“Yes,” she answered brusquely. The weight of her father’s failure—the choice that had bartered her youth for his security, all she had long borne in silence—pressed upwards constricting her breath until it broke free.
“Why, Papa?” Her voice faltered, yet once begun, she could not stop. “Why was I left to mend your mistakes? Why did it fall to me to save our family from derision and certain ruin?” Her tears came unbidden. “I was sixteen—barely more than a child! Within a year, I had one of my own andwas a widow. And though I suffered, it seemed my family was none the worse for it! ’Tis not fair.”
“Elizabeth.” Mr Bennet rose and came to her side, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. “My dearest Lizzy,” he whispered. “I knew this day would come, and I ought to have urged you to speak long ago. But I thought—as I believe you did—that leaving the past behind would make it vanish. It has not. And I see now that you have suffered far more than I ever understood.”
He drew a weary breath and sank to one knee beside her chair. “Not a night passes that I do not see your face as it was when you were told you must marry him. I knew what I was doing, Lizzy. I knew it was wrong, and still I let it happen.” He pressed a trembling hand to his brow. “I told myself it was duty, that I had no other course—but the truth is, I lacked the courage to lose everything. I let fear guide me, and in so doing, I lost you—the daughter who brought me joy.” His voice broke. “You were a child, and I gave you to a monster. I might have endured ruin, but I chose instead to let you endure it in my place—and I despise myself for it.”
He bowed his head, struggling for a breath. “I have watched you rebuild yourself from ashes, and I have never known such shame. I have spent every year since wishing I might undo that hour or bear it in your place. It was my fault, Lizzy. It was my duty to protect my daughters—and to provide for them. When I recognised my own indolence, it was too late, and so I did what I thought I could to make it right. I have tried to atone by being a better husband and father, yet nothing I do can erase the horrors you endured as that despicable man’s wife.”
Elizabeth looked down at him, the ache within her deepening. His eyes glistened, and she saw his remorse in them. He reached out to touch her cheek. “I cannot ask forgiveness, my dearest girl, for I do not deserve it, but I wish for it. I only pray that you believe I love you, as I have loved you everymoment of your life, and that one day, that love may weigh more than my failures.”
She could not answer at once. The words she had spoken aloud had opened the wound afresh, and her heart throbbed with the ache of it. “I do not know,” she murmured. “I have overcome much these past months. This is all that remains before I can truly—fully—let go of my painful past.”
Mr Bennet rose, unsteady, and crossed to his desk. His glance fell upon the parcel of books she had brought him. He opened the wrapper and reached for one, turning it over in his hands.
“I found the latest volume of The British Essayists. I thought you would wish to complete the set.”
“You always remember what I like best. I thank you, Lizzy.”
“Mary has asked me to visit her in Hunsford—”
“Aye, she told me. I find it strange that she and Mr Collins should have guests so soon after their marriage, but they will make their own choices.” He gave a dry chuckle that sounded hollow to Elizabeth’s ears.
“Where will you go afterwards?” he enquired.
“I have arranged to lease a cottage in Margate for the summer. Elinor and Miss Lane will accompany me, and I expect Sloan and Kane will do the same. I plan to return for Jane’s wedding.”
His countenance softened, the ghost of his old wit returning. “Your sister is too kind in catering to your mother’s whims. I dare say she and Bingley will be half-mad by the time they reach the altar.”
His humour, subdued though it was, eased the tension between them. Elizabeth felt some of the strain within her lessen as they fell into their old pattern of conversation—discussing their estates, household matters, and the small amusements of Meryton life.
By the time they parted, Elizabeth felt like she had made some progress in forgiving her father. Part of repentance lay in making restitution, and Mr Bennet had laboured to do so for years—not only for her, but for his wife and other daughters. His resolve to be better, to never allow another stranger to take such advantage, and to yield no more to indolence and neglect, had held. She knew how contrary such effort ran to his nature, and the knowledge stirred something like pride within her. Perhaps complete forgiveness was nearer than she supposed.
Mr Collins arrived the day before the wedding and greeted the Bennets with unaffected warmth. His air of cheerfulness was almost irrepressible, and Elizabeth soon found herself caught by it. The bustle of preparation drew her in, and she joined her family in attending to the final arrangements for the wedding and breakfast.
“’Tis kind of you to visit Hunsford, Cousin Elizabeth.” Mr Collins’s countenance beamed as he addressed her at dinner. “We shall have no proper wedding trip, and Mary is somewhat anxious over beginning life as a married woman. Having a sister near will set her at ease.”
Elizabeth lifted a serving spoon and helped herself to the boiled potatoes—Mrs Bennet had instructed the cook to prepare Mr Collins’s favourite dish. “I am happy to do so. I think it will do Mary good to have company she knows.” He expressed approval of the meal, and her amusement stirred at the solemn praise of the fare.
Fatigued by the day’s activity, conversation at dinner was subdued, yet she found comfort in the quiet harmony of the family gathered together.She looked round the table, observing each with fondness: Kitty and Lydia spoke quietly at one end under their governess’s watchful eye; her mother and Jane deep in consultation—no doubt regarding wedding details; Mary inclining towards her betrothed intent on his description of his home garden. At the head sat her father, with Elizabeth to his right.
“’Tis quite a sight, is it not?” His tone softened as he regarded the table. “There have been great changes at Longbourn since you first went away, Lizzy, and that you are here with us once more…well, nothing gives me greater joy than to see the felicity of my family.”
His words drew her attention. “How different we should be if we had not—” She paused, unable to finish.
Mr Bennet considered her in silence for a moment. “I imagine your younger sisters would be quite wild. Lydia has ever been ungoverned, and Kitty would follow her example. Mary’s sharper edges would not have been worn down; she would be the first to lecture them on proper propriety.”
“She did favour sermons, did she not?” Elizabeth returned with fond humour.
He reached for a slice of bread, his movements deliberate. “It was wrong that it took losing you to rouse me to the state of my household. I am sorry I was not the father my daughters deserved.”
Her heart warmed. She set down her fork and rested her hand on his hand. “We are all the better for it. And I would not part with Elinor for the world.” She could not wish the past undone, for that would mean losing her daughter, Darcy, and every improvement her family had made. “If your investments had been successful before I married, would you have undertaken the same improvements for our family?” she asked.
He busied himself with the bread, spreading butter with care. “No. I should have gloried in my supposed cleverness and learnt nothing. Your mother would have insisted on refitting the entire house, and I, complacent,would have indulged her. Though I meant to set aside money for dowries, I doubt I should have done so. The fortune gained in the mines is large, and I have managed it well since; yet had success come earlier, I might have squandered it all, only to know regret when my original purpose was not fulfilled. You, Lizzy, would have counselled prudence, and I—fool that I was—would have dismissed you as a silly girl.”
His humility struck her deeply, and her heart ached a little for him. She lowered her voice. “You have faced yourself honestly. To see one’s faults is difficult; to amend themis harder still.”
“I thank you, daughter, but I do not deserve your approbation…nor your love.” Eyes glistening, he looked to the bread still clutched in his hand but seemed unable to take a bite.
