“And yet,” Mr Bennet said, “youlook almost as ill as she ever did. Another day, and you, too, may be insensate.”
Darcy did not flinch from the observation. “Just so.”
“Then tell me this, sir. If you did marry her—if you placed yourself always at her side, giving her life… what becomes of her when your own life fails?”
The question was not an accusation. It was a test. “That,” he said, “is precisely what I cannot yet answer to my satisfaction.”
Mr Bennet studied him for a long moment. “You are asking me to trust that you will discover it in time.”
“I am asking you,” Darcy replied, “not to mistake urgency for certainty.”
“And I,” Mr Bennet said, “am asking whether your reluctance arises from caution or from convenience.”
Darcy met his gaze steadily. “If I wished convenience, I should have accepted your proposal at once. We would have the banns called tomorrow, or if that proved too long, we would be on the nearest coach for Scotland. But…” He swallowed and let his gaze wander to the window. “I do not know what becomes of either of us after that.”
“You see the danger, then.”
“I do.”
Mr Bennet folded his arms loosely. “You understand that a father who hears this must wonder whether separation would serve her better.”
“I understand,” Darcy said. “I would wonder the same.”
Mr Bennet regarded him long and thoughtfully. “Then you do not refuse me out of indifference. Nor out of want of regard.”
“No! Egad, no. But marriage, in this moment, may bind her to the very thing that threatens her.”
Mr Bennet exhaled slowly. “Then we are, it seems, asking the same question from opposite ends. And you have no answer yet?”
“No,” Darcy replied. “But I am seeking one. There is one indulgence I would ask of you, sir, while matters remain thus unresolved.”
Mr Bennet regarded him with mild interest. “Only one? What is it?”
“That you do not seek counsel from Mr Wickham.”
The request was delivered plainly, without emphasis or retreat. Mr Bennet’s brows rose slightly. “That is a singular restriction. And I cannot imagine it made lightly.”
“It is not.”
Mr Bennet studied him for a moment. “You must expect to be asked why.”
Darcy hesitated—not from reluctance, but from the difficulty of placing the truth where it would do the least harm. “You know that Mr Wickham and I were raised together. He is familiar with certain family histories, but only in fragments, and always without the context that lends them meaning. He possesses enough knowledge to appear informed, but not enough to judge rightly.”
“And yet,” Mr Bennet replied, “when my daughter was failing, it was he who advised removal, and that advice proved effective.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I do not deny the effect. I question the understanding that produced it. Mr Wickham has no stake in the outcome beyond his own sense of having been consulted. He is disposed to insert himself where he has no claim, and to do so with a confidence that exceeds his grasp.”
Mr Bennet considered this. “You ask me, then, to set aside the only counsel that has thus far served my daughter.”
“I ask you to weigh it cautiously.”
“Caution,” Mr Bennet said, “is precisely why I will not limit myself to a single voice. Until you can offer me a clearer assurance—one that does not rest upon uncertainty—I shall listen where I judge it prudent. And now, I should like to see my daughter.”
Darcy inclined his head. “She shall be sent for.”
He crossed to the bell and rang. When the maid appeared, he gave the instruction briefly and without elaboration. “Miss Elizabeth, if you please.”
The maid withdrew.
