Chapter Eight #2
“Was a weapon, not a virtue,” he said sharply. “And since Providence saw fit to give me a means to disarm it, I shall not apologise.”
Elizabeth swallowed. “But it feels dishonest.”
“And yet it is not,” he replied evenly. “The law is written for inheritance, but what of love? What of duty? That boy is my son. He bears my name. He will be raised to manage the estate with care. Tell me, would you truly prefer Mr William Collins to rule over this house once I am gone?”
She shuddered. “No.”
“Then be still, Lizzy,” he said, softer now. “You carry too much weight. It is not only for my daughters, but for our people—our home. I will answer for this, in this world or the next, without fear. And if the Lord frowns on me for saving my family, then I shall argue the point when I meet Him.”
That drew a faint, reluctant laugh from her.
“You are not a wicked man,” she said at last. “But it is difficult to reconcile it all.”
He stood then, crossed to her side, and placed a hand on her shoulder with unusual gravity.
“You reconcile it by loving that boy, as you already do. That is your task. Leave the rest to me.”
She nodded, the pressure in her chest easing—though not entirely.
As she left the study, the house was quiet but for the rustling of curtains in the breeze and the distant echo of Tommy's laughter down the corridor, likely coaxing one of the maids into another bedtime story.
He was growing up too quickly. And as long as she breathed, Elizabeth would ensure he grew into the man the Bennet name deserved.
Whatever it cost.
Though she had always shown dedication to Tommy, Elizabeth now threw herself into the role of elder sister with such fervour that even Jane gently cautioned her against exhaustion.
Elizabeth only smiled, rose early the next morning, and pressed on.
The guilt—the slow, unyielding knowledge that she was living a lie, fostered by conversations with her father and private musings—could not be erased, but it could be outrun for a time by purpose. And so, she poured herself into Tommy.
The household followed her lead. Lydia, competitive when it suited her, soon declared herself Tommy’s equal favourite; Mary taught him poetry and Latin flower names with quiet pride; Kitty taught him to whistle; Jane brushed his curls each evening with careful tenderness.
Tommy thrived beneath it all, quick-witted and observant, delighting in the attention and wielding it with a boy’s solemn mischief.
Mr Bennet watched from a distance at first, faintly amused, content to retreat to his study.
But he claimed one duty as his own. Each morning, he sat Tommy beside the library hearth and taught him to read—not gently, but earnestly, demanding comprehension as much as imagination.
Tommy rose eagerly to the challenge, retelling stories with embellishments so clever that Elizabeth sometimes paused in the doorway, startled by how swiftly the boy’s mind worked.
“I will not raise a dullard,” her father said once, with mock severity.
Elizabeth understood then—slowly, and not without a tightening in her chest. She saw the quiet deliberation in her father’s choices: the reading, the questions, the encouragement to think rather than merely recite.
Each lesson was not indulgence, but preparation.
Each kindness carried intent. He was building something carefully, brick by brick, against a future neither of them dared name aloud.
The pony came soon after—a small roan with a patient temperament. When Lydia and Kitty protested the imbalance, Mr Bennet merely replied that the child must one day know the land. Elizabeth heard what he did not say.
Spring unfolded brightly—lessons, riding, laughter—until it all stilled.
Tommy’s illness came swiftly. A fever, a cough, then a day when he did not rise at all.
Longbourn fell into a hush. Mr Bennet abandoned his study entirely, keeping vigil beside the bed with a devotion that stripped him of humour and sleep alike.
Elizabeth remained near, tending the boy, whispering prayers she had not known she remembered.
“I would give everything,” her father whispered once.
Except Longbourn, she thought, and did not say.
When the fever finally broke, relief struck like grief’s twin. Elizabeth wept openly. Mr Bennet closed his eyes and offered a single, broken thanks.
Later, in the quiet of his study, he spoke without jest or evasion.
He spoke of purpose regained, of love chosen stubbornly, of believing—perhaps foolishly—that Providence did not condemn such devotion.
Elizabeth listened, her head resting against his shoulder, and understood at last how long he had been afraid, and how carefully he had been planning.
“He is ours,” she whispered.
“In every way that matters,” he answered.
When Jane came to announce that Tommy was awake and asking for a story, they went together. Mr Bennet took the chair beside the bed and began a familiar tale—knights, dragons, and the curious business of taxes—while Elizabeth laughed through her tears.
Summer came to Longbourn quietly then, tentative but real. And Elizabeth, watching her father and the boy, knew this was not indulgence, nor denial, nor sentiment alone. It was resolve.