Therefore, Elizabeth was mostly unsurprised a little over a week later when she received a black-edged letter from Longbourn announcing the death of Thomas Bennet. She was still in London, and while a part of her wanted to pay her final respects to the man who had given her life, neither she nor Darcy were willing to travel to Hertfordshire for the funeral. As a female, Elizabeth would not be permitted to attend, and neither wanted to be party to the inevitable complaints from the Bennet matriarch when they would not give into Mrs. Bennet’s demands to provide for the rest of the Bennet ladies.
They had fortunately met Mr. Collins a few months earlier when he visited London on Mr. Phillips’s behalf. He was a good man; they had heard good things about him through Mary’s letters, and knew she considered him almost as a brother. Despite Mrs. Bennet’s insistence that Mary and Mr. Collins wed, neither had any intention of doing so, especially now that the Bennet family was in mourning.
When they met, Mr. Bennet had been healthy although Darcy and Collins had spoken of what might transpire upon the event of that gentleman’s demise. Collins agreed with Darcy that since the Bennets had cast Elizabeth from their home at the tender age of eight, that she owed nothing to her parents, particularly her mother. Due to his friendship with the middle daughter, Collins reassured Darcy and Elizabeth both, along with Mr. Phillipsand Mr. Gardiner, that he would not cast the Bennet family from their home immediately upon Mr. Bennet’s eventual death. So long as Collins was unmarried, he would allow the family a minimum of six months to mourn their father before even attempting to claim the estate as his own, though he would begin managing it as soon as he could. However, he was comfortably situated at present in his little cottage, and so would not do as Mrs. Bennet feared and “cast them into the hedgerows.”
He also agreed that, as long as he could, he would assist the widow and her daughters financially, ensuring they had enough to live on. When it came time for him to claim Longbourn as his, he would allow Mrs. Bennet and her daughters the use of the dower house. However, he did ask Darcy for some assistance in ensuring the dower house was suitable for residence since he was uncertain of its condition at this moment.
Darcy and Elizabeth agreed since it was unlikely to cost as much as what Mrs. Bennet might demand; Elizabeth felt assisting her sisters in this way was the least she could do for them. She did not offer it on Mrs. Bennet’s behalf, but truly, most of it was done for Mary since she was the only sister who had continued a correspondence with Elizabeth that did not consist of demands for new clothing, ribbons, or trips to town.
After Mr. Bennet’s death, Elizabeth received a letter from Mary. She was very surprised to find a second letter addressed to her inside. She did not recognise the handwriting and opened it.
My Dear Elizabeth,
It hardly seems fair to you to call you dear now, though I did want you to know that you were, in fact, dear to me. You were my always favourite child, little though I showed it, and I missed you dreadfully when you went away.However, by that time, I had spent the last decade giving into my wife’s demands, without thinking of what it may cost me. Losing you was a much larger cost than I fully realised.
I doubt even Mary knows it, but I have read each letter you sent her and know more about your life at present than I have any right to. You have been generous in your advice to her, and, frankly, generous in continuing to correspond with her at all, given what Mrs. Bennet and I have forced you to endure. We wilfully threw you to the side when I ought to have stood up to my wife. What happened to Jane that day was not your fault, and I think Mrs. Bennet must realise that as well, though she would never admit to it.
Our family suffered much when you went away. I tried even less following your departure, and we spent every bit of the income from Longbourn selfishly. Because I would not stand up to my wife on the issue of you, I found myself giving in to my wife’s demands over and over again. Now that I am dying, I realise far more of what I have done.
Longbourn is in worse shape now than it was when I inherited it. I think my young cousin Collins is a good man though perhaps not well versed in estate management, but I think he will be a more diligent master than I have been. He will do a better job than me, that is for certain, but mostly because few could do worse.
In the months following your return, I managed to set aside small amounts of the estate income. I had intended it to serve as a dowry for my daughters eventually, but with this illness, I believe that it is insufficient to aid as it should. I should have been taking these steps all their lives, yours included, to ensure they would be protected at the end of my life. However, it seems as with most things in my life, I have waited too long. There is nothing for it now, for it seems thatI will shuffle off this mortal coil much sooner than I would have liked. I truly believed my wife would have gone first, with all her nervous flutterings and complaints, but it seems that it will be me. At least the heir appears to be a good man so perhaps my wife and daughters will be cared for, despite my lack of effort in that direction.
