Chapter 14
Bennet sat a little apart from the hearth, his leg stretched along a stool, the old wound a reminder that even blessings may limp. The scent of lilac crept in through the open sash; the garden beyond bloomed, and the orchard hummed faintly with bees.
Mrs Bennet was at her embroidery table, the sun playing upon her hair till it shone like pale copper.
She had refused any cap that morning, declaring herself too warm for lace and prudence.
Bennet thought she had never looked more beautiful.
The years had not dimmed her brightness; they had only made him more afraid of losing it.
Jane, eldest and fairest, bent over her sampler; her flaxen curls were tied back with a blue ribbon, and when she smiled at her work the whole room seemed to draw breath and smile with her.
Elizabeth—dark-haired, quick-eyed, her small fingers smudged with graphite—sketched the view beyond the window with one ear given to the garden and the other to every word in the room.
She had drawn the elm too sternly, Bennet thought, and the church tower too honestly; no child who loved flattery would have given a weathercock so sharp a beak.
Mary, poised between play and thought, had abandoned her hornbook in favour of a worn copy of Pilgrim’s Progress, which she was reading upside down with great seriousness.
Kitty and Lydia were upon the carpet, arranging dolls around a square in what Lydia called a princess tea.
“My dears,” Bennet said, “I believe an artist might bankrupt himself if he attempted to capture this scene.”
Elizabeth looked up and smiled. “Would it be a grand portrait, Papa?”
“Grand, indeed,” Bennet replied, folding his hands upon his cane. “He would begin with Jane and be ruined at once. No honest man should be asked to bottle the sky.”
Jane’s blush was immediate. “Papa, you are too kind.”
“Never, my dear,” he said. “It is my calling to speak plain truths. Your mother might tell you I am incapable of flattery, though I have occasionally practised the art upon her with limited success.”
Mrs Bennet looked up from her embroidery with that expression which was half reproach, half indulgence. “Limited success, indeed! You mistake obstinacy for virtue, Mr Bennet. But pray, proceed with your catalogue. You are not finished praising our children, I think.”
“An occupation, my love, which may outlast me,” he returned, smiling.
“Next, we have our philosopher Lizzie, who insists upon drawing the world before she understands it—an excellent preparation for womanhood. When she weds, she will correct her husband’s opinions with the same ease she now corrects the shape of a cloud. ”
Elizabeth twirled her pencil between her fingers. “Perhaps I shall not marry at all, Papa. I may take up painting for a living.”
“A shocking thought,” Bennet said. “The horror of commerce! But I suspect that some poor gentleman will be forced to purchase both your art and the artist.”
Mrs Hill turned from dusting the mantel. “A true likeness of her father, if I may be so bold.”
Bennet inclined his head to her. “Mrs Hill, I have long maintained that no housekeeper may speak freely save my own. You are therefore permitted to be right.”
Laughter followed—small, bright, and easily shared. Even Mary looked up from her book and allowed her mouth the ghost of a smile.
“And me, Papa?” asked Kitty, who worked to untangle her pink ribbon from Lydia’s blue one. “Me in the picture too?”
“You, my love,” Bennet said, “will be the very spirit of motion in it—the child who will not sit still. Painters love a challenge, though I should warn them to keep their brushes quick, lest you blur their work.”
Kitty clapped, pulling the ribbon free with a victory cry that made their governess, Mrs Ecclestone, sigh without raising her eyes.
“And Lydia?” Mrs Bennet asked, her needle resting upon the linen, her smile half maternal, half mischievous.
Bennet looked towards the youngest, who had placed a tiny teacup upon a small saucer.
“Lydia, my dear, would be the crowning glory—golden curls, blue eyes, and a disposition to topple every general within reach. The painter would call her an angel; I should call her a threat to the peace of Europe.”
Lydia squealed and ran to her father’s knee. He lifted her easily—though his hip protested—and she settled against him, clutching the end of his neckcloth in one small fist. “I’ll be good—then pony, Papa?”
