Chapter 7 #2
“Good day, sir.” The girl, recently turned seven years of age, bobbed a curtsy. “Am I to go home with you?” She looked hopeful. The sadness in her eyes nearly broke Thomas’s heart.
“I am afraid not, my child.” He kissed her forehead. “You will go stay at—” He cut off and glanced at the prince.
“Montague House at Blackheath,” the corpulent heir answered.
“—yes, at Blackheath, with Princess Caroline.”
Elizabeth brightened a little. “I like the princess,” she whispered. She hesitated. “The nurse says Mama and Papa are not coming home. That is why my gowns are black.”
Thomas nodded, his throat tight. “Your parents have gone to heaven, child.”
Tears welled up in her eyes, but the child straightened her shoulders and refused to let them fall. “Will I see you again?” Her words were intelligent and well-formed for so young an age.
“If it is agreeable to His Royal Highness, you will join me in Hertfordshire from September through December each year.” A nod from the prince confirmed it.
“I would like that.”
“Take the child out, Morris.” The nursemaid removed Elizabeth. The last Thomas saw of her was a forlorn glance over her shoulder, an image that would haunt him for years.
“All is arranged. The papers are ready to be signed, and then you may depart.”
“What of my niece’s holdings? There is nothing here about that.” Goodness, the child was wealthy at such a tender age! An unscrupulous manager could impoverish her before she had a chance to put the fortune to use.
“Her father’s will stipulates that all income not required to manage the holdings be placed in trust. Her dowry will accumulate as she grows.
Some funds will be extracted to be used for her care and education, but overall, her fortune will remain intact.
As for management, there were no requirements outlined. ”
Thomas hesitated before speaking. “If Your Highness has no objections, I can take over management. My brother-in-law has the golden touch when it comes to investing and growing wealth. He can help me.”
“What is the man’s name? Best have everything in writing.”
“Mr. Edward Gardiner. He lives near Gracechurch Street.”
“A tradesman? Are you certain?” The prince looked doubtful.
“My brother has grown his business substantially in the last five years. His income nearly exceeds my own.”
Prince George laughed. “That is impressive. I have no objections, though I shall order an investigation before making it official.”
The prince ordered his servants to prepare a room for Mr. Thomas Bennet, insisting that he stay as a guest until all had been arranged.
At least this will give Fanny something to brag about to our neighbors.
Thomas Bennet remained at Carlton House for the better part of a week, though it felt considerably longer.
He was lodged comfortably enough—too comfortably, perhaps, for a man who did not relish obligation—but the luxury did little to ease his disquiet.
Every hour spent beneath that roof reminded him how thoroughly his niece’s future had been placed in hands far more powerful than his own.
Servants attended him with meticulous politeness; meals appeared without his ordering them; and yet he felt perpetually on display, as though every movement were being assessed.
The papers moved at a deliberate pace. Drafts were produced, revised, and returned with marginal notes in a hand that was not the prince’s but carried his authority nonetheless.
Thomas read every clause with care, pressing for the inclusion of what few concessions he had been promised.
When at last the final copies were placed before him and the seals affixed, he signed with a steady hand, though the act itself felt like a small betrayal he could neither avoid nor fully justify.
Once released, he wasted no time in making his way to Gracechurch Street.
The Gardiners received him with surprise and immediate concern, and Thomas laid out the situation without embellishment.
Edward Gardiner listened closely, already calculating, already considering avenues for growth.
Between them, they examined the figures with sober attention, agreeing upon a strategy that favored caution over speculation.
The sums involved were considerable—transformative, even—and Thomas took comfort in the knowledge that, whatever compromises he had been forced to make, his daughters would not suffer for want of provision.
With those arrangements settled, he returned at last to Hertfordshire.
Mrs. Bennet met him at the door with an excitement that bordered on triumph.
The story, once told, lost none of its splendor in repetition.
Carlton House. The Prince of Wales. Royal papers.
Royal favor. Each detail grew in the telling, and Thomas soon found that the matter of Elizabeth de Bourgh had already been absorbed into his wife’s vision for the family’s advancement.
“Girls,” she declared that very evening, summoning them all to the drawing room, “everything must be done properly now. You are cousins to a child being raised in the household of the Princess of Wales. That is not nothing.”
Thomas retreated to his chair and took up a book, though he scarcely read a word.
Mrs. Bennet was tireless. Lessons were discussed. Deportment was scrutinized. Even their manner of speech came under review. They were to be accomplished, polished, and entirely beyond reproach. Longbourn, she insisted, must reflect the elevated connections it now possessed.
“It will not do,” she said firmly, “for you girls to behave as though nothing has changed.”
Thomas sighed inwardly but did not contradict her. Perhaps she was right, in her way. Things had changed—irrevocably. Elizabeth de Bourgh was no longer merely a lost child returned to family, but a living reminder of how close Longbourn now stood to power, however unwillingly.
As he watched his daughters absorb their mother’s instructions with varying degrees of enthusiasm, Thomas allowed himself one private hope: that somewhere, at Blackheath, Elizabeth would find the affection and steadiness he could not provide her himself—and that, in time, she might forgive him for the bargain he had been compelled to strike.