Thomas Bennet
Postscript: A lock of your mother’s hair will be taken for each of you, and kept safe in anticipation of your return.
He folded and sealed it, and tucked all of his letters into his pocket before taking a seat in the front parlour in anticipation of the visit which he expected at any time. Not half an hour later, a knock sounded on the front door, and Mr Darcy was visibly surprised to see the master of the house when it opened. He quickly recollected himself and bowed.
“Mr Bennet, I have brought notes from Miss Elizabeth to Miss Mary and Miss Catherine.” These, he proffered, and the older man accepted them without comment. “Has there been any change in the health of your household?”
Bennet sighed. “Quite a large one, I am afraid. Mrs Bennet is dead.” He produced his stack of letters and handed them to the younger man, whose face had gone white and still. “Would you be so kind, Mr Darcy, as to see these notes to their intended recipients? The ones to London and Kent need only be left at the post-counter at the inn.”
“Of course, sir. Is there any other way in which I might be of assistance to you and your family?” Mr Darcy asked quietly.
“If you have time to stop at the parsonage, Mr Edwards ought to be informed. Tell him, if you would, that under present circumstances we understand the funeral rites must be simple and private.”
Mr Darcy agreed to this sad errand and, having ascertained that there was nothing further to report to Mr Jones, he mounted his horse and sped away.
* * *
Darcy’s heart was in his throat as he knocked softly on the door of Miss Bennet’s room shortly after his return to Netherfield that afternoon. Miss Elizabeth smiled as she opened it, and he felt a brief, cowardly urge to fling her father’s note at her and run away, that he need not witness its result. Instead, he bowed, and produced that letter and the one from Miss Lucas.
“Good day, Mr Darcy,” she said, accepting the pages. “It looks frightfully cold out, I hope your rounds were not too uncomfortable?”
“Not at all.”
She turned the notes over. “Why, this is not from Mary or Kitty, but my father! My sisters have not fallen ill, have they?”
“No, Miss Elizabeth. I believe they were too occupied yesterday to write to you, but as of this morning both were still in health.”
Brow furrowed, she broke the seal on the perplexing note and quickly scanned the opening lines. The colour drained from her face. “No…” she breathed, and he impulsively took her arm and led her a short distance down the way to the servants’ chair by the stairs.
“You are not well, Miss Elizabeth. Please sit.” She hardly seemed to know he was there, but she sat down, unable to support herself and looking so miserably ill that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, “Let me call for a maid. A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.”
“No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only distressed by this dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn. I assume, sir, that you know of what my father has written?”
“I do,” he replied solemnly. “I am very sorry for your loss.”
“I thank you.” Absently, she opened her father’s letter again and read it through. He remained by her side, silent and patient.
“I do not know how to tell Jane,” she said softly.
“There is no good way to deliver such news, but if I may be so bold as to offer advice from my own experience, dancing about the matter only makes it worse. Perhaps you might simply read her your father’s words?”
“Perhaps,” she agreed. “Who was it that gave you such news so poorly?”
A little surprised that she had got it right, and had not assumed it was he who had fumbled such an important communication, he replied, “My father, when my own mother died. Yours has done well to confine it to a short note, I think—the shock was not greater, and you suffered no period of mounting dread before it came.”
She smiled slightly, as if in sympathy with the boy he had been. “I…I think that is it. I am shocked. I hardly know what to think, or what to do.”
“You will, at the proper times, think and do everything necessary, Miss Elizabeth. For now, you need only begin to reconcile yourself to the news.” He lowered himself to sit upon the floor beside her chair, an informal posture no one but Georgiana had lately seen him in, but he wished to signal that he had no intention of leaving her alone unless she particularly requested it. “Perhaps you should like to talk about her?”
“Oh, my mother…” Elizabeth trailed off, one hand fluttering vaguely as though it might complete the thought her voice had not. “She is…wasnot the easiest person, as I am sure you apprehended even during your brief acquaintance. But she was my mother, and I truly believe she did her best. That her best was as often borne of ignorance as sense was not her fault—her father had no use for daughters, and mine never exerted himself to teach or to check her.”
Darcy saw tears welling in her eyes as she hesitantly went on. “She loved us, I believe, though she was not capable of understanding me and Mary particularly, and Kitty and even Jane also vexed her at times. She was diligent in teaching us the things she considered important—how to run a household, set a table, and lay a fine stitch. I spent my whole life wishing she might be different, might be more clever or understanding, but I never wished her gone. And now she is, and I shall not even be able to say goodbye.” Her voice broke then and her tears spilled over, but as she buried her face in her handkerchief, Darcy patted her arm gently, ensuring she knew she was not alone in such a sad moment.
After a time, Elizabeth lifted her face, drew the sodden cloth across it, and glanced at Darcy, who still occupied the floor beside her, his long legs in their dusty boots jutting out into the passage. He looked back at her with concern, his thoughts solemn but tender.
“My apologies, sir, for subjecting you to such a spectacle,” she said after drawing a deep and steadying breath. “I must look a fright.”
He was silent for a moment. “Had you cared for your mother so little as to retain your appearance in the face of such news, I should have lost all respect for you.”
