Chapter 13 A Test of Fire

Dinner at Longbourn reduced the table numbers to the Bennets and Mr. Collins. Despite Mrs. Bennet’s wishes otherwise, Mr. Bingley was encouraged by the patriarch of the family to dine at home. After the day’s tumultuous events in engagements, failed engagements, and near engagements, even Mr. Bingley had to agree the household needed peace.
Summoned to her father’s study after the meal, Elizabeth hoped to play a game of chess or backgammon. Instead, she found her father sitting behind his desk. Feeling as though the discussion would be personal, she closed the door behind her. Her shoulders tensed as he said her name in a tone she knew meant he desired answers.
“I had the strangest visit from Mr. Darcy this afternoon, Child. He came to inform me that he would be leaving the neighborhood for some weeks but planned to return for Jane and Mr. Bingley’s wedding after Christmas.”
Elizabeth nodded as none of this was news to her. She had seen Mr. Darcy just after his interview with her father, where he told her much the same, promising he would return. She hadn’t contradicted him but felt the decision hindered her desire to get to know him better.
“What passed between the two of you this afternoon?” her father asked.
Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders, earning a hollow laugh from her father.
“Oho, you as well? He also would not tell me much, though he did relay some,” he said, raising an eyebrow but his daughter kept her face slackened without revealing more. “He begged of me two requests. One, I already granted, but the second . . .”
“Papa! What has Mr. Darcy asked of you?”
Mr. Bennet considered his daughter’s earnest reaction. He had anticipated that buffoon Collins would never listen to him that to win over his Cousin Elizabeth, he would need to humble himself to impress her. Walking in as heir presumptive could never persuade her to make a match. Not his Lizzy. Of course, the man did not listen, instead employing the silly advice of his wife. Now, his favorite companion stood before him, clearly besotted by the stranger from Derbyshire, the same man who saved her life. And Mr. Bennet hated every moment of it.
“Sit, sit, here,” he invited her to the chair beside his desk and to her surprise, offered her a pouring of brandy. She accepted the glass and raised it with her father for a sip, while he took a healthy swig. “Now, please do not insult my intelligence and claim nothing has passed between you. Whatever it is, I will hold the confidence. I never said a word about Jane,” he pointed out.
Elizabeth ran her finger along the glass rim. The deep amber libation left a telling haze on the inside where she had sipped. “That is true, Mr. Bingley practically boasted that he is the one who disclosed their secret,” she agreed with him.
Mr. Bennet raised his hand, palm flattened to emphasize his earlier point.
Still, something twisted in Elizabeth’s gut that she did not feel comfortable telling her father all that had exchanged between her and Mr. Darcy. She also felt equally stupid to pretend nothing had happened between them. If he renewed his offer, she would have a very difficult time convincing her father of her regard.
“Mr. Darcy came upon me walking near Charlotte’s grave,” she began, and her father gasped. Whatever he had expected to be the story, it was clearly not to begin on such a dark note. “After we spoke for some time, he professed love and admiration, but I prevented him from coming to the point of asking for my hand.”
His jaw fallen in awe, Mr. Bennet stared at his daughter in disbelief.
“Do you not like Mr. Darcy?” he asked.
Elizabeth scowled at her father, finding his behavior too simple-minded.
“I scarcely know Mr. Darcy,” she stressed.
“Ah,” he said, partaking of his drink and nodding his head. “Without prying further, assuming he did not assault you or otherwise molest you?” Mr. Bennet asked, half-teasing, but necessary details to know if they were true.
Elizabeth emphatically shook her head. “No, no, nothing of that kind. Mr. Darcy was the perfect gentleman.”
“How did you end it with him?”
Elizabeth shrugged again and treated herself to more brandy. The sting on her tongue echoed as a singe up to her nose, but she enjoyed the warm burn down her esophagus. She smacked her lips at the tart aftertaste, making her father laugh. “I don’t suppose you could say I ended it with him at all. I asked him to grant me time before renewing his addresses, if he ever does,” she said, ending her summary with a slight sadness to her voice.
“I see, I see.”
Mr. Bennet refilled his snifter but did not offer Elizabeth another drop. He swirled the topaz liquid in his glass, watching the trick of the candlelight and fire in the reflection.
“Papa, I have told you all that you have wished to know unless you’d like the details of how it felt when he touched my hand, and how my breath caught in my chest when he declared—”
“No, no, none of that!” he said, playfully covering his ears and humming a tune.
Elizabeth cackled at the easy time she had with her father and finished her brandy whilst he worked out keeping his end of the bargain. Quick footsteps trampled back and forth across the hall and they both looked at the door.
“Your sisters are terrible eavesdroppers,” he commented, blandly.
“Nay,” Elizabeth countered, listened as a distinct yelp and more footsteps could be heard. “Sounds like Lydia and Kitty are picking on one another, anything to avoid Mr. Collins reading in the parlor.”
“Indeed, those two could never be quiet long enough to conceal their whereabouts.” Mr. Bennet sighed, as he suddenly felt like a much older man than his forty-six years. Elizabeth looked at him expectantly and he decided he would not make her embarrass herself further by declaring more solid feelings for the man.
“In light of what you have shared, and I am most proud of you for never giving in to fear, my Lizzy. Granted, you likely have known for some time that Jane will marry Mr. Bingley. Still, many other young ladies would have never dared to reject a man like Mr. Darcy.”
“But I didn’t reject him! I was quite clear, I asked only for time.”
“Heh, perhaps retell that tale to Mr. Bingley’s sister, that one who always puts on too much perfume,” he described, wrinkling his nose. “I think she might declare you fit for Bedlam!”
