Chapter Twenty-Three #2
“Keep your counsel, then,” he said softly, swirling the liquid in his glass. “I expect all of you to treat him with the utmost respect whilst he is under this roof. He may not prove to be a sensible man, but he is family, and we must make him feel welcome.”
Jane and Mary exchanged a glance, the surprise evident on their faces.
It was rare for their father to show such deliberate hospitality, rarer still for him to request it.
Guests were either amusing diversions or tolerated inconveniences in Mr Bennet’s eyes; the notion that they should accommodate a guest for the sake of duty rather than pleasure was unusual indeed.
“Yes, Papa,” the sisters said in unison, their voices low in the warm quiet of the room.
“Now, go to bed.” Mr Bennet waved his hand dismissively, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I shall remain here and read.” With that, they were dismissed.
The sisters filed out, the floorboards creaking under their light steps. The hallway was dimly lit, the sconces casting soft shadows on the walls as they moved silently towards their rooms. Jane offered a tired smile before slipping into her chamber, her door closing with a quiet click behind her.
Mary lingered outside Elizabeth’s door, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve, her expression troubled. “Lizzy, might we speak?” she asked, her voice small but determined.
“Of course. Come in.” Elizabeth stepped aside, allowing her sister to enter. She closed the door softly behind them, the latch clicking into place, sealing them in the familiar sanctuary of her room. The fire in the grate had burned low, the embers glowing softly, lending the space a gentle warmth.
Mary stood awkwardly for a moment, twisting her hands before her, her gaze dropping to the floor.
“It is Mr Collins,” she began, clearing her throat.
“I know it is too soon to be thinking of such things, but I wished to know immediately if you intend to seek his good opinion. Do you hold any interest in our cousin—in possibly being his wife?”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose, surprise fluttering in her chest. How quickly reality pressed upon them, forcing considerations of marriage and security in place of youthful dreams.
Mary’s cheeks flushed a soft pink as she lifted her gaze, her blue eyes earnest. “Mr Collins spoke much of Rosings Park and his work there. The life appeals to me, Lizzy. I would not attempt to win his favour if you—”
“Stop there.” Elizabeth stepped forwards, taking Mary’s hands gently in her own. “No, I have no interest in the gentleman. None at all. I ask only that you consider your choice carefully, Mary. Marriage is for a lifetime, and it would not do to have the wrong partner.”
Mary nodded, her eyes shimmering with relief as a small, shy smile curved her lips. “Thank you, Lizzy. I needed to know.”
“Best wishes, dear sister,” Elizabeth murmured, pressing a kiss to Mary’s brow before guiding her towards the door.
As the door closed softly behind Mary, Elizabeth let out a breath, leaning back against the wood for a moment.
Well, at least I shall not be forced to refuse him, she thought, her mind drifting towards the calm, unreadable expression on her father’s face earlier that evening.
Papa would be furious if I made a scene, but it seems I will be spared that necessity.
She moved to the window, pulling the curtain aside to look out over the moonlit fields of Longbourn, the world hushed and waiting under the silvery glow.
Her thoughts turned, inevitably, to Mr Darcy and the way his dark eyes had lingered on her, seeing something in her that others did not.
Despite everything, she felt the barest hint of a smile curve her lips, a fragile, secret hope she was not yet ready to name.
But even that was tainted by the secret she held close to her heart, one she could not ignore, not when there were so many reminders everywhere.
The breakfast dishes had barely been cleared when Mr Bennet invited Mr Collins to join him in the study for a quiet conversation.
The morning light slanted through the windows, catching the edges of the decanters on the sideboard and glinting off the brass clock on the mantle.
Mr Bennet settled into his chair, waving Mr Collins to the seat across from him.
Mr Collins clasped his hands before speaking. His expression was serious but unassuming, his voice softer than usual. “Mr Bennet, I thank you for your warm welcome. I wish to speak with you on a matter of some importance.”
Mr Bennet raised a brow. “I am listening, cousin.”
The parson cleared his throat, meeting Mr Bennet’s gaze with surprising forthrightness.
“As you know, I am well-settled in Kent. I am not a wealthy man, nor am I the cleverest. But I have been given a living that allows me to serve my parish and live comfortably enough. It is a lonely life, and I have found my duties weigh heavily without companionship.” He took a breath.
“It has occurred to me that in marrying, I might not only find a partner to assist in those duties but also provide some security for your daughters.”
Mr Bennet regarded him quietly, the words sinking in with a depth he had not anticipated.
His cousin pressed on. “Your son, young Thomas, is still a child. If—if the worst should happen, and God forbid it does—should the entail fall to me, I would see your family cared for. If I were married to one of your daughters, it would ease the disruption, and they would still have a home.”
