Mr. Bennet, observing the exchange with a look of exasperation, set his glass down and drawled, “I am certain nothing stirred the king’s patriotic soul quite like a hearty endorsement of the nation’s dinner table. Perhaps next time, Sir William, you might consider an ode to boiled mutton—it would undoubtedly secure you a dukedom.”
Sir William, entirely missing the sarcasm in Mr. Bennet’s remark, straightened in his chair. “Ah, boiled mutton is indeed a noble dish, Bennet, but it lacks grandeur! No, no, the roast remains unrivalled in its ability to embody the strength and fortitude of our proud nation.”
Bingley’s head was turning this way and that as the gentlemen conversed, his eyes wide with disbelief. “I say, Darcy,” he whispered, “are they debating—”
“Yes,” Darcy replied stoically. “Sir William is, at any rate.” He cast a look at Fitzwilliam that he hoped his cousin would understand as a message to get on with it, but the man was enjoying himself too much to pay any heed.
Sir William cleared his throat, standing as if addressing an audience and placing a hand over his heart.
Darcy’s eyes widened as he realized that Sir William Lucas was about to regale them with the actual ode. The knight’s voice was surprisingly mellow and pleasant. It almost drew Darcy’s attention away from the absurdity of the poetry.
From humble hearth to feasting hall,
Thy hearty strength sustains us all.
Through thee, our soldiers march apace,
And thus inspire the British race.
Both horrified and fascinated, Darcy was unsure what to do. He set his wine down and lifted his hands to applaud the awkwardness away. But Sir William was not yet finished.
“Ale!” he cried.
Darcy jumped, nearly oversetting his glass with an elbow.
“You might have warned me,” he said quietly to Mr. Bennet as he set the glass to rights.
“The only joy I have in hearing this wretched poem again is in the reaction of others who have yet to be regaled,” the older man murmured back.
Meanwhile, Sir William was again reciting.
Thou amber balm of toil and strife
Thy froth restores a weary life!
Our spirits rise, our bonds hold true,A toast to thee, England’s best brew!
“Bit of a syllabic misfire in the final line,” Mr. Bennet muttered. “Always rankles.”
Darcy pressed his lips together to prevent the laugh that was attempting to escape. He felt a sudden rush of sympathy for Mr. Bennet. He was clearly a clever man, but he had lived his life amongst those who, other than Miss Elizabeth, did not understand his humour.
“And that, gentlemen,” Sir William announced with a flourish, “is a bit of the ode that inspired a king to bestow a knighthood.”
“There is more?” Darcy whispered, aghast.
“Three more verses,” replied the older man, sipping his port.
Dear God. “Did the king really knight Sir William as a result of his verse?” Darcy muttered.
Mr. Bennet nodded. “Out of gratitude. I heard him say he had not laughed so hard for an age.”
“And you, Mr. Bennet?” Fitzwilliam asked once he had recovered his equanimity, finally addressing the man from whom he truly wished to hear.
Mr. Bennet sat back in his chair, his expression faintly sardonic. “Alas, Colonel, mine is not an equally thrilling tale. My father, a younger son, inherited unexpectedly. He was ill-prepared, having no training in estate management, and muddled through as best he could.”
“And when the property came to you?” Darcy asked quietly.
“I resolved to follow his example,” Mr. Bennet said with a faint smile. “Though I will admit, the estate has provided ample income and enjoyment over the years.”
