Page 32 of A Mismatched Compromise

“I’m quite sure that he can,” said Mr Bennet. “I have read the agricultural histories, some of which are quite gripping. Your library has three I had not encountered before.” He looked at Darcy with a mild expression that was at the same time shuttered off enough to make it clear that he was declining to be instructed. “You seem very interested in Longbourn’s productivity, Mr Darcy.”

“I am interested in estates,” Darcy repeated doggedly. “And, having also read many of the histories, it is indicated that an estate that is well-managed is better able to support a family in the long-term, which in present circumstances seems —”

“A commendable concern,” Mr Bennet interrupted agreeably. “For a family friend.”

There was a small pause in which the word “friend” sat between them and did its work.

After a moment, Darcy said, “I consider Bingley a particular friend as well.”

“Mm,” Mr Bennet said. “You have gone to a great deal of trouble on his behalf: invited this entire party to Pemberley, written letters, spoken repeatedly to reluctant fathers. You’ve spent a considerable amount of your own time, it seems, working toward the resolution of his engagement to my daughter that will, if successful, result in your friend being free to marry — my other daughter.” He was silent for a moment. “A great deal of effort,” he observed, “for someone else’s benefit.”

“Bingley is in an unjust situation, and so is your daughter — both your daughters,” Darcy said. “The present arrangement pleases no one and serves no one.”

“Now, that is perfectly true,” Mr Bennet agreed, “and a very neat, succinct description of it. You are a man who likes things in good order, I think. Perhaps that is why you are so interested in good estate managers — it seems that they should have the same concern for order.” He paused and looked at Darcy with the mild but penetrating attention that Darcy was beginning to realise presaged a more astute observation than Mr Bennet’s general manner would lean one to expect. “Tell me, does Lizzy’s gossip-monitor have anything encouraging to report?”

The abrupt shift of subject, and Mr Bennet’s apparent awareness of Elizabeth’s correspondence with Mary, caught Darcy unaware, which was, he suspected, the intention. “Miss Elizabeth informs me she has written twice,” he said, accepting the redirection without argument. “The most recent letter was less encouraging than the first. The gossip appears to have not diminished as quickly as we had hoped. There is, in fact, apparently a growing body of speculation regarding what may be occurring on this visit.”

Mr Bennet sighed, in the manner of a man who had hoped for encouraging news but is not at all surprised that he has not received it. “I had thought as much. Meryton is a very small place, and small places have long memories, long tongues, and short supplies of new material to engage both.” He was quiet for a moment, turning a page in his book without reading it. “She will find a way through it,” he said. His tone held a conviction that seemed as much born of certainty as of wistful thinking. “She always does.”

“I hope so,” Darcy said carefully, “though I cannot help thinking that Bingley, as much as I value him, is not the right resolution.”

Mr Bennet looked up at him then, looked at him directly, perhaps for the first time, and for a moment dropped the pleasant armour of his usual mild, amused manner entirely. “No,” he said heavily, “he is not. He is a good man, and I bear him no ill will whatsoever, but he is not the match for my Lizzy. If they marry, she will be very unhappy within a year, and remain so, and he will never understand why.” He paused. “So, Mr Bingley is the wrong resolution. If you found some sort of right resolution, that would leave my daughter in a position to marry for genuine esteem.” His gaze sharpened. “If she can be persuaded to, once everything is sorted. She is stubbornly resistant to her own happiness, is Lizzy. It seems almost a point of principle with her.”

Darcy had no answer to that. The conversation was getting dangerously out of his depth. “I…I have also been meaning to speak to you again about Miss Lydia,” he said after a pause.

Mr Bennet’s expression shifted, obtaining a guardedness that could be observed in a slight flattening around the eyes and a barely perceptible bracing, as though expecting a blow. His voice, however, remained mild. “Have you.”

“She is at Longbourn while we are all here. Mrs Bennet is —” Darcy stumbled, but tried to choose his words carefully — “an attentive and loving mother, but not always, perhaps, the most vigilant chaperone.”

“Mrs Bennet has not the professional training Mrs Annesley displays so proficiently,” Mr Bennet acknowledged, his voice cooler than it had been. “She does, however, have five daughters and a very clear understanding of what she wants — and what she does not want — for them. I have every confidence that she will manage.” His tone was firm, but it wavered a bit on the last, and Darcy suspected his confidence in his wife was not as robust as he claimed.

“Wickham may still be in the neighbourhood.”

