“You will regret far more,” Father Monro replied coolly, his tone admitting no levity, his expression grave as he watched the young man’s defiance with quiet disdain, “if you mistake indulgence for approval, or presume that the consequences of this afternoon will pass unnoticed—particularly upon a young lady whose character you have so carelessly endangered. I shall speak with your father upon the matter.”
Laurence turned away at last and strode down the path toward the road, his bearing unrepentant, his pride intact—if anything, inflated by the drama he had provoked, offering no sign of comprehension or remorse for the compromise he had inflicted upon Miss Monro.
Father Monro watched him go, his expression grave, then addressed the remaining witnesses with restrained gravity, his voice courteous yet firm. “I thank you for your discretion, ladies and gentleman. This matter will be handled within the family, I assure you, and I trust no further notice need be taken.”
Mrs. Hargreaves inclined her head with solemn agreement, though her eyes betrayed the satisfaction of one who had witnessed something worthy of relation. “Of course, Mr. Monro. We wish only the best for Miss Monro, whose innocence is well known to us all.”
As the churchyard slowly emptied, the truth remained undeniable: Alice Monro, the rector’s daughter of eighteen, had been seen alone with a gentleman, behind the church stable, without protection or excuse—a situation so compromising that no denial could fully erase its shadow. And by evening, Longbourn would hear of it, carried upon the swift wings of neighbourhood conjecture, with consequences that might yet alter the course of more than one young life.
***
The late afternoon light had begun to soften when the sound of carriage wheels upon the gravel announced an unexpected visitor at Longbourn. Mrs. Hill, with the quiet efficiency that had long served the household, admitted Father Monro without delay, her manner carrying a restrained solemnity that spoke of the gravity she sensed in his errand. She led him into the privacy of Mr. Benne’s study, a choice that conveyed more clearly than words the seriousness with which the visit was received.
The visits of Father Monro at Longbourn were rare, so Mr. Bennet was surprised to hear the housekeeper announcing theclergyman was paying them a visit as though instinct itself had recognised that this visit was not one of courtesy, but of consequence.
Mr. Bennet rose from his chair behind the desk with visible effort, the habitual irony that so often coloured his address absent now, replaced by a measured civility grave and attentive. He inclined his head, one hand resting lightly upon the back of his chair as though to steady himself against the anticipation of unwelcome tidings.
“Mr. Monro,” he said quietly, his voice steady yet betraying a faint strain, “you are welcome, though I collect your visit is not one of mere courtesy. Pray be seated, and tell me what brings you here at this hour.”
Father Monro returned the bow with equal restraint, his expression composed yet troubled, the lines at his brow deepened by a concern he made no attempt to disguise as he accepted the offered chair opposite the desk. “I thank you for receiving me without ceremony, Mr. Bennet,” he replied, his tone low and deliberate, meeting his host’s gaze with the quiet resolve of one who bore heavy news. “The matter is indeed urgent—one that admits of no postponement, and one that concerns us both as fathers.”
Mr. Bennet’s posture remained unchanged, though a subtle tension settled upon his features as he resumed his seat, his hands folding together upon the desk with deliberate calm. “Then I am at your service, sir,” he said, his voice firm yet inviting confidence. “Speak freely, for I perceive this is no trifling errand.”
Father Monro drew a measured breath, his hands clasping together upon his knee as though to order his thoughts with care, his eyes never leaving Mr. Bennet’s. “It is with the greatestreluctance that I come to you thus,” he began, his words chosen with precision, “but the welfare of my daughter compels me. This afternoon, my Alice was observed in circumstances that place her reputation in the gravest jeopardy—a situation brought about by the thoughtlessness of your youngest son, Mr. Laurence Bennet.”
Mr. Bennet’s expression altered only slightly—a pallor touching his countenance, his fingers tightening briefly upon the desk—but he did not interrupt, his silence inviting the rector to continue, his gaze steady though the weight of the revelation pressed upon him.
