Shortly after that party at Lucas Lodge Jane received an invitation to spend the day with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. Elizabeth could only smile at the way that the letter had been written, “A whole day’s tete-a-tete between two women can never end without a quarrel.”
The claim seemed mostly true.
At least whenever Bennet daughters were all forced together due to inclement weather, inevitably quarrels arose. Elizabeth, however, had the right to retreat to Mr. Bennet’s library to escape the commotion, a right which he gave to neither his wife nor to any of his daughters.
Jane was sent off on horseback into the cloudy sky, which soon turned into pouring rain.
Though she had a little worry for the eldest daughter of the house, Elizabeth thought little about Jane for the rest of the evening. She enjoyed the view of the rain from Mr. Bennet’s library, watching it soak the trees, and the garden swing set out in the yard beneath Mr. Bennet’s window.
They spent their daily thirty minutes of conversation in Greek, for the sake of maintaining the proficiency that Mr. Bennet treasured, and she then turned to a novel in English. However, upon completing this gothic romance, Elizabeth decided that it had been too long: She took Papa’s Iliad from the shelf, for the first time in two years, and began to read.
Surprisingly she found herself wholly engaged.
Both the effort to read in Greek, which was always slower than English, and the tale of foolish men, wrecking ruin upon themselves and the women around them, enchanted her.
Achilles’ baneful wrath resound, O Goddess, that imposed infinite sorrows on the Greeks, and many brave souls loosed from breasts heroic; sent them far to that invisible cave that no light comforts; and their limbs to dogs and vultures gave.
The evening brought no return of Jane, but the morning brought news: She was ill, she begged them not to worry, and she had been given leave by her dear friends Caroline and Louisa to rest in their house for however long it would take for her to recover.
This letter was sweet nectar to Mrs. Bennet’s soul.
Her scheme of sending Jane off into the rain by horse had been repaid manyfold. To have Jane resident as an invalid in Mr. Bingley’s house for a period of days! What a joy!
However, after some consideration Mrs. Bennet determined it would be best to send a nurse to see after Jane’s health, and to provide, as Mr. Bennet would say, an agent in situ to ensure that the interests of the Bennet family were well managed.
That is to say, to make sure that there was a person who would ensure that Mr. Bingley was regularly given every information that might keep his mind upon Jane, and further to ensure that any respectable, or even impossible to respect opportunity to put the master of the house in close contact with the invalid was taken—all tasks which Mrs. Bennet, though sanguine and believing them to be amenable to all her wishes, did not wish to leave to that gentleman’s own sisters.
“Lizzy, you had best walk over,” Mrs. Bennet said as soon as she returned Jane’s note to the silver tray. “And also, to discover if there is any chance that Mr. Darcy has a thought of any of us. I do not think so—he seldom talks to anyone, and certainly not to any of us —but Mr. Bingley would be nothing to him . If I could catch him for one of the girls, he would be as good as a Lord.”
“I do not think,” said Mr. Bennet putting down his knife and fork, and pushing the sausage and eggs away, “that this is the place for Lizzy. If Jane needs a nursemaid, which I very much doubt, it would be best that one of her sisters be sent.”
Mrs. Bennet replied immediately, “Nonsense, imagine Lydia serving at an invalid’s bedside! Nothing can be more ridiculous.”
“That does not speak well to your rearing of the child. Nor mine,” Mr. Bennet replied acerbically. “But I dare say neither Kitty nor Mary would make such a ridiculous picture.”
“Nonsense, I say. There is no one so appropriate as Lizzy, for what else does she have to do? And we are so very kind to her, and we give her so very much. There could be nothing more appropriate than her showing her gratitude and repaying us a little for all the troubles that we take with her, and all the expenses that we run on her account. You do not keep such close track of the household accounts, but I assure you that Lizzy is dreadful expensive.”
“On the contrary,” Mr. Bennet replied, “I assure you that I do pay attention to all of the household accounts, and I think I have a much better notion of what our dreadful expenses are than you.”
This not being a satisfactory reply for Mrs. Bennet, she returned to the chief point. “Mary would not serve at all. She would sermonize them all. That would not promote Jane’s interest. And Kitty does not have the application. It had best be Lizzy.”
“What interest would I fail to promote?” Mary asked. “I can sit by her bedside, read to her, risk my own infection, and provide every care that my dear sister needs.”
“Yes, but you must make sure that Bingley hears of her.”
“He is hardly likely not to, and I can promise,” Mary added, “to give him a report of her health every time I see him.”
“You would add nothing to it. Lizzy, you understand what I mean? You must say so much as will stoke his anxiety, even when there is none to be felt. And then when he sees Jane recovered and blooming, it will make the stronger effect. Oh, I wish I could go myself, but I have so many matters of importance to see to here .”
Mr. Bennet perked up and said with a smile, “Yes, my dear, I dare say it would be best if you went.”
