Chapter 1 #3
There was a pause between them. A breeze stirred the hem of her gown, and a pair of finches quarrelled briefly in the branches overhead. Then Mrs. Bennet said, without quite looking at him: “I spoke of you to Lady Lucas yesterday.”
Miles turned slightly. “Did you?”
“She mentioned Maria, as you might imagine after our dinner discussions. You remember how she used to trail after you and Kit like a shadow when she was small. Now she is quite grown, and rather sweet in manner—modest, well-tempered, pleasant. I told her you thought as much.”
“I said she was decorous,” Miles replied, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “It was a compliment, I promise.”
“That is high praise from you,” said Mrs. Bennet, amused. “And I was not wrong to guess that you had noticed. It is no bad thing for a young man to be discerning—but neither should he be blind.”
Miles glanced toward the hedge, where a bee lingered over a rose, then back at her. “You mean to match-make.”
“I mean to suggest that your future might benefit from a little guidance. Not pressure,” she added quickly, seeing his expression, “just… gentle persuasion.”
“You know I am not averse to the idea of marrying someday, Mother.”
“I should hope not. And Maria is not a poor prospect. Nor would you be required to fall into poetry about her. I believe she would be content with kindness and good sense.”
Miles nodded slowly, his tone measured. “That may be. But I would not wish to marry merely because something is convenient.”
Mrs. Bennet arched a brow. “Then marry because something is possible. Miles, my dear, you have chosen a path that does not reward ambition quickly. The church offers no glittering prizes for those who wait too long or dream too hard.”
“So, there is a parish living near Barton-le-Willows,” he said, half to himself. “You mentioned it last night.”
She allowed herself a satisfied look. “Indeed. Lady Lucas said Sir William had spoken to Lord Salisbury about the vacancy. He believes your name might be favourably received—if the connection is formalised.”
“That is a rather strong inducement,” Miles admitted. “But it does feel rather like… negotiation. And I have one year left to finish my studies.”
“All marriages are negotiations, in the end,” said Mrs. Bennet, not unkindly. “Even the romantic ones, once reality has had its way. What matters is that you are respected, that you find contentment in your duties—and, I hope, affection along the way.”
There was silence for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “Do you regret yours, Mother?”
She blinked, looking toward the rosebushes.
“I regret very little that has to do with your father. I knew what I chose, and I have been content. More content, perhaps, than some women who married for greater fortune. I do not ask you to marry for advantage—but neither should you ignore advantage when it aligns with inclination.”
Miles smiled faintly. “That sounds like Father.”
“He would call it practicality,” she said. “And he would be right.”
They sat in companionable quiet for a time, the morning warming around them. Somewhere in the house, Mrs. Hill called out for her mistress.
Mrs. Bennet rose slowly, brushing the edge of her gown. “We shall speak no more of it now. But consider Maria kindly. And if you find yourself disposed to visit Lucas Lodge sometime this week, I daresay you will find the parlour not unpleasant—and the company agreeable.”
He stood as well, offering her his arm. “I shall consider it, Mother.”
“Good,” she said, patting his hand. “Whenever I take my embroidery into the garden, Hill has something to request from me, so I need to go. Think upon what we have discussed, Miles, my boy.”
They walked back toward the house, the gravel path crunching beneath their steps—mother and son, their minds occupied with futures neither could yet name, but both quietly hoped to shape.
***
The stable yard already hummed with quiet activity, the kind that came with well-worn routine and the rising warmth of a summer morning.
A groom moved in and out of the open doors, pitchfork in hand, while a younger lad struggled with a stubborn bucket near the yard pump.
The scent of damp straw mingled with saddle oil and old oats, and the stones beneath Kit’s boots were still cool in the shadows though warming quickly under the sun.
It was not yet hot, but the day would be—there was a heaviness already in the stillness of the air, the kind that settled before noon with the promise of flies and sweat and shirts stuck to one’s back.
Somewhere in the paddock, a horse snorted and stamped, impatient for its turn.
A breeze stirred dust more than it cooled it.
Kit stood at the open gate, his sleeves pushed back, hands and forearms dusted faintly with earth.
He had spent the last half-hour with Miss Tansy, their father’s favoured mare, inspecting the slight stiffness in her gait—nothing alarming, not yet, but he knew better than to wait for a limp.
