Chapter 3 1748-1762 #2
Silence slammed into the room like a fist. For one suspended moment, all Theo could hear was the ticking of the longcase clock against the wall and the dull roar of blood in his ears. Maria was still sobbing quietly in her chair.
Then their father stood.
The older man’s face was dark with a fury Theo had only seen once before—when the old steward was caught embezzling from the estate. His voice was low and dangerous. “You ungrateful little wretch.”
Maria gasped from her chair, her embroidery falling forgotten to the floor.
Theo opened his mouth—to say what, he did not know—but the words would not come.
“I have worked every hour God gives me to keep this estate in good standing—for your future, and your brother’s—and you dare stand there and spit poison in our faces like a tavern brute?”
Nathaniel said nothing. He stood stiff and silent, but Theo could see the flicker in his brother’s eyes—the brief flash of hurt before the shutters slammed down again.
“You sneer at the very roof over your head, the food in your belly, and the name you bear. You dare to speak of charity as though it is a leash, when it is a gift given in love—and you shame your mother by throwing it back in our faces!”
Maria flinched, and Theo’s fists curled at his sides.
“If you think so little of your family,” Timothy said, voice like thunder, “then go. Join your blasted militia. Let them beat some humility into that arrogant skull. But do not expect a penny from me if you do.”
Theo’s breath caught. He looked from his father’s furious glare to his brother’s white face. Nathaniel’s mouth tightened, but he did not speak.
Theo wanted to stop this—wanted to grab Nathaniel by the shoulders and shake the pride out of him, to beg him not to say the next awful thing. But he was rooted to the floor, helpless, as if watching a horse bolt into a raging river.
Nathaniel turned sharply and strode from the room without another word. His boots struck the floor like gunshots.
The door slammed, and Maria let out a sob. Then in the distance, a door banged again—Nathaniel’s boots thudding down the back steps as he vanished into the dusk.
Theo stood in the wreckage of what had once been their family, his throat tight with words that had come too late.
∞∞∞
July 1762 — Longbourn
Theodore Bennet sat alone in his study at Longbourn, the windows flung wide to let in the slow, heavy warmth of a Hertfordshire summer.
The late afternoon sun gilded the dust motes in the air, but the golden light did little to ease the knot in his chest as he stared at the unfolded letter upon his desk.
His fingers trembled slightly as he ran them once more over the elegant script. He had read the letter three times already. Still, the words did not change.
“Nathaniel Bennet was last seen in the market town of Wroxford, residing under his own name. Local records confirm he enlisted in the Wroxford Militia in 1754. Service was limited to training and regional assignments—no foreign campaigns. We believe he remained in the area until his death last year.”
Dead.
Theo swallowed, the grief catching at the back of his throat like dry ash.
It had been nine years since that fight in the drawing room—since Natty’s bitter words and his angry departure. Nine years without a letter, a sign, a word.
He had always hoped, in some quiet, stubborn corner of his heart, that his brother would come home. That Natty would walk through the doors of Longbourn with that crooked grin and some ridiculous story and say it had all been a grand mistake.
But now...
He looked back at the letter, reading the next paragraph aloud in a hoarse whisper:
“Marriage record located for Nathaniel Bennet and Miss Nancy Collins, daughter of Josiah Collins, blacksmith. Date: 24 March 1760. Witnesses: Tobias and Henry Collins, presumed brothers. Circumstances suggest coercion. Birth of male child recorded same year—William Collins.”
The paper crinkled slightly in Theo’s grip.
William. Collins.
Not Bennet.
Theo leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.
He remembered his own wedding that same spring—how happy Maria had looked, how full of promise their little life had seemed.
And somewhere, not too far away, his twin had been at the altar too—dragged there, no doubt, by furious blacksmiths.
Theo rubbed a hand across his face.
Was it bitterness that made Nathaniel give the child his mother’s surname? Defiance? Shame?
Or had he wanted nothing—nothing—to do with the family ever again?
The thought pierced deeper than Theo wished to admit.
His gaze drifted to the far wall, where a pair of miniature portraits hung: one of himself at twenty, the other of Natty, their features nearly identical but for the faint wine-colored mark across Natty’s left cheek.