“You are always so silly,” Mrs. Bennet replied. “But we have the dinner with Sir William and the Mr. Gould tomorrow. And since Sally left, I must find her replacement. And the young people hardly could wish an ancient woman to be hanging about them.”
“As much as it pains me to disagree with you,” Mr. Bennet replied, “You are yet a charming young creature, in the fullness of her bloom.”
“Ah, my dear Mr. Bennet.” Mrs. Bennet flushed, and she looked both pleased, and still very pretty. Elizabeth had often heard that when Mrs. Bennet had first come out, that she had been the equal—or maybe superior—to Jane. Time had left her more of that beauty than was usual in women with four daughters all grown.
When Mr. Bennet directly asked Elizabeth if she would not much rather stay home, and Elizabeth was forced to confess that even though sitting at Jane’s sickbed would be a task, she would much rather go. A change to Netherfield promised interest, difference, and closeness to Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth of course did not admit her interest in Mr. Darcy to Mr. Bennet. But the notion that she might like a change of scene and a vacation of some days from Mrs. Bennet was not difficult for the gentleman to understand.
Thus Mr. Bennet sighed and told Elizabeth that in an hour the carriage would be called for her, and that further he wished to speak with her in private before she departed.
His plan to have her sent with the carriage was instantly opposed by both Elizabeth—who loved long walks, and by Mrs. Bennet, who thought it was raising the consequence of the girl to a ridiculous degree.
Mr. Bennet replied, “Elizabeth is a gentlewoman of the house. If she is to be sent as a nursemaid, I will not have them think that she is to be treated in any way differently from how one of my daughters would be treated. Elizabeth is under my protection. She lives under my roof, and I wish that to be well understood.”
“My dear Mr. Bennet, heavens, that is such a ridiculous way to raise her. Miss Lizzy will soon start to think too much of herself,” replied his lady, “And when you are often so intent on matters of economy. These fifteen years you have refused to let us have more than three footmen, and you would never allow me to hire an actual Frenchman for our cook. Is there not work for the horses on the farm today?”
“That is at present a matter of indifference to me. She will go by carriage, or she will not go at all.”
Soon after, Elizabeth followed Mr. Bennet to the familiar library.
All the walls were covered by bookcases; the tables were piled high with journals and books filled with plates. A stoppered bottle of port sat on Mr. Bennet’s desk, and Elizabeth’s fine, though by now well used, writing desk, which had been a gift for her fifteenth birthday stood also facing the window, where there used to be a sofa.
A pair of dueling pistols hung above the mantlepiece in their display frame. Once in response to a story in the newspaper that he had read, Mr. Bennet exclaimed that he did not approve of dueling, and that he would rather that juries treated it as murder. It was murder, not a casual game between gentlemen.
Elizabeth had asked him why he kept a pair of dueling pistols if he thought so negatively of dueling.
Mr. Bennet had paused for a while, looked at her thoughtfully, and then at the pistols. He at last said, “Not because I shall ever challenge anyone to a duel or even accept such a challenge. But a good gun… you never know when it is useful to have a gun.”
It was in fact after this that Mr. Bennet had started to take Elizabeth with him when he went shooting pheasants, and he’d bought her a muff pistol, and encouraged her to keep it in her reticule or dress pocket whenever she took her long walks. Though it was kept unloaded in the bag, as Mr. Bennet thought that the danger of accidental discharges should always be treated with a great respect, as a friend of his in university had been killed by one.
Elizabeth had an excellent eye when shooting, and after she’d gotten sufficient practice, she hit her bird far more consistently than Mr. Bennet himself did.
Shooting was in fact the only gentlemanly sport that Mr. Bennet really enjoyed, not having the temperament for leaping fences while chasing foxes, nor for pugilism or fencing. He was decent, but not good with billiards.
But he liked to shoot, and he still usually hit his bird, though he complained that his eyes were not so good as they were when younger. Naturally then he would teach Elizabeth when he gained the notion to do so.
But he had not taught this to any of his daughters. If Mr. Bennet really thought that it was a good thing to always have a gun available, why had he only considered it important for her and not for his daughters?
She suspected, though, that he would have taught them all to shoot if not for the fuss that Mrs. Bennet would have made.
Being an excellent shot was, in fact, somewhat unladylike.
While waiting for Mr. Bennet to tell her whatever he wished to say before she went to Netherfield, Elizabeth studied the titles of the books upon Mr. Bennet’s desk. De Officiis . Metamorphoses. A volume from Gibbon’s work on the fall of the Roman Empire, a collection of the Spectator , and ? στορ?αι by Herodotus.
At last Mr. Bennet said, “You are determined then to go to Netherfield?”
“Why such seriousness?—I very much doubt that Jane’s illness is both serious and catching.”