It is hardly adequate for an old man now on his deathbed to offer an apology. I feel certain it cannot make up for what you have suffered in being sent away from your family, but perhaps you had a better life than what we would have offered you. Had I raised you, you would have no doubt been full of conceit and sarcasm, just as I am, and unwilling to stand up for what is right, as I have done. I would have made things far worse for you. Though perhaps having you home would have helped me to be a better man and made me less indolent.
Regardless, there is little point in exploring these ideas now, but I do want to tell you how sorry I am for not being a better father and a better man. By all accounts, you have married an excellent man, and when the time comes for you to bring a child into this world, he will no doubt prove to be all I am not and chose not to be. I hope that this letter will help you, if even a little bit, to forgive me for my failures.
Sincerely,
Your Father, Thomas Bennet
Elizabeth shook her head as she read the letter through a second time. Part of her would like to find it in her to forgive the man, but even his apology was worthless. To wait to tell her now that she was ‘dear to him’, when he had made no effort in his lifetime to act remotely like a loving father, or even a concerned one, felt almost like a slap to the face instead of the apology he believed he was making. Like everything else in his life, he hoped to easehis conscience so he could die in peace. He might have felt better after writing this letter, but instead of evoking feelings of love or even of sympathy, instead she felt anger and annoyance.
Darcy saw these emotions as they flashed across her face and moved toward her. “Dearest, are you well?” he asked, his voice soft and filled with concern, as he sat on the settee beside her, drawing her into his arms.
Elizabeth shook her head, her movements slow at first as though weighed down by the heaviness of her thoughts. Then, with a suddenness that startled him, she shook her head again, as if trying to dispel the cobwebs clouding her mind. “My fa … Mr. Bennet has died.”
Darcy’s arms tightened around her. “Oh, Elizabeth …” he whispered, his breath warm against her hair.
Her voice was steady, though the weight of sorrow pressed upon her words. “Mary’s last letter indicated this was not far away. Of the family, he was the most ill. Then I received this,” she paused, holding up a letter, her father’s handwriting unmistakable on the pages. “In the days leading up to his death, he wrote this … apology for not doing enough to protect me as a child.”
She looked at Darcy, her eyes searching his face as though trying to find the words to express the tangled emotions within her. “In it, he claims to have loved me. He read my letters to Mary—probably all the letters I wrote to my sisters—and thinks he knows about me and my life from those.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed as he listened intently, his heart aching for her, though he remained silent, not wishing to interrupt the flow of her thoughts.
“Truly, I am sorry he is gone, which means we can never be restored,” Elizabeth continued, her voice tightening with unshed tears, “but I am not certain we ever could have been. He is … was too selfish to truly love anyone besides himself.”
Her words hung in the air, and Darcy could feel the truth in them. The resentment she had harboured for years, the pain of neglect, all seemed to spill out, raw and exposed.
“If there is one thing I have learned from my aunt and uncle,” she said, her voice softening, “and from my relationship with you, it is that love is unselfish and wants the best for the object of its love. This claim of love from Mr. Bennet is selfish and is more about appeasing his conscience than any real affection for me. If he truly loved me or any of my sisters, he would have done more for us and not waited until he was dying to try.”
Darcy’s chest tightened at her words, and he instinctively pulled her closer. He could feel her tremble, the weight of her grief pressing against him. Yet, there was little he could say. He agreed with her, deeply so, and he thought she knew that. Still, finding the right words to comfort her felt beyond his reach.
Instead, he held her, hoping she would feel the depth of his love in his embrace. His hand gently stroked her back as she nestled into him, her head resting against his chest.
For a long moment, they sat in silence, the crackle of the fire in the hearth the only sound in the room. Darcy’s thoughts flickered briefly to her condition, worrying that the stress and grief would worsen her health. But as if sensing his concern, Elizabeth shifted slightly and looked up at him, her gaze steady despite the sorrow lingering in her eyes.
“Do not fret, my love,” she whispered, her hand coming up to rest against his cheek. “I will be well. I promise. It was merely the shock of receiving first Mary’s letter and then his.”
