Chapter 4 1763-1765
The dining room of Harcourt House smelled faintly of lemon oil and goose fat, the remnants of the midday meal lingering in the air as the final plates were cleared away.
Beth shifted in her chair, smoothing the skirts of her light green muslin and offering her aunt and uncle a small, polite smile as her aunt asked, for the third time that afternoon, how Thomas was doing with his new pony.
“He still refuses to call it anything but ‘Horsey,’” Beth said dryly. “Though I suspect his brother is quietly lobbying for 'Bucephalus.' Thomas always was more serious.”
Her uncle chuckled. “And how is Mr. Bennet?”
“Oh, Theo is as cheerful and dependable as ever. His ankle is better now, thank you for asking.”
“Such a pity his estate business prevented him from coming to the wedding,” remarked Mr. Harcourt.
“Still no contact about his late brother’s family?” Mrs. Harcourt asked, her tone feather-light and falsely concerned.
“No,” Beth said shortly.
A beat of silence passed, filled only by the clink of silver and the distant sound of a servant closing a door.
“Well,” said Mr. Harcourt with forced brightness, “Their loss, to my mind. I always preferred an older son, especially one with some gumption.”
“You only say that now,” Beth replied, lips twitching. “You did not sound quite so enthusiastic when we announced the match.”
“That was before we saw how well he has managed the estate,” he muttered, then raised his voice to add, “And you do seem happy, daughter.”
Beth smiled faintly. “I am. I love him.”
Mrs. Harcourt’s gaze softened, but only slightly. “That is well. Though of course, not every girl has the luxury of marrying for affection.”
Beth’s fingers curled around her teacup.
And there it was. The shift.
Mrs. Harcourt leaned back with a sigh of contentment. “Which is why we are so fortunate with Deborah’s match. Bartemius Fitzwilliam—heir to an earldom. Can you imagine?”
“I am trying,” Beth murmured. “Though the imagination fails somewhat when faced with gossip sheets filled with his debts and escapades.”
Mrs. Harcourt stiffened. “Beth.”
Beth took a deep breath. They no longer have control over my fate. I am a married woman, and I may speak my mind. “No, truly, I would like to understand.”
Beth set her teacup down carefully and continued, “Deb is sweet and kind, but she is not a great beauty. Her dowry is modest. Our family has no political alliances, no powerful uncles, no royal connections. And Bartemius Fitzwilliam is—well, he is not known for his discretion. So, what does he gain from this match?”
Mrs. Harcourt flushed. “You make it sound as though there is something… sinister about his interest in your cousin.”
Beth looked directly at her. “I fear there might be.”
The door opened. Deborah stood on the threshold, cheeks pale, lips trembling.
“I see,” she said quietly. “I thought I heard voices.” Her tone turned brittle. “How fortunate that I arrived just in time to hear my own cousin—whom I have always counted as a sister—pick me apart like some unwanted cut of meat.”
Beth stood at once. “Deb, no, that is not—”
“You think I am plain and stupid. That he cannot possibly want me. That something must be wrong. Is that it?”
“I never said—”
“You did not have to! I heard you. And I wish I had not.”
Mrs. Harcourt rose, going to her daughter with open arms. “Darling, pay no mind—your sister is only upset. Jealous, perhaps.”
Beth stared in horror. “Jealous? Of what?”
Deborah turned her face away. “Because you are orphaned and merely a cousin, not a daughter of the house? Because your mother died in childbirth while mine still lives? Or perhaps because your husband is only the heir to a modest estate, whereas mine will be an earl.”
Beth’s mouth dropped open. How dare she use my mother’s trauma like this?
They did not speak of her mother, but Beth had pieced together the narrative.
Martha had been Gerald Harcourt’s younger sister who was imposed upon by an unknown assailant at a house party, and left with child.
Mr. Harcourt’s love for his sister and guilt over what had occurred was the only reason Martha had not been cast out of the home when she delivered the surprise baby nine months later and promptly died.
“Enough!” Mr. Harcourt’s voice cracked like a whip, his palm slamming down upon the mahogany table. Everyone froze.
“I have had my fill of this foolishness,” he said.
“The contracts are signed. The wedding is in two days. I rarely exercise my rights as master of this house, but on this, I shall. There will be no further discussion of Bartemius Fitzwilliam’s motives.
He will be Deborah’s husband. That is final.
If anyone here cannot abide that truth, they may take their leave. ”
Silence reigned.
Beth swallowed her fury. “Very well, Uncle.”
That same fury rose inside her once again two days later as Beth sat next to her family in the chapel, her hands trembling as she watched her sister exchange wedding vows.