Father Monro inclined his head in acknowledgment of that silence, his voice remaining calm yet carrying the quiet pain of paternal duty. “She was seen alone with him behind the church stable—without chaperone or excuse. It was also my fault, of course. Unfortunately, there were witnesses whose word cannot be dismissed and that will spread the word, like all gossip go and run. Though I believe my daughter’s assurance that nothing beyond conversation occurred, the appearance alone is sufficient to endanger her good name irreparably. I do not accuse lightly. Nor do I come demanding retribution.”
Mr. Bennet closed his eyes for a brief moment, drawing a slow breath as though to steady himself against the blow, before opening them again with grave resolve. “I feared some such consequence from Laurence’s restlessness,” he said at last, his voice low and measured, “though I had hoped his faults would not extend to harming an innocent young woman. You have my profound regret, Mr. Monro, and my assurance that this shall not be treated lightly.”
Father Monro regarded him closely, a flicker of relief softening his troubled expression at the sincerity he perceived. “That is more than I had dared hope, sir. I do not come in anger,but in concern for Alice’s future. She is but eighteen; she cannot defend herself against conjecture. I would know what course you intend, that I may assure her some measure of protection.”
Mr. Bennet leaned forward slightly, his hands folding together with deliberation, his reply firm though the strain of the moment lingered in his tone. “Her interest must come before all else—not appearances merely, but true welfare. I am not well enough this evening to summon Laurence for reckoning, nor would I risk acting in haste. I think he is not home for the moment. But tomorrow at noon I shall call upon you, and we shall determine, quietly and with care, what steps best serve your daughter. Until then, I ask only that she be shielded from further speculation as far as your influence allows.”
Father Monro inclined his head deeply, his voice warmed by quiet gratitude. “Your understanding eases my mind more than I can express, Mr. Bennet. It gives me hope that decency may yet prevail.”
Mr. Bennet rose once more, bowing with a gravity that conveyed both apology and resolve. “You may tell your daughter that no harm shall come to her character through any failure on my part. On my honour, I shall see to it.”
They inclined their heads to one another—no flourish, no excess—only the measured courtesy of men bound by a shared duty. Father Monro took his leave, his step lighter than when he had arrived, though the weight of the day remained.
When the door closed behind the clergyman, Mr. Bennet remained a moment longer in the oppressive study, his hand returning to the desk for support, the late light casting long shadows across the room as he contemplated the reckoning that tomorrow would bring—and the care with which a father’sfolly must now be mended, the weight of paternal responsibility pressing upon him more heavily than any physical strain.
He stepped out into the hall and saw Mrs. Hill waiting at the foot of the stairs, her posture attentive yet conveying the restrained concern of one who had long served the household and sensed its disturbances.
“Mrs. Hill,” he said, his voice preoccupied yet steady, “be so good as to ask Mrs. Bennet and my sons to join me in the parlour. I have an important matter to discuss with them all.”
The housekeeper inclined her head at once, her expression reflecting quiet understanding of the gravity in his tone. “At once, sir,” she replied softly, before turning to carry out the request with her customary efficiency.
Mr. Bennet stepped from the hall into the parlour, leaving the door open behind him with deliberate care. The familiar room—so often the scene of domestic comfort and mild raillery—felt altered now, its quiet charged with purpose. He paused only long enough to collect himself before turning toward the hall.
When they were assembled, Mr. Bennet signalled them to sit down, though he remained standing by the mantel, one hand resting lightly upon it, as though anchoring himself against the tidings he must impart.
Mrs. Bennet took her seat at once, her expression already sharpened by apprehension as she searched her husband’s face for reassurance.
Miles followed quietly, grave and composed, his posture reflecting the instinctive vigilance of the eldest son present at home, while Kit lingered near the door for a moment before coming forward, his alert gaze betraying the unease that had settled upon him.
“You wished to see us, Mr. Bennet?” Mrs. Bennet asked, her voice brisk though laced with concern, her hands folding tightly in her lap as she leaned forward slightly.
