Unbeknownst to Elizabeth, Mr Bennet was no longer at Longbourn. After a restless night fretting about ungrateful daughters and witless wives, he ordered his horse saddled at first light and set off to the town of Meryton, to knock loudly on the door of Mr Phillips, the town solicitor and his brother-in-law. The door was eventually opened by a manservant who looked to have rushed to put on his livery: clearly the household was unused to receiving visitors at such an early hour. After a brief absence while the man announced their guest to his hosts, Thomas Bennet was shown into the dining room, where Mr and Mrs Phillips were breaking their fast.
Mr Phillips sprang to his feet and shook Mr Bennet's hand heartily. "My dear chap," he cried, "it is good to see you home at last! We had quite begun to wonder whether you would make it back from town in time to walk your daughters down the aisle. How are you going to manage that, by the way? If it were just two, you could take one on each arm, but with three you will need to walk them in one at a time, I suppose."
"It remains to be seen whether three arms are needed, Phillips," was his cryptic reply. "I came to seek your advice on a most urgent matter. Could we perhaps speak in your study?"
"Of course, of course, old chap," replied Phillips, thinking perhaps there was some detail in the settlement papers still to be finalised to the father of the brides' satisfaction. He bid his lady wife a fond farewell and ushered his brother-in-law into his place of business - the orderly and precise realm of a country solicitor - a room that belied the relaxed and jovial exterior he presented to the world and revealed the sharp, methodical mind that he brought to his professional work. "Now," he said, taking his place in the large leather seat behind his desk, "what can I help you with? Which of these engagements has a glitch that needs to be ironed out?"
"It is not ironing out that I am looking for, Phillips. I want the marriage stopped. Elizabeth and that Darcy fellow are acting without my consent. She is not of age. There must be some way I can stop it. I am her father, and she cannot marry without my consent."
Phillips was astounded - flabbergasted - but here in his place of business, he had donned his professional demeanour, and he did not let his surprise show. Instead, he tried to draw out the details behind Mr Bennet's words. "Are there no settlement papers, then? Is Lizzy planning to marry without any protection? Has the girl been compromised?"
"No, there is nothing of that sort. And yes, there are settlement papers. Gardiner took it on himself to sign them on my behalf just because I entrusted Lizzy to his care for a day in London when they were to visit his warehouse, not go and get engaged. He claims he acted in loco parentis but I was right there all along, sitting in his study, and well he knew it. 'I trust her to your care' surely can't mean 'and marry her off if you get the chance'!"
"Lizzy was here just yesterday, and she seems quite happy with the situation. Why would you want to jeopardise such an advantageous match for her, no matter how unorthodox the way in which it came about? Do you suspect the young man will rely on some loophole to withdraw from the engagement?"
"If only he would!" cried Bennet with feeling. But no, he is as set on the marriage as she is."
"Then it is your own feelings you are consulting in seeking to prevent the wedding, not your daughter's or her young man's?"
"I am her father. It is for me to say if and when she will marry, and I say she will not. Not to Mr Darcy, and not to anyone else. If the wedding is stopped now, after the notice has been published and the whole neighbourhood it will become so notorious that no-one else will ever risk an engagement with her. Lizzy should stay at home with me. She is not made to be someone's wife, to waste her life keeping house and bearing children. With me she can live a life of the mind. She will be happier in the long run. Now, tell me, how can I go about stopping it?"
Mr Phillips summoned all of his professional self-control to avoid expressing his dismay at Bennet's callous disregard for his daughter's wishes. "Well," he said slowly, "it is true that Lord Hardwicke's Act requires parental consent for a woman under the age of 21 to marry. But as you describe the situation, there would be some question of whether you had delegated the question of consent to Mr Gardiner. It would be a matter of complicated evidence and a test of Mr Gardiner's good character. It would take both time and money, and would forever damage your brother's reputation. I could not advise you in such a proceeding, as I am too close to both the principal parties, so you would also face the costs of seeking legal representation from someone who would charge you the going rate."
"I care not for the cost," said Bennet, with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Well, you should!" his brother replied. "Your estate is hardly so prosperous that you can afford frivolous law suits." Phillips held up his hand to forestall Bennet's outraged protest, and assumed his most authoritative courtroom tones as he said, "Let me advise you to think better of this plan. Have you really considered all the implications? You have three daughters about to walk down the aisle. Can you imagine the scandal if you tried to escort two of them, but spoke against the marriage of the third? The whole of Meryton already knows of Lizzy's engagement. Lizzy is popular in the neighbourhood, which is more than you can claim to be. Everyone will be there, to see that great curiosity: a triple wedding, and to wish your daughters, including Lizzy, well.. Your wife, my dear sister, will relish her triumph - I can see it now, how she will delight in having three daughters married. If you do something so foolish as to forbid your daughter's marriage, you will not only irreparably damage Lizzy's reputation (which I understand you would see as a beneficial outcome) but you would damage your own, and that of your remaining daughters. Fanny would never forgive you.
