Chapter 1 #4
Miles Bennet returned to Longbourn later that afternoon, the sun still high enough to cast a warm, golden light across the fields, though it had begun to dip toward the hedgerows in gentle decline.
He did not ride fast, though the news he carried was such as might have tempted haste; instead, he came on at a measured pace, his thoughts composed, his resolve settled, allowing himself the quiet satisfaction of knowing that what had been undertaken that morning in duty was now answered with something gentler—yet no less binding, a course shaped by honour rather than mere expedience, and with it a hope that stirred within him with the subtle promise of restoration.
He dismounted before the house and paused a moment, one hand resting upon the saddle, allowing himself a steadying breath as he surveyed the familiar facade with renewed appreciation.
Miles had gone to Meryton with responsibility heavy upon his shoulders; he returned bearing reassurance—not complete, not yet—but sufficient to lift a family from the brink of harm, for he carried a pledge both honestly given and honourably received.
He remembered clearly the moment Father Monro had returned from his daughter’s chamber, his manner altered—less guarded, touched with grave relief—and how, after a brief pause, the clergyman had spoken with measured warmth: that Alice had consented to receive his addresses; that she asked for no secrecy, no haste, but agreed to an open and honourable courtship, entered upon with patience and propriety, and with her own willing heart engaged in the trial.
Inside, Longbourn was quiet in that particular way which accompanies illness: doors half closed, voices lowered, movement softened by care, the very air seeming to hold its breath in deference to the invalid upstairs.
Mrs. Hill met him in the hall at once, relief evident in her expression as she inclined her head with quiet deference.
“Your father is resting, sir,” she said quietly, her voice conveying the careful optimism that had begun to replace outright fear. “Pray remember—the doctor insisted upon calm. Mrs. Bennet and your brothers are in the parlour, waiting for your return.”
Miles inclined his head and passed on without delay, his step steady though his heart was lightened by the tidings he bore.
They were indeed waiting, their faces reflecting a mixture of anxiety and anticipation that spoke volumes about the strain the household had endured.
Mrs. Bennet was the first to speak—she always was—but she checked herself midway, her anxiety sharpened by the look in her son’s face, her hands clasping together as she leaned forward slightly.
“Miles—well? For pity’s sake, speak plainly,” she urged, her voice trembling with the hope she dared not yet voice.
He did so at once, standing before them with composed gravity, his voice low but clear, meeting each gaze in turn with reassuring steadiness.
“Father Monro received me with courtesy and candour. I placed the matter before him exactly as it stands—without excuse, without evasion, and with the young lady’s welfare foremost. I declared my intention to seek Miss Monro’s regard honourably, to conduct a proper courtship with her father’s consent, and to bind myself to no promise of marriage until my studies are completed and I am settled in my vocation. ”
Kit leaned forward, intent upon every word, his expression reflecting quiet admiration as he nodded faintly in encouragement.
Laurence, who had remained standing near the window with restless impatience, turned sharply, his brows drawing together in wary curiosity, his expression plainly saying what his tongue did not: that his brother must surely be mad.
“And?” Mrs. Bennet pressed, clasping her hands together more tightly, her eyes searching Miles’s face with breathless expectation.
Her middle son met her gaze steadily, allowing a faint, reassuring smile to touch his lips as he delivered the news that would ease so many hearts.
“Miss Monro has consented to that understanding. She has agreed to an open and proper courtship, conducted with her father’s approval, and with patience on both sides. ”
The words fell into the room like a benediction, soft yet profound, lifting the weight that had hung over them all.
For a moment, no one spoke, the silence filled with the gentle release of held breath.
Mrs. Bennet pressed a hand to her lips, her eyes filling despite herself with tears of relief, her voice breaking as she leaned toward him. “Agreed—to what, precisely? I did not quite follow.”
“To a proper courtship, Mother,” Miles replied, his tone measured, careful to temper expectation with propriety, his words drawing a slow exhale of approval from Kit.
“Openly conducted, with her father’s sanction, and with the understanding that marriage shall not be proposed until I have completed my studies and taken orders.
Father Monro required no less—and I offered no more. ”
Mrs. Bennet’s expression altered—relief yielding, not to disapproval, but to a visible perplexity which she could not entirely suppress. She dabbed at her eyes, then lowered her voice as though the very walls might take offence at what she was about to say.
