He fingered the note in his pocket and stared out at the horizon. He prayed his daughter would not have a marriage like his had been. He wanted her to always be able to respect her partner in life. Mrs. Bennet had never asked, not once, how her daughter was faring, how she felt about Mr. Darcy, whether or not they got along or had similar dispositions or hopes for life. No, all she could think about was pin money and carriages and houses in town and country.

A moment later he chastised himself. Mrs. Bennet was a silly creature, yes; she always had been. She was not blessed with intelligence, but she had no malice in her. She meant no harm to anyone and loved her daughters in her way. Unexpectedly, his plan to fashion his daughters into marriageable women had had a similar effect on his wife. She had always been trivial, but she had not always been shrill nor had she complained so much.

No, if he was honest, he had to admit that his sarcasm and disdain for her lack of abilities had created a chasm between them. As it grew, so did her grievances. Before long she was complaining loudly and calling for her salts. Could it have been him all along? Did his withdrawal of affection and respect lead her to become what she had—shrill and ridiculous?

He had to admit the evidence pointed to that being true. Since he had given her a modicum of guidance, shared the burden of raising five daughters with her, and showed her sincere and gentle affection, she had complained less, been less grumpy and irritable, and embarrassed the family significantly fewer times than she had before. She had, in fact, become pleasant company again. She wasn’t the smartest woman and never would be, but she sometimes made amusing observations and she had a good sense of humor if the topics weren’t too complex.

She did take good care of him. He felt a wash of shame come over him as he realized that she always had, even after he had begun ridiculing her in front of her own children and mocking her to her face and others. She made sure his favorite dinners were served on Sundays, and when there was a dish he didn’t like, there was always a small serving of something he preferred brought just to him. She gave him gifts that he liked and used; fine handkerchiefs with his monogram, a new tooled leather saddle for his birthday three years ago, and his favorite, the painting of his mother and sister, painted a year before the latter’s death, restored and framed after it had been damaged by a leaky roof.