He leaned back, fingers steepled. "You intend to marry her off to one of the butcher’s sons, then? That would certainly bring variety to the family register."
Elizabeth’s temper flickered. "No. But if we do nothing, there will be no family register at all—only ruin."
Darcy spoke then, his voice quiet but firm. "We have made inquiries. There is a school. Respectable. Private. Firm, but not cruel."
Mr. Bennet turned his eyes on Darcy with something approaching suspicion. "A school, is it? And who will pay for this sudden rescue of my youngest daughter’s virtue?"
Elizabeth opened her mouth, but Darcy answered first. "The cost is manageable. Seventy pounds a year. I will see to it."
"Ah," Mr. Bennet said, and now his tone shifted. "So it is not lace and lawn, but school fees. Lizzy, my dear, have you brought Mr. Darcy to plead for you, or to buy your arguments outright?"
Elizabeth flushed. "He offers it out of generosity, not interference."
"He offers it because you asked him to."
"I asked him because you will not act. Because you sit back, as you always do, and let the house burn around you."
That silenced the room. Mr. Bennet’s expression darkened—not in fury, but in something slower, heavier—as he set his book aside, his brow furrowing while he leaned back in his chair. "I sent her to her room. I forbade her from going to Brighton at your insistence. I've punished her more than any of your sisters—and they turned out tolerably well. I fail to see how a school will accomplish more than what’s already been done."
Elizabeth stepped forward, her voice low and tight. "Because Lydia is different. She will not stop until she ruins herself—and us with her."
Mr. Bennet's eyes narrowed. "You’ve said that before. With more detail than a maiden ought to possess. How did you come by such certainty? Was it this young man who filled your head with grim fantasies?"
Darcy stiffened. "Sir, you forget yourself."
Mr. Bennet turned his gaze on him sharply, but Darcy held firm. "Elizabeth speaks from experience—not imagination."
"Experience?" Mr. Bennet echoed. "Lydia has never been anywhere. What could she have done that I would not know?"
Elizabeth’s breath caught. Her voice shook. "Not in this life."
A silence fell, sudden and strange.
Mr. Bennet stared. "This life? What nonsense—"
"Papa, think," she said, her voice rising. "You are not a fool. When did you first notice I’d changed?"
He hesitated. "After your fall."
She nodded. "And yet you said nothing. You never asked. If you had—I might have told you. I might have asked for your help."
His expression faltered.
Elizabeth turned away for a moment, then back again. "But you did not ask. And I could not risk being dismissed."
Darcy stepped closer, quietly placing a hand at the small of her back.
Elizabeth met her father's gaze. "Yes, Papa, when I woke up, I remembered another life. I remember everything—how Mr. Darcy and I struggled to find each other, how misunderstandings kept us apart. I remember Lydia’s reckless behavior, how it nearly ruined us, and how we were forced to pay a price for it. And I remember the heartbreak of seeing her future slip away. But now, I have a chance to change it. I know it won't be easy, but I cannot watch us make the same mistake twice. That lifetime, her recklessness cost you one hundred pounds a year for the rest of your life—and a daughter bound to a cad who taught her those things. And that is why I am pleading with you, Father. Please, make it right this time."
Mr. Bennet sat very still. He could not quite process what he had heard. At last, he began to ask questions—his voice cautious, measured. He sought clarification, occasionally glancing at Darcy with thinly veiled unease. It unsettled him—though he would not admit it—that this man seemed to share the weight of Elizabeth’s memories, that he had known it all before her father himself. And yet, as he listened, the strangeness gave way to something quieter, something like belief.
"You remembered," he said slowly. "And you said nothing."
Elizabeth’s eyes shone with tears. "I carried it alone for months because I was afraid if I spoke I might change everything and lose the future I dreamed of with Mr. Darcy. I was not going to tell anyone—but eventually I knew I had to, just as I know I have to now."
“She has lived under that weight every day,” Darcy said. “And every day, she has acted to change what she could. If she were not the daughter you hoped for, sir, she is surely the daughter you needed."
Mr. Bennet looked from one to the other. His expression was no longer amused or skeptical. Only tired. And moved.
