“I mean exactly what I have said.” Mr. Bennet’s gaze moved around the table. “The names of those gentlemen will not be spoken at Longbourn. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. I have my reasons—reasons which I do not choose to share, but which are sufficient to justify my decision. The matter is closed.”
He rose from the table and left the breakfast room.
Something was terribly wrong. Her father, who treated nearly everything with amused detachment, had issued an actual edict—one that made no sense whatsoever.
“Well!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed when the door closed behind him. “Did you ever know your father to be so unreasonable? So peculiar? So determined to ruin his daughters’ happiness?”
“Perhaps Mr. Bennet has some prior acquaintance with these gentlemen that makes him reluctant to renew the connection,” Charlotte suggested diplomatically.
“Impossible!” Mrs. Bennet declared. “Mr. Bingley is far too young to have known Mr. Bennet before. No, it is simple perversity. He delights in vexing my poor nerves!”
Elizabeth met Charlotte’s questioning gaze with a slight shake of her head. She had no explanation for her father’s behavior either, but she intended to find out.
“If you will excuse me,” Elizabeth said, rising from the table. “I believe I left a book in Papa’s library yesterday.”
Her mother waved her away, already launching into a fresh lament about the unfairness of her situation and the cruelty of her husband. Elizabeth slipped out of the breakfast room and made her way down the corridor to her father’s sanctuary.
She hesitated only briefly before knocking. When no answer came, she opened the door anyway, finding her father standing by the window that overlooked the small kitchen garden, his back to the room.
“I do not recall inviting you to enter, Lizzy,” he said without turning.
“You did not,” she admitted, closing the door behind her. “But I thought perhaps you might make an exception for your favorite daughter.”
“A dubious distinction at present.” He turned, and Elizabeth was startled by the weariness in his face.
“What is wrong, Papa?” she asked, crossing to stand before him. “I have never seen you forbid a topic of conversation before, even when Lydia describes the most scandalous regimental gossip.”
“There are some matters beyond even my tolerance for absurdity.” He attempted a smile.
Elizabeth studied his face, noting the particular sadness that sometimes appeared when he looked at her—a melancholy she had never fully understood but had observed since childhood.
“But what possible objection could you have to Mr. Bingley? He seemed perfectly amiable, if a bit eager to please. Even Mr. Darcy, objectionable as his manners were, did nothing to warrant such a severe reaction.”
“Some things, Lizzy, are better left in the past. Some names are better left unspoken.”
“But Papa, that makes no sense. You have never met either of those gentlemen before last evening. How can they possibly be connected to anything in your past?”
“I ask only that you trust my judgment in this matter.” Mr. Bennet replaced his spectacles, his gaze steady but troubled. “Some acquaintances are best avoided, regardless of apparent advantages.”
Elizabeth studied her father’s face, searching for clues to his unusual behavior. “That is unlike you, Papa. You have alwaysencouraged us to form our own judgments, not to rely blindly on the opinions of others.”
“In most matters, yes. But in this instance, I must insist.”
“What are you hiding? Have these men done something to justify your judgment?”
Her father turned away, looking out the window once more. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “There are some burdens a father hopes never to pass to his children, Lizzy. Some knowledge that is better left buried.”
“Papa,” Elizabeth said gently, her irritation giving way to concern. “You are frightening me. What knowledge? What connection could possibly exist between our family and these strangers?”
“It is necessary, Lizzy. That is all I can tell you.” The dismissal was clear, but Elizabeth remained where she stood, studying the man who had always been a source of wit and wisdom. For the first time, she saw something in him she had never noticed before—a shadow of old grief carefully concealed behind his habitual irony.
“I do not understand,” she said at last.
“I know.” He sighed. “And for that, I am both grateful and sorry.”
Elizabeth recognized the futility of further argument. Whatever secret her father harbored, he was determined to keep it. But she owed it to herself and to Jane to understand why their happiness was being sacrificed to old grievances that made no sense.
CHAPTER THREE
