Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
“Papa! I have just heard the most delicious gossip!” Lydia burst into the sitting room as Mrs. Bennet poured her husband a cup of tea.
The door flew open with such force that the fringe of the rug lifted, and Lydia’s cheeks were flushed from haste. Her curls had escaped their pins, bobbing wildly as she skidded to a halt before the hearth.
“Lydia, dearest, pray remember you are indoors.” Mrs. Bennet gave her youngest an indulgent look, though her tone carried a mild rebuke. She handed the teacup to her husband, who accepted it absently, his attention already on Lydia.
“That hardly matters at the moment, Mama. You will never guess what was found on the common between Netherfield and Longbourn!”
Elizabeth froze, her biscuit halfway to her mouth. A crumb fell unheeded onto her lap. Mr. Bennet exhibited a similar stillness, his normally cheerful eyes shifting to a serious tone, suggesting the sudden commencement of an internal calculation.
“You will never guess, so I shall tell you. Maria Lucas and I were walking near Oakham Mount, and we encountered Millie Turner. She says her brother found a small pot filled with bronze coins! Is it not exciting? There must be more treasure there—we should look! How marvelous it would be to make our fortunes.”
The room seemed to tighten around Elizabeth’s chest. She forced herself to breathe evenly, willing her face into neutrality. Millie Turner. The name struck like a bell.
Millie Turner’s father was one of Mr. Bennet’s tenants. They worked the home farm and an additional piece of land. The family had been attached to Longbourn for three generations.
“Any gold or silver found belongs to the Crown.” Mary stared at Lydia over the top of her book, her voice calm, precise, and faintly reproving.
“The Turners did not find gold or silver.” Lydia looked rather perplexed, likely confused that Mary had introduced an unnecessary complication. “What does it matter?”
“Do not be obtuse, Lydia,” Kitty said, joining the conversation from her perch near the window. “You spoke of making our fortune in Roman treasure. Mary is pointing out that treasure of real value would not belong to us. We would be obligated to turn it over to the Crown.”
Elizabeth felt her pulse thrum in her ears. Obligated. The word echoed unpleasantly.
“You do know how to spoil things, do you not, Mary? I hardly care.” Lydia tossed her curls with careless bravado. “I shall join Maria in combing the common. We shall find a treasure trove of ancient artifacts, and when the finder’s fee is rewarded, I shall not share one farthing.”
Mrs. Bennet gave a small, breathless laugh that sounded amused. “That is enough, my dears. Please have a seat, Lydia. The tea is cooling rapidly.” She handed her daughter a cup and busied herself with the tea tray.
Lydia took it and sat on the settee beside her mother, chattering away about gold and jewels and other mystical relics—Roman soldiers, hidden villas, fortunes buried beneath their very feet. Elizabeth hardly heard her. Her gaze was fixed on her father.
Mr. Bennet had fallen silent. He wore a frown and appeared to contemplate heavily the rug at his feet, as though the pattern held answers he alone could see.
His tea went untouched. No one else appeared to notice his sudden change of demeanor.
When he rose to return to his library, Elizabeth followed.
She closed the door behind them. The familiar scent of leather bindings and beeswax enveloped her, but it brought no relief.
“Papa—”
He held up a hand before she could continue. “No, Lizzy, I shall not be pushed into a hasty decision just because a tenant lad found a cache of bronze coins. What we have is far more valuable. It is not as if anyone saw us that day—there is no suspicion—none directed toward us.”
But did my find also inadvertently spur this frenzy?
Elizabeth clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling.
“But Papa, if someone does find more gold and decides to report it, that will make our predicament all the more precarious.” Her voice dropped.
“If the Crown’s attention were already on Hertfordshire, it seems rather unlikely that such a large hoard—hidden though it is—could be disposed of discreetly. ”
For a moment, she thought she saw doubt flicker across his face—fear, even—but it was gone almost before she could be certain it had been there.
“Never you mind about that, Elizabeth.” Mr. Bennet’s voice was firm and brooked no argument.
