“You are very severe.” In fact, her father was anything but. Mr. Bennet’s teasing nature was well known.
“I am a father. Severity is part of the office.”
“It seems to sit strangely upon you.”
“That,” said Mr. Bennet, folding the paper with great composure, “is because you have always been indulged.”
“By you, perhaps.”
“Certainly by me. It is one of my principal failings, though I bear it with fortitude.”
Elizabeth could not help but reach across the carriage to touch his sleeve in affectionate reproach. “You have no failings.”
“My dear child, I have a thousand.”
She scoffed. “Name three.” No, she was quite certain her father was perfection itself.
“I dislike noise, endure foolishness with poor grace, and have spent an unconscionable amount on lace this week.”
“That last is a virtue.”
Mr. Bennet shook his head again. “It is ruin.”
“It is an investment.”
“In what?” He raised a brow, appraising her solemnly. The twinkle in his eyes was the only thing that betrayed his humor.
“In my future success.”
Mr. Bennet looked at her with mock suspicion. “You speak very confidently for one who maintains that gentlemen prefer Jane.”
“They do prefer Jane,” Elizabeth replied, though more softly. “Everyone prefers Jane. She is handsomer, sweeter, and infinitely better qualified to inspire admiration. I shall do very well to be overlooked beside her.”
There was enough seriousness in her tone to alter his expression. Some part of the playful ease left his face, though the fondness remained.
“Lizzy.”
She looked back at him.
“You know I will not contradict you where Jane is concerned, for your sister is indeed lovely, and so good that she improves every room merely by entering it. But do not be foolish on your own account.”
“I am not foolish. Only realistic.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Only unjust.”
Elizabeth tried to smile, but he was looking at her too steadily for her to dismiss the matter with levity.
“Beauty may turn a gentleman’s head for half an hour,” he said, “and perhaps persuade him to stand up beside the wrong woman at supper. But the man worthy of you will not see it that way.”
She blinked. “Papa—”
“He will not,” Mr. Bennet repeated, his voice stripped of teasing. “He will see your wit before another woman’s complexion, your warmth before another woman’s prettiness, and your spirit before any fashionable nonsense that may distract lesser men. And when he does, he will think himself fortunate indeed.”
Elizabeth looked down at her hands. Her gloves were cream kid, newly fitted, the seams still stiff. She bent one finger against the other and smiled in spite of herself.
“You speak as though such a man certainly exists.”
“I do.”
