Not being an elderly man, I had no excuse to retire, though I longed to do so. I had gone to Hertfordshire in a state of ennui, and I returned to London with something of the same affliction. The urge to wallow in the weariness of my heart in a darkened room, perhaps with a glass or two of brandy, was strong but not yet insurmountable.
I knew the source of my oppression, and yet I refused to name it, as though in doing so, I would somehow seal a fate I did not yet want to face. Instead of thinking any more about it, I did what every man does who wishes to avoid something—I sought distractions.
Thankfully, I had the means to forestall introspection. My private secretary had a parcel of letters for me to read, a stack of invitations to be politely refused, and a few summaries of matters of interest for my edification.
The war slogged on and looked, from the current vantage point, to be interminable. The Prince Regent was at odds with the Prime Minister, and the Admiralty was once again in turmoil over the distribution of prize monies. I heard nothing I did not know, but the habit of receiving information from multiple sources was one I learnt the hard way, having once invested and lost threethousand pounds on the basis of something I read inThe Times.I listened in perfunctory fashion, dictated a few replies to my man of business and Pemberley’s steward, and then went to find my sister.
Georgiana was shy of me, as always. But I had come away from Hertfordshire in humbler boots and possessed of a wider perspective. I had unwittingly run shy of her too. I had become grave in response to her dismay in my presence, and between the two of us, we made for a miserable, downcast pair. Thinking to break the pattern, I went to her and warmly kissed her cheek.
“How are you faring, Georgie? You look well.”
I greeted her companion, Mrs Annesley, told them of my guest, Mr Bennet, and drank a cup of tea. As my sister poured under Mrs Annesley’s watchful eye, I felt a rush of compassion. What a parade we have made of such a simple act.
“I did not know you do not use sugar in your tea,” I remarked.
Georgiana blushed. “I stopped using it when I began to pour yours. That way, I can remember you do not like it, and I shall not make a mistake.”
“I have lately had tea prepared every possible way, and I have discovered that I do not much care one way or the other. Perhaps we should have tea asyoulike it for a change?”
Her eyes reluctantly rose to my face, she blushedagain, and I had no hope that my meagre suggestion would be attended to. Mrs Annesley covered our awkward pass by asking after the roads and weather. And then a miracle occurred.
“How was Miss Bennet’s dog when you left?” my sister timidly asked.
“Bandit? Oh, well, let me see. Yes, I remember. He was confined to the loose-box in the stable for having dug a shaft so deep behind the chicken house he had to be pulled out by the tail.”
“Did he?”
“Twice. And on the second occasion he managed to breach the fence but no one noticed his handiwork. In the morning they were missing three hens and a pullet.”
“Oh dear. What will happen to him?”
“Happen to him? I imagine he was admitted to the house after only an hour of punishment, petted and scolded in the same sweetness of spirit with which Miss Bennet utters every word she speaks, and he will be begging for scraps at breakfast tomorrow morning.”
Georgiana smiled, and the dimple on her cheek made a rare appearance.
“Do not tell me you, too, are in sympathy with him,” I said. “He nearly drowned me.”
This led to the recitation of my least favourite story, for no matter how I minimised my role in Bandit’s rescue, I was seen in a far too heroic light. Nevertheless,my sister was speaking to me and smiling, and her companion looked to be holding her breath, such was the rarity of her happiness.
Shortly after, Mr Bennet came down and took tea. His presence was not nearly as disconcerting to my sister as I feared it would be, and I wondered whether it could really be as simple as makingmyselfagreeable to her. I blinked to realise my ineptitude. She was not so much shy of company as she was fearful of making my opinion of her worse, should she make a mistake in front of me.
I was rescued from sinking into even more self-disgust when Mr Bennet asked to see my library. There, he expressed a marked appreciation in the form of a grunt.
“You did not tell me to expect a room the size of Hatchards.”
“You would have classed me as a mere cockalorum had I done so. You know I cannot claim more than stewardship. I have added to the collection, but this is the work of generations.”
“Do be quiet, Darcy. Let me browse in peace.”
I chuckled and left him to it.
Later, we enjoyed a pleasant dinner. Mrs Annesley is a skilled conversationalist, and she kept the old gentleman talking of his daughters, of his books, and of her particular interest in the naturalists, a topic in which he was deeply conversant. I had never seen Mr Bennetbehave with more engagement or civility, since when at Longbourn, he was comfortable enough in my presence not to have to pretend to be happier than he felt. Still, the effort was oddly curative, and he seemed five years younger to me.
The following morning my guest accompanied me to Hoby’s and, in a moment of self-indulgence, bespoke a pair of boots for himself. We then went to Scofield’s, Sheppard’s, and The Lighted Lamp Book Repository, and we even went to an emporium of used goods which had a little-known table in the corner stacked high with literary cast-offs. Most of it was worthless, but we went on the slim hope we would find something of value.
When Mr Bennet pulled out a beautifully preserved early edition ofDon Quixote,we snickered like schoolboys who had stolen the matron’s shoes. Mr Bennet then further delighted me by striking a brutal bargain with the shopkeeper and sighing as though he were being imposed upon when he paid the trifling sum required.
We returned to my house where he proudly showed off his find to Mrs Annesley and my sister. The hours flew by without our notice.
