Elizabeth sat down in the seat Mr Collins had just vacated. “Are you certain that is all, Papa? You look rather troubled.”
He sighed. “It is nothing, Lizzy. I simply want to read my book.”
“And which book, pray, is that?”
Mr Bennet swallowed and blinked, his mouth half-open to respond, but then his brow furrowed. Eventually, he had to shuffle through his disorganised stack of letters to turn over the spine of the boxy tome buried on his desk. “The History of Tom Jones,” he read.
Elizabeth frowned and crossed her arms. “I see you were terribly eager to get back to it. Papa, please, tell me what is truly on your mind.”
Mr Bennet lowered his book with a resigned sigh. “Very well, if you must know, Sir William and I called on Sir Anthony Mortimer this morning.”
Elizabeth’s face brightened with recognition. “Sir Anthony Mortimer? The man who is being put forward as MP?”
Mr Bennet nodded reluctantly. “Yes, the very same.”
“And does he have generous feelings toward the neighbours? Will he likely help us accomplish the necessary aid to restore property damaged by the floods?”
Her father thought for a moment, then nodded again. “Yes, Sir Anthony seems as though he will be active and effective in Parliament. He certainly gave that impression.”
Elizabeth laughed lightly. “Then what is the matter, Papa? You do not look pleased.”
Mr Bennet shook his head. “I cannot quite agree with Sir Anthony’s politics. He spoke rather critically of Wellington.”
Elizabeth puckered her brow and tilted her head. “He would not be the first man to do so.”
“Nor the last, I daresay, but this was… no, never mind, Lizzy. I cannot quite describe my impression, for it went beyond mere words. Sir William, however, endorsed the man wholeheartedly. So, it seems there is nothing else to do but accept him as our choice.”
Elizabeth hummed in thought. “Have you considered speaking to Mr Wickham about Sir Anthony? After all, it was Mr Wickham who suggested his name. Perhaps he would understand your concerns, and together, you could either discuss the matter until your concerns are allayed or consider other candidates to propose.”
Mr Bennet nodded faintly. “Yes, I suppose that is a sensible course of action.”
“Good,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “I am sure he will be willing to listen and discuss it with you.”
Mr Bennet sighed, picking up his book again. “I will go to speak with him. Just as soon as I finish this chapter.”
“Good day, Mr Darcy,”the butler intoned with a slight dip of his head. “Her ladyship is not at home, but Lord Matlock is in his study.”
Darcy nodded, handing over his coat and hat. “Thank you, Perkins. Please ask if he will see me.”
The butler bowed before he disappeared. Darcy waited in the entrance hall, his anxiety mounting with each passing moment. The words he had rehearsed had shattered like grains of sand the moment he walked in the door. What was he supposed to say? When the butler returned and motioned for him to follow, he knotted his hands behind his back and prayed they would not shake when he had to speak.
As he entered the study, the smell of tobacco wafted over him. His uncle, Lord Matlock, sat behind a massive oak desk, puffing on a cigar and tracing his meaty finger down a piece of paper. At first glance, the scene appeared tranquil, but the lines of strain etched on Matlock’s face told a different story.
“Ah, Darcy,” Matlock greeted gruffly, setting the cigar down. “Take a seat and tell me what brings you here.”
Darcy hesitated at the sharpness in his uncle’s tone. “Thank you, Uncle,” he said, taking the offered chair. He studied his uncle’s face, the agitated weariness in his eyes. This would not, in fact, be the time to say what he had come here to say. Matlock looked like an angry cur gnawing on a bone shank. “Is something the matter? You seem... preoccupied.”
Matlock stubbed out his expensive cigar and waved his hand dismissively, though his expression remained tight. “Forgive me, Darcy. Nothing that ought to trouble you.”
Darcy eased a little more deeply into his seat. “Then, I take it, it is not to do with Georgiana?”
“Georgiana? No, no. Saint of a girl, like her mother.”
Darcy’s brow edged upward. “I doubt many would call her a saint, but thank you. It is not Richard, is it?”
Matlock shook his head as he fished inside his desk drawer for a hidden bottle of Scotch. “Not at the moment. I am afraid I have been wrestling with political matters all day. There is some tomfoolery afoot in the House of Commons that has been costing me sleep and far too many hours at my desk.”
“The House? And it concerns you? Might I ask what the trouble is?”