“But—my dear Miles,” she began cautiously, “Miss Monro is—a Catholic, is she not? Quite a Roman Catholic, like her father? I had thought—indeed, I had always understood—that such differences were, I daresay, considerable.”
Miles did not start, having anticipated the objection.
“She is, Mother.”
Mrs. Bennet drew herself up slightly, torn between gratitude and social anxiety.
“I mean no unkindness,” his mother hurried on, “for the young lady is very well-behaved and modest—exceedingly modest—but such distinctions are not trifles in Hertfordshire society. People observe these things. They remark upon them. They attach consequences.”
Mrs. Bennet lowered her voice further.
“And you, my dear boy, intend for the Church. You must consider how it will appear—how it may affect your preferment. A clergyman’s wife must be, you know, well received.”
“I have considered it, Mother,” Miles said quietly, his composure unshaken. “Father Monro and I spoke of it plainly. I do not enter upon this without awareness of the distinction. Nor does Miss Monro.”
“Surely character weighs more than denomination,” Kit said mildly.
Mrs. Bennet looked unconvinced. “It ought to,” she replied, “but the world is not always so reasonable. There are families—very good families—who would think twice before placing a living in the hands of a man whose household might be thought irregular.”
Miles looked at her, somewhat surprised. “Aunt Gardiner was also a Catholic before her marriage, Mother. Was she not? Do we love her less?”
She hesitated, then changed the subject with maternal concern, “And what of children, Miles? In what persuasion are they to be raised? These are not small matters.”
“They are not small,” Miles agreed, his tone steady.
“Nor are they insurmountable. Father Monro required only honesty and mutual respect. He does not seek to alter me, nor do I seek to alter her. If we are to succeed, it must be by steadiness, not coercion. And if preferment is to depend upon intolerance rather than merit, then I would rather know it early.”
Kit exhaled slowly, a smile touching his mouth as he met Miles’s gaze with quiet pride. “That is right, Brother,” he said, his voice carrying the warmth of fraternal approval that deepened the moment’s gentle joy.
From the threshold, their youngest brother looked at them questioningly.
Then Laurence gave a short laugh—not mocking this time, but incredulous—shaking his head once, then again, as though the truth sat uneasily with his pride.
“Miss Monro agreed?” he asked, his tone conveying a mixture of surprise and dawning comprehension. “After all this?”
Miles turned to him fully, not unkindly, but with unmistakable authority tempered by brotherly care, his gaze steady as he responded.
“Miss Monro agreed because she was offered respect. You could scarcely afford to offer pressure or spectacle—nor even a decent apology. You would do well to remember there are different things and they require distinction, Laurence, for it is the foundation upon which true regard is built.”
The youngest brother coloured, his jaw tightening briefly, but he said nothing, the words finding their mark in a way defiance could no longer dismiss.
Mrs. Bennet crossed the room at once and took Miles’s hands in both of hers, her touch warm and fervent as tears of gratitude spilt over.
“You have saved us,” she said fervently, her voice trembling with emotion.
“Saved that poor girl, although a Catholic—and us with her. Oh—your father—he will be so relieved when he hears it.”
“I must tell him,” Miles said gently, returning the pressure of her hands with quiet affection. “But not now. He is not yet strong enough for the full account.”
“And yet he must know,” Kit said, his tone thoughtful yet insistent as he stepped closer. “He promised Father Monro an answer, and the knowledge that it has been honourably fulfilled may ease him more than any medicine.”
“He shall have it,” Miles replied, his voice steady with reassurance as he nodded to Kit. “Tonight, if he can hear it—briefly, and without agitation. The burden he carried has been lifted. That alone may ease him.”
Laurence shifted at last, unease plain upon him as he met Miles’s gaze with a mixture of defiance and uncertainty. “And me?” he asked, half-defiant, half-uncertain, his voice quieter now. “What becomes of me in all this?”
Miles regarded him steadily, his tone firm but not unfeeling. “What was resolved this morning still stands, Laurence. So, here is the news. Uncle Phillips has agreed to advance the remainder necessary for your commission. You will depart for Dover before the month is out, Lieutenant Bennet.”