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Throughout the conversation, Elizabeth remained unusually quiet. She sat near the window, her hands clasped in her lap, her expression composed but distant. Her thoughts had drifted far from the familiar rhythm of chatter and speculation that filled the room.

One thousand pounds. The sum circled her mind like a storm cloud at the edge of vision.

The marriage portions were untouchable. Gardiner’s help, though well-intended, would not come soon enough.

Her father had made a mistake—he had admitted as much—and now the burden fell to her to find a solution before their situation unraveled beyond repair.

She heard Jane’s voice continuing with patient grace, her mother’s frequent interruptions, Lydia’s laughter, and Mary’s pointed remarks—but they sounded distant, as though she were listening through glass.

Tomorrow , she thought. Or tonight, if there is time .

She glanced at the clock and wondered how long it would be before her father returned.

***

Mr. Bennet returned just as Mrs. Hill declared that dinner was to be served.

He entered quietly, looking fatigued and abstracted, and offered only a faint smile to the assembled family.

“You will forgive me if I beg to be spared conversation for the duration of dinner,” he said, directing the comment to his wife, who had opened her mouth in ready inquiry.

“A long ride has done little to sharpen my wit.”

He inquired briefly after the Lucas visit, and Jane’s gentle reply, along with Elizabeth’s silent nod, seemed enough to content him.

The meal passed peacefully, though it bore the usual disturbances—Lydia’s hiccups and Kitty’s theatrical throat-clearing, both clearly meant to provoke notice.

Elizabeth remained quiet, her thoughts turning again and again to the evening ahead.

When dinner had concluded and the younger girls gone up to their rooms, Elizabeth waited for the moment she had rehearsed. Mrs. Bennet had taken to her needlework and was now loudly lamenting a missing thimble. Elizabeth rose and, without fanfare, crossed the hall to her father’s study.

“Papa,” she said softly from the doorway, “may I speak with you?”

Mr. Bennet looked up from his writing desk, surprise flickering across his face. “Certainly, Lizzy. Though I must caution you, I am in no condition to solve riddles or compose verses.”

“This is neither,” she replied. She closed the door gently behind her.

Mr. Bennet gestured for her to sit, and she took the chair opposite him, folding her hands in her lap. He waited, his face unreadable.

“It concerns our family, Papa,” she began. “And our security.”

He raised his brows but said nothing.

“I know,” she continued carefully, “that you have been in correspondence with Mr. Blunt.”

Mr. Bennet was still. His gaze sharpened, and his next words were quiet. “I see. So that is how it is.”

Elizabeth hesitated, then added, “He wrote to you, and a copy was sent to Uncle Phillips. Mr. Blunt also informed me of the situation. I will not pretend I stumbled upon it by accident—I suspected something was wrong, and some time ago I asked him to send me a letter whenever something important arose, especially if you were reluctant to reply clearly. It would be strange to keep something like this from me, Papa. Stranger still for the two of us to pretend with each other.”

Mr. Bennet looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, his hands clasped tightly together.

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “it is a father’s instinct to protect his children from what he cannot fix.

But you—you have never been one to remain in the dark simply because it is comfortable.

” He exhaled and shook his head. “I am ashamed, Lizzy. Not only of the mistake, but of how long I tried to pretend it would vanish if I ignored it. And I have been a fool to think you would not see through me.”

He looked at her with a mixture of pride and pain. “You are right. It would be stranger still for us to lie to each other. You have always spoken to me plainly, even when it cost you something. I owe you no less in return.”

Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he looked older—tired in a way Elizabeth had never seen.

“I am not surprised,” he said. “You have always seen more than you were meant to.”

She waited. He looked down at his hands, clasped loosely together.

“The sum is real,” he said. “One thousand pounds, and due in less than a month. If it goes unpaid, the creditors will act—and the cost will fall on you girls, not just on me.”

Elizabeth swallowed. “There must be something that can be done.”

“I have done what I could,” he said. “I set aside dowries for you all twenty years ago. That money is in trust. No one can touch it—not me, not the court. I protected that, at least.” He smiled faintly, but it vanished almost at once.

“But the rest—there was more, long ago. I had put away a sum for emergencies. Then Edward Gardiner—your uncle—ran into difficulties. His shipping business suffered losses. He has children of his own, and I could not stand by. I sent him ￡800. Quietly.”

Elizabeth’s throat tightened. “And the rest?”

“I tried to recover what I gave. That was the mistake,” he said, with quiet bitterness.

“I borrowed a little. I risked more. I thought I could win it back without troubling anyone. Now, between Edward’s promised ￡150 and what I have managed to raise from a handful of friends—Everett, Partridge, and one or two others—I have gathered ￡420. It is hardly enough.”

She looked at him—truly looked—and saw not the indolent observer of drawing room follies, but a man worn thin by regret.

“There is one way,” she said gently. “If I were married—respectably, and soon—it might give you standing to ask for the remainder. To appeal to someone who would have a reason to support the family.”

Mr. Bennet stiffened. “What man?”

Elizabeth took a breath. “Mr. Whitmore.”

He stared at her.

“I refused his dance at the ball,” she continued, “but he is a widower. Steady, respectable. Not unkind. If I encouraged him—”

“No.” Mr. Bennet’s voice was firm, more so than she had heard in weeks. “No, Lizzy. I will not have it.”

“It would be my choice,” she said softly. “A sacrifice, perhaps—but a useful one. You have always said you admired clarity of mind.”

“I do,” he said. “And I admire you, Lizzy. Too much to let you offer your future for the sake of my failure.” He stood, walked a few steps, then turned back.

“You are not to settle because your father misjudged a hand of cards. I have made mistakes—yes. And perhaps I shall pay for them with discomfort, even disgrace. But I will not pay for them with you.”

Elizabeth rose as well, her eyes bright with feeling.

“You must see,” she said quietly, “I would do it gladly if it meant securing Jane’s peace, Mary’s kind smiles, Kitty’s comfort, and Lydia’s future.”

“I know,” he said. “And that is what wounds me most. That I could have raised a daughter who loves me so well she would ruin herself to save us. That, Lizzy, is the cruelest part of this reckoning.”

There was silence.

Then he stepped toward her, and very gently, took her hand.

“I am your father,” Mr. Bennet said. “I am meant to carry your burdens—not place mine upon your back.”

“And I am your daughter, Papa,” she whispered, “which is why I cannot stand by while you sink.”

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Mr. Bennet let go of her hand and sighed.

“Let me try once more,” he said. “If I cannot secure the rest myself... then we will speak again.”

She nodded. “Very well, Papa.”

He smiled—wearily, but with affection. “You are too good for this world, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth turned toward the door, her voice low but steady. “No, Papa. Just good enough for this family.”

She left the study without another word, but once the door closed behind her and she stepped into the dim hallway, the composure she had fought to maintain gave way.

Her shoulders trembled, and silent tears slid down her cheeks—tears not of weakness, but of the weight of the choice she had been ready to make.

She was still determined, if it came to it.

But in that moment, alone in the quiet corridor of her home, she allowed herself the grief of knowing just how much her resolution might have cost her.