EPILOGUE #2
From the corridor came Lady Bennet's voice.
"Mr Bennet! Lizzy! Mr Darcy! Everyone is waiting."
Sir Thomas looked at the open door.
Once, he would have delayed until impatience carried the noise elsewhere. Now he rose at once.
"We should go," he said. "Your mother has waited long enough."
Before breakfast the next morning, Sir Thomas walked to the oak with Elizabeth. He used a cane now and disliked it enough to leave it behind whenever no one watched. Elizabeth noticed and carried it without comment until the ground became uneven.
The tree's upper branches stirred in a mild wind. Beneath it stood the school, the estate road, and the path toward Longbourn.
"What shall happen to the letters?" Elizabeth asked.
"They belong to you. Burn yours if I became sentimental."
"I shall preserve it to embarrass you."
"An affectionate tradition."
They stopped beside the brass plate.
Sir Thomas touched the words with the tip of his cane.
"When I first held Netherfield's grant, I thought of income.
Your mother's security. Your portions. All worthy concerns.
I did not imagine a school, grandchildren, music printed in Mary's name, Kitty managing leases, or Lydia teaching estate families how to answer emergencies. "
"You could not have planned us."
"I once thought planning was the height of fatherhood."
"And now?"
"Leaving enough room for the plan to be wrong."
Elizabeth slipped her arm through his. "Darcy would approve."
"He approves too often in old age."
"He is fifty-two."
"A great age to a father-in-law."
They turned back toward the house. At an upper window, Anne waved. George opened another sash and was pulled away from the cold by someone unseen. Lady Bennet appeared behind them, gesturing instructions no glass could contain.
"Do you ever wish the King had not stopped in Meryton?" Elizabeth asked.
Sir Thomas considered the life that might have continued: Longbourn unmanaged, five daughters raised in noise and neglect, a wife mocked for fears he refused to share, himself clever and asleep until the entail or death made regret useless.
"No," he said. "I wish he had chewed more carefully. But I do not wish away what followed."
At the terrace, Darcy waited with two cups of coffee. He handed one to Elizabeth and offered Sir Thomas the other.
"Lady Bennet says breakfast will be cold."
"Your mother has made the same prediction every morning for forty years," Sir Thomas said. "It has occasionally become true."
They entered through the open doors. Children crowded the table.
Jane poured tea. Mary discussed a new melody with Georgiana.
Kitty held an estate paper beside her plate.
Lydia insisted Captain Carter had stolen her toast. Lady Bennet directed every servant and ate nothing until Sir Thomas placed food before her.
No royal messenger came, and no sword left its scabbard. Breakfast grew cold in the usual way.
Sir Thomas took his place among them.
He looked once toward the library across the hall. The door stood ajar. Morning light reached the old desk, the framed royal message, Matthew's careful note, and the empty chair where a younger Thomas Bennet had once believed observation from a distance superior to participation.
Anne asked him to pass the marmalade. Eleanor wanted a story after breakfast. George had brought Socrates to the table despite the rule concerning toys. Lady Bennet objected, then gave the horse a folded napkin so it would not mark the cloth.
Sir Thomas passed the marmalade, promised the story, and moved the wooden horse beside his plate. He found himself hoping breakfast would last.
The birthday cake arrived listing slightly to one side.
Lydia blamed the journey from the kitchen; Hill's daughter, now Netherfield's housekeeper, blamed Lydia's attempt to add another candle.
Seventy-five flames would have endangered the icing and possibly the curtains, so five candles stood instead.
Jane lit the first. Elizabeth lit the second, Mary the third, Kitty the fourth, and Lydia the fifth. Their faces shone above the small flames.
"Make a wish," Emma called.
Sir Thomas looked at Lady Bennet. She still wore the faded peacock ribbon pinned inside her cap where only the family knew to find it.
He looked at Darcy and Bingley, Mr Avery, Mr Alden, and Captain Carter; at grandchildren squeezing between chairs; at Georgiana and Colonel Fitzwilliam, Charlotte and Mr Collins, the Gardiners, and friends gathered through the years.
"I have no unused wishes," he said.
"That is impossible," Lydia objected. "Everyone wants something."
"Then I wish the cake survives your cutting."
She protested. Lady Bennet gave the knife to Jane. Laughter travelled around the table.
When Sir Thomas extinguished the candles, five thin threads of smoke rose and disappeared into the warmth of the room. Servants relit the lamps, plates were passed, children demanded the largest roses of icing, and conversations resumed where they had stopped.
Sir Thomas accepted a slice he did not want because Anne placed it before him. Across the table, Darcy split a glazed sugar plum carefully, removed its stone, and caught his father-in-law watching.
"A prudent habit," Darcy said.
"History recommends it."
Elizabeth heard and smiled. She reached beneath the table for her husband's hand, the private gesture as familiar now as breathing.
Sir Thomas looked away and accepted another bite of cake from Anne.
Outside, the oak moved against the evening sky, rooted in Crown soil and marked by the feet of generations who had played beneath it.
Inside, his daughters spoke in their own voices. None needed him as she once had. All still made room for him. Sir Thomas listened.