Chapter 6 #2
It pleased him how neatly the pieces arranged themselves.
By granting Caroline custody—physical custody only—he could appear magnanimous without relinquishing an ounce of authority.
The arrangement would be framed as charity, as concern for the welfare of an orphaned child.
It would win him quiet approval and cost him nothing.
And if Caroline overstepped, complained too loudly, or presumed upon indulgence, it would be the simplest thing in the world to remove the girl to Carlton House.
No scandal. No public cruelty. Merely an administrative correction.
An easy leash, he thought with satisfaction.
There were other advantages, too. Charlotte required companions.
A princess raised in isolation was an inconvenience later, prone to attachments formed too fiercely and opinions developed without moderation.
Another child—well-born enough, properly guided—would serve admirably.
Elizabeth might amuse Charlotte, soften her, teach her to share attention.
And should the child prove useful beyond that—well, usefulness was not limited to a single purpose.
George smiled faintly. Caroline believed herself victorious already. How touching.
He rose and crossed to his writing desk, the decision made.
Ink and paper were summoned. Instructions followed swiftly, precisely, his hand steady as he penned two summonses—one to Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s widow, informing her that enquiries would be made regarding the disposition of the child, and another to Mr. Thomas Bennet, Esq.
, of Longbourn, Hertfordshire, whose interest in the matter would likewise be required.
All would be done properly. Publicly. Benevolently.
And in the end, George reflected as he sealed the letters, everyone would be grateful—to him.
“What is it, Mr. Bennet?” Fanny Bennet clutched at her dressing gown, hastily drawn close against the chill of the morning.
The nursery fire had burned low, and the winter light filtering through the curtains did little to warm the room.
She held two-year-old Lydia, her youngest child and fourth girl, the child’s soft breath warm against her collarbone, her small fist tangled in her mother’s lace.
Her husband, Mr. Thomas Bennet, stood near the window, a missive held carefully in his hand as though it might burn him.
The sealing wax bore an impression he had never seen before on one of his letters—clean, authoritative, unmistakably official.
“It is a summons,” he murmured, his voice quieter than usual.
His wife blinked in confusion, fatigue and alarm warring on her features. “From who? Who would dare—”
“It is from Carlton House.” That alone was enough to silence her, though her mouth fell open in shock. The words carried a weight far beyond their simplicity. Carlton House was not merely a residence; it was power itself, distant and rarely turned toward men like Thomas Bennet.
“What?” Her voice pitched up despite herself.
“What can anyone want of you there?” Fanny sounded incredulous, and Thomas agreed with her sentiment.
He had spent his life comfortably removed from the great machinery of court, content with his books, his land, and his family.
That machinery had now inexplicably turned its gaze upon him.
“Prince George has summoned me to discuss the matter of Elizabeth’s guardianship.
” The words felt strange in his mouth, formal and heavy.
Thomas had only heard about his sister’s passing two days before, the news delivered by letter, its brevity cruel in its restraint.
It had been years since he had seen her.
First, she had stayed away because of their father—the man who had forced her into marriage.
Then, after Thomas had inherited Longbourn, Nathan de Bourgh had kept her away, despite having a house less than three miles from the estate.
Distance, it seemed, had never been measured purely in miles.
Thomas had not seen his younger sister in years.
He had never met their child, a girl named after their grandmother, whose name alone stirred a deep, aching regret.
“The child is to come here, of course,” he murmured, already shaping the future in his mind, clinging to the idea as something solid amid uncertainty.
“I do not know why the prince needs to discuss it.” Rebecca had moved in circles beyond his imagination, thanks to her husband’s friendship with the Prince Regent.
He despised those circles instinctively—places where affection was secondary to advantage, and kinship bent beneath convenience.
“Here?” Fanny exclaimed, instinctively tightening her hold on Lydia. “Mr. Bennet, we have four girls! We can scarcely afford another.” Her mind leapt at once to gowns, schooling, food—each additional child another tally in an already precarious household.
“Elizabeth will have inherited all her father’s wealth.
Her care will not come from Longbourn’s coffers.
” He spoke gently, knowing Fanny’s anxieties were practical rather than unkind.
Privately, he longed to have a piece of his sister at his side—to correct, however belatedly, the distance that had grown between them.
His girls were lovely, each in her own way, but none of them possessed the spark Rebecca had written of so fondly, the intelligence and perceptiveness that leapt from her descriptions.
“Be that as it may,” Fanny persisted, agitation sharpening her tone, “her presence will prevent gentlemen from pursuing our daughters. Her dowry will put theirs to shame!” In her mind, the marriage market was a battlefield, and any imbalance a threat.
Thomas sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fanny, she is my niece. I cannot shirk my responsibility.” The words were spoken with quiet firmness. Whatever else he was, Thomas Bennet would not abandon blood for convenience.
His wife sighed in turn, the fight leaving her as she rocked Lydia, who had long since fallen asleep, her small body heavy with trust. “Go, then, and see what the prince wants.” A spark of excitement crept into her voice despite herself.
“Imagine that, Mr. Bennet! My husband, a caller at Carlton House!”
“It will give you something to speak of, Mrs. Bennet.” There was the faintest hint of dry amusement in his tone as he crossed the room and kissed his wife’s brow. “There is a carriage waiting. My trunks are being packed as we speak.”
“Bring me some fabric from my brother’s warehouse.” The request was automatic, comfortingly familiar, and Thomas could not help but smile faintly.
Fanny’s request was expected, and he murmured his assent before leaving her chambers, the weight of duty—and the shadow of royal interest—settling heavily upon his shoulders as he went.