“Or sermons,” Laurence murmured toward Miles.
“I do notice the world,” Miles replied. “I just do not always like it.”
James cleared his throat. “Silence, please. I believe Mama means well.”
“I always mean well,” Mrs. Bennet said, unoffended. “And I know that the world does not arrange itself according to my hopes—but it cannot be wrong to voice them. For instance—Maria Lucas has grown into a lovely young woman, has she not?”
Laurence choked on his drink.
Kit grinned. “Maria Lucas? She blushed the last time Miles complimented her embroidery.”
“In fact, she dropped the embroidery,” Elias said dryly.
Miles coloured faintly. “She is a very pleasant young lady. And thoughtful. And—yes—decorous.”
“Which is precisely why she would suit,” Mrs. Bennet said, seizing her advantage. “And it would not be a difficultarrangement, I think. Lady Lucas and I understand one another.”
“She thinks she understands you, my dear,” Mr. Bennet muttered. “I trust you will not have James or Elias married off before breakfast, my dear. I should like at least one more morning with all my sons unclaimed.”
Mrs. Bennet ignored him. “In fact, Lady Lucas mentioned that Sir William might be inclined to speak again to Lord Salisbury about a certain living at Barton-le-Willows—if Miles were… suitably settled.”
James gave his brother a sidelong glance. “Well. That is a tempting inducement, isn’t it, brother?”
“Wait. I am not averse to Miss Lucas,” Miles said carefully, “but I do not wish to be married solely for the sake of a parsonage.”
“No,” Mr. Bennetsaid. “But you may one day wish to be married to avoid worse things—such as being forced to live at Longbourn indefinitely.”
“Or listening to Kit’s anatomical lectures over every meal,” Laurence added, his tone light with brotherly teasing as he glanced at Kit with a mischievous arch of his brow, drawing a ripple of amusement from the table that softened the lingering tension.
“They are not lectures,” Kit protested at once, his cheeks colouring slightly though his eyes sparkled with good humour as he leaned forward in mock indignation, his voice carrying a note of earnest defence that only heightened the family's fond smiles. “They are mere observations—quite scientific, I assure you.”
“They are repulsive,” Miles interjected calmly, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he regarded hisbrother with affectionate exasperation, his words eliciting a soft chuckle from James and a knowing nod from Elias. “Especially when applied to sheep at the dinner table.”
“But nevertheless, highly educational,” Elias observed quietly, his voice carrying that gentle, measured warmth that so often steadied the family’s banter, his eyes meeting Kit’s with a subtle twinkle that spoke of fond tolerance, prompting Kit to relax with a sheepish grin.
The table broke into shared laughter, the sound light and genuine, warming the room like sunlight after rain as glances passed among them with easy affection. Even Mr. Bennet, seated at the head with his customary air of detached amusement, allowed himself a soft chuckle, his gaze moving fondly over his sons as the easy harmony among them eased the lingering shadows of recent trials, a quiet reminder of the bonds that held Longbourn together through folly and fortune alike.
“Seven at table,” Mr. Bennet said, casting a glance down the length of it. “I used to imagine such a scene when they were all small—my sons grown, seated together in harmony, their plates full and their tempers mild. Though, in those dreams, I confess I imagined rather more silence. It seems I was naïve enough to believe that maturity would come with quiet. Instead, it has only sharpened their tongues and multiplied their opinions. Still… I find I would not trade it for peace.”
Mrs. Bennet looked pleased, though her eyes returned once again to James, as if to say:You see? This is how it begins. One match will encourage another.
But James only sipped his wine and said nothing.
***
The library at Longbourn was neither large nor grand, but it had the dignity of long and habitual use. Its shelves bore the wear of generations—some sagging under the weight of parliamentary records, others unevenly stacked with novels that had once sparked curiosity and now only gathered dust. A globe stood in the corner with outdated borders; though it rarely smoked in summer, the fireplace held the scent of old ash, and the room retained that familiar mixture of leather, paper, and ink.
Elias stood by the window, the morning light just strong enough to cast his shadow across the worn carpet. He had come here early, before breakfast, before the others stirred. But his father had already been there, seated behind the wide desk in his usual chair, a cup of tea cooling at his elbow and a two-day-old newspaper folded with studied disinterest.
“Still keep the habit of rising early, Elias?” Mr. Bennet asked without looking up from his newspaper, his tone carrying that familiar blend of mild curiosity and gentle irony that so often masked his deeper affection for his sons, though a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his pleasure in the quiet morning companionship they shared.
“Only when I wish to think without interruption, sir,” he replied softly, his voice low and steady, the words evoking a pleasant memory of many such mornings when the house was still asleep and the world felt ordered and serene, a habit that had always drawn a subtle nod of approval from Mr. Bennet in years past.
“I recommend it,” his father replied. “Nothing sharpens a man’s thoughts like the absence of younger brothers. Or a wife, in my case.” He took a book, opened it, and turned a page, eyes scanning lines he did not seem to read.
Elias remained at the window a moment longer, then turned and crossed to the hearth. “May I ask you something, sir?”
Mr. Bennet gestured vaguely. “If it is not about sheep, sermons, or settlements, you are welcome.”
