“I was not prepared for it,” Darcy had admitted, his gaze fixed on the board. “I knew her as a quiet child—shy, even—and suddenly there were tears, moods, tempers I did not recognize. I confess it frightened me.”
“Perfectly natural,” Mr. Bennet said. “Jane never gave us a moment’s worry—angelic temperament, all sweetness and light. But Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth, seated nearby with her embroidery, had looked up in wary alarm. “Papa—”
Mr. Bennet ignored her protest. “Elizabeth had a streak of fire. Her courses brought out tempers the devil himself would shrink from.”
Darcy, caught entirely unprepared for this level of candor, had flushed scarlet to the tips of his ears. Elizabeth groaned and bent lower over her stitching. “Papa!”
“Oh, hush, my dear. Mr. Darcy needs to understand these things. He has a girl of his own to raise.”
“Nothisdaughter,” Elizabeth muttered.
“No, but a sister young enough to count.” Mr. Bennet moved another piece. “Kitty wept over everything for nearly a year, poor girl. And then there was Lydia.”
The tone of that remark caused all present to glance toward the hearth, where Lydia had just left a discarded novel and gone out to the garden.
“She was… wild,” Elizabeth said softly. “Too much indulged. I believe we all spoiled her.”
“We were told she would be our last,” Mr. Bennet added with a sigh. “After she was born, the midwife said we ought not expect another. So we gave Lydia whatever she wanted. Too much of it.”
Darcy leaned forward slightly. “You say she was wild. In what way?”
“Oh, the usual. Tantrums, deception, vanity.” Elizabeth glanced at her father. “Do you recall when she cut up all Kitty’sribbons because she wanted some as well? She thought Mama would relent and take her into Meryton if Kitty had none.”
“I do indeed. And that she wore Jane’s slippers out of doors in the rain, claiming they were hers.”
“Ungovernable,” Mr. Bennet said, shaking of his head. “And might have remained so, had we not finally had the sense to let her feel the consequences of her actions.”
Darcy frowned thoughtfully. “Consequences?”
“Natural ones,” Mr. Bennet said. “You see, if she threw a fit and refused crumpets in favor of tarts for breakfast, we told her to go make the tarts herself. She wished for the crumpets after all, but we told her she had rejected them and there was no going back. ‘Make them yourself or go hungry,’ I told her.
It was all Darcy could do to prevent his jaw from dropping at the idea of it.
Mr. Bennet continued, “If she left a gown on the floor and it was wrinkled—well, she had to figure out how to wash and press it. The servants showed her, but she had to actuallydoit herself. Same for dishes left about or messes after her tantrums.”
Darcy glanced toward the window, where Lydia’s silhouette could be seen in the garden beyond. “But did it not… break her spirits? Cause her to feel unloved or unwanted?”
“She felt that way at first,” Elizabeth said with a wry grin. “She would scream for hours that no one loved her and that she hated us all. It nearly broke Mama’s heart.”
“But we stayed firm,” Mr. Bennet said, “and it did not destroy her. She is as lively as ever, but now she is more thoughtful. When the housemaid sprained her ankle, Lydia evenvolunteered to fetch waterforher so the girl did not have to hobble. She learned some compassion—finally.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly, clearly remembering. “I think she realized that being the youngest did not make her the most important.”
“It must be a great comfort to have her on a better path,” remarked Darcy.
“It is,” Mr. Bennet said, glancing at Elizabeth fondly. “And it helps that her sisters are good examples.”
Darcy had spent the remainder of the day and long into the night thinking about what he had learned. It was very unusual for a gentleman to discuss the rearing of his children, but Darcy found he only admired the man for his candor.Perhaps I can apply some of this to helping Georgiana, he thought hopefully.When I return to town, I shall.
As Longbourn came into view, he sat a little straighter in the saddle. He would see her again, yes—but he would also seethem. A family unlike his own. A father who had begun to feel, in some indefinable way, like something long missed.
He dismounted, handed his reins to a waiting groom, and mounted the steps two at a time.
It felt like he was coming home.
Chapter 16
