Page 28 of A Mismatched Compromise

Darcy sat for a moment, staring at the paper on the desk. Presently, his greatest difficulty was not knowing what to do with his new certainty. If he were to expose the ugly story on a public scale, Lydia Bennet’s part in the incident must come to light. That would replace the current scandal, which Elizabeth and Bingley’s self-sacrificing choices had mitigated, with an entirely new, and worse, scandal. Wickham would likely recover just fine, as he had no compunctions about casting away young girls who trusted him and lying his way to a new, more comfortable situation. Perhaps, though, there was someone who could help.

When Darcy knocked softly on the door of the guest chamber that had been assigned to Mr Bennet, he was greeted with a brief pause, then a weary, “Come in.”

Mr Bennet was seated in the armchair by the window, his travelling coat and boots still on. He was sprawled in the armchair as if he had no intention of removing himself from it any time soon.

“Mr Darcy,” he said, not particularly surprised. “I had wondered how long it would take you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are the kind of man who is prompt in dealing with matters he has decided need dealing with,” Mr Bennet said, his voice indicating that he did not exactly see this as a virtue. “I could tell when I arrived that you had something you wished to say to me. I confess I had hoped for at least an hour of rest before the discussion began, as it has been quite some time since I spent so much time in a carriage and I am not at my best. But you are here, and I am here, so we might as well get on with it.”

Darcy, who had spent the walk upstairs planning some tactful approaches to the conversation, decided to take Mr Bennet at his word and abandon them. “For some time, I have had certain suspicions regarding the events at Netherfield,” he said. “I should have liked to share them with you earlier, but I was not sure I had enough evidence to do so. However, having gone through the accumulated post on my return today, I received more information that I believe supports those suspicions.”

“Indeed,” said Mr Bennet, looking out the window at the hills in the distance, apparently not much struck by them. “Does this information alter anything that has already occurred?”

“Not the occurrence itself,” Darcy conceded. “It clarifies the sequence of events, however, and it suggests…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I have enough information to be confident in the belief that your youngest daughter, Lydia, had been growing acquainted for some time before the ball with a particular officer, and that this officer had the effrontery to arrange a private meeting with her.”

Mr Bennet was silent for a moment. His jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped to his own dusty boots. “You are speaking of George Wickham,” he said finally.

Darcy looked at him with some surprise, which the other man noticed. He shrugged. “My daughter Elizabeth warned me that Lydia had received a letter from an unknown man. Wickham had been much discussed in my household, and then suddenly, after all of this uproar, he was not. I am not entirely unobservant, Mr Darcy.” He was silent for a moment. “What is your source?”

“A lieutenant in the regiment who served with my cousin, and whom I trust to be both accurate and discreet.”

Mr Bennet turned from the window and looked at Darcy. His expression was not clear — Darcy thought he saw exhaustion, or something perhaps deeper than that. “Lydia has seen the consequences of her behaviour. She knows she behaved badly.”

“I understand that,” Darcy said, with a patience that it was very difficult for him to summon. “However, Wickham is still in the neighbourhood, and your daughter is —” He stopped before he said something indiscreet about her character or supervision. “Miss Lydia is very young, and inexperienced in dealing with the sort of man who would make that type of arrangement with a girl of fifteen. Worse, I fear Wickham is not likely to abandon his attempts with her because one evening went awry.”

“You think he will try again,” Mr Bennet said flatly, the words a statement rather than a question.

“I do. And I believe that the conditions that made such a plan possible the first time have not improved.” He met the older man’s eyes. “Miss Lydia is at Longbourn, and Wickham’s regiment is at Meryton for some months yet.”

Mr Bennet’s silence went on for longer this time. When he spoke, his voice had its usual wry note, but the lightness that generally accompanied it had gone. “You are a very thorough young man, Mr Darcy.”

Darcy did not reply.

“I have told Mrs Bennet that she must limit the girls’ interactions with the soldiers,” Mr Bennet said. “The regiment will move on before long, and the problem will resolve itself. In the meantime, I’m quite eager to see your library and discuss your thoughts on its reorganisation,” he said, clearly dismissing the topic.

Darcy did not share his thoughts on this plan. Instead he said, with more diplomacy that he thought the situation deserved, “I hope that is the case, sir.” He considered what else he could say and found nothing, for they had both made their positions clear. With an inward sigh, Darcy thanked the other man for his time, made a slight excuse of Mr Bennet’s presumed tiredness after the long journey, and excused himself.

As he walked down the corridor, reflecting on the utter failure of his attempted warning, Darcy heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up to find Elizabeth turning down the corridor toward him. She was still in her travelling dress, which meant she had come to check on her father before tending to herself.

She stopped when she saw him, with an expression of mild surprise that turned more guarded as she put together the pieces. “Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said in greeting, glancing at the partially open door down the corridor. “Is my father all right?”

“He is quite well,” Darcy said, making no attempt to deny that he’d been in to speak with Mr Bennet. “Resting from the journey.”

She accepted this without further questions, though the guarded expression did not leave her face. Darcy considered whether to share the details of the conversation with her, and decided that it was not a conversation suitable for the corridor, near her father’s open door, while she was still wearing her travelling dress. Their conversation about Wickham would require her full attention and participation, and he’d rather she give both willingly than feel ambushed at the top of the stairwell.

“I wonder,” he said instead, “if you would like to see the library. Your father mentioned it during our conversation — I believe he has decided, sight unseen, that it is the most important room in the house.”

Elizabeth smiled, her expression relaxing. “He believes the library is the most important room in any house,” she said. “And I would love to see it, but I dare not go without him. He will be most vexed if I get to see it first.”

Darcy smiled. “I will ask if he would like to accompany us, or if he prefers to rest and wait until later.” He went back to Mr Bennet’s room to suggest a visit to the library. To Darcy’s utter lack of surprise, it turned out that however tiring his guest had found the journey, Mr Bennet was not too weary for this plan.

The library at Pemberley occupied over half of the east wing on the second floor. Though the thought was too fanciful to speak aloud, Darcy had always thought that the afternoon light came through the long windows at an angle that fell across the shelves in such a way as to make the entire room look like a scene from a painting. To his private satisfaction, it was doing so as he opened the door and gestured for Elizabeth and her father to precede him.

Mr Bennet walked in and stopped in his tracks. “Good God,” he said, his voice filled with reverence. He approached the nearest shelves with the single-mindedness of someone who is on a mission, clearly having forgotten the presence of his daughter entirely, let alone that of his host. He walked along the shelves, running a light finger along the spines of the books as he peered at the titles. Darcy watched him with a feeling that he recognised after a moment as satisfaction, though he was not entirely certain why he should feel that way.

He ignored it and turned to look for Elizabeth. She was standing in the middle of the room, which was, he thought, entirely characteristic of her. She didn’t go to the shelves, or look for a particular book; rather, she was taking in the room as a whole first. She looked at the windows, and the pattern of light on the shelves, and at the old map of Derbyshire that had hung on the north wall longer than anyone could remember. Darcy stayed where he was, near the door, and watched her, noticing things anew by watching her notice them. After a moment, she looked around and found him.