“Mama,” Elizabeth said, crossing to her, “Mr. Darcy has come to request Papa’s permission to court me formally.”
No one moved.
Then Lydia shrieked.
Jane gasped softly and pressed both hands to her heart, though her smile bloomed at once. Kitty began to giggle. Mary looked as though she were searching for a moral reflection and finding none ready to hand. Mr. Collins went very red, then very pale, then appeared to settle upon injured dignity as the safest expression available.
Mrs. Bennet simply stared.
“To court you?” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Mr. Darcy of Pemberley?”
“The same.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes darted toward the door, then back to Elizabeth. “But I thought— That is, Mrs. Philips said— We heard he needed a great fortune. That he was nearly impoverished. Not poor, of course, not poor as anyone else is poor, but that Pemberley was not what it had been, and he needed to marry a very rich lady. I never thought—” She stopped, her confusion turning suddenly to distress. “Lizzy, are you sure? For I will not have you taken in by a great name if there is nothing behind it. A handsome estate does not feed daughters if it is all debts and old stone.”
Elizabeth’s heart softened so unexpectedly that she almost forgot Mr. Collins, Lydia’s giggles, and every awkward eye upon her.
Her mother was anxious, yes. Indiscreet, yes. But beneath the fluttering words was fear for her daughter, and that fear was not unworthy.
Elizabeth sat beside her and took her hand. “Everything is well, Mama.”
“But if he is in want of fortune—”
“Then it is fortunate he is speaking to Papa and not expecting us to arrange everything without counsel. I shall make certain that any marriage articles and settlement, should matters ever come to that, are handled properly with my uncle Philips’s insight.”
Mrs. Bennet gripped her fingers. “Your uncle will help arrange it?”
“Of course. You know he will be careful.”
“He is a very sensible man,” Mrs. Bennet murmured.
“And I will not permit anything imprudent,” Elizabeth said gently. “Not for myself, and not for any of you. If I marry, I shall ensure you and my sisters are protected after Papa’s death. You will not be left without shelter or support. I promise you that.”
Mrs. Bennet’s face changed.
The words seemed to strike past all her schemes and nerves and settle somewhere deeper. Her eyes filled at once, and before Elizabeth could prepare herself, her mother rose and pulled her into a fierce embrace.
“Oh, my Lizzy.”
Elizabeth froze for one surprised heartbeat, then returned the embrace.
Mrs. Bennet did not often hold her this way. She kissed Jane, fussed over Lydia, complained of Kitty’s coughs, scolded Mary’s solemnity, and declared Elizabeth headstrong, willful, or impossible depending upon the day. But this was different. Her arms trembled, and Elizabeth realized, with a sharp ache of tenderness, how long her mother had been afraid.
“I have worried so,” Mrs. Bennet whispered, too low for the room at large. “You cannot know.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. “I know more than I did.”
Mrs. Bennet held her another moment, then released her abruptly and turned away to dab at her eyes with her handkerchief. When she turned back, tears still clung to herlashes, but calculation had already begun to return in bright, practical sparks.
“Well,” she said, drawing herself up, “there is much to do.”
