Chapter 7 #5
The parlour, still marked by the subdued air that had settled over Longbourn since the previous evening, received them all in uneasy silence: Miles standing by the window, his posture straight and resolute; Laurence lounging with careless defiance near the hearth, his manner betraying a restlessness he could not quite conceal; and Kit seated between them, watchful and grave, his gaze shifting thoughtfully from one brother to the other.
Mrs. Bennet took her customary chair with visible apprehension, her hands folding tightly in her lap as she searched Miles’s face for reassurance, her voice tentative when she spoke. “What is this about, Miles? Have you made a decision? I hope nothing further to disturb your father.”
Miles met her gaze steadily, his reply measured and gentle, acknowledging her concern with a faint nod before proceeding.
“It concerns Laurence, as expected—and the matter cannot be delayed.
You may assure my brothers, Mother, that in the absence of James and Elias, Father has entrusted me with finding a solution.
Therefore, I wish to know your opinion, Laurence—plainly and without evasion—on what must now be done regarding Miss Monro.
Laurence gave a short, dismissive laugh, pushing back a curl from his brow with careless ease, though a flicker of unease crossed his features at the directness of the question.
“What must be done?” he repeated, his tone light yet edged with defiance as he glanced at Miles with a challenging lift of his brow.
“Nothing at all, as far as I can see. Father is ill. James is in Kent. Any decision made now would be premature—and convenient only to those eager to sermonise.”
Miles did not flinch, his expression remaining composed though a subtle tightening about his eyes betrayed the effort it cost him to maintain calm.
“Father is ill, you are right,” he replied quietly, his voice firm yet devoid of anger, meeting Laurence’s gaze without retreat, “because your conduct placed him under a strain his heart could not bear. That is not convenience; it is consequence—a consequence we must now address with care.”
The words struck like a spark, and Laurence straightened at once, colour rising in his cheeks as indignation overtook his nonchalance.
“I will not be lectured by you, Miles,” he said sharply, his voice rising with the heat of wounded pride, “least of all by a brother who has taken it upon himself to play magistrate—and who is hardly impartial where Alice Monro is concerned. We all know you were fond of her. Your concern smells strongly of jealousy.”
Before Miles could answer, Kit rose from his chair, his movement swift yet controlled, his voice steady but edged with restrained reproach as he fixed his younger brother with a grave look.
“That is unfair, Laurence, and you know it,” he said, his words drawing a sharp intake of breath from Mrs. Bennet.
“We have known Alice since childhood. She is not some idle flirt to be amused behind a stable wall. She is good, innocent, and well brought up—and if you wished to speak to her, it ought to have been done openly, with her father’s knowledge, and under proper observance, or not at all. ”
Laurence scoffed, his posture defiant as he turned to Kit with a mocking lift of his brow. “Spare me the catechism. I just spoke to her. I touched nothing. If the world chooses to invent sins, that is hardly my fault.”
“It becomes your fault,” Kit answered, his tone unwavering though a note of sorrow entered it, his gaze holding Laurence’s with quiet insistence, “when you give the world the means to do so, and leave an innocent young woman to bear the weight alone.”
At that moment Mrs. Bennet could contain herself no longer, her voice rising with a mixture of distress and maternal authority as she pressed her handkerchief to her lips.
“Enough—enough!” she cried, her eyes bright with unshed tears as she looked from one son to the other.
“I will not have my sons tearing one another to pieces while your father lies upstairs scarcely recovered. Whatever your disagreements, you will remember this: your father has placed the household in Miles’s hands. His word stands.”
Laurence turned sharply toward her, his expression a blend of frustration and reluctant deference.
“So now Miles rules Longbourn?” he demanded, his voice carrying a note of bitterness that caused Mrs. Bennet to flinch.
“Convenient indeed. And where was Father’s wisdom when I wished to purchase a lieutenant’s commission?
