Chapter 5 #2
“I shall do what I do best,” Mr Bennet replied. “Lock myself in my study and hope society grows bored.”
“But what of Jane?” Mary asked, her voice shaded with insight. “You cannot keep her from society entirely, and she will draw attention whether you accompany her or not.”
“No, she must not suffer for my unwillingness,” he agreed with a sigh. “Therefore, I shall hire a companion to chaperone her. Someone proper and unthreatening. I shall write to your Aunt Gardiner in the morning—Madeline is certain to know some suitable names.”
They were all silent for a moment, weighing the practicality of his words.
“It is a sound decision,” Jane said at last, though her tone was pensive. “You must plan on the lady being with us for years. You have five daughters yet unmarried.”
“Yes, yes. But I must be cautious,” Mr Bennet said, standing and stretching his back with a wince. “She must be old enough to avoid expectation. I am only nine-and-thirty. If I hire a lady too near my age, people will talk.”
“Can someone of advanced age be counted upon to supervise us properly?” Mary asked, ever analytical.
“What of Aunt Philips?” Elizabeth interjected, the idea striking her in a flash. “She adores company and events. And you would not need to hire anyone new.”
Mr Bennet paused, blinking in astonishment. “Why did I not think of that? Yes, of course. She is already familiar with the family and married—blessedly uninterested in me. Very good, Elizabeth. I shall send her a note on the morrow.”
With that, he kissed each of his daughters on the forehead and made his way up the stairs.
When they were alone, Elizabeth turned immediately to Jane. “What happened tonight? You looked mortified.”
Jane groaned, covering her face with her hands.
“It was dreadful. As soon as we arrived, we were introduced to Miss Martha Morris, Mr Morris’s younger sister, who had newly come to reside in his household.
She was…forward. And when Papa did not immediately ask her to dance, Mrs Winterbourne whispered it was ‘no wonder he looked reluctant, poor man.’ I could hardly breathe for the discomfort of it all. ”
“The other ladies were no better,” Jane continued, dropping her hands to her lap.
“At one point, Papa cornered Sir William and demanded to know why every single lady in the area was present. Sir William said—quite frankly—that there had been speculation for months about who Papa would marry now that his mourning had ended.”
“How awful!” Mary said, her voice rising. “It is as though she is replaceable. Our father did not see Mama that way.”
“No, but others did not understand their relationship,” Jane replied gently.
“You were too young to remember, but before Lydia’s birth, there were years of…
difficulty. Mama’s nerves worsened with each daughter.
She grew more frantic, more obsessed with securing matches.
Still, she never gave up her sense of duty to us. ”
“She could have let Lydia run wild,” Elizabeth agreed. “She could have thrown us at every man within fifty miles, but she did not. For all her faults, she wanted what was best—though her methods were sometimes mortifying.”
“She meant to have you come out at fifteen,” Jane said, with a touch of amusement in her voice.
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied dryly. “Too young, in hindsight. I am glad Papa has allowed me to wait.”
“So, now what must we do?” Mary asked, uncertain.
“It is not for us to decide,” Jane said softly, wrapping an arm around Mary’s shoulder. “But I think Papa is doing what he thinks best. He has no wish to marry again.”
“And no need,” Elizabeth added. “He has an heir now.”
Jane nodded. “Any woman who became Mrs Bennet would know her child would never inherit.”
At that, Elizabeth’s heart clenched.
Oh, Jane, she thought bitterly. If only you knew.
The house had grown quiet again. Jane and Mary had retired, and Elizabeth lingered in the parlour alone, the fire crackling low in the grate. She stared into the flames, her thoughts heavy.
Thomas. The child had changed everything.
“Lizzy? Still awake?” Papa stepped into the parlour, interrupting her thoughts. “You ought to go to bed.”
“I was merely considering what occurred tonight.” She brushed at invisible lint on her skirt.
Mr Bennet spoke without preamble, as though continuing a thought begun long before.
“Men rarely remain widowers long,” he replied.
Elizabeth looked up from her embroidery. “Is that so?” Something like panic bloomed in her chest. Was her father lonely? Did he wish for another wife?
“Society dislikes the thought of a man without a wife,” he replied. “Interested parties often rush forward, volunteering to fill the position.”
She laughed faintly. “You have resisted admirably.”
“Resistance,” he said, “is easier than consequence.” Mr Bennet looked drawn and he rubbed his face tiredly.
She did not press him. The words lingered and she pondered them with curiosity—it was an odd remark, nothing more. Still, something akin to worry had settled within her. Worry for their future—worry for Tommy if her father chose to seek another wife.
Not a day passed that she did not love him more fiercely.
Yet with that love came dread—the weight of the lie they lived, the secret kept behind gentle smiles and well-chosen words.
He was not theirs, not truly. And yet, he was hers in every way that mattered.
She had been the one to hold him first, to play with him, to rock him through teething fevers and soothe his nightmares.
If love made a mother, then she was one.
She rose and made her way up the stairs, pausing at the nursery door. It was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and stepped inside.
Moonlight streamed through the window, silvering the curls atop the child’s head. He lay on his back, one tiny fist resting against his cheek, his lips parted in sleep. Elizabeth’s heart ached. He was innocent—so innocent. And yet one day, someone might look at him and ask too many questions.
How long could the truth be kept?
She reached down, tucking the blanket around his shoulders. He stirred slightly but did not wake.
“Sleep well, little one,” she whispered. “Whatever comes, you are loved.”
As she turned to leave, a thought struck her with painful clarity: this child was not just her secret—he was her charge, her duty, and her heart. Whatever storm might come, she would face it—for him.
Elizabeth discovered the book by accident—or so she told herself.
It lay upon the small table near her father’s chair, its spine cracked, the margins faintly marked. She recognised the title at once: a dry treatise on English property law, borrowed from a neighbour and seldom opened by anyone with sense.
She carried it to the window and began to read.
Much of it was impenetrable, but certain phrases lingered. Entailment. Male succession. Reversion upon failure of issue.
That evening, she asked her father about it.
Mr Bennet listened without surprise. “I wondered how long it would take you to find it.”
“You left it out,” she accused mildly.
“I left it where it could be found,” he corrected.
“And do you think I ought to understand this?”
He studied her for a moment. “I think you ought to understand that the world runs on rules written by men who never expected to explain themselves.”
Elizabeth absorbed that in silence.
“Some knowledge,” he added, more softly, “is not immediately useful. But it ripens.”
She did not yet know what he meant.