Richard flinched as though the name itself were a blow. He turned his face away, staring at the cold hearth as though seeking counsel from the dead ashes.
“He is all I have left,” the innkeeper said at last, the words dragged from him with pain. “My only son. Yet what can I give him? This crumbling inn, these debts, this—” He spread his hands in a gesture of utter defeat. “He might take it on one day, when I am gone. It is the only trade I know to teach him.”
Mr. Bennet regarded him steadily, a faint ache stirring in his own breast as he considered the parallel threads of their lives—two men bound by blood yet divided by fortune, each burdened with a future he could not fully secure.
“You still envy me my estate,” he said quietly. “It is true that Longbourn is landed property, and I am accounted a gentleman.Yet it is entailed, and I have five daughters to establish in the world with little enough to offer them. Do not imagine, cousin, that certainty has been more generously bestowed upon me than upon you.”
Richard shook his head stubbornly. “Land endures. An inn may vanish overnight.”
“And responsibility endures likewise,” Mr. Bennet returned, without mockery. “It may wear a different face, but the weight is much the same.”
Another silence fell, broken only by the distant clink of crockery as William passed through the passage with a tray. Richard’s gaze followed the boy unconsciously, lingering with a mixture of pride and anguish.
“If I had thirty pounds,” he said at last, his voice scarcely above a whisper, “I could settle the most pressing debts and keep the doors open quietly for half a year. If the cook could be persuaded to return—for I haven’t paid her over last month—and the maid induced to stay, I might yet contrive.”
Mr. Bennet inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I should tell you that a solicitor wrote me concerning Martha’s passing. So here I am. Your wife left provision. But—”
Richard’s head snapped up, hope and suspicion warring in his bloodshot eyes. “She did?”
“She did indeed,” Mr. Bennet confirmed. “But not for your relief. I am appointed trustee until William attains his majority, and those monies are reserved exclusively for his education and advancement. They may not—and shall not—be diverted to any other purpose. Do I make myself clear?”
The hope in Richard’s face died as swiftly as it had kindled. His jaw tightened until the muscles stood out like cords. “So you will not spare a penny of my own son’s inheritance to save us all.”
“Not from his portion,” Mr. Bennet answered, unflinching. “No.”
The words hung starkly between them, final and irrevocable.
Yet after a measured pause, during which Mr. Bennet studied the play of emotion across his cousin’s countenance, he continued in the same calm tone: “Nevertheless, I will place thirty-five pounds in your hands. Not as a loan to be repaid, but as assistance freely given.”
Richard stared at him, incredulity slowly overtaking despair. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“Upon one condition,” Mr. Bennet replied evenly. “That you renounce strong drink henceforth—entirely.”
A bitter, incredulous laugh escaped Richard. “And what do you demand in exchange for this generosity?”
“Nothing,” Mr. Bennet said simply. “Save that you permit William to pursue the path now open to him. I have already set certain arrangements in train. Let the boy follow where his abilities and his mother’s hopes may lead him.”
Richard’s hands clenched upon the table. “I need him here. Without William—”
“You will find another pair of hands,” Mr. Bennet interrupted, though not unkindly. “They will come if the house is soberly kept. Do you know a lad named James?”
“La! The dock-worker’s thin boy whom William has befriended?” Richard frowned in recollection. “The pale one who lingers about the back street?”
“The same. Would he not serve for modest wages and two square meals a day?”
Richard hesitated, turning the notion over with reluctant hope. “He might. I cannot say for certain.”
“Consider it carefully,” Mr. Bennet advised. “We shall speak again this evening. Until then—remember your pledge.”
Richard’s broad shoulders sagged beneath an invisible weight. He understood, at least dimly, his cousin’s intention: to secure William’s future by removing him from the narrow confines of the inn and preparing him, should he prove equal to it, for the University. He stared, and finally consented—not from gratitude, but from that weary relief by which negligent men so often accept the removal of responsibility.
“If you think it worth your while,” he said, with a shrug, “I shall not stand in the way. William was always made for books, not business. Only do not expect me to turn scholar myself.”
“I expect nothing of the sort,” returned Mr. Bennet.
“Oh, it is hard already without Martha,” Richard Collins muttered, almost to himself. “The nights are long, and the days longer still. I cannot manage this inn alone any longer.”
“Then prepare,” Mr. Bennet replied with quiet gravity, “soon it will be hard without William also.”
