Chapter 2 1729-1746 #2
Maria had no breath to answer. She screamed instead, the pain wrenching her anew.
Minutes later, another wail rose in the room.
The second boy.
So similar to the first in shape and size—but this one bore a deep red birthmark on the left side of his face. A dark, wine-colored bloom over his cheek and temple.
The room fell silent for a moment.
Then Timothy stepped forward.
“We shall name him Nathaniel,” he said firmly. “And he is perfect.”
Maria burst into tears again, not from pain this time—but from love. She reached for both her sons, one nestled in each arm, and held them close.
Theodore and Nathaniel.
Two miracles.
Two hearts born of her own.
A sibling is a built-in best friend, Maria thought drowsily. They will never feel lonely with their brother at their side. They came into the world together. May they always walk through it the same way.
∞∞∞
November 1745 — Longbourn
Ten-year-old Theodore Bennet sat upright at the study table, quill in hand, brow furrowed as he copied the Latin passage their tutor had assigned. The air in the room smelled of parchment and ink, and outside the window, the late autumn sun slanted across the Longbourn fields in lazy gold.
“Master Theodore,” said Mr. Lambert, their tutor, “very good. Keep your line steady and your script clean—this is an important skill for a landowner to have.”
Theodore nodded, barely glancing up. He liked the quiet hum of study, the feel of a well-trimmed pen between his fingers, the orderly progression of lines across the page. It made sense to him, this rhythm of learning.
Then came the snort.
He turned—too late.
Nathaniel, lounging with one ankle propped on his knee, had torn a strip of paper into narrow curls and flicked them into the inkpot when Lambert’s back was turned.
With a perfectly timed nudge, the soaked wad arced through the air and struck the edge of Theodore’s page, splattering ink across three neat lines.
Theodore sat back with a groan. “Natty!”
His brother grinned unrepentantly, the wine-stain mark stretching on his face like the ink on Theo’s page. “You were looking too smug again.”
Mr. Lambert spun around, his powdered wig tilting slightly. “Master Nathaniel! I shall not warn you again. These lessons are not a game.”
Nathaniel only shrugged and leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. “You already said that yesterday.”
Letting out a long, fraying sigh, Mr. Lambert smoothed down his waistcoat.
“Your actions have the very real consequence of damaging your future prospects. You may not inherit Longbourn, Master Nathaniel, but it is still vital that you obtain an education. A profession will require diligence and discipline.”
Theo’s quill stilled. His eyes flicked toward his brother, but the fervor in the tutor’s voice had a strangely sobering effect. Natty shifted forward and let the chair’s back legs settle onto the floor with a muted thump. He said nothing—just stared at his open book, lips pressed tight.
The rest of the lesson passed in relative quiet.
That evening at supper, Natty barely touched his meat and said nothing at all beyond a muttered thanks when Nurse passed the bread.
When they retired to their beds for the evening, the usual talk and teasing felt oddly muted.
Theo tried twice to draw him into some harmless joke about Mr. Lambert’s drooping wig, but Natty only nodded absently.
Theo’s stomach turned uneasily.
Their father entered just as the clock struck eight, rubbing his hands in his eagerness to see his sons. “Well, boys,” Timothy said with a smile, “how did Mr. Lambert torture you today?”
“Papa,” he said suddenly, eyes fixed on the rug, “is it true I will not inherit anything?”
Their father blinked, mid-step. “What?”
“Mr. Lambert said that Theo will inherit Longbourn because he’s the eldest. He said I will have to get a profession. That there’s nothing for me. Is it true?”
Timothy frowned, “It seems Mr. Lambert has been speaking out of turn.” He sank onto the floor in between the two beds.
“I had hoped to speak of this another time… but yes, son. That is how the law stands. Longbourn is entailed. It goes to the eldest male heir, in full. It is something my grandfather set up, and it cannot be altered, I am afraid.”
“But we are twins,” Natty said, voice rising. “We are the same!”
“Theodore was born first,” their father said gently. “By minutes, yes—but even minutes matter. The estate cannot be divided.”
Theo opened his mouth, but no words came. It had never occurred to him—not truly—that his brother would be left without anything. They had always done everything together. They shared a room, books, tutors, friends. He had assumed they would share the future too.
Natty laid down abruptly. “Right. I see. Theo is the heir, and I am simply the spare, with an ugly face to boot.”
“Natty—” Theo began.
But his brother rolled over on his bed, facing the wall, and pulled the counterpane up to his shoulders.
“Let him be, Theo,” his father said, patting him on the shoulder. “It is an unfortunate way of the world, but there is little that can be done about it. Your brother will come ‘round. Just give him time.”
As Theo stared up at the ceiling in the dark that night, a strange coldness settled crept up his spine. He would never forget that expression on Natty’s face: betrayal buried beneath fury.
