“I did,” Mr. Bennet replied from his chair by the hearth, his voice calm yet weighted with quiet authority as he regarded his youngest son without rising. “And you know why.”
A flicker crossed Laurence’s face—quick calculation, quickly masked behind a practiced nonchalance. “If this concerns the churchyard, sir, I assure you—”
“Do not,” Mr. Bennet interrupted quietly—not sharply, but with a steadiness that admitted no evasion, his gaze holding his son’s with unflinching resolve. “Do not begin by assuring me of anything. Sit.”
Laurence hesitated a moment, a subtle tightening about his mouth betraying his reluctance, then took the chair opposite his father, stretching his long legs before him with deliberate nonchalance that drew a faint tightening of Mr. Bennet’s lips.
The father regarded his youngest son in silence for a moment, the firelight casting shadows across his features as he weighed the words he must speak. When he spoke again, his voice was even, but the effort of restraint lay plain beneath it.
“You were seen this afternoon behind the church stable with Miss Alice Monro. Alone,” Mr. Bennet said, his tone measured yet unyielding. “Explain that, if you please.”
Laurence shrugged, a faint, ironic curve touching his lips as he met his father’s gaze with studied indifference. “We were speaking. That is hardly a crime, Father.”
“You were seen, Laurence,” Mr. Bennet repeated, his gaze unwavering as he leaned forward slightly, the quiet intensity in his eyes compelling attention. “By several persons. Enoughwitnesses to ensure that the matter will not be forgotten—nor softened.”
Laurence’s expression hardened slightly, though he maintained his careless air, a flash of irritation crossing his features before he masked it once more. “Then they chose to look where they had no business,” he replied, his voice edged with defiance. “That is all.”
Mr. Bennet’s hand tightened on the chair-back, his voice remaining low yet edged with quiet severity. “You placed the rector’s daughter in a position where explanation was required. You placed her reputation in peril for the sake of your amusement.”
The rebuke reached him—if only partially; enough to unsettle, not enough to humble.
“I did nothing improper,” Laurence insisted, sitting forward now, colour rising in his cheeks as indignation overtook his nonchalance. “I did not touch her. I did not persuade her. She stayed because she wished to. Is that now a fault?”
“It is,” Mr. Bennet answered, his tone admitting no levity, his eyes holding his son’s with unrelenting steadiness, “when a young woman’s wishes are outweighed by the consequences she must bear alone.”
Laurence laughed shortly, the sound forced and defiant. “Consequences imposed by small minds and smaller conventions.”
Mr. Bennet’s breath caught—but he mastered it, his voice emerging with weary resolve. “You mistake recklessness for courage, and insolence for independence. Miss Monro will pay for this afternoon whether you do or not. That is the truth you refuse to face. I expected more from you, young man.”
Laurence looked away then, his jaw set, his silence stubborn rather than reflective, though a flicker of unease betrayed that the words had found their mark.
“Father Monro has been here,” Mr. Bennet continued, his tone calm yet unyielding. “He expects my decision by tomorrow at noon. He spoke to me—not in anger, but in duty. And I will decide what must be done after this conversation.”
Laurence’s head snapped up, a flash of alarm crossing his features. “Decide what?”
Mr. Bennet met his gaze steadily. “That depends upon whether you choose honesty now—or force it later.”
For the first time, uncertainty flickered across Laurence’s features, his posture shifting as the weight of the moment pressed upon him. “You would not—surely you would not propose—”
“I propose nothing,” Mr. Bennet said. “Not yet. I will hear you, then talk to Father Monro. I will consider the young lady’s interest above your pride. And I will not be hurried into injustice—by you or by the neighbourhood.”
He paused, then added, more quietly, his voice touched with the sorrow of a father who sees his son’s faults too clearly. “But understand this: if I find that your conduct has endangered her future, I will act. Not as your indulgent parent, but as a gentleman responsible for repairing harm.”
Laurence rose abruptly, his voice lower now, stripped of its earlier bravado though defiance lingered. “You would sacrifice me for appearances.”
“No,” Mr. Bennet replied, his tone weary yet resolute. “I would sacrifice your illusions—for her sake, and for the honourof this family. Your mother does not deserve this, nor your brothers.”
There was a long silence between them, heavy with unspoken regret.
At last, Laurence spoke again, his voice subdued though not fully repentant. “She laughed. She was not frightened. She stayed because she found me… diverting.”
Mr. Bennet closed his eyes for a brief moment, the words striking deeper than any protest. “That,” he said, “is precisely why this is serious.”
Laurence stood very still, the weight of that truth pressing in at last—not fully understood, but no longer dismissed.
“You will remain at Longbourn tonight,” Mr. Bennet concluded, his voice firm. “You will not leave the house. And tomorrow, you will abide by the course I judge necessary. Until then, you will hold your tongue.”
Laurence inclined his head stiffly, his reply quiet. “As you wish, sir.”
