Chapter 7 #3
“The matter was witnessed,” Mr. Bennet went on evenly, acknowledging their reactions with a faint nod that conveyed both regret and resolve, “by several persons, and therefore cannot be dismissed as idle report. Father Monro sent his daughter indoors at once and directed Laurence to return to Longbourn—a direction he has not yet obeyed. The rector himself was here shortly thereafter, informed me of the circumstances, and has just taken his leave. I gave him my word that I would call upon him tomorrow at noon with my decision.”
Mrs. Bennet sank back into her seat, pressing her handkerchief to her lips as she struggled for composure, her voice rising with anxious urgency. “Tomorrow? Then it will be everywhere by nightfall! The neighbourhood will talk of nothing else!”
“It might,” Mr. Bennet said quietly, his tone compelling her to meet his gaze, the firmness in his words drawing a hesitant silence from her, “but it will not harm her—not if I can prevent it. And I shall endeavour to do so with all the care the young lady’s situation demands.”
“Oh! how they will laugh at me—how they will whisper and titter behind their fans!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, clasping her hands with dramatic despair.
“No one will invite me to tea anymore, no one will trust me with the latest intelligence, nor confide a single scrap of neighbourhood news. What am I to do, Mr. Bennet? How will my sons be regarded in society—good heavens! I declare, I should have been far better off with five daughters. That would have been infinitely easier. Oh! my poor nerves!”
Mr. Bennet regarded his wife as though she had quite mislaid her senses, and replied, with perfect dryness,
“My dear madam, you do not know what you are saying. With five daughters, matters would have been considerably worse.”
He turned his gaze from one to the other, his expression grave yet touched with the weary affection of a father burdened by his son’s folly. “Alas, Laurence is not yet home. Until I have heard his account, I will make no decision. I will not act in haste, nor allow indignation to outrun sense.”
Kit looked up then, his voice thoughtful yet edged with concern. “You mean to speak to him alone, sir?”
“I do. His guilt, or his defence against the accusation,” Mr. Bennet replied, his voice steady as he met his son’s gaze. “Whatever folly he has committed, it must first be understood. After that, I shall speak to Father Monro—and I shall do so with the young lady’s interest foremost.”
Miles lifted his eyes, his voice low and approving. “That is… right, sir. Her reputation must be protected above all.”
Mrs. Bennet pressed her handkerchief more tightly to her lips, her eyes bright with unshed tears as she struggled between anxiety and obedience. “And what are we to do meanwhile? Sit in silence while the neighbourhood whispers?”
“We wait,” Mr. Bennet said, his tone gentle yet unyielding, acknowledging her distress with a faint, reassuring nod. “And we keep silence—for her sake, if not for ours.”
At that moment, the faint sound of the front door opening reached them from the hall, a sound that caused Mrs. Bennet to start and Miles to straighten further.
Mr. Bennet straightened fully, his expression resolute. “That will be Laurence,” he said. “You may remain here or withdraw, as you judge best—but I will speak with him first, and alone.”
Miles rose at once, his movement decisive.
Kit hesitated only a moment, then followed him toward the door with a supportive glance toward his father.
Mrs. Bennet lingered, torn between anxiety and obedience, before turning away with visible effort, her hand pressing to her heart as she murmured a quiet prayer for guidance.
Laurence entered the house with the careless confidence of one who has not yet decided whether he has done wrong—or whether wrong has merely been suggested to him by narrower minds.
He shut the door behind him with unnecessary force, tossed his hat onto the side table, and was halfway across the hall when he saw his father standing alone in the parlour doorway.
He stopped short, a flicker of unease crossing his features before he masked it with forced lightness.
Mr. Bennet did not move. He did not raise his voice, nor did he advance. He simply waited, one hand resting upon the doorframe, his expression composed to the point of severity.
“Come in, Laurence,” he said at last, his voice low and calm. “I have been waiting for you.”
Laurence obeyed, though with a faint tightening about the mouth that betrayed annoyance rather than contrition. He remained standing, hands loose at his sides, his posture erect and unyielding.
“Waiting for me, Father?” Laurence asked lightly as he entered the parlour, his tone carrying a note of defiance that he could not quite conceal beneath the casual air he affected.
“I did,” Mr. Bennet replied from his chair by the hearth, his voice calm yet weighted with quiet authority as he regarded his youngest son without rising. “And you know why.”