His shirt clung damply to his back, and a faint smear of dirt crossed his brow where he had pushed back his hair without thinking.
Behind him, the crunch of polished boots on gravel betrayed a tread too careful for any stable lad.
“You are late, Brother,” Kit said without turning.
“I was held hostage by Mother’s affections,” Laurence replied, his tone dry. “She fussed over Miles like a widow over her only son bound for the colonies. I half expected her to give him a keepsake lock of hair and a locket.”
Kit gave the mare a final pat and turned, brushing his palms on a cloth tucked into his belt. “He will make a decent parson, and you know it. He is halfway to sainted already, whether you like it or not.”
Laurence scoffed. “If sermons on sin count as sainthood, he will have no shortage of material, I daresay.”
The remark drew a look—measured, disapproving—from Kit. “I would tread carefully on that matter, if I were you. After last night, it’s a wonder James didn’t send you packing.”
Laurence leaned against the fencepost, arms crossed, face tilted toward the morning sun. “I didn’t start it.”
“No,” Kit replied, “but you didn’t trouble yourself to stop it either.”
“What I do is not Elias’s or any other brother’s business,” Laurence protested.
“Oh, but it is—as you may ruin our good name. There was a time I listened to you; now you have lost your compass and ought to listen to the voice of reason. Not mine necessarily—but perhaps I speak in a tone you are still willing to hear. It’s time to get back to your senses, Laurie.”
There was a brief silence. The only sound was the faint creak of a wind-tossed shutter and the shuffle of hooves from within the stable.
Laurence sighed and looked away. “They all act as if I had committed high treason. So I misused a little money—my money, mind you—and enjoyed myself for once. That hardly warrants exile.”
“You squandered what was meant to secure your future,” Kit said levelly. “It wasn’t for drink or a decent coat—it was for your commission. For your path forward. You don’t get to play the martyr and the fool at once.”
Laurence bristled. “You sound like Elias.”
“Elias isn’t wrong.” Kit stepped toward him, arms now folded in mirror of his younger brother’s posture.
“You behave like the world owes you a moment of greatness—a battle, a duel, something glorious enough to make your name. But the war is over. There will be no cannon fire to carry you forward, no sword polished by fate. Now you must make yourself. Women won’t offer that. Nor will gaming tables or cards.”
“I would have made myself,” Laurence said sharply, “had they let me.” He kicked at a clod of earth, dislodging a pebble that clattered across the packed dirt.
“They coddled me out of it. You did. Father did. And Miles—with his eternal caution. You all talk of what’s prudent and respectable while I sit here with empty hands. ”
Kit’s voice lost some of its sharpness. “Do you really believe you were ready? That the army would have made you into something better? Do you think a uniform would have solved you?”
Laurence did not answer, not at first. His jaw worked as though chewing back a retort, but when he spoke, the words came low, nearly unheard.
“I wanted to be someone.”
Kit inhaled slowly, letting the breath out through his nose. “You are someone. To us, at least.”
Laurence gave a bitter laugh. “That’s not the same.”
“It may not be the same,” Kit agreed, “but it’s not nothing.
You think James didn’t spend half his youth wondering how to fill Father’s shoes?
Or that I never questioned whether poking at injured cattle in a muddy field was a calling worth the name?
Even Miles wrestles with it—and he has God to answer to. ”
He paused, then added, “You want to be respected. But you must give people reason to respect you. And that doesn’t begin with parlour boasts and debts of shame. Yes—the debts I paid for you out of money I saved as a student.”
Laurence turned away, the harness slipping from his shoulder and landing with a soft thump on the ground. His hands went to his hips, his voice quieter now. “You think I have ruined everything.”
“No,” Kit said, more gently. “But I think you have not yet begun a steady life. And I think you don’t know who you want to be—only that you are afraid you never will be.”
Laurence’s throat bobbed once. Then: “Is that what you all think? That I am some sort of failure waiting to happen?”
“We think you are our brother,” Kit said simply. “Which means we are allowed to be disappointed—but never to stop hoping.”
The silence that followed was no longer sharp. It held, instead, the quiet weight of things understood but not resolved, accepted but not forgotten. The yard, for all its dust and hum, felt still.
After a moment, Kit stooped to pick up the harness. “Come, I could use a hand. Miss Tansy’s favouring her near foreleg again. I don’t trust her not to worsen it.”