Page 13 of A Mismatched Compromise

“Thank you,” she said slowly, “for agreeing to a longer engagement. I think it will be advantageous for us both.”

“Of course,” he said quickly. He was quiet for a moment, turning his hat over in his hands in a way she was beginning to recognise was his habitual gesture. “Miss Elizabeth, I want you to know that I… that I hold you in the highest esteem, and I hope that whatever happens, you will always…” He stopped, frowning, as he realised the words weren’t coming out right, but he gamely tried again. “I know that you do not… I do not wish for you to be unhappy. I hope you believe me when I say that.”

“I believe you,” Elizabeth said. “I do not wish unhappiness for you either.”

He nodded, looking as though he was not entirely comfortable with the conversation, but appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. A brief silence grew between them.

“How…how has Miss Bennet recovered from the excitement of the evening?” he asked. His voice was carefully level, and it was precisely that carefulness, so uncharacteristic of him, that betrayed him.

Elizabeth held his gaze for a moment, until he looked away, reddening as he realised that he had given away rather more than he intended.

“Jane is well,” Elizabeth said. “Thank you for inquiring after her.”

Mr Bingley looked like he wanted to say more, but left while he still had some appearance of composure. Elizabeth stood in the empty hall, listening to the sound of his horse’s hooves on the gravel drive until she could not hear them any longer.

She had known, of course, but there was a difference between knowing something and hearing the truth of it in Mr Bingley’s strained voice as he asked after the woman he actually wanted. She thought of Jane putting down her embroidery and leaving the house to visit Aunt Philips, so she would not be here when Mr Bingley arrived.

This was wrong. She had to find a way out, and she was going to get help from the one person who could act to change this situation.

Elizabeth turned and walked determinedly toward the study. As she expected, she found her father right where she had left him: behind his desk, with his book and, uncharacteristically, a glass of amber liquid. He looked up when she entered, with an expression of mild surprise.

“Papa,” she said determinedly, closing the door behind her. “I am in need of your assistance.”

“A troubling opening,” Mr Bennet said, setting the book down. “You are now engaged to be married, Lizzy. Matters could be very much worse. For what purpose could you possibly require my assistance?”

“It is imperative that I find a way out of this engagement, Papa, and you are the only person who can help me,” she said plainly. “The events of last night were an accident. Neither Mr Bingley nor I did anything improper. There must be some means of resolving this situation that does not require us both to spend the rest of our lives paying for something that was not our fault.”

Her father was quiet for a moment. She looked at him directly, but he avoided her gaze. The fire shifted in the grate.

“My dear,” he said, not ungently, in his usual measured tones that she had always thought admirably restrained and now found almost impossible to bear, “I understand you feel this keenly, and that is entirely natural. But I am afraid that the situation is not one that can be brushed aside. Your sister made sure that the entire county knew that you two had been found alone, and so the engagement has been established. Any attempt to undo it at this point would cost you and all your sisters rather more than I think you realise.”

“You taught me that there is always a way, Papa. We need only to find it, and then we can dissolve the engagement and —”

“Elizabeth. There are ways around situations that pertain to wars and governments and the rise and fall of empires. I am afraid there is no way around the dictates of rural society. Those are as immutable as time, and as eternal,” her father said. His voice was not unkind. Worse, it was final. “I am truly sorry, Elizabeth. But Charles Bingley is a good man and will treat you well, and you will be quite comfortable. You will find, in time, that that matters rather more than you believe it will now.”

Elizabeth looked at him, forcing down what she knew would be a rather biting response. “What of Jane?” she asked quietly. “Will she also find, in time, that all of that is enough for her?”

Her father had the grace to look struck, but the moment passed quickly, and he picked up his book again, clearly dismissing her. “Jane is a sensible girl,” he said. “She will manage.”

Elizabeth bit her lip, her chest aching with all the words she was attempting to suppress.

“Would it be too much, then, for me to ask you to speak to Lydia?” she asked at last, and she could hear the coldness in her own voice. “You have not asked why I was in the library, Papa. Were you not curious on that point? Lydia had arranged to meet a man there, alone, away from the ball. I received a note from him by mistake, and from the way the writer spoke, I fear it may not have been the first time that they met in secret. She is fifteen, Father. Far too young for this sort of behaviour, and she does not understand what might happen, even after seeing what happened to me last night. Though I may be well in time,” Elizabeth said, struggling momentarily against a lump in her throat, “I do not believe such a solution will arise for Lydia if she is found out. She needs to understand she cannot do such things, or something even worse than this will occur.”

Mr Bennet sighed, clearly at the end of his patience with daughters. “Lydia has had her lesson,” he said. “The whole evening was meant to be her adventure, and instead everyone is talking only of you and Bingley, and you will have a wedding and all that goes with that. For a girl of her temperament, there is no punishment so acute as being outshone.” He settled more comfortably into his chair. “Please tell Hill that I’ll have my supper in here tonight.”

Elizabeth looked at her father, at the familiar angle of his head bent over his book, his attention already moved away from his family, and felt as though she were seeing him for the first time. She thought of Jane, walking through the cold to see Aunt Phillips, and Mr Bingley, unable to stop himself from asking after Jane. She thought of herself, standing in the dark library composing a speech that was not a sister’s speech to give, but that she had not thought to ask anyone else to deliver, because there was no one who would. Her father had never acted on such things. She had known this and chosen to look past it because she loved him, and it was easier to do so. It did not feel easy now, however.

“Very well, Papa,” she said, very quietly. “Thank you for your time.”

Elizabeth left the study and stood alone in the hall. She had exhausted all the options she could think of, except the one she least wanted to attempt. But she was a practical woman, and she would do what must be done.

Chapter 7

Darcy let out a long, slow breath, though he refused to allow it to become a sigh. Outwardly, the drawing room at Netherfield Park was exactly as it had been before the night of the ball: the same fine furnishings, a little worn and outdated, but still comfortable, the same paintings on the walls, and the same prospect from the long windows that overlooked the formal gardens.

Yet all the comfort the room had once had was gone. The air was heavy and subdued, with little conversation and less cheer, as its occupants largely pursued their own ends, occupied by their private thoughts.

Today, for example, Hurst was sleeping on the sofa and loudly snoring, the jagged sounds echoing through the room at irregular intervals, each one causing Mrs Hurst to wince and glare at him. While she was not wincing and glaring, she was helping her sister practice a new dance step, which somehow seemed to require Miss Bingley to execute multiple graceful turns before the fireplace near which Darcy was sitting, wherein each turn caused her hem to swirl enough to allow her ankles to peep out at him. Darcy had therefore taken to looking out the window, staring stolidly at nothing. Bingley was reading, or rather, he was pretending to read.