Deborah was radiant in light pink silk, a diamond necklace at her throat—likely a loan from the Fitzwilliam vaults. Bartemius looked smug, his smirk a poor disguise for boredom. He held Deborah’s hand as though it were a pair of gloves he intended to remove the moment he was free of witnesses.
Beth fought the knot in her stomach.
She wanted to believe she was wrong. That Deb would be happy. That Bartemius had hidden virtues yet to be revealed.
But as the vows were spoken and the kiss given, Beth’s stomach turned. She had watched Theodore look at her like the sun had risen in her eyes. Bartemius had not once looked at Deborah’s face.
And so, Beth wept—not for herself, not from jealousy—but for the sister she loved, and the chains that now gleamed like satin around her wrists.
As soon as the wedding breakfast concluded, she made her excuses. She had never missed Thomas and Frederick more in her life. She could scarcely sit still in the carriage as the gates of Longbourn rose into view two days later.
The green fields, the winding gravel drive, the tall oaks whispering in the breeze—it was home. And after the storm of Deborah’s wedding, she felt as though she were stepping into a warm hearth after a week in the rain.
She had scarcely touched the step when the front door burst open.
“Mama!” A mop of light-brown curls came hurtling toward her, followed shortly by another one.
Beth dropped to her knees just in time to catch Frederick and Thomas in her arms, laughing as their chubby arms wrapped tightly around her neck. “Oh, my darling boys,” she whispered, kissing their brows over and over. “How I have missed you.”
“Treat?” Freddy asked eagerly, followed closely by Thomas’s more plaintive, “Treat, please, Mama?”
She laughed. “Yes, I have brought you a treat.” She fished a small parcel from her reticule and presented it with a flourish. “Just do not tell your father.”
“Too late,” said a warm voice behind her.
Beth stood, heart leaping again at the sight of her husband.
He looked every inch the capable landowner: tall, clean-shaven, with his waistcoat slightly rumpled from a morning spent in the estate office.
His shirtsleeves were rolled back just enough to reveal ink-stained cuffs, and his smile—warm and crooked—was still that of the man she had fallen in love with three years prior.
They embraced, quietly and completely, as their sons rifled through the paper-wrapped sweets at their feet.
“I missed you,” he murmured into her hair.
“I missed you more.”
“Well now, that is just unfair.” His grin widened. “I had to chase down the steward and deal with tenants without your stern input. You had only a society wedding to endure.”
Beth pulled back and sighed. “Do not get me started.”
Before he could ask, the elder Bennets appeared in the doorway.
“Welcome home, dear,” said Maria, embracing her daughter-in-law warmly.
“Long trip?” Timothy asked, shaking out a newspaper as they made their way inside.
Beth nodded. “Too long. I am glad to be back.”
There was something about Maria Bennet’s expression that gave her pause. A quiet heaviness, a shadow behind her smile. It was a look Beth had come to recognize over the past few years—one that spoke of unresolved ache. She knew it was about Nathaniel.
No one ever said his name anymore.
Beth had never even met her brother-by-marriage. And though Theodore never admitted it aloud, Beth knew it haunted him too.
But today was not the day to press.
They all sat in the parlor as Frederick and Thomas raced about with their sweets, and Maria finally cleared her throat.
“Well,” she said, “now that Beth has returned, your father and I have an announcement to make.”
Beth blinked. “Oh?”
Timothy folded his hands across his waistcoat. “We are going to move to the dower house.”
“The dower house?” Beth repeated, startled. “But why?”
Maria’s smile returned, gentle and tired. “Because it is smaller, and we are older. The stairs here are a bit much in winter, and it is too large for just the two of us when you and Theo are the ones running things now.”
Beth looked sharply at her mother-in-law. Maria’s strength had never been the same since she fell ill the year before.
“It will give us peace,” Timothy added, drawing Beth’s attention back to himself. “And give your family freedom.”
Beth’s breath caught.
Freedom.
The word rang in her like a bell. Her own household. Her own routines. Her own mark on this land she had come to love with all her heart. She would be the mistress of Longbourn—not merely by marriage, but in truth.
She clasped Maria’s hands. “Are you certain?”
“Very.”
Beth looked at Theodore, who gave her a boyish grin. “Seems we are moving up in the world.”
She laughed. “Then I suppose I had better start ordering some new furnishings.”
And as the autumn light spilled in golden sheets across the floor of her home, Beth felt the future unfurl before her—wide, bright, and entirely hers to shape.
∞∞∞
1765—Pemberley