My elder brothers were sent to Oxford without question—yet I was denied my profession. ”
Kit answered before Miles could, his voice calm yet pointed as he met Laurence’s gaze with fraternal concern. “It was war,” he said simply, his words drawing a quiet nod from Miles. “And Mother begged Father not to risk you. She was right to do so—we all saw the danger.”
Miles added, his voice lower now, heavy with restraint as he regarded his younger brother with a mixture of sorrow and resolve.
“And what remained of the funds set aside for your commission was nearly exhausted by your own conduct long before peace was declared. Do not pretend yourself wronged where indulgence has already been costly.”
Laurence fell silent, his jaw tight, his defiance no longer quite so secure, a flicker of unease crossing his features as the truth of their words settled upon him.
Hesitant for a moment, Miles looked at him steadily, then spoke with measured resolve, his tone conveying both authority and a quiet hope for reconciliation.
“I have heard enough. Whatever your opinion, I will act—not to punish, but to repair what can still be mended. I believe there is a course that may serve the interests of all concerned.”
Mrs. Bennet caught her breath, her eyes widening as she leaned forward in her chair. “A course?” she echoed, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and tentative hope.
“Yes,” Miles replied, meeting her gaze with reassuring firmness. “I shall ride to Meryton at once. I will seek my uncle Phillips’s counsel—and his assistance, if it may be had. From there, I shall speak to Father Monro. What follows will be decided with the young lady’s welfare foremost.”
Kit was on his feet at once, his movement decisive as he placed a hand upon Miles’s shoulder.
“Wait,” he said, his voice earnest. “If you need money—take what I have. I had set it aside for veterinary study, but—” He hesitated only a moment, his gaze steady upon his brother.
“Father’s illness has made clear where I am needed most.”
Miles paused, visibly moved by the offer, his hand covering Kit’s briefly in a gesture of profound gratitude. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice deepened by emotion. “I shall not forget it.”
Between Kit’s savings, a modest sum from his own careful reserve, and what could responsibly be taken from the household’s ready funds, Miles gathered half of what was necessary. Within minutes, his horse was saddled.
As he rode out toward Meryton, Longbourn watched him go in anxious silence—aware that upon the judgment and steadiness of one quiet son now rested the honour of a family, the future of a young woman, and the fragile peace of a household already tested by pride, illness, and reckless youth.
Miss Alice Monro was innocent of any fault beyond trusting too readily in Laurence’s careless charm; her reputation, fragile as it was in the eyes of the neighbourhood, deserved protection above all else.
To leave her exposed to conjecture and whispered censure would be unjust, a failure not only of honour but of simple humanity.
Miles felt this keenly, for he had long regarded her with a quiet fondness born of childhood acquaintance and shared parish life—a regard that had deepened, perhaps, into something warmer than mere neighbourly affection, though he had never presumed to name it or act upon it.
Yet the remedy most commonly urged in such cases—a forced marriage to Laurence—offered no true salvation.
His youngest brother, restless and unrepentant, would make a poor husband to any woman, least of all one as gentle and deserving as Alice.
Such a union would bind her to a life of discontent, and Laurence to a responsibility he neither sought nor respected; it would benefit no one, least of all the family whose peace it was meant to preserve.
Miles could not, in conscience, advocate a course that would sacrifice one innocent to redeem another’s folly.
There must be another way, he reflected, his gaze fixed upon the road ahead as resolve settled more firmly within him.
One that shields her honour without chaining her to unhappiness, one that fulfils Father’s promise without compounding the error.
The idea that had begun to form in the parlour—that of removing Laurence to the discipline of a commission, and perhaps offering a steadier prospect for Alice in time—now took clearer shape.
He himself was not indifferent to her; indeed, the thought of a considerate alliance, built upon mutual respect and long acquaintance, held no displeasure for him.
It would be no sacrifice, but rather a quiet privilege, to court her properly when circumstances allowed, should she be willing.
And Miles Bennet, for the first time, rode as a man compelled to choose—a choice that carried with it the weight of duty, the hope of restoration, and the quiet promise that honour, rightly pursued, might yet prevail over folly.
The End of Part One