“I shall decide what is to be done in due time. I have not forgotten what this could mean for your mother—and for all of you. Prudence is not always so simple as obedience. For now, we continue to speak of this to no one.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. How can silence ever be safe, she wondered, when the whole countryside has begun to dig? Yet what alternative was there? To report it was to lose everything. To conceal it was to risk ruin. There seemed no path that did not lead to consequence.
She could not help but think of that day—the disturbed earth, the hurried concealment, the quiet instructions given to ensure no notice was drawn. Had they been as careful as they believed? Or had some small trace—overlooked in haste—invited curiosity where none had existed before?
“And the treasure-hunting frenzy that is certain to rise from the discovery of bronze coins?”
“It is of no concern to us. We shall let the others dig in the dirt while knowing we have the real reward safely tucked away.” Mr. Bennet picked up a ledger, a deliberate gesture of dismissal. “If you will excuse me, I need to see to the books.”
Elizabeth’s shoulders drooped, the weight of helplessness settling upon her. Without another word, she left the room, determined to go walking to clear her troubled mind—though she knew, with a sinking certainty, that no amount of fresh air would quiet the unease now lodged firmly in her heart.
Despite his apparent nonchalance with his daughter, Mr. Bennet was indeed rather concerned about the recent turn of events.
The mask he wore so easily for his family slipped the moment Elizabeth closed the door behind her.
He stood for a moment, staring at the shelves of books that lined his library, seeing none of their familiar comfort.
At last, with an impatient sigh, he tossed the ledger onto his desk and rang for Mrs. Hill.
The good housekeeper appeared promptly, dipping a curtsy politely, her expression attentive but incurious—one of her greatest virtues.
“I have much work to which I must attend,” he began, running his finger along the edge of his desk, tracing the worn groove left by years of habit. “I am locking the door. Please see to it that I am not disturbed.”
“Very good, Master.” Hill bobbed another curtsy before exiting the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Mr. Bennet went to the door, locked it, and pocketed the key, the small, final click sounding louder than it ought.
Slowly, each step carrying weight, he moved to the corner of the room and carefully drew out the crate concealed beneath its covering of books.
He paused a moment, his expression tightening as he looked down at it, internally measuring the consequence of what must now be done.
Then he lifted it, his arms straining slightly with the burden, and carried it to his desk, setting it upon the chair beside it.
A large linen cloth was spread across the surface with deliberate care, smoothed flat beneath his hands, as though ritual might lend clarity to confusion.
That confusion had once been tolerable—abstract, even.
Now it pressed upon him with unwelcome urgency.
What had been a question of conscience had become a matter of consequence.
One by one, he pulled the artifacts out and placed them carefully on the cloth. The silver was tarnished but still glistened slightly, catching the candlelight in muted flashes. The gold was untouched by time and shone as if hundreds of years had not passed—warm, rich, and undeniably seductive.
What am I to do?
Bennet hardly knew. The sheer magnitude of the collection stole his breath.
The sum that such a collection could fetch would tempt any man—particularly a man who had spent decades laughing off responsibility, trusting to luck, affection, and indulgence rather than preparation.
He had always been honest to a fault. Was he now to cast aside all his morals, his efforts to be a law-abiding man?
To become the sort of fellow he had once mocked?
For what?
For the ability to provide for my family.
The answer came swiftly, and with it a pang of guilt sharp enough to make him wince.
Logically, it made sense—indeed, it made painful sense—to do whatever he could to make life easier for his ladies when he passed to his reward.
The treasure had been found on his land, unlike the bronze coins found in the common.
Still, the law required him to report what he found.
He knew that as surely as he knew the titles on his shelves.
But knowing a thing and doing it were very different matters.
Thoughts of his beautiful Fanny living in a small cottage filled his thoughts—Fanny, who had trusted him with her future; his dear wife, who had married for love and paid for it in uncertainty.
He could not condemn his wife to a life of genteel poverty.
He could not bear the image of her counting pennies, of his daughters forced into dependence or ill-considered marriages.
Finder’s fees were rarely large. No, it would be better to quietly find a private collector—someone discreet, someone knowledgeable, someone who would ask no inconvenient questions. Antiquarians existed precisely for such purposes, did they not?