“Father told me to inform you, sir, that supper will be served in half an hour, and I was to ask whether you prefer to dine in the public room or here in your chamber.”
“Thank you. I shall descend presently.”
“Very well, sir,” replied young Collins, lingering a moment upon the threshold, as if waiting to be told more.
“I shall not detain you long,” Mr. Bennet said quietly, observing the boy’s hesitation with mild interest. “I wished only to speak with you briefly before the house grows busy.”
“Yes, sir,” William answered at once, straightening imperceptibly.
Mr. Bennet regarded him for a long moment with thoughtful attention. “Your conduct here has been represented to me as exemplary,” he began, his tone measured and devoid of undue warmth. “You are punctual, industrious, and diligent; you do not shirk your duties, nor do you answer back when corrected. These are qualities not to be lightly esteemed.”
William colored faintly at the praise, his eyes lowering to the floorboards, though whether from modest pride or simple surprise Mr. Bennet could not immediately determine. The boy’s composure, however, did not falter.
“There is one thing more,” Mr. Bennet continued, his voice neither reproachful nor indulgent. “I have examined the daily bills of fare posted below. Did you pen those?”
“Yes, sir. Mother told me to write them clearly, so that the guests might read them without difficulty.”
Mr. Bennet allowed himself the faintest inclination of the head, inwardly pleased by this confirmation of what he hadalready suspected. “You have a remarkably fair hand for one in your station. It speaks of care and practice.”
William’s flush deepened, but he offered no reply beyond a quiet, “Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Bennet paused, weighing his next words with his customary caution. “You would do well, if opportunity offers, to encourage your father toward greater temperance in his drinking habits. I intend to speak with him myself upon the subject—not as a kinsman with any claim upon him, but as one who has observed how small indulgences, long permitted, may undermine the best intentions.”
William hesitated, his gaze steady despite the delicacy of the matter. “I do try, sir. He heeds me better when he is sober.”
“That is more than many sons in similar circumstances can claim,” Mr. Bennet observed dryly. A flicker of something—sympathy, perhaps, or reluctant admiration—passed through his mind. “Very well. That will be all for now.”
William bowed with quiet deference and withdrew without further speech.
Later, as twilight deepened and the air grew cooler, Mr. Bennet stood at the window, his hands resting lightly upon the sill, watching the street below. The bustle of the inn had subsided somewhat, though sufficient activity remained to engage the eye. It was then that he observed William emerge from the back door carrying a small parcel wrapped in coarse cloth. The boy glanced about him briefly, as though to assure himself he was unobserved, then crossed the yard with quick but silent steps and passed through the gate at the far end.
Curiosity—rather than any suspicion of wrongdoing—kept Mr. Bennet at his post.
William halted just beyond the yard, where another lad awaited him—thin, narrow-shouldered, and evidently no older than himself. Without ceremony or display, William placed the parcel into the boy’s hands. A few words were exchanged, too low to reach the watcher above, and then the stranger turned and hurried away along the darkening street.
Mr. Bennet remained motionless until the scene was empty once more, his expression thoughtful, the corners of his mouth betraying the faintest suggestion of approval.
Some minutes later, he descended to take his supper in the public room. The tables were well filled, the conversation animated yet orderly, and the savory aroma of warm food rose agreeably above the general hum. William moved among the guests with practiced efficiency, neither hurried nor languid.
Mr. Bennet noted at once that the fare was superior to what he had anticipated. The meat was tender and properly seasoned, the vegetables neither sodden nor underdone, and the bread fresh from the oven.
“Has your father prepared the supper this evening?” he inquired when William paused beside his table.
“Yes, sir,” the boy replied. “He declared it a fine day for cooking.”
“That is an encouraging sign,” Mr. Bennet answered mildly, allowing himself a private reflection that sobriety, however intermittent, could yet produce tolerable results.
When William Collins returned with a fresh plate, Mr. Bennet spoke again, lowering his voice so that it should not carry. “I observed you earlier in the yard—with the parcel.”
William stiffened momentarily, a flicker of apprehension crossing his features before composure returned. “It was for James, sir. I should be greatly obliged if you would not mention it to anyone.”
“And who is this James?”
“A friend who lives nearby. He minds his two younger brothers when their father is away at work. They have no mother.”
“And the father?”
“He labors in the docks—heavy work for small pay. James is not strong enough for it. Not yet, and perhaps never.”
