Mrs. Bennet considered this with no evident alarm. “Then we shall receive him kindly, and with fewer nerves than formerly. He is quite tiresome, I must say, when he takes up the subject of his benefactress.”
Lady Lucas smiled faintly. “And he may renew his sermons of gratitude to you.”
“He is welcome to them,” said Mrs. Bennet. “So long as he does not read them aloud.”
Then a breeze stirred the edge of the curtain as if drawn in by the shift in conversation. The afternoon had cooled slightly, and the scent of lavender from the garden made its way into the room. It should have been refreshing, but the air still carried something of a memory in it.
Lady Lucas rose, brushing invisible crumbs from her gown. “You were wise to have thought ahead. Our financial prospects were not as brilliant as we once expected—or as they deserved. But I confess—had I no children beyond her, I do not know that I could have borne a future for her lived so far off in Kent.”
“I dared not to intervene until it was required.” Mrs. Bennet stood as well, more slowly. “I loved Charlotte as dearly as any of my own—perhaps more than was prudent. But I could not let her become my son’s consolation when he had no future to offer her in return.”
They turned toward the window together, the scent of lavender drifting in, now that the day had cooled. For a moment, both women stood quiet.
Then Lady Lucas added, more lightly, “Maria grows steadier by the month. I believe her gentleness will serve her well—provided someone of similar disposition and age were to match it.”
Mrs. Bennet’s expression turned thoughtful. “Our Miles is gentle. And dutiful. A touch too serious, perhaps—but then again, she might make him smile. And Sir William did mention once that he had spoken on Miles’s behalf to Lord Salisbury, regarding the vacant living at Barton-le-Willows. I daresay that, in the event of a connection, he might be inclined to speak again.”
“My husband is fond of Miles,” Lady Lucas admitted, “and even fonder of feeling useful in ecclesiastical matters. It would please him to believe he had secured something respectable for a promising young clergyman.”
“It would please me,” Mrs. Bennet said, “to know that one of my sons might find comfort without the burden of courtship among strangers.”
They shared a brief look of motherly understanding—part strategy, part affection.
A moment later, Lady Lucas sighed and glanced toward the orchard. “As for my youngest… Master Lucas is still determined to blow something up before his next birthday.”
Mrs. Bennet smiled. “He is how old now?”
“Seventeen, though you would think him twelve when he begins on the subject of field artillery. The maps, the diagrams—our parlour looks more like a campaign tent than a proper room.”
“And Sir William?”
“Despairs. He has spoken with Mr. Taylor about a clerkship in town. Something to keep him grounded. The war may be over, but that boy is still marching to his own imaginary drum.”
“Boys always do,” said Mrs. Bennet. “Until the world insists otherwise.”
They walked together to the doorway, their steps measured, their expressions composed.
As they paused before parting, Lady Lucas said quietly, “I wanted to reassure you. He may have no fortune, your Elias. But he has character.”
Mrs. Bennet’s gaze did not waver. “Character, I hope, is what will earn him everything else.”
And with that, they separated—each carrying with her the quiet burden of things once almost said, and things deliberately left undone.
One
Longbourn, Hertfordshire – July 1815
It was a rare pleasure to see all five Bennet sons seated at the same table, their places familiar, their voices overlapping in the easy rhythm of home.
With the war concluded, Oxford in recess, and no imminent marriages, enlistments, or commissions to scatter the brothers, they found themselves—by some quiet alignment of fate and family—once more sharing a meal beneath the same roof.
Dinner had progressed with its usual clatter and rhythm: the passing of platters, the soft tap of decanters against crystal, the muted clink of forks against china. The roast was good, the wine better, and the conversation—thanks largely to Kit—was lively enough to provoke occasional bursts of laughter even from Mr. Bennet, who generally preferred his humour well-aged and discreetly delivered.
James, seated at the foot of the table opposite their father, bore the ease of someone both accustomed to and slightly wearied by domestic command. At five-and-twenty, he had learned to observe rather than dominate, and his influence was the kind that settled quietly rather than demanded attention. He served himself second helpings with mechanical care, pausing now and then to glance at the others as if confirming, silently, that all remained in good order.
“Kit,” he said mildly, “if you intend to describe the entire anatomy of a horse mid-meal, perhaps you might begin with something less… intestinal.”
“But that was precisely the point,” Kit replied, undeterred. “It’s the displacement of the gut that accounts for most of the colic we see in the stable—and if you ever watched a gelding in distress, you’d know it’s nothing to sniff at.”