“I shall consider your proposal once I have lived through the first week of it.”
Her eyes widened. “Is a week forever?”
“For you, my love, it very nearly is.”
Mrs Bennet laughed. “You are impossible, Mr Bennet.”
“Undoubtedly,” he said. “But it is only fair; one cannot live in paradise without the occasional serpent of humour to keep the fruit fresh.”
She shook her head. “And pray, sir, where would you place me in this grand portrait of yours?”
Bennet tapped his cane thoughtfully. “Ah, that is the question. I would have the artist paint you last, for once he saw you clearly, he would lose all sense of the rest. He would forget his trade, abandon his brushes, and follow you about the house declaring himself unfit for any other commission.”
Mrs Hill let out a gasp that might have been laughter disguised as duty. Mrs Bennet’s colour rose; she dropped her gaze to the embroidery frame. “You will make Mrs Ecclestone blush, sir,” she said.
“Indeed not,” the governess murmured, as she rose. She clapped her hands. “Ladies, follow me.”
Lydia went first, clutching one rescued ribbon; Kitty followed with the other. Mary came next with Pilgrim’s Progress still open in her hands, Elizabeth behind her with her pencil tucked into her sleeve, and Jane last, gathering the whole procession with a look before she closed the door.
When the door closed behind Jane, Bennet continued.
“I speak only what any honest man must think. Were an artist to capture your likeness, my dear, I should be forced to fight a duel before the paint was dry.”
Mrs Bennet raised an eyebrow. “And what would you do in such a duel, my invalid husband? Throw your cane?”
“I should rely upon Hill to prop me upright at the critical moment.”
At this, Hill—who had been standing at ease by the door—cleared his throat. “If I might, sir, I would be honoured to serve as your second.”
Bennet laughed. “You see, my dear? A man may limp and yet have honour enough to share!”
Mrs Hill curtseyed with mock solemnity. “You will have him killed, sir, with your nonsense.”
“Then bury me in the rose bed,” Bennet said. “I shall come up every spring to see if my daughters still bloom.”
Mrs Bennet’s eyes softened. “You speak too lightly of such things.”
“Because I have lived too closely with their shadow,” he answered quietly. “There is courage, my love, in laughter.”
She smiled at that.
“A husband who watches his wife too dearly, his children too fondly, and his butler too suspiciously—that is what I have become.”
“You are content, Mr Bennet, I daresay,” she said simply.
He nodded. “Aye. Though sometimes contentment feels like a fragile vase—beautiful, and always at risk of falling.”
Mrs Hill came with the tea tray then, Hill close behind. Bennet watched them—the unspoken choreography of long service, her solicitous care, his steady precision—and thought every household kept its peace by such small loyalties.
He poured tea for his wife himself, insisting upon it. She smiled at the attempt, though the tremor in his hand made her reach out to steady the cup before it could spill.
“See?” she said. “You require a second even at the tea table.”
“And what gallant companion I have,” he returned.
Outside, the bell from Meryton church drifted faintly through the open window. Bennet turned his head towards it. The sun had climbed, gilding the glass until it shone like coin. He thought of all he had lost—father, brother, house—and all he had somehow been given in return.
Mrs Bennet set her cup aside and reached across the arm of her chair to rest her hand upon his. “Thomas.”
He looked up.
“You have done all this,” she said softly. “Every bit of it. You brought life back to a house that had forgotten laughter.”
He shook his head. “No, my dear. I only opened the door. You walked in and turned it into home.”
She squeezed his hand. “Perhaps a short walk in the garden after?”
He looked at her, at the gentle play of light upon her face, at the quiet order of the room—the embroidery left half done, the scent of tea, the faint echo of childish laughter above—and felt no want.
“If the painter ever comes,” he said, “he must be quick. Beauty does not sit still for long.”
She smiled. “Then he will find us exactly as we are now.”
He took his wife’s hand again and held it.