Please, let things be normal tomorrow, he pleaded into the night.
∞∞∞
October 1746–Matlock House, London
The room smelled of violets and death.
Countess Faith Fitzwilliam lay propped against pillows too soft to hold her upright without pain, her breathing light as mist on a chapel window.
The fire had been lit low, not for warmth—it was stifling—but to banish the shadows, which crept in despite the hour.
October had pressed its gray hand over London, and her final days had come with it.
A maid slipped into the chamber, curtsied, and approached the bedside.
“My lady, Lord Bartemius has been fetched.”
Faith nodded slowly. Her body ached in too many places to name, and she had long since stopped trying to shift herself. Instead, she clutched the rosary beneath the coverlet, the crucifix hidden against her palm.
One more look. Just one.
The door opened again.
“Come here, my love,” she whispered.
The boy who stepped into the room was ten years old, dark-haired, sharp-eyed, and already too tall for his jacket.
His boots clicked briskly across the floor.
He looked clean and healthy and nothing like the infant she had once cradled against her chest in that same bed, sobbing in relief as the midwife cried out, “A boy!”
“Mother,” he said with a faint bow, more courteous than affectionate.
“Barty,” she replied with a gentle smile, beckoning him closer.
He glanced at the door, ignoring her outstretched arms. “Father says I must learn to answer to the name that suits my station.”
She sighed inwardly but nodded. “Of course. But not here. Not with me.”
He took a step closer and stood beside the bed, but he did not take her hand, which lay near him.
Faith tried not to let her heart break again; she had seen this coming.
She had watched her beautiful baby boy change week by week, year by year, as the earl claimed more and more of him—lectures in the study, long rides to estate meetings, hours in town watching men drink and boast.
“You will be going away soon,” she said softly. “To school.”
“Yes. Father says I am to begin at Michaelmas.”
Faith swallowed the dryness in her throat. “Do you remember when I used to sing to you?”
He shrugged. “A little.”
“You loved the song about the lilies. You used to make me sing it three times.”
He smiled—just a flicker—and shifted uncomfortably. “May I go riding now? It is almost too late in the day.”
Tears pressed at her eyes. She would not let them fall. Not now.
“I want you to remember something,” she said, forcing calm into her voice. “When you are at school, and when you are grown… remember that your mother loved you. Deeply. And that love does not die.”
He looked confused, even a little embarrassed, and offered a hesitant nod. “Yes, Mother.”
“And remember to be kind, Barty. You have so many blessings. Do not let the world harden you.”
His eyes drifted toward the window. “May I go now?” he repeated.
Faith reached up and touched his hand briefly. “Yes.”
He bowed again and walked from the room with the same brisk, confident gait as his father.
She closed her eyes. Lord, protect him. He does not know what he lacks.
The maid entered again, her face pale. “Lady Amelia has been sent for.”
Faith nodded and turned her head slightly on the pillow.
There were footsteps on the stairs. A door opened with a rush of skirts.
“Mama!”
Lady Amelia Fitzwilliam—Amy, as she was affectionately called by her mother—burst into the chamber like a storm, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, her eyes red from crying.
At fifteen, she was all pale skin and long limbs, her figure beginning to soften into womanhood.
She had none of her father’s reserve—only Faith’s intensity, magnified by youth and unguarded feeling.
She flew to the bed and threw herself across her mother’s legs, sobbing.
“No, no, no—you are not to go. You cannot. You promised!”
Faith stroked her daughter’s hair, even as pain lanced through her side. “My darling. Shh. I am here, Amy. Still here.”
Amelia clung to her. “No one will care about me when you are gone! No one. Father does not even see me, and Barty treats me worse. I am nothing to them.”
“No, you are not Barty,” Faith said gently. “You are better.”
Amelia sobbed harder, and Faith held her as best she could.
“You will not be alone,” she whispered. “Not truly. I taught you the prayers. I taught you where to find the truth.”
Amelia lifted her head, her face blotchy. “But you will not be there to say them with me!”
“You will say them yourself. You will remember every word.”
“I do not want to be alone. Who will love me when you are dead?”
“You are not alone.” Faith touched her cheek. “God sees. God loves. And I—I will always be near.”
Amelia wept again, her tears falling hot against the linen of her mother’s gown.
Faith let her cry.
When the sobs finally slowed, she kissed her daughter’s forehead and whispered one last instruction.
“Do not forget what you are. Not for any man. Not even an earl.”
Amy nodded, fiercely.
“I love you,” Faith said.
“I love you too, Mama. So much.”
They lay like that for some time.
And when the maid returned to guide Amelia away, Faith did not protest. Her strength had nearly gone.
She watched the girl disappear through the doorway and let her head rest back against the pillows.
The light dimmed.
The room grew quiet.
And the crucifix warmed in her hand as her eyes closed for the final time.