Page 175 of Near Pemberley

“I am relieved to hear it, Mr. Darcy. That would have been a foolish sacrifice from your end.” He stood. “I think I need a drink before you say anything more.”

He poured a claret for both of them. As he sat down again, he asked. “Then… Jane?”

“No.”

“Mary?”

Darcy closed his eyes briefly. “No, sir.”

“Kitty?”

Darcy allowed himself the smallest sigh. “No.”

Mr. Bennet studied him for several moments.

“Then I can only conclude you mean Lizzy.” He finished his drink and poured himself another one. “Mr. Darcy, you have managed something my wife has never accomplished – you have left me entirely speechless.”

He looked at Darcy over the rim of his glass. “How…?”

Darcy smiled faintly.

“I believe that is a very fair question.”

“Indeed, it is. The last I heard, my daughter thought very little of you. Now you arrive at my house with a black eye, ask for her hand, and appear entirely confident that she has accepted you.” He shook his head slowly. “I find I have somehow missed the middle of the story.”

Darcy could not help smiling. “It has been a rather eventful few days.”

“I should imagine so.”

Mr. Bennet settled back in his chair and gestured towards him with his glass.

“Very well, Mr. Darcy. Begin wherever you think best. But I warn you, if you omit anything of consequence, I shall almost certainly interrupt.”

Darcy inclined his head.

“The truth of the matter is that I love Miss Elizabeth. I have loved her for a long time.”

What followed occupied the better part of an hour. Darcy concealed nothing. He spoke of Hertfordshire, of his growing regard for Elizabeth, of his own faults…

Mr. Bennet listened with increasing astonishment. More than once he interrupted, asking for some point to be repeated, as though he scarcely trusted his own hearing. He was particularly taken aback to learn that Darcy had already sought Elizabeth’s hand in the spring – and that she had refused him.

“So then she did not like you? And now she does?”

Darcy nodded.

“Extraordinary.”

Darcy answered every question with complete honesty.

Then he spoke of Lambton, of Wickham, and of the events that had finally brought him and Elizabeth to an understanding.

By the time he had finished, Mr. Bennet remained silent for several moments.

At length he rose. “Well, Mr. Darcy,” he said quietly, “I believe I owe you more gratitude than I can ever properly express. To fight for us…”

Mrs. Bennet, having been informed only that Mr. Darcy wished to speak privately with her husband, had spent the morning imagining every possible catastrophe. When at last Mr. Bennet called her into the drawing room, she entered with considerable apprehension.

“My dear, you may set your mind at ease,” said Mr. Bennet with unusual solemnity. “Mr. Darcy has not come about Lydia.”