I might add.”
Thinking of both his proposals to her, when he had provided nearly as many reasons to reject him as he had inducements to accept, Elizabeth could not help but smile. “He is honest to a fault.”
“Oh, most definitely. He also made certain to point out my selfish behavior in burdening you with the secret of my illness.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened, not so much in surprise (having heard Darcy catalogue her own faults, she had no difficulty imagining him listing her father’s, as well) as in bemusement. “I do not know whom to defend first: you, for you were doing what you thought best, or Mr. Darcy, who was acting from the same impulse.”
“Perhaps it is best that you defend neither of us. It is one of the joys of marriage, my dear, to be caught between one’s family and one’s spouse. I say this, of course, based on your mother’s experience, as my own family, until the much anticipated return of Mr. Collins, spared me such a dilemma by
dying young. Continuing this tradition is, I suppose, my gift to you,” he added with a pained smile.
“That is twice,” Elizabeth said, trying to keep the wobble out of her voice, “that you have brought up your illness in a matter of minutes.” She reached for his hand, which he gave quite willingly. “You are troubled.”
“Troubled?” Her father attempted to laugh. “Why should I be troubled? Certainly not because my favorite daughter, the one who has given me more happiness than any other person I have known, is, in a matter of weeks, deserting me for a man she barely knows?”
“Papa…”
“You are, of course, in the early stages of affection, when your beloved’s faults seem as endearing as his strengths. I regret that I will not see you return home some Christmas or Easter, no longer enthralled by him as much as annoyed with his officious tendencies and exasperated by his unwillingness to make polite chitchat with his silly mother-in-law.”
Elizabeth felt her chest constrict.
“Better yet,” he continued, his voice breaking, “I should like to see you sitting down to morning tea with your daughter. I should like to see her sit across from you as you attempt to explain why, despite the example you yourself have set for her, she really should wait to marry that young man she has her heart set on.” Her father closed his eyes. “I would even be willing to settle for something a bit more prosaic, perhaps you holding my grandson in your arms…”
Trying and failing to blink back her tears, Elizabeth spoke in a quick, high voice: “And perhaps you will see such a scene! You do not seem so ill, only fatigued; I cannot help but think the physician has made an error. Think what an amusing tale this will be someday, that you believed you were dying when you were actually quite well!”
“I coughed up a good amount of blood this morning,” her father said, staring down at their intertwined fingers. “It was a struggle to come downstairs, and I have not eaten anything substantial in the last two days.”
This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 15