The study fell silent, save for the gentle ticking of the clock. Mr Bennet found himself unexpectedly moved by the plain, practical kindness in his cousin’s words. It was not pomp or self-importance that guided Mr Collins, but a simple desire to do what he believed was right.
“You speak wisely, sir,” Mr Bennet said at last, his voice quiet, tinged with something like gratitude even whilst his heart filled with guilt. “I will confess, it is not a notion I relish dwelling upon, but I am not so foolish as to deny the truth in your words.”
Mr Collins’s shoulders eased, and he nodded, visibly relieved that his intentions were understood.
Mr Bennet leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he regarded the man before him.
How fortunate he was to have Tommy, who had turned their family’s fortunes so unexpectedly.
Yet beneath that gratitude lay the persistent, gnawing worry that he could not shake.
He thought of Mr Darcy, of the quiet, keen-eyed observations Elizabeth had shared after their conversations at Netherfield and the ruins.
The gentleman’s as-of-yet unspoken suspicions about Tommy had taken root in Mr Bennet’s mind, no matter how he tried to dismiss them.
How fragile it all was, this peace, this security they had found. And how quickly it could vanish.
“Tell me, Mr Collins,” Mr Bennet said, drawing himself back to the present, “is it your intention to court one of my daughters immediately, or will you take some time to acquaint yourself with our family first?”
Mr Collins hesitated, then spoke with a quiet earnestness.
“I would not presume to rush, sir. I would like to become better acquainted with your daughters and allow them to judge for themselves if I am worthy of consideration. Though I admit I hope a decision is finalized before I must return to Kent.” His cheeks went red.
A small smile touched Mr Bennet’s lips, softening the lines of care that had formed over the past years. “That is well spoken. I thank you for your honesty, and for your concern for my family.”
Mr Collins nodded, rising to take his leave, his steps lighter than when he had entered. As the door closed behind him, Mr Bennet allowed himself a sigh, leaning back in his chair, eyes drifting to the window where the late autumn sun was fighting to break through the clouds.
He would have to speak with Elizabeth, he decided, and gauge her thoughts on Mr Collins’s quiet proposal of security. Though he could almost predict her reaction, he owed her the conversation. Then again, perhaps Mary would be the better option.
For now, he would allow himself to be grateful for a cousin who, despite his awkwardness, wished to offer protection should the worst ever occur—and grateful, too, for the child’s laughter that still echoed through Longbourn’s halls, and the daughter whose sharp eyes and keen wit might just prove the salvation of them all.
Mr Bennet did not hear the door open.
He was seated at his desk, spectacles pushed low upon his nose, the candle guttering beside a ledger he had read without comprehension for the better part of a quarter hour.
His thoughts were elsewhere—on entails and contingencies, on futures that could not be spoken aloud—when a small weight leaned against his knee.
“Papa?”
The word was soft, uncertain, as though Tommy feared he had spoken out of turn.
Mr Bennet looked down.
Tommy stood beside him, hair still tousled from sleep, clutching a book nearly as wide as his chest. One corner of the cover had been gnawed into softness, a habit he had not yet outgrown.
“Well,” Mr Bennet said quietly, setting aside his spectacles. “If this is a raid upon my solitude, you have timed it most agreeably.”
Tommy smiled, relief brightening his face. “Mrs Hill said I might come if I was quiet.”
“A dangerous promise,” Mr Bennet murmured, reaching down to steady the book as it tipped dangerously. “Quiet children are always plotting something.”
Tommy’s brow furrowed in thought. “I am not plotting,” he said seriously. “I only wanted to show you.”
He opened the book with great care and pointed to a line halfway down the page. “I read this all by myself.”
Mr Bennet drew him closer, lifting him onto his knee with practised ease. He followed the line with his finger, surprised—though he ought not to have been—by the accuracy of the boy’s reading. The words were not simple. They had not been chosen for a child.
“You did very well,” he said at last.
Tommy straightened. “Mrs Hill says I read better than most boys.”
“I suspect Mrs Hill is understating the matter,” Mr Bennet replied, his voice light but his chest tightening all the same.
He brushed his thumb over the boy’s temple, marvelling—as he so often did—at the alertness in his gaze. There was an intelligence there that went beyond precocity. Tommy listened when others spoke. He noticed absences. He remembered things no one thought he would.
It frightened him sometimes.
“You will read too much,” Mr Bennet added gently. “It is a dangerous habit. It leads to thinking.”
Tommy laughed—a quick, delighted sound—and leaned against him without hesitation.
For a moment, Mr Bennet allowed himself the indulgence of stillness. The candle crackled. The house breathed around them. And for once, the future did not press quite so heavily upon his shoulders.
Then Tommy spoke again, softly. “Papa…will I always stay here?”
The question was innocent. The weight of it was not.
Mr Bennet rested his chin briefly atop the child’s head. “As long as I draw breath,” he said, and only hoped the promise would never be tested.