“I do not doubt it, in such company,” he said, with the faintest return of his usual dryness. “As for Longbourn, my library will suffer the greatest loss. No one else has sufficient patience to sit in it without improving it.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “I always endeavour to leave it as I found it.”
“And I am glad of it.” He regarded her again more keenly, as though something further had occurred to him. “Lizzy,” he said thoughtfully, “what is all this I hear about Mary and the new parson?”
Elizabeth paused. “Little enough for the moment. They have spoken together several times. It does seem to me that Mary admires him.”
“Indeed,” Mr Bennet said, with a seriousness unusual for him. “And what is your opinion of the man?”
“I think him a sensible man,” Elizabeth said. “And an excellent speaker. Though the latter quality, you may judge for yourself.”
“Indeed, I have found his sermons to befit both a man of good sense and a scholar,” Mr Bennet agreed. “Only imagine if my cousin could say as much.”
Elizabeth smiled more easily then. “I do not think Mr Greene is in danger of being mistaken for Mr Collins.”
“That is much in his favour,” he said. “If I must have another parson in the family, I should prefer one who can read a book without misunderstanding it. My cousin has done quite enough to diminish my regard for the profession.”
Elizabeth could not help but laugh. “I believe you would find Mr Greene very much to your liking.”
“Then I shall hope to improve our acquaintance before I am required to admire him as a son-in-law.”
Elizabeth felt a small warmth at this, notonly for Mary’s sake, but for the ease with which her father had accepted the possibility. “I think you would not be disappointed.”
Mr Bennet inclined his head. “I shall reserve my judgement until I have evidence,” he said. “It is a principle I have not always adhered to, but I begin to see its advantages.”
Elizabeth met his eye. “It is one I should recommend.”
He smiled at that, though there was something more reflective than usual in his expression. “You have already done so,” he said.
Elizabeth inclined her head and said nothing.
After a short pause, Mr Bennet turned slightly back toward his table. “You may go, Lizzy,” he said. “And take care not to reform the rest of us too suddenly. We are not all prepared for it.”
“I shall try to proceed with caution,” she replied.
“That is all I ask.”
Elizabeth left him and closed the door quietly behind her. Almost as soon as she had left her father’s study, her thoughts went to another gentleman, one much less disinclined to take action.
Odd indeed, to know how very much she owed Mr Darcy, and to know that she might never have the chance to thank him. Elizabeth suspectedhe was too generous to wish any expression of her gratitude, but that was simply too bad for Mr Darcy.
If they ever met again, she intended to thank him regardless.
Chapter 14
March in London was sometimes as inclement as any winter day, Darcy thought. Fierce gusts of wind shrieked, and heavy clouds had made the sky dark long before evening came. Lashes of rain beat against the windows of Darcy House.
For all that, the drawing room was comfortable and cosy. An ample fire kept the room at a comfortable temperature, while the many candles made the room bright enough to read.
The evening had passed quietly. Supper had been taken without company, and the household, freed from obligation, had settled into that ease which comes only in the absence of strangers.
Georgiana sat at the pianoforte. Darcy had taken his place somewhat apart, not so distant as to suggest inattention, but far enough to allow her the space she preferred when she played. Mrs Annesley sat likewise at a comfortable distance, her embroidery resting idle in her hands, her attention fixedwith a kind of gentle encouragement that never intruded and yet was always felt.
The piece Georgiana had chosen was not one intended to display brilliance. It required steadiness more than panache, and feeling more than execution. She played it with care, her touch light but not uncertain, and though there were moments in which her confidence faltered slightly, they passed quickly enough to leave the whole impression unbroken.
Darcy listened without interruption.
He had heard her play better. He had also heard her play worse. What pleased him was not the quality of the performance, but the manner in which she sustained it. There had been a time when even the smallest hesitation would have undone her entirely. That it did not do so now was, to him, of far greater consequence than any technical improvement.
