Page 52

Elizabeth turned a desperate glance to Mary, who sat nearby with her embroidery, but before Mary could so much as part her lips, Mrs. Bennet cut her off with sharp resolution.

“Do not begin, Mary. I will not be dissuaded. Lydia is the youngest, yes, but she has spirit. A few weeks at Brighton will do her good—and perhaps the rest of us some peace.”

Mary frowned, her lips pressed tight in a line of silent disapproval. She made one effort to interject, to turn the conversation to virtue and prudence, but Mrs. Bennet only rolled her eyes and prattled on about bonnets and lace.

Elizabeth, her chest tightening with a sense of impending calamity, could see that only one person remained to be appealed to—her father.

She found him in his library, as always, book in hand and spectacles askew. At her entrance, he peered over the rim of his glasses and gave her a languid smile.

“If you have come to ask me for money, my dear Lizzy, I shall be forced to retreat behind my armchair. I cannot endure another conversation about lace and lawn.”

“It is not lace I wish to speak of, sir, but Lydia,” she said, her voice more urgent than she intended. “Papa, you must not let her go to Brighton.”

He raised an amused brow. “Must not? Good heavens, what tyranny is this?”

“Not tyranny, but reason,” she said, stepping forward. “She is but sixteen, heedless and vain. Mama encourages her folly, and Lydia—Lydia is so eager to be admired that she will not see danger for what it is.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Lydia will never be easy till she has exposed herself in some public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present circumstances.”

At this, Elizabeth lost her composure. “And what if she does more than expose herself? What if she disgraces us entirely? You have left us no dowries, no fortunes, no protection but our good name—and I am begging you, Papa, to save that!”

Mr. Bennet raised his brows, setting aside the paper with an exaggerated sigh. “Lizzy, my dear, your imagination gallops. You speak as though our Lydia were destined for the streets. Surely you do not expect me to believe that a proper gentleman’s daughter would so thoroughly forget herself?”

Elizabeth laughed—but it was a bitter sound, sharp and hollow.

“Proper gentlewomen fall every season, Papa. I have seen it. In London, and in country assemblies where the whispers begin and do not cease until the poor girl is cast off entirely. Some are ruined by false promises, others by sheer youthful folly, and none are the better for the protection of a name or a genteel upbringing. Do you truly believe Lydia’s silliness can be trusted among red-coated charmers and no watchful eye? ”

“Really, Lizzy,” he said, shaking his head, “you do grow dramatic with age. Brighton is not Sodom, and our youngest daughter is not Helen of Troy.”

“No,” Elizabeth said quietly, her voice trembling, “but she is fifteen, vain, credulous, and willful. And you are sending her into a place where ruin comes dressed in uniform and grinning sweetly.”

“My dear girl,” he said, with a languid stretch, “I do believe you need a rest. Too much care for other people's troubles has unsettled your nerves. Everything has worked out well thus far, has it not? Jane is engaged to a wealthy gentleman, and you have ever been mistress of your own opinions, loved wherever you have gone. Why should we not expect the same happy ending for Lydia?”

Elizabeth stood rooted. Her hands clenched at her sides, her face a portrait of disbelief.

“Because you do nothing!” she cried. “You let the world move around you and call it prudence. You let Mama flutter and Lydia run wild and call it humour. You sit with your books and your sarcasm while everything burns, and you ask why we smell smoke.”

Mr. Bennet's face turned from amusement to something darker, more affronted. “You forget yourself, Elizabeth. You forget that I am your father.”

“And you forget that you are ours,” she answered.

“Our father. Our protector. Or so the world believes. But tell me, what protection have you given? When we are gone from this house, what shall we have? No dowries. No inheritance. Nothing but our reputations—and you let Lydia gamble hers like a farthing at a fair.”

“Surely you exaggerate,” he said stiffly. “You would have me believe that an elopement is imminent?”

“I would have you remember that you are not immortal,” she said. “That one day you shall be gone, and five daughters will remain. And if Lydia is ruined, we shall all wear her shame. No man will marry a sister to a fallen woman. Not even one as loyal as Mr. Bingley. ”

He winced at that.

Still she pressed on. “And I am tired of being the one to patch the holes in this family, Papa. I have done what I could, but I cannot do this alone. I beg you, as your daughter, as your burden, as your pride—do something. For once, do something.”

A long silence followed. Elizabeth stood trembling, her breath caught in her throat. Her father said nothing at first—only looked at her, long and searching, with an unreadable expression. She could not tell if he was angry or merely bewildered by the force of her plea.

Then at last, his shoulders slumped. The sharpness left his brow, and his voice, when it came, was quieter than she expected.

“Very well,” he said. “I will write to Colonel Forster and inform him that Lydia will not join his party. The girl will rage, and your mother will accuse me of tyranny, but I shall endure it. Not for the passion of your speech, my dear, but for the tears in your eyes.”

Elizabeth turned away quickly, brushing at her face before the emotion could betray her further.

“And,” he added, the dryness returning faintly to his tone, “I shall deduct the cost of this emotional turmoil from your pin money. Cotton for my ears must be bought, after all.”

She laughed then—truly laughed, though her heart ached from it. But she would take the victory, however small, and be grateful. For in this, her father had listened.