He closed the book at last and laid it aside.
“You are not in any hurry to marry, Elias. I know that. And truth be told, I would rather see you well-matched five years from now than poorly settled next month. But I will tell you this—your brothers look up to you more than you know. You are the only one of them who listens before speaking.”
“That is not a quality often celebrated.”
“No,” said Mr. Bennet. “But it is the one that makes a man fit to lead a household, or advise a neighbour, or judge rightly between his duty and his inclination.”
Elias looked down, the compliment unexpected.
“I will continue with Uncle Phillips, then,” he said quietly. “For as long as he will have me.”
“You may continue as long as you like. But do not let duty blind you to opportunity, either. Should something more promising arise—whether through my brother Gardiner, our cousin Mr. Collins, or a patron in town—you must be prepared to say yes.”
“I understand.”
Mr. Bennet rose then, reaching for his cane—not out of necessity, but habit. “Then come to breakfast. The house will soon be loud again.
“I doubt it has ever been truly quiet,” Elias said.
His father smiled. “No. But this is one of the few times in years that all five of you are seated in one place. I do not intend to waste it.”
They left the library together, the scent of ink and leather still clinging to their coats as the sound of morning filtered in from the hall—footsteps overhead, a bark of laughter from Laurence, and the gentle chaos of a family not yet scattered by life.
***
Breakfast at Longbourn passed with all the outward marks of civility: platters were passed, tea poured, and conversation maintained at a level that suggested harmony. Yet beneath the surface, a cautious restraint lingered—each brother watchful of the others’ moods, as though a single misstep might unearth tensions only just subdued.
Still, it was the kind of quiet summer morning that demanded nothing in return but presence—no errands, no visitors, no unexpected letters. For once, peace held dominion at Longbourn.
Mrs. Bennet had taken her embroidery into the garden, as was her habit when the weather was fine and her nerves untroubled. She wore her morning cap at a slight tilt—an oversight she had not the heart to correct—and her shawl was folded twice across her lap, though the air no longer held the chill of dawn.
Miles found her there, seated beneath the shade of the linden tree, where the scent of lavender from the far bed mingled pleasantly with the fragrance of cut grass. He had come out intending to walk off a restless night, but at the sight of his mother—serene, or as near to it as she ever was—he slowed.
“Good to see you here, Mother.”
She looked up, smiling. “Miles, my dear. I was just thinking how long it has been since you wandered out here after breakfast. Come—sit with me. The sun is not too sharp.”
He took the chair beside hers without protest, brushing a bit of leaf-dust from the seat. “I could hardly sleep—too much talk last night.”
Mrs. Bennet gave a small huff of agreement, her needle pausing mid-stitch. “Your brothers are very good at talk. Rather less good at listening, I find.”
“I hope we did not upset you, Mother.”
“No more than usual,” she said dryly, then softened. “But I was grateful for your kindness. You spoke with sense. And with care. You are like your father in that—though I doubt he would thank me for the comparison.”
Miles gave a small, quiet chuckle, folding his hands. “He and I do understand each other well enough. Though I daresay I have not his wit.”
“No,” Mrs. Bennet agreed, “but you have his calm. And that counts for a good deal more than people admit. Especially in a house like ours.”
There was a pause between them. A breeze stirred the hem of her gown, and a pair of finches quarrelled briefly in the branches overhead. Then Mrs. Bennet said, without quite looking at him: “I spoke of you to Lady Lucas yesterday.”
Miles turned slightly. “Did you?”
“She mentioned Maria, as you might imagine after our dinner discussions. You remember how she used to trail after you and Kit like a shadow when she was small. Now she is quite grown, and rather sweet in manner—modest, well-tempered, pleasant. I told her you thought as much.”
“I said she was decorous,” Miles replied, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “It was a compliment, I promise.”
“That is high praise from you,” said Mrs. Bennet, amused. “And I was not wrong to guess that you had noticed. It is no bad thing for a young man to be discerning—but neither should he be blind.”