A flicker crossed Laurence’s face—quick calculation, quickly masked behind a practiced nonchalance. “If this concerns the churchyard, sir, I assure you—”
“Do not,” Mr. Bennet interrupted quietly—not sharply, but with a steadiness that admitted no evasion, his gaze holding his son’s with unflinching resolve. “Do not begin by assuring me of anything. Sit.”
Laurence hesitated a moment, a subtle tightening about his mouth betraying his reluctance, then took the chair opposite his father, stretching his long legs before him with deliberate nonchalance that drew a faint tightening of Mr. Bennet’s lips.
The father regarded his youngest son in silence for a moment, the firelight casting shadows across his features as he weighed the words he must speak. When he spoke again, his voice was even, but the effort of restraint lay plain beneath it.
“You were seen this afternoon behind the church stable with Miss Alice Monro. Alone,” Mr. Bennet said, his tone measured yet unyielding. “Explain that, if you please.”
Laurence shrugged, a faint, ironic curve touching his lips as he met his father’s gaze with studied indifference. “We were speaking. That is hardly a crime, Father.”
“You were seen, Laurence,” Mr. Bennet repeated, his gaze unwavering as he leaned forward slightly, the quiet intensity in his eyes compelling attention. “By several persons. Enough witnesses to ensure that the matter will not be forgotten—nor softened.”
Laurence’s expression hardened slightly, though he maintained his careless air, a flash of irritation crossing his features before he masked it once more. “Then they chose to look where they had no business,” he replied, his voice edged with defiance. “That is all.”
Mr. Bennet’s hand tightened on the chair-back, his voice remaining low yet edged with quiet severity. “You placed the rector’s daughter in a position where explanation was required. You placed her reputation in peril for the sake of your amusement.”
The rebuke reached him—if only partially; enough to unsettle, not enough to humble.
“I did nothing improper,” Laurence insisted, sitting forward now, colour rising in his cheeks as indignation overtook his nonchalance. “I did not touch her. I did not persuade her. She stayed because she wished to. Is that now a fault?”
“It is,” Mr. Bennet answered, his tone admitting no levity, his eyes holding his son’s with unrelenting steadiness, “when a young woman’s wishes are outweighed by the consequences she must bear alone.”
Laurence laughed shortly, the sound forced and defiant. “Consequences imposed by small minds and smaller conventions.”
Mr. Bennet’s breath caught—but he mastered it, his voice emerging with weary resolve. “You mistake recklessness for courage, and insolence for independence. Miss Monro will pay for this afternoon whether you do or not. That is the truth you refuse to face. I expected more from you, young man.”
Laurence looked away then, his jaw set, his silence stubborn rather than reflective, though a flicker of unease betrayed that the words had found their mark.
“Father Monro has been here,” Mr. Bennet continued, his tone calm yet unyielding. “He expects my decision by tomorrow at noon. He spoke to me—not in anger, but in duty. And I will decide what must be done after this conversation.”
Laurence’s head snapped up, a flash of alarm crossing his features. “Decide what?”
Mr. Bennet met his gaze steadily. “That depends upon whether you choose honesty now—or force it later.”
For the first time, uncertainty flickered across Laurence’s features, his posture shifting as the weight of the moment pressed upon him. “You would not—surely you would not propose—”
“I propose nothing,” Mr. Bennet said. “Not yet. I will hear you, then talk to Father Monro. I will consider the young lady’s interest above your pride. And I will not be hurried into injustice—by you or by the neighbourhood.”
He paused, then added, more quietly, his voice touched with the sorrow of a father who sees his son’s faults too clearly. “But understand this: if I find that your conduct has endangered her future, I will act. Not as your indulgent parent, but as a gentleman responsible for repairing harm.”
Laurence rose abruptly, his voice lower now, stripped of its earlier bravado though defiance lingered. “You would sacrifice me for appearances.”
“No,” Mr. Bennet replied, his tone weary yet resolute. “I would sacrifice your illusions—for her sake, and for the honour of this family. Your mother does not deserve this, nor your brothers.”
There was a long silence between them, heavy with unspoken regret.
At last, Laurence spoke again, his voice subdued though not fully repentant. “She laughed. She was not frightened. She stayed because she found me… diverting.”
Mr. Bennet closed his eyes for a brief moment, the words striking deeper than any protest. “That,” he said, “is precisely why this is serious.”