Richard looked up sharply, alarm flashing across his features. “You mean to take him from me?”
“Only for the day,” Mr. Bennet assured him. “I shall take William to Mr. Jennings’s office for an examination of his abilities, and thence to St. Thomas à Becket’s church. We shall return by noon. If matters proceed as I reasonably expect, he will be accepted as a copyist and placed under instruction to repair what his early schooling has left imperfect; and when the time comes, he will leave Portsmouth. In a year or so, should he persevere, he may be fit for college.”
A long silence followed, heavy with unspoken fears and half-formed hopes. Richard’s eyes glistened suspiciously in the morning light; he dashed a hand across them as though brushing away smoke.
“Why do you trouble yourself with us at all?” he asked at length, his voice rough with emotion he could not quite conceal.
Mr. Bennet met his gaze squarely, allowing a rare note of genuine feeling to enter his voice. “Because you are my nearest kinsman, Richard—the only relation I may claim beyond my own immediate circle. I cannot turn my back while you stand upon the brink, not when a steadying hand may yet avail. And because—” He paused, the words coming slowly, as though drawn from some private well of reflection. “—I should wish, if misfortune ever overtook me, however improbable, to believe that my wife and daughters would not be wholly abandoned, but might receive such aid as you could offer until they are safely settled.”
Richard Collins frowned in sudden concern. “Are you unwell, cousin?”
“No,” Mr. Bennet answered, with the ghost of his customary lightness. “God be thanked, I am in tolerable health. But you asked for honesty, and I have given it.”
His cousin nodded in understanding.
“Also, I have promised—”Mr. Bennet said while he drew from his pocket a small leather purse, weighed it once in his hand, and set it down upon the table between them.“There are five-and-thirty pounds,” he said quietly. “No account, no reckoning. Spend it as you must—only keep your word, Cousin.”
Richard nodded slowly, the unaccustomed tears standing openly in his eyes now. He made no effort to conceal them.
“You will speak to William, then,” Mr. Bennet concluded gently. “It is essential for him to know you stand behind him—whatever it may take.”
Richard drew a deep, shuddering breath, steadying himself as best he might. “Yes,” he said, the single word carrying more weight than any oath. “I will speak to him.”
Only now, after all he had seen and done in Portsmouth, did Mr. Bennet permit himself to believe that Richard’s word might hold—that his own determined generosity could still redeem both father and son from collapse, and that Providence, working in its silent way, might grant the boy a future brighter than the narrow, laborious one he had known.
***
The day proved very industrious indeed. Richard Collins sought his son in the quiet interval after breakfast, drawing him aside into the small parlor that had once served as Martha’s private domain, and there spoke with him privately, without witnesses and without ceremony. He explained Cousin Bennet’s intentions as he himself understood them—plainly, withoutembellishment, and without offering assurances he was not yet certain he could sustain. The father did not feign enthusiasm, nor did he disguise his own unease at the prospect of losing the boy’s daily help; yet he made it clear, in his rough, unpolished way, that he would not stand in the way of what had been proposed.
William listened in silence, his posture respectful and his young countenance grave beyond his years. The effort of self-command was visible—not in any restless agitation, but in the careful stillness with which he held himself, as though the slightest motion might betray the tumult within. When his father had finished, the boy did not reply at once, allowing the weight of the words to settle fully upon him.
At length he spoke, quietly and with a seriousness that touched even Richard’s hardened heart, without any appeal to sentiment or undue dramatics: “I will do my utmost to deserve it, Father. Thank you.”
Richard Collins nodded once, the gesture heavy with unspoken feeling. He offered no further counsel, no exhortation, and no blessing expressed in flowing words—and that silence, from such a man, was more decisive than any eloquence.
“There is one thing more,” Richard added, after a pause in which he cleared his throat, not entirely at ease with the concession he was about to make. “Ask your friend James Cox to come to the inn today.” He shifted his weight, gazing briefly toward the window as though the words cost him something. “If he is willing to take your place here, I can offer him ten shillings a month, two square meals daily—for himself, and something besides to carry home to his brothers.”
William’s careful restraint gave way at last. His breath caught audibly; his composure faltered, and without reflection—almost without knowing that he did so—he stepped forward and embraced his father briefly but fiercely. Richard stood stiffly for a moment, wholly taken by surprise by this unaccustomed display, then laid one large, work-roughened hand—awkwardly, but not unwillingly—upon the boy’s narrow shoulder.
“I shall fetch him at once, Father,” William said, his voice unsteady with feeling he could no longer quite contain. “I do not know how to thank you.” And before his father could frame any reply, he was gone.
A short while later, William returned with James Cox in tow, the latter’s thin face betraying astonishment at his own sudden good fortune scarcely concealed beneath a wary gratitude. The matter was explained to him plainly; the terms were stated without flourish or false promise; and James, after one searching look at the sober faces before him, accepted them with a quiet gratitude rather than any triumphant air.
The business concluded, William gathered his coat and cap and stepped out into the street, where Mr. Bennet’s carriage waited. The gentleman was seated within with his customary composure. No explanation was required between them; the boy had already been told enough to comprehend the purpose of their errand through the town, and he mounted the step and took his place beside his benefactor without hesitation or backward glance. Mr. Bennet regarded him steadily for a moment—not measuring eagerness or trepidation, but simple readiness.
“You understand what lies before you, William?” he asked at last, his tone even and devoid of undue solemnity.
“Yes, sir.”
“It will require steady application,” Mr. Bennet continued, “patience with your own deficiencies, and a willingness to begin anew where your schooling has been imperfect or interrupted.”
“I am willing, sir,” William replied, without haste and without bravado, meeting his benefactor’s gaze with quiet resolution.
Mr. Bennet inclined his head in acknowledgement. “That,” he said simply, “is all I require.”
And thus, without further formality or display, the boy was committed to his new charge as a trust solemnly undertaken.
And thus, without further formality or display, the boy was committed to his new charge, not as a favor bestowed, but as a trust deliberately undertaken.