Elizabeth pursed her lips, hoping her father would not traipse further down this path of speculation. How could she tell him the nightmares she confessed to Mr. Darcy were not always at night, but sometimes in the middle of the day? While she was awake, almost anytime she was alone?
“Father,” she warned.
“Aside from the jewels and carriages you might have had, Lizzy, the man seems to have accepted your terms. I do believe he will be back. He gave this to me, allowing me to judge the best time to bestow it.” Mr. Bennet said, reaching into the drawer of his desk, he pulled out a wooden box. “I believe with him leaving that area for a few weeks, now is as good a time as any,”
Elizabeth accepted the box, startled by its heftiness.
“He bought me a gift?” she asked.
“And gave it to me so that all was done properly,” Mr. Bennet pointed out.
Considering the plain pine box for a moment, she could not discern any markings or indications as to what it might be. Using a knife from her father, she cut the twine holding the lid in place. Once she managed to pry it off, she gasped at the trove of treasures inside. A dozen glass jars with cork stoppers lay nestled in the box, in three neat rows, full of pigments in various colors. At the bottom of the box, two larger parcels of mediums lay sealed.
“He included beeswax,” she said, giggling.
Mr. Bennet smiled. “Perhaps he doesn’t know how much you’ve troubled our hives,” he explained.
“But how did he know at all? I’ve never told him that I paint,” Elizabeth said, suspiciously.
Mr. Bennet lifted a few of the jars and held them up to the light, squinting to see the color. But each one looked similar to another, just a jar of dust. A few, the dull yellow and the chalky white he could spy were different than the others. “While you were recovering from the fire before you woke up, the man spent most of the day and evening here. Truthfully, we both worried it was in vain what he had done, and I was only grateful he was not also seriously injured,” Mr. Bennet recounted.
“He stayed here? I thought that was an embellishment when Lydia told me,” Elizabeth said, thoughtfully. Suddenly, her familiar friend of guilt washed over her heart, fingering the expensive gift Mr. Darcy had bought, and knowing that the man had kept vigil. She had little right to ask him to wait at all, but then she scolded herself once more, that was precisely why she needed time. If she accepted him out of obligation, she could never give him the love he so plainly deserved.
“Yes, he mostly stayed in here. Pleasant fellow, to tell you the truth, not one looking to talk to fill the silence,” Mr. Bennet described, and Elizabeth agreed. “He had inspected all of my books, read one or two, and one day commented on my miniatures,” Mr. Bennet said, pointing to the work of his daughter.
“And you told him I was the painter,” she finished.
“Well, I certainly couldn’t lie to the man. I was proud. . . and concerned. We thought we might lose you, Lizzy,” Mr. Bennet said, choking on his last words.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, feeling the prick of salt welling up in her tired eyes. She still had not rested since the morning hours and their trek out to the tenant farms. Her father placed a hand over hers, the touch comforted her and she opened her eyes allowing her tears to fall.
Softly, she apologized. “I am so sorry.”
“Do not apologize for who you are, Lizzy. If Jane had been in there, you would have found her. You two have tumbled, tagged along, and followed one another on every adventure of your childhoods.” He paused and chuckled to himself over his personal memories.
“But she was not. I only found Charlotte, and I could not save her.”
Mr. Bennet wisely poured his daughter another small glass of brandy and did not refill his own.
“What did you find when you were in that inferno?” he asked, prompting Elizabeth to unburden herself.
“There was smoke, too much smoke.”
He nodded. “Yes, Mr. Darcy covered his mouth, I hear, with a cloth before going in after you,” Mr. Bennet explained.
Elizabeth didn’t register her father’s words. In her mind, the study was the assembly room, ablaze with a fire that scorched her skin and choked her breath. Her voice cracked and groaned as she told her father more. “I could not see, or breathe, and I fell to the floor. Charlotte was there, on the floor, her arm outstretched . . .” Elizabeth closed her eyes and reached out, miming the horror for her father.
Mr. Bennet gasped but held strong. With a clear voice, he asked his daughter a question that she needed to hear. “Was Charlotte alive? Was she moving?”
Elizabeth flinched as she tried to remember, and she shook her head hesitantly, then twitched and shook it more vigorously. She had reached out for Charlotte and pulled, pulled as hard as she could, and her friend hadn’t moved.
“No,” Elizabeth’s voice shook with emotion. She opened her eyes and forced herself to match her father’s gaze. “No,” she repeated, then picked up the glass of brandy with her arm that had mimicked the stretch, and drank more of the brandy. Two gulps and she finished the glass.
“There was nothing you could have done. It is a miracle you were spared.”
“No, Papa, it was not a miracle,” Elizabeth countered. “It was Mr. Darcy.”
Agreeing to leave her gift in his study until the morning, Elizabeth yawned, feeling the effects of the brandy and exhaustion of the day. She had rarely felt so tired and worn out, but truly, she thought she might sleep for days again.
“I’ll tell your mother not to disturb you in the morning,” he promised, as Elizabeth finally stood to walk to the door.
She yawned once more before turning the latch. “What was the other request Mr. Darcy made?” she asked, sleepily, leaning against the wall to keep herself upon her feet.
Mr. Bennet chuckled. “Nothing gets past you, my Lizzy.”
She grinned like a drunken cat and nodded.
“He asked if he could write to you, through me.”
Elizabeth shivered with a sudden jolt of alertness. “And?” she implored.
“I heartily gave my consent,” Mr. Bennet said, with a sage nod.
Rewarded with his daughter’s happiness, Mr. Bennet wished her a good night’s rest and tucked his bottle of brandy back away. What little time they had known Mr. Darcy was filled with such assurances, if he had known another man thousands of times as long, Mr. Bennet doubted very much he’d know a man’s character more thoroughly.