Theo rose and crossed the room slowly, his footsteps muffled against the rug. He stood before the painting of his brother and studied the boy he remembered—the mischief in his eyes, the sharpness in his smile.
You should have written to me.
A light knock at the door stirred him.
“Come,” he called.
A maid entered with a covered tray. “Your mother’s rest is not improved, sir. She asked for you after supper.”
Theo nodded absently. “I will go to her shortly.”
As the door closed again, he turned back to the letter on his desk. His eyes lingered on the last line.
“The boy still resides with the Collins family, aged two. The father’s death occurred late last year from fever.”
William Collins.
His nephew. His brother’s son.
Theo sat down again, the chair creaking beneath him.
He belongs here, he thought suddenly. With us. With family.
He reached for a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his pen. There was a journey to be made, and a child to bring home.
∞∞∞
Two months later…
The sky over Wroxford was low and gray as Theodore Bennet dismounted in front of the blacksmith’s cottage. The clang of iron on iron rang out from the smithy nearby, rhythmic and relentless, as he looped his reins around the post and squared his shoulders.
This is a mistake. He had known it even as he rode northward, but duty—and something deeper—had compelled him.
The door opened before he could knock.
A young woman stood there, her hands on her hips, a toddler on her hip.
Her face was flushed, her chest rising with breathless impatience.
She was little more than a girl herself—perhaps seventeen at most. Stringy blonde hair framed a narrow face, and her eyes were bright with challenge.
The child in her arms looked sleepy and sticky-fingered, a crust of jam on one cheek and a fist tangled in her hair.
“What?” she asked a bit rudely, looking him up and down.
Theo held his hat in one hand, bowing slightly. “Mrs. Bennet? I am Theodore Bennet, your late husband’s brother.
The girl’s face darkened with anger. “I am Nancy Collins, and I’ll stay that, thank you very much. Nathaniel said he wanted no part of your fine family, and neither do I. So, leave. I told that man of yours I had no interest in selling my son. You wasted your ride.”
Her tone was sharp, her words barbed. Theo chose calm. “I did not come to insult you, madam. I came because your son is my nephew, only a few months older than my own son. I thought perhaps he might have a better future at Longbourn—an education, a place amongst his cousins, a—”
“Future, is it?” she cut in. “Like the one your family gave his father?”
The accusation stung more than he let show. “You know nothing of what happened between my brother and my parents.”
“I know what he told me,” she snapped. “How he was always second-best. Always the extra. How your mother wept when he was born, because she only wanted the heir and got stuck with a spare. How your father barely spoke to him except to scold.”
Theo took a step forward, pulse quickening. “That is not true.”
“Stop lying. I’ll not let you do the same to my son as your parents did to my husband.”
She shifted the child on her hip, and Theo caught his first true glimpse: brown curls, wide hazel eyes, and the faintest ghost of Nathaniel’s boyish grin.
“He is mine,” Nancy said fiercely. “I raise him. I love him. And I will not let you sweep in here with your fine boots and your fancy London lawyers to take him away like you own him.”
“I never meant to—”
“And what, exactly, do you think he would be at Longbourn, anyway?” she pressed. “Some poor cousin in the corner? Always standing beside your son, but never equal? No thank you.”
Theo exhaled through his nose, trying to keep his voice steady. “He would be family. He would have everything I could give—”
“Well, I will give him more!” she shouted. “I’ll give him love, which is more than that place ever gave my husband. And I will never let him feel like he is less. In fact—” she jutted her chin defiantly, “—he is the elder cousin, is he not? Perhaps he should inherit Longbourn!”
Theo blinked. “That is not precisely how entails—”
“Go home!” she yelled, stepping back and reaching for the door.
Behind her, two men emerged from the smithy. Both bore the blacksmith’s arms: thick with muscle, red from the forge. One—her father, he assumed—picked up a heavy iron bar as he came closer.
Theo backed away a pace, heart sinking. He bowed once more, though she had already turned her back.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly.
She said nothing. The door slammed shut.
Theo stood on the road for a long moment, staring at the closed door. Then he turned and walked back to his horse, the cold wind tugging at his coat as he mounted and rode away—alone.