Mr. Bennet considered this intelligence in silence for a moment. “And so he eats when providence—or friendship—permits.”
“Yes, sir. After his brothers eat.”
The reply was given plainly, without self-justification or appeal to pity.
Mr. Bennet inclined his head once. “Your secret is safe with me, William.”
Young Collins’s relief was visible only in the slight relaxation of his shoulders as he moved away, leaving Mr. Bennet to his reflections.
The gentleman concluded his meal with rather less attention to the plate than usual, his mind occupied not merely with the trust he had undertaken, but with the quiet evidences of character he had witnessed. A boy who labored diligently, who accepted correction without resentment, who considered another’s need before his own ease—these were virtues not tobe disregarded lightly, nor yet trusted without further proof; but they were sufficient to warrant serious consideration.
As he rose from the table, Mr. Bennet resolved that he would speak with his cousin Richard on the morrow, when the man might be in a clearer state of mind. There were questions to be put, possibilities to be explored, and arrangements that might—if entered into with prudence—materially alter the course of more than one young life.
For the present, it was enough that he had observed, and that observation had deepened his sense of obligation. Those weightier matters could wait until morning, when both light and his cousin’s sobriety might favor plain speaking.
***
The household at the Fountain Inn had stirred long before the first pale light of dawn crept over the rooftops of Portsmouth, and Mr. Bennet, lying awake in his narrow chamber, had marked every evidence of it with the quiet attention of one accustomed to observing disorder from a safe distance.
There came the creak of old boards beneath hurried feet; the sharp clatter of a pail set down with more force than finesse; the low murmur of voices striving for industry yet betraying only the usual rush. He heard Richard barking a short order, William answering quietly, the maid muttering something in reply as pots were shifted on the hearth. There was the scrape of a broom on the flags below, the faint crackle as fresh wood was laid on last night’s embers, and, from outside, the distant rattle of a cart on the cobbles and the cry of gulls over the harbor. Nothing remarkable in any of it—only the ordinary noises of asmall inn rousing itself to meet another day, though here they carried the slight edge of haste and makeshift arrangement that comes when regular hands are missing and everyone left must do a little more than usual.
When at length he descended to the public room, he found the morning’s exigencies already met in makeshift fashion. The ostler, his face drawn with the strain of unaccustomed responsibility, had assumed command of the stables with a diligence sharpened by fear; young William and the solitary remaining maid moved silently between kitchen and stair, bearing basins of warm water to those travelers who had bespoken it the night before; and in the kitchen itself, Richard Collins stood over the hearth, his sleeves rolled high upon his thick arms, his movements clumsy yet resolute as he labored to produce a breakfast that owed whatever merit it possessed more to stubborn determination than to any native skill.
Mr. Bennet sat at the long kitchen table, folded his hands upon the worn cloth, and regarded his cousin with that steady, unhurried gaze which had so often discomfited his own family at Longbourn. He found Richard Collins in a condition neither better nor worse than before.
“Good morning, Richard.”
“Morning, Bennet!—Why, are you awake at last? Come, will you not take a dram of brandy?”
“Before we speak of any other matter,” Mr. Bennet began, his voice low and even, neither severe nor conciliating, “I must require one condition of you. You will abstain entirely this morning. Not a single drop shall pass your lips until we have spoken with perfect plainness.”
Richard Collins stiffened as though struck. His eyes, red-rimmed and restless, darted almost against his will toward the sideboard where the bottles stood in their accustomed ranks.
“I have not touched a glass,” he muttered defensively. “Not yet.”
“That is no answer,” Mr. Bennet returned with quiet implacability. “It is merely a postponement. I require your word.”
A heavy silence settled between them, thick with discomfort and the faint scent of wood-smoke from the hearth. Richard’s broad hands clenched upon the edge of the table; his jaw worked soundlessly, as though wrestling with some inward adversary. At last, with a gesture that seemed to cost him dearly, he inclined his head.
“You have it,” he said hoarsely. “For this morning, at most.”
Mr. Bennet accepted the pledge without visible triumph, allowing his gaze to travel slowly about the room: the shelves half bare of their former plenty, the settle patched and sagging, the conspicuous absence of that quiet, managing presence which had once held chaos at bay by the sheer force of unremitting vigilance.
“You have lost more than a wife,” he observed at length, his tone softened by something perilously close to compassion. “You have lost the order she imposed upon this place—almost in spite of you, Richard.”
His cousin’s mouth twisted bitterly.
“Martha was… tiresome, but kind, God knows,” he said, his voice rough with unshed grief. “Always counting, always contriving. But she kept the house upright—the accountsbalanced, the servants in their places, the guests contented. Without her—”
He broke off, swallowing hard, and gestured helplessly at the desolate kitchen.
“You see what remains.”
“I see it plainly,” Mr. Bennet replied. “Yet seeing does not mend what neglect has undone.”
Richard Collins exhaled sharply, a sound midway between a sigh and a groan. “I owe money everywhere—to the excise man, to the butcher and the baker, to the brewer and the wine-merchant. No banker in Portsmouth would advance me a shilling on such security as this.” His voice dropped to a whisper of despair. “I am at the end of my rope, cousin.”
“And William?” Mr. Bennet asked softly, directing the question like a well-aimed arrow.