Mr. Bennet smiled and waved that away. “That is not what concerns me . No, I am thinking about a completely different matter. Ah, well. You are a sensible girl. Not so silly as most—or if you are so silly, you have some cleverness to go with it. Be cautious around Mr. Darcy.”
“What?” That was not at all what Elizabeth had anticipated. “Whatever do you mean?”
He groaned and pulled his spectacles off. He pressed a hand against his face. “Lizzy, I do not mean to… He looks at you with a great deal of admiration. You are understood to be a poor relation, my ward. It is possible he might wish to convince you to, ah…”
Mr. Bennet sighed instead of continuing. He looked exceedingly uncomfortable.
Despite the cleverness that Mr. Bennet attributed to her, and despite the fact that she had wondered the same thing herself, it took Elizabeth a full half minute to decipher what he hinted towards, so astonishing was this suggestion coming from this quarter.
“Oh, no, no, no. I do not think you have any need to worry upon that score,” Elizabeth said at last. “I do not think he is the sort of man who would take advantage of a servant girl, or someone otherwise vulnerable. And even if he were—that is why you insist upon me going by carriage?”
Mr. Bennet’s serious expression was the whole answer.
“I have nothing to fear from Mr. Darcy.” Or hope .
In truth, Mr. Darcy could be nothing but an interesting object for her to observe.
After giving her a hard stare, he said, “No?”
“No?” was Elizabeth’s response.
He sighed. “Just keep your senses about you.”
This was the most exceedingly awkward conversation of Elizabeth’s whole life.
She was quite surprised both by Mr. Bennet suspecting Mr. Darcy, and by his apparent belief that he needed to warn her . There was nothing that Elizabeth could think of in her past behavior that would give Mr. Bennet just cause to suspect her of being the sort of person who would engage in any form of immorality.
Suddenly, and without considering what might be the consequences of saying so much, Elizabeth said, “It is because of my mother’s sins that you doubt me, is it not?”
Mr. Bennet looked far graver than before.
“I know what she did,” Elizabeth said when the silence became terrible. “You do not need to pretend that I do not know the truth.”
“You remember that much?” Mr. Bennet sighed. “You were so very young, and you have never spoken of this. But I do not see why you would have. So, you remember that? I suppose that is part of why. That your mother had such a susceptibility suggests that you have the potential to behave in a like manner in a like situation. But your mother had been placed in an unpleasant situation, and when I heard of her actions, I was saddened to know of her fall, but not shocked.”
It was true.
Underneath her certainty she had still hoped that she had misunderstood something. But it was true. She was the product of an unsanctified union. Worse, much worse in fact, the way that Mr. Bennet had said “when I heard of her actions” dashed Elizabeth’s other forlorn hope—that she was secretly his daughter in truth.
Mr. Bennet took and pressed her hand. “Do not feel it so strongly. Your mother was in fundamentals a good woman. And I do not even think that was the greatest of her mistakes.”
He then squeezed her around the shoulders and added slowly, “You are young. You have not experienced the madness which passion can drive a man to, especially when they have some other cause for unhappiness.”
“I have no cause for unhappiness.”
Mr. Bennet studied her. “I sometimes think that I have made mistakes of a most serious nature in your care.”
“No, no. Never.”
“Mrs. Bennet, she has never treated you as she ought. I did not wish to see anything special made of you. Anything notable. You were simply to be a poor relation.”
“I have always been filled with gratitude. To you, and to Mrs. Bennet.”
Mr. Bennet grimaced. “You need not dissemble. You spend so much time with me because you dislike being with Mrs. Bennet without my presence. And I have seen enough to know that she is more unkind, more dismissive and more... She certainly thinks that you are only a poor, unwanted relation.”
“I have never, never since my mother told me that you would were a kind man who would care for me felt unwanted.”
This struck Mr. Bennet. “My dear child. My dear, dear child—” He took off his glasses, and Elizabeth thought he might have wiped at tears. “At least I have not failed in that. You remember when Amelia said that? Do you remember much of that day?”
“I remember my mother dying. I remember her shouting nonsense, and I remember sobbing. I did not wish to believe that she was dead. There was a long carriage ride, but I do not know if that was when you took me to Longbourn, or carriage from before when you took me to Longbourn, or carriage from before.”
Mr. Bennet did not say anything for a while. He stayed next to her. He also had the past before his mind’s eye.
After a few minutes, Elizabeth said, “I have so much gratitude to you for taking me in.”
“Ah, dear child. Dear, dear child.” Mr. Bennet had a serious mien, and she could tell that his usually bright spirits were oppressed. “You do not see it now, but I dare say that one day you will understand, you will look upon the irregularities of your childhood, and the way that I allowed you to be shunted to the side, into obscurity—the ways I did not fight Mrs. Bennet for your sake so often as I ought to have. No, not that. The way I did not make Mrs. Bennet to treat you as she ought to have, as another daughter—you will then agree that I made many mistakes.”
