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Pemberley - Library - Darcy

I t was a mild spring morning when the butler announced, with barely concealed disbelief, that Mr Bennet of Longbourn had arrived.

Darcy, seated in the library with a letter half-finished in his hand, looked up sharply. “Mr Bennet? Alone?”

“Yes, sir. He arrived in a hired carriage. Said he was in the neighbourhood and thought it only proper to call at Pemberley, now that his daughter is mistress here.”

Darcy blinked, then gave a short laugh. “In the neighbourhood? I suppose for Mr Bennet, that may mean anywhere south of Edinburgh.”

“Shall I have him shown in, sir?”

“At once. And send word to Mrs Darcy. She will want to know.”

Darcy stood ready to greet their unexpected guest. Mr Bennet entered as he always did: composed, amused, and entirely unhurried. His greatcoat was dusty from the road, his hat slightly askew, and his eyes dancing with quiet mischief.

“Mr Darcy,” he said, bowing. “I trust you will forgive the informality of my visit. I was passing by - which is to say, within two days’ ride - and thought it best to inspect the condition of my second daughter in her new establishment.”

Darcy extended his hand with a smile. “You are most welcome, sir. I daresay Elizabeth will be delighted.”

“As am I,” said a voice from the doorway.

Elizabeth swept into the room, cheeks flushed with surprise and pleasure. “Papa! You ought to have written. We would have prepared a proper welcome.”

“That would have rather defeated the point of catching you unawares, my dear,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Surprises make the best truths, I find.”

They embraced, and Elizabeth drew him toward the window seat. Darcy signalled for tea, but Mr Bennet waved it off.

“I shall not stay long,” he said. “I have no wish to disrupt the smooth workings of Pemberley or threaten your fine library.”

“You are a reader,” Darcy said. “That makes you family here, if nothing else did.”

Mr Bennet inclined his head with something like approval. “Indeed. And I must say, I have seldom seen my Lizzy look so well. Or speak so fondly of home, for that matter.”

Elizabeth laughed. “It is Pemberley she speaks of now, Papa.”

“And speaks very well,” he said. “Though I daresay your mother is already lamenting your absence as a grave injustice. In fact, she has not stopped reminding the neighbourhood that she has two daughters married - one to a man of ten thousand a year, the other to a gentleman of property and rising consequence. The tradesmen are all quite tired of hearing about it.”

Darcy’s mouth twitched. “I can imagine.”

Mr Bennet continued, “Jane and Mr Bingley, meanwhile, are beginning to consider the purchase of their own estate. Jane says they are happy, but even her patience has its limits with Mama only three miles away. It seems a bit more distance - and a great deal more peace - is high on their list of priorities. Mr Bingley is currently torn between three suitable options, each more charmingly remote than the last.”

“I cannot imagine why,” Darcy said with a smile.

“No, nor can I,” Mr Bennet said with dry amusement. “Still, they are happy - and that is what matters. Kitty has taken to writing letters with a flourish. Lydia is apparently considering a play - something about how stories believed without evidence can lead to disaster.”

Darcy, listening, felt a flicker of unexpected respect. Perhaps the lessons of the past had not been entirely wasted.

“And Mary has joined a correspondence circle,” Mr Bennet continued, “focused on moral essays. Your household has not been the only one with developments.”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “A play?”

“She claims it is to rival the work of Sheridan,” Mr Bennet said. “Though she has not yet explained how she plans to cast it - or if she plans to let any of her sisters see the script.”

They spent the morning in gentle conversation, walking the grounds as Darcy pointed out the first signs of spring in the gardens.

Mr Bennet asked intelligent questions about the estate, nodded approvingly at Darcy’s answers, and even allowed himself a rare, genuine smile when Georgiana joined them for tea and shyly asked for his opinion on a book.

By afternoon, Elizabeth returned from showing her father the hothouses to find him comfortably ensconced in the library, a cup of tea beside him and two volumes stacked on the table.

“I thought you meant to depart,” she teased.

“I did,” Mr Bennet replied without looking up. “And then I saw the catalogue of your library. ”

Darcy, entering just then, smiled. “You are, of course, welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

Mr Bennet glanced up over his spectacles. “A dangerous offer, my dear son. I might never leave.”

Elizabeth laughed and came to perch on the arm of his chair. “I suspect Mama will write within the week to demand your return.”

“Let her. I am quite content to remain here - among good books and better company.”

Darcy extended a fresh cup of tea and said, “Then allow us the pleasure of hosting you properly. You will stay through Sunday, at least?”

“I shall stay,” Mr Bennet said, “until I have made a thorough inspection of the premises and determined that my daughter is as happy as she appears.”

Elizabeth reached for Darcy’s hand. “You shall find no cause to worry, Papa.”

Mr Bennet gave a small nod and opened his book once more. “Then I am content.”

And so he stayed - for several days, wandering the gardens, sampling the brandy, and reading well into the evening with Georgiana. No fuss was made, and none was needed. His presence, like the early March breeze through Pemberley’s halls, was quiet, familiar, and entirely welcome.

When he finally did depart, it was with assurances that he would return for a longer stay in the summer - and with a promise from Darcy and Elizabeth that they would call at Longbourn after their upcoming trip to Kent for Easter.

“Will you be staying with the Collinses?” Mr Bennet asked on his final morning.

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied. “They extended an invitation, and we thought it best not to stay at Rosings - though I suspect we shall see Lady Catherine regardless.”

“I expect so,” Mr Bennet said. “And you must write me of her expression when she learns you have not only married her nephew, but mean to call from the parsonage.”

“I believe she may have apoplexy,” Elizabeth said with a smile.

Darcy gave a soft laugh. “It will be a brief visit. I doubt she will extend an olive branch - unless it is to hit me with.”

“All the better,” Mr Bennet said. “You will have stories to bring home.”

As the carriage rolled away down the drive, Darcy turned to Elizabeth and said, “He is a man of rare observation.”

Elizabeth smiled. “And a very good father.”

Darcy took her hand. “Then I am doubly fortunate - to have gained both.”

They stood together for a moment longer, the early light glinting off the frost-tipped grass, and as they turned to re-enter the house, Darcy’s gaze lingered on Elizabeth. She walked a little more slowly than usual, her hand resting briefly at her waist.

He had not asked - not yet - but something in the curve of her smile, in the steadiness of her gaze, filled him with a quiet, aching hope.

Too soon to be sure.

But perhaps, just perhaps - not too soon to begin imagining.

As they reached the threshold, Elizabeth slowed, turning to him with a look both knowing and tender.

“You will be a very good father, Fitzwilliam,” she said softly.

His breath caught. He said nothing - could say nothing - only reached for her hand, and brought it gently to his lips.

And together, they walked back into the house, into the warmth of the morning, and into the life they were continuing to build - one peaceful, well-loved day at a time .