Another pause stretched between them. Mr Bennet’s expression shifted to one that combined both irritation and acknowledgement. “I am aware that the militia remains in Meryton — for now. I have forbidden Lydia from accompanying the regiment to Brighton as a guest of Mrs Forster, and I have been informed — repeatedly — that this is the single greatest injustice anyone has ever suffered. The militia will be gone by summer, and so the source of temptation will remove itself, and we may all breathe more freely.” He picked up his book and readjusted his spectacles in a manner that indicated quite clearly that he was finished with the conversation. “I have heard your concern on that topic, Mr Darcy, and I am grateful for it. You may set it aside.”

Darcy did not point out that the departure of the regiment did not directly promise the long-term well-being of Lydia, or that a man who would arrange a private meeting with a fifteen-year-old girl was not the kind of man who required the encouragement of proximity to continue his behaviours. He had made his position clear. Further argument would only cause the other man to entrench himself in his position; it would accomplish nothing.

He thanked Mr Bennet for his time, expressed a hope that one of the three unfamiliar agricultural histories would prove diverting, and left him to his reading.

Darcy had intended to go directly to his study, but the route there took him past the long windows at the end of the east corridor, and movement in the garden caught his attention. He stopped and observed where, in the garden below, Elizabeth and Jane Bennet were walking on either side of Georgiana, who was talking, gesturing even — in a small, restrained way, true, as though she had not quite given herself permission to use her hands but was beginning to consider the possibility. Elizabeth said something, and Georgiana laughed, her whole face lifting, and Miss Bennet smiled warmly at them both. The spring light was thin still, but it was enough to catch the pale pink of Georgiana’s dress and the dark gloss of Elizabeth’s hair as she tilted her head towards his sister to catch something she said. It was enough to surround them with a warmth that Darcy felt, despite the fact that he was indoors, away from the touch of the sun.

He stayed there, watching them walk, rather longer than he had intended. Georgiana had been careful for several years now — careful in company, careful at Pemberley, careful in conversation, careful with her own feelings in a way that hurt him every time he noticed it.

The near-elopement at Ramsgate had made it all much worse. He understood where her caution came from, had understood it since the day she had confessed all to him and had wept in his arms, since he had watched his sister try to put herself back together after having been fractured by an experience that had shown her, at the age of fifteen, that her own judgement could be disastrously wrong. Georgiana had decided that it could not be trusted at all, in anything, and had stopped…

No. She had not stopped being herself — she was still perceptive, still kind, still given to genuine enthusiasm around topics that interested her, but she had learned to keep much of that out of sight. She laughed less, talked less, took fewer chances, and questioned herself much more. She was very careful.

As Darcy watched his sister under the spring sunlight, he realised she was not being careful now — she was being genuine, and gesturing and laughing and talking. It was Elizabeth’s doing, and all at once, he felt something rather warmer than gratitude.

The sensible thing to do was to go to his study and write letters. Darcy told himself so with conviction, but he still stood at the window, watching the three young women walk and talk and laugh with each other for another ten minutes before the sensible course won out.

Chapter 16

In April, the gardens of Pemberley were so lovely that Elizabeth rather felt that her other Aprils had been wasted in not having them to wander through. She had been out for nearly an hour and had not yet explored all the paths near the house. They seemed to multiply as she walked, offering new prospects at every turn: a stand of silvery birch, a border of early-flowering shrubs, a stone bridge over the stream that ran merrily through the lower grounds. Everything was ordered without feeling that there was any imposition of order, as though at Pemberley, even the plants knew the right and proper way to do things, and grew into loveliness as easily as plants in less august places grew into a shambles.

She had come out not just to enjoy the gardens, though, but to think. Elizabeth had needed to think a great deal of late: lucky, then, that Pemberley seemed to encourage reflection. At Longbourn, thinking could sometimes require quite an effort, for the house was never entirely quiet. Even when peace momentarily held sway, there was always the lurking threat that chaos would burst out at any moment, making the silence seem temporary and suspicious rather than restful. Here, the quiet was genuine, and invited reflection rather than demanding it.

As she walked, Elizabeth’s thoughts returned to Jane, as they had so often of late. Today, she was thinking of how her sister’s face had looked at breakfast when Mr Bingley had offered her the sugar bowl without asking if she took sugar, because he knew she did. She thought about Mr Bingley, who was trying very hard to be a good fiancé and not a man in love, and who was failing at both tasks. And finally, she thought about Mary’s latest letter, wherein her sister had written that she thought that perhaps the gossip was beginning to die down, and then had reported no less than three new rumours that had sprung up.