“I am not Mrs. Bennet’s daughter, why would I expect her to treat me as such.”
The cause for surprise was that Mr. Bennet did treat her as his own daughter.
“It always is this way with the management of children—and in many other matters.” Mr. Bennet looked out at the sunny morning that was slowly drying the puddles from yesterday’s rain. “One acts prudently to avoid a clear danger and then he finds himself plunged into the opposite error. In the rest of it, I can accept that we did as best we could, but I only wish that I had gone to the effort to make Mrs. Bennet to treat you as her own child.”
“I have been happy, I promise.”
“You have not a character suited for unhappiness. You will find a way to be happy, even in the worst of situations.” Mr. Bennet then muttered so quietly that Elizabeth was not wholly sure that she heard him. “Much as your mother.”
“Please, tell me something about my mother…and who was my father? My people? I know so little.”
Mr. Bennet blinked several times. He sat straighter. His usual manners returned. “You remember so much, but not who your father was?”
“Should I? I do not. I think I remember Mama saying that he was no one.”
The only man before Mr. Bennet that she remembered was the man one who had beaten her. That man had been familiar. She had been shocked to feel his fists on her. She had not known what she had done wrong. He had been present in other extremely early memories. Fragments of living somewhere before.
That man always looked at her with a cold frown.
He could not have been her father. That made no sense.
“That is good,” Mr. Bennet said after some thought. “I do not want you to know yet. It is best—”
“I want to know!”
The shout shocked Elizabeth as much as Mr. Bennet. “I deserve to know.”
“Not yet. Oh, Lizzy, I wish I could answer you. In time.” Mr. Bennet sighed. “You know as much as you ought at present. I shall tell you all when you reach your majority—” He rubbed at his face. “I see your unhappy expression. I would not enjoy being ignorant either. But this is as it must be.”
“Why? Why? They belong to me. I belong to this knowledge. I already know the worst of it. Why not tell me everything?” Elizabeth felt strange anger towards Mr. Bennet, the man who she considered in her heart as her true father. “Why not? ”
“This is one of those unfortunate circumstances,” Mr. Bennet said, oddly pleased by her anger, “where to reveal the cause for which a secret is hidden is the same as revealing the secret.”
“You like secrets too much.”
Mr. Bennet smiled. “I do; I truly do. But Elizabeth, I beg you to believe me that I do not keep this one for my own amusement. But for another ten months, I shall continue to act as I think best.”
“I see.” Elizabeth’s tone of voice was cold. And she rose. “If there is nothing else that you are unable to tell me, I will pack my clothes quickly before going to Miss Bennet’s side.”
“Wait.” Mr. Bennet stood—she so wished he was her real Papa. “This reminded me. I might give you something you have wished for before. I thought it might be a gift for your birthday, but I forgot about the idea after I determined on that gilt set of Radcliffe’s novels.”
He went to his desk, and as he worked at the lock to one of the cabinets, he said, “Out of all my children you have by far the greatest cause for anger at me.”
Mr. Bennet pulled forth the locket .
The only image Elizabeth had of her mother. She remembered that she had stared at it for hours in this room when younger. Mr. Bennet would only allow her to look at it when he was present, and he had refused all the begging of a young girl to be able to keep it as an ornament that would be her own .
She had thought that quite unjust at the time. But since then, Elizabeth only remembered to ask to look at the locket a few times a year, usually on the anniversary of her mother’s death.
Before handing it to her, Mr. Bennet flipped the locket open. He stared at her mother’s image.
Once more Elizabeth sensed that her father was lost in the mists of time. Memory, not reality.
Then Mr. Bennet shook himself, closed the silver piece, and he held it out to her. “Elizabeth, do not show the image around. But it is yours. I ought to have given this to you many years ago. It was only when you were a young child that I was unable to depend upon your word and good sense in such a matter. And the locket itself is not so distinctive that I have any fear of it being remembered after so many years.”
“ Why ?”
“I shall tell you all,” Mr. Bennet replied smiling, “when you reach your twenty-first birthday. I already said so much. Lizzy, my dear, you are much, much too young to have difficulties with your memory.”
Elizabeth understood Mr. Bennet’s tone as he teased her in this way was both a way of attempting to make the matter seem less serious and of mending matters.
She smiled at him. “I do promise. I’ll respect my secrets. I’ll show this picture to no one else.”
“You may feel free to criticize me for my excess of caution, and to tell me how you certainly, at this age, would not have said anything that ought not be said, if you had known all the details. But now off. Off. I know you. You hope for a chance to ransack Netherfield’s library.”
“Not before I ransack yours!” Elizabeth said laughing, and she grabbed from her table the copy of the Iliad that she had begun the previous day. She did not think it likely that she would remain at Netherfield for long enough to also require the Odyssey .