"I believe you are somewhat acquainted with my sister's capacity for plaguing you. Believe me, she would be ten thousand times worse should you ruin her moment of glory. She has endured a lifetime of neglect and ridicule at your hands, sir, but she would not endure this. She would make it her life's purpose to exact vengeance on you, and you would never know another moment's peace in your life, even hidden away in that book room of yours. As a lawyer I am used to taking on difficult cases - to fighting hard battles - but I would not for all the world wish to take on Fanny Bennet for a cause such as this. You would ruin your family name, ruin Kitty and Mary's chances for marriage, make a lifelong enemy of Lizzy (for I do not think she is one to take this lying down), and guarantee a lifetime of my sister's most fervent harassment. Perhaps the law is on your side, if you can prove that you did not give over authority to our brother Gardiner, and if you didn't make some flippant remark yourself that could have been taken as consent (Phillips was interested to see Bennet pale at that speculation), but the price you will pay is threefold: first, you may bankrupt your estate in taking on complicated legal proceedings against Mr Darcy's deep pockets; second, you will certainly hurt all your daughters' prospects and your own good name; and third, you will never know a moment's peace again so long as you live. And all to secure a future that can now never happen. Even if you succeed in stopping her from marrying Darcy, surely you know Elizabeth well enough to realise that she will leave you at her first opportunity after such a breach of trust. She turns twenty-one next year, and will be free from your authority in any case. She will not live a 'life of the mind', happily ensconced with you in your book room. That dream is over."
Seeing his brother-in-law finally, if reluctantly, listening, Phillips softened his tone and said, "Face it, Bennet, your womenfolk have won this battle. You had best put a good face on it and accept the inevitable. Any other path leads to disaster."
"But I have the right of it, legally speaking?" grumbled Bennet. "She cannot marry without my consent?"
"Certainly not by license. If they took the time for the reading of the banns and did so in some out-of-the-way corner where you did not hear of it in time, then they could still marry. Or if they went to Scotland. Or waited until Elizabeth reaches her majority. But are you sure you could prove you did not give your consent? Exactly what authority did you grant to Gardiner? Consent by proxy is still consent. And I noticed you were not entirely easy about my guess that you might have said something yourself that could be argued in a court to be consent. These cases are never as straightforward as they might at first seem."
"I did tell her she was no daughter of mine, and that I never wished to see her again, and I did tell Darcy that he was welcome to her and I would not take her back, but those were words spoken in anger. Surely they could not be construed as consent?"
"Perhaps not, but they could certainly be construed as having relinquished your rights to grant or deny consent. You have gotten yourself into quite a pickle, brother. I dare say there is no easy legal remedy in light of such rash statements. If I were you, I would go home and try to mend your fences: I do not exaggerate when I say any other path will buy you a world of distress at the hands of my dear sister."
By the end of this conversation, with the assistance of a glass or two of strategically applied port, Thomas Bennet was in a less belligerent mood. Although Mr Phillips had not said so in as many words, Mr Bennet realised that challenging his daughter's marriage plans would require a great deal of energy and determination, as well as the monetary expense and domestic turmoil that had been expressly mentioned. Although his anger with Elizabeth had carried him this far in an uncharacteristic bout of activity, he baulked at the prospect of a lengthy battle. He knew enough of his own propensities to recognise that both Elizabeth and Darcy were well able to win any battle that relied on sustained effort and attention to detail. It was simply too much work to be worth the attempt.
He briefly considered approaching the vicar, but he knew the answer he would get there: he could make his objection known at the moment in the wedding ceremony which invited those with objections to speak up. But Phillips was right - nothing could be more precisely calculated to inspire his wife to fits of nerves and recriminations beyond anything he had heretofore suffered at her hand. No, there was no help to be found there. All that was left to him was to make the best of the situation, and act as though he was happy to see his three daughters wed. Indeed, he was happy for two of them at least, and as for the third, well, given all that had passed between them in the last week, perhaps he was well rid of her as well!
With these ruminations and rationalisations, Mr Bennet made his way slowly back to his ancestral estate, where he situated himself in his book room and lent a liberal ear to his wife's excited demands for additional funds. So long as he did not have to be bothered by talk of lace and ribbons, he would survive the fortnight. He would play his part, for Jane and Lydia's sakes if nothing else, and rejoice in the fact that his household would be three daughters less noisy and three daughters less expensive hereafter. Perhaps with two rich sons-in-law and only two daughters remaining to find husbands for, Mrs Bennet might become less anxious about her own future and more willing to leave him in peace. He had no expectation that she would become any less silly.
By the time he returned to the house, Elizabeth, Jane and Lydia were all sitting with their mother in the front parlour finalising details of the wedding breakfast and making lists of tasks each was yet to accomplish. Mrs Hill popped her head into the room to alert her mistress to the fact that the master had returned from his ride, and Mrs Bennet repaired directly to her husband's book room to explain the need for more money. She was pleasantly surprised by his readiness to grant her request, and only regretted that she had not asked for more.
Back in the parlour, Elizabeth shrugged to herself: Mr Bennet had said he did not want to see her again - perhaps he was holding true to his word, and would not further importune her. She would be more than content to avoid his company for the remainder of her days at Longbourn.
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