That earned him the briefest nod, a gesture so slight it might have been imagined, yet one that carried the weight of reluctant approval.
“You may go,” Lady Catherine said at last, her tone final. “I have said all that is necessary.”
The Bennet brothers bowed and withdrew, their steps measured upon the polished floor, the door closing softly behind them.
Only when the room was empty did Lady Catherine allow herself a slow breath, resuming her seat with the air of one who has navigated a storm and emerged, if not unscathed, at least in command.
“Returning to Derbyshire was a better choice,” she murmured to the silent walls, her voice low and thoughtful. “And I must consider very carefully what sort of man dares to be right—and whether such daring might yet prove useful, or merely inconvenient.There must be more lurking beneath the surface of this situation.”
Seven
The churchyard at Meryton lay quiet in the warm afternoon, the ancient stone walls holding the day’s heat while the air carried the faint, dry scent of dust mingled with hay from the stable behind. It was precisely the sort of languid hour in which nothing improper was expected to occur—and therefore the very sort in which any deviation from strict decorum could scarcely be excused or overlooked, for the seclusion of the spot, though partial, rendered the situation far more compromising than mere conversation might suggest.
Miss Alice Monro, the rector’s daughter, stood beside the open stable door, perilously close to it, her bonnet loosened and hanging by its ribbons, her hands clasped before her with a nervous energy that betrayed far more than casual discourse. Laurence Bennet faced her with careless ease, one shoulder propped against the timber post, his hat pushed back upon his head, his manner animated and unguarded, his posture leaning toward her in a way that spoke of familiarity far beyond the bounds of propriety. There was no chaperone in sight, no respectful distance maintained, no pretence of decorum observed—their proximity alone being sufficient to compromise her reputation irreparably should it be witnessed.
They did not notice at once that they were no longer alone.
Two elderly ladies—Mrs. Hargreaves and her sister Miss Bates—had paused upon their leisurely walk through the churchyard, their steps arrested by the unmistakable sight of a young unmarried woman and a young gentleman standing together in such seclusion, hidden from the high road yet plainlyvisible from the gravestones. Mr. Wilton, who accompanied them with courteous attention, followed their gaze and stopped short, his expression shifting from mild interest to grave disapproval.
For a moment, no one spoke, the silence heavy with the weight of discovery.
Then Mrs. Hargreaves drew a sharp breath, her fan fluttering in agitation. “Good heavens,” she murmured, though not softly enough to escape notice, her voice carrying the shock of one who had stumbled upon something decidedly irregular.
Miss Monro turned swiftly at the sound, colour draining from her face as her eyes widened in dismay. Her hands tightened convulsively upon one another, betraying the alarm that now coursed through her, her breath catching as the full implications of the moment settled upon her young shoulders.She was young, innocent, and wholly unprotected, never expecting to be seen in her conversation with the funny and charismatic Laurence Bennet.
The young man merely straightened, pushing away from the post with languid grace, his expression shifting not to alarm but to faint, arrogant amusement as he surveyed the unexpected audience, his lips curving in a smirk that conveyed no hint of remorse.
“Mr. Bennet?” Mr. Wilton said at last, his tone low yet unmistakably severe, his brows drawn together in stern reproach. “I believe this is scarcely a place for—private discourse, particularly with a young lady of Miss Monro’s tender years and situation.”
At that moment the sexton emerged from behind the church, a bundle of keys at his belt. He halted abruptly, took in the tableau with widening eyes, and visibly blanched, tuggingnervously at his cap. “Oh—ah—this is most unfortunate,” he stammered, his voice faltering as he glanced from the young pair to the disapproving witnesses, already attempting to soften what could not be softened. “Perhaps there is some mistake—”
Alice stepped forward at once, her voice trembling with urgency as she sought to reclaim the situation, her cheeks flushed with mortification, tears already gathering in her eyes. “I assure you, sir—there has been nothing improper. Nothing at all. Mr. Bennet was merely speaking to me upon a trifling matter. I was about to return home.”
Her words came too quickly, her distress too evident to convince, and Mrs. Hargreaves exchanged a significant glance with her sister, her fan now still on her shoulder as disapproval deepened upon her features.
Laurence gave a short, dismissive laugh, his tone light yet edged with arrogance as he met Mr. Wilton’s gaze without a trace of contrition, his posture remaining relaxed. “Indeed. We were just conversing. Am I to understand that conversation itself is now a transgression? Or must a young lady be rendered mute unless escorted by half the parish? I find the notion rather absurd.”
The ladies stiffened visibly, Mrs. Hargreaves’s lips pressing into a thin line of disapproval, while Mr. Wilton’s expression darkened further, his voice deepening with quiet authority. “Your levity is misplaced, Mr. Bennet, and your arrogance ill-becomes the gravity of the situation. The appearance of impropriety is, in such cases, as damaging as the reality—particularly when it concerns the daughter of our respected rector.”
Before the exchange could worsen, the door of the vestry opened.
Father Monro stepped into viewwith deliberate calm, his clerical coat immaculate, his countenance composed until he took in the scene: the witnesses gathered, his daughter’s flushed and stricken face, the Bennet boy’s unconcerned and defiant posture. Surprise crossed his features—then disbelief—then a controlled, unmistakable anger that settled like frost upon his brow.
“Alice, what are you doing here in the presence of this young man?” he asked quietly, his voice carrying the weight of paternal command that brooked no delay, his gaze fixed upon her with a mixture of sorrow and resolve.
She turned toward the clergyman, her eyes already bright with unshed tears, her hands trembling as she clasped them before her. “Father—” she began, her voice faltering under his steady gaze, but she stopped at the look he gave her, a look that conveyed both sorrow and resolve.
“Come inside at once,” he added quietly, his tone admitting no delay yet softened by the pain of necessity. Without further protest, his daughter obeyed at once, passing quickly into the vestry without lifting her eyes again, the silence she left behind far louder than any plea.
Keeping his manner cold yet impeccably civil, Father Monro turned then to Laurence Bennet, his voice low and unyielding. “Sir, you will leave at once and return to Longbourn.”
Laurence lifted his chin slightly, his tone carrying a note of careless arrogance that drew a sharper intake of breath from Mrs. Hargreaves, his smirk lingering as though the rebuke amused him. “With respect, sir, I see no cause for such alarm. I have done nothing that merits banishment from a public churchyard.”
“You have done wrong enough, young man,” Father Monro interrupted, his voice steady but edged with steel, his gaze unwavering as he held the young man’s eyes, refusing to yield to such insolence. “You placed my daughter—an innocent girl of eighteen—in a position where explanation is now required, and her reputation stands compromised by your thoughtlessness and presumption. That alone is offence sufficient, and your failure to acknowledge it only compounds the wrong.”
The sexton shifted uneasily from foot to foot, his voice tentative as he sought to ease the tension. “Perhaps it would be best if the young gentleman departed now,” he suggested, glancing nervously toward the ladies, who were already exchanging significant looks that promised the tale would travel swiftly.
Laurence gave a shallow bow, more insolent than apologetic, his lips curving in a faint, unrepentant smirk that betrayed no understanding of the harm he had wrought. “As you wish, sir. Though I regret that reason seems in such short supply today, and that a harmless conversation must be construed as something sinister.”
