Disagreeable though it was to hear all his recent missteps laid out, it could not distract Darcy from Mrs Bennet’s obvious discomposure. All her usual stridency had gone from her voice, and the colour had drained from her countenance. He watched as she poured the tea with trembling hands, spilling a good proportion of it into the saucer, then all but dropped the teapot onto the table and slumped into her chair.
“It will not do! The truth is, it is not you with whom she is angry—it is me. She wants me to leave, not bring extra visitors to her door. You are right—my situation is wholly untenable.”
Darcy expected her at every moment to begin lamenting or gesticulating, but she only sat forlornly in her seat, staring at the spilt tea. He had never seen her less demonstrative.
“I thought I understood that Mrs Randall was your friend.”
“She was—she is. She took me in without hesitation when I came, in dread of…consequences of…what I had done.”
Darcy baulked. There had been a possibility of a child, then. Bingley knew not how fortunate he was.
“There were none,” she continued. “And for a while, we had a jolly time of it, sharing reminiscences. But her generosity has reached its limit, both in real terms and in spirit. And I grow weary of making myself scarce whenever she has visitors. There are only so many times one can go into a shop without buying anything, and I have never been fond of walking, though I seem to have done little else but walk up and down of late.”
“Could you not have visited another of your friends if you are not tolerated here?”
“I have no friends in town beyond my brother, and I could not go to his house, for Jane is there.”
Darcy could only imagine Elizabeth’s distress were she to know that her mother had been walking the streets of London, alone and lonely, when all the while they had been imagining hercavorting about with Bingley. Mrs Bennet’s shame must be deep indeed to prefer solitude and scorn to facing her family.
“This is a distressing account, but you must see that it all amounts to the same thing. You must go home.”
“You do not understand,” she whispered desperately. “I have nothing to go home to. My husband holds me in contempt. You probably think he is justified, for I know you think I am foolish. I am used to men thinking it. But Mr Bennet reviles me for it. He would rather make sport of my deficiency than ever explain a thing to me. He has about as much respect for me as he does the pigs on the home farm. Perhaps less, for the pigs invariably bear sons.”
“Mrs Bennet, please, I did not mean?—”
She silenced him with a shake of her head. “And now my daughters will despise me too. Longbourn is entailed—we none of us know how long we shall have a roof over our heads. My only job was to find them husbands before we lose our home, and I have failed. In the worst possible way.”
Darcy was not unmoved by her plight. He did not like to hear of any person’s unhappiness, not least anyone about whom Elizabeth cared so deeply, yet it did not change the fact that Mrs Bennet had a duty to her daughters. He inhaled in readiness to try again to persuade her to change her mind, when she continued speaking, her voice now a whisper and her expression one of abject misery.
“I was trying to help, you know, when it happened. Jane was finding it so difficult to put herself forwards—she has a terrible natural modesty that no amount of cajoling from me has ever been able to shift. I only meant to encourage him, to put him in the right frame of mind that he might be more receptive to her charms. Only then, he did not laugh at me, or look at me with pity or derision. I had forgotten what it felt like to be desirable and had certainly given up hope of ever feeling it again before Iam too old. It was wicked, and I shall never forgive myself, but I…”
She looked up, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I am not clever, Mr Darcy. I have no money of my own, nor the respect of my family or friends—even my home is not truly mine. But I have always had my looks. When they are gone, I shall be left with nothing. Lizzy will never truly understand this, for long after her looks fade, she will still have her mind—and that girl’s mind is a fearsome thing. But I shall have nothing at all.”
It was difficult not to look at her with pity at that moment. He had never considered what it must be to live with the constant fear of losing one’s home. Complicated by a want of understanding, fortune, and connexions, it must be terrifying. In this new light, the desperation to see her daughters settled which had early on made Mrs Bennet appear disgracefully mercenary, and the personal anguish which had led to her unconscionable indiscretion, were much more easily understood. The fleeting consideration of how he would feel were it his mother in such straits was enough to let him know how to act.
“It seems certain that you will end up with nothing a good deal sooner if you stay here,” he said—gently but firmly. “Either Mrs Randall will turn you out, or your estrangement, perhaps even the reason for it, will become known. And bear in mind my hope of marrying your daughter. If your actions bring ruin upon her, there is a chance that you will bring me down with you, and then I shall be of no help to any of you.”
He leant forwards slightly, resting his forearm on the table and dipping his head to better catch Mrs Bennet’s eye. “But if you go home, I give you my word that I shall look after you. I can make no promises about your happiness in marriage, but I can relieve you of the worry of being without a home—of your daughters being destitute. You might even be able to enjoy someof those perquisites of town that have been denied to you on this occasion.”
Darcy hoped Mrs Bennet would not make him regret this promise, either in the future, by giving more of her humiliating public appearances, or in the present moment, by dissolving into hysteria. For now, however, she remained uncharacteristically, almost painfully subdued.
“How shall I face them?”
“You must find a way. I am sorry it is so, but it is a fact of the world in which we live that to give up your situation would be disastrous for you and your daughters. You might remind yourself of your duty to them if ever your courage falters.”
He had not meant this to sound so much like censure and so made another attempt. “I make no excuses for what you have done, but neither can I condone the neglect of one’s spouse. Yours is clearly not the only harm that has been done to your marriage. Perhaps you will allow that fact to help you make peace with yourself.”
She regarded him in silence for a moment or two before speaking. “I am exceedingly sorry that I spoke ill of you in Hertfordshire. You are the very model of good breeding. Indeed, I do not think I have ever known such kindness. Lizzy does not realise how fortunate she is.”
Darcy rather thought that if Elizabeth consented to marry him,hewould be the fortunate one. Nevertheless, he was not above taking advantage of every method of persuasion available to him.
“She may never know if you do not put an end to this unfortunate affair and go home so that I might get on and propose to her.”
The matter was settled; Mrs Bennet gave her grudging consent to being returned to Hertfordshire in his carriage the next day. She asked of him two favours before he left: that hewould deliver a letter to Elizabeth, which she would write that afternoon, and that he would promise only to offer for her if he was certain—absolutely certain—that he loved her.
“Lizzy will be neither happy nor respectable unless she is truly esteemed by her husband—unless he looks upon her as his equal,” she told him. “Her lively talents would place her in the greatest danger in an unequal marriage. She could scarcely escape the discredit and misery I have discovered. Let me not have the grief of seeing her disrespected by her partner in life.”
Darcy could not help but smile. “Madam, your daughter and I are not equals. Miss Elizabeth is my superior in every way. And if she will have me, I shall devote the rest of my days to the admiration of her lively talents.”
