Miles glanced toward the hedge, where a bee lingered over a rose, then back at her. “You mean to match-make.”
“I mean to suggest that your future might benefit from a little guidance. Not pressure,” she added quickly, seeing his expression, “just… gentle persuasion.”
“You know I am not averse to the idea of marrying someday, Mother.”
“I should hope not. And Maria is not a poor prospect. Nor would you be required to fall into poetry about her. I believe she would be content with kindness and good sense.”
Miles nodded slowly, his tone measured. “That may be. But I would not wish to marry merely because something is convenient.”
Mrs. Bennet arched a brow. “Then marry because something is possible. Miles, my dear, you have chosen a path that does not reward ambition quickly. The church offers no glittering prizes for those who wait too long or dream too hard.”
“So, there is a parish living near Barton-le-Willows,” he said, half to himself. “You mentioned it last night.”
She allowed herself a satisfied look. “Indeed. Lady Lucas said Sir William had spoken to Lord Salisbury about the vacancy. He believes your name might be favourably received—if the connection is formalised.”
“That is a rather strong inducement,” Miles admitted. “But it does feel rather like… negotiation. And I have one year left to finish my studies.”
“All marriages are negotiations, in the end,” said Mrs. Bennet, not unkindly. “Even the romantic ones, once reality has had its way. What matters is that you are respected, that you find contentment in your duties—and, I hope, affection along the way.”
There was silence for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “Do you regret yours, Mother?”
She blinked, looking toward the rosebushes. “I regret very little that has to do with your father. I knew what I chose, and I have been content. More content, perhaps, than some women who married for greater fortune. I do not ask you to marry for advantage—but neither should you ignore advantage when it aligns with inclination.”
Miles smiled faintly. “That sounds like Father.”
“He would call it practicality,” she said. “And he would be right.”
They sat in companionable quiet for a time, the morning warming around them. Somewhere in the house, Mrs. Hill called out for her mistress.
Mrs. Bennet rose slowly, brushing the edge of her gown. “We shall speak no more of it now. But consider Maria kindly. And if you find yourself disposed to visit Lucas Lodge sometime this week, I daresay you will find the parlour not unpleasant—and the company agreeable.”
He stood as well, offering her his arm. “I shall consider it, Mother.”
“Good,” she said, patting his hand. “Whenever I take my embroidery into the garden, Hill has something to request fromme, so I need to go. Think upon what we have discussed, Miles, my boy.”
They walked back toward the house, the gravel path crunching beneath their steps—mother and son, their minds occupied with futures neither could yet name, but both quietly hoped to shape.
***
The stable yard already hummed with quiet activity, the kind that came with well-worn routine and the rising warmth of a summer morning. A groom moved in and out of the open doors, pitchfork in hand, while a younger lad struggled with a stubborn bucket near the yard pump. The scent of damp straw mingled with saddle oil and old oats, and the stones beneath Kit’s boots were still cool in the shadows though warming quickly under the sun.
It was not yet hot, but the day would be—there was a heaviness already in the stillness of the air, the kind that settled before noon with the promise of flies and sweat and shirts stuck to one’s back. Somewhere in the paddock, a horse snorted and stamped, impatient for its turn. A breeze stirred dust more than it cooled it.
Kit stood at the open gate, his sleeves pushed back, hands and forearms dusted faintly with earth. He had spent the last half-hour with Miss Tansy, their father’s favoured mare, inspecting the slight stiffness in her gait—nothing alarming, not yet, but he knew better than to wait for a limp. His shirt clung damply to his back, and a faint smear of dirt crossed his brow where he had pushed back his hair without thinking.
Behind him, the crunch of polished boots on gravel betrayed a tread too careful for any stable lad.
“You are late, Brother,” Kit said without turning.
“I was held hostage by Mother’s affections,” Laurence replied, his tone dry. “She fussed over Miles like a widow over her only son bound for the colonies. I half expected her to give him a keepsake lock of hair and a locket.”
Kit gave the mare a final pat and turned, brushing his palms on a cloth tucked into his belt. “He will make a decent parson, and you know it. He is halfway to sainted already, whether you like it or not.”
Laurence scoffed. “If sermons on sin count as sainthood, he will have no shortage of material, I daresay.”
The remark drew a look—measured, disapproving—from Kit. “I would tread carefully on that matter, if I were you. After last night, it’s a wonder James didn’t send you packing.”
Laurence leaned against the fencepost, arms crossed, face tilted toward the morning sun. “I didn’t start it.”
