She nodded, though her throat tightened.
He rested a hand briefly on her shoulder. “You are old enough to understand that attention is not affection rationed out in equal measure.”
“I know,” she said quickly.
“And you are old enough,” he continued, “to understand why he must sometimes come first.”
That, she understood less—but she trusted him enough not to ask.
The fire had burned low when Mr Bennet spoke again.
“Lizzy,” he said quietly, “you are observant.”
She glanced at him. “I try to be.”
“That is not a compliment,” he said gently. “It is a burden.”
She waited.
“There are matters,” he continued, “which require foresight rather than alarm. I have always believed it better to prepare one mind thoroughly than to trouble many incompletely.”
Elizabeth understood then that he was speaking to her as he spoke to no one else.
“I worry,” he admitted, “not because disaster is imminent, but because change is relentless. One must anticipate what the law allows, not merely what the heart desires.”
Her chest tightened. “And do you think we are in danger?”
“No,” he said firmly. “But I think we would be foolish not to understand the rules by which others judge us.”
That night, Elizabeth lay awake long after the house slept, replaying his words until they arranged themselves into something colder and clearer than before.
Chapter Eight
The dining room at Longbourn glowed with the soft warmth of firelight and candle sconces, flickering gently against the windows where the darkness of Twelfth Night pressed in. Though there were no guests and no grand celebration, the table was set with care—gleaming silver, polished glass, and a roast that filled the house with its savoury smell.
It was just the Bennet family this year, with the addition of two recently hired governesses who had been invited to dine with them in honour of the occasion. Both were older ladies—older than Mr Bennet by some years. Mr Gardiner had vetted each, and they were therefore safe to employ. Miss Lane sat beside Kitty and Lydia, her hands folded neatly, whilst Miss Grant, who managed young Tommy’s lessons and the nursery, hovered protectively near her young charge.
Supper was laid at five o’clock, and all were present and seated—no small feat for such a spirited household.
Tommy Bennet, the youngest member of the family and its greatest source of chaos and delight, had managed to smuggle a paper crown onto his head from an earlier game and now sat proudly beside Mr Bennet. His curls, though darker than the tow-blonde of his infancy, still caught the firelight like gold. He was in high spirits, cheeks rosy and expression angelic—until he dropped his spoon and, in a flash of mischief, retrieved it only to perch it delicately on the end of his nose.
Mr Bennet glanced down at him over the rim of his spectacles.
“An admirable use of cutlery,” he murmured dryly. “Should I ask Cook to begin plating pudding this way?”
Tommy giggled, his spoon clattering to his plate as he turned to Elizabeth beside him. “I want pudding now, Lizzy.”
“After you have eaten your meat and potatoes,” Elizabeth replied, hiding her smile as she cut his roast into small, manageable pieces. “You know the rules.”
“Ihateboiled potatoes,” Tommy declared with dramatic despair, poking them with his fork as if they were a personal affront. “They taste like wet paper.”
Lydia snorted and quickly covered her mouth, whilst Kitty let out a strangled laugh.
“Lydia,” Miss Lane warned gently, “comportment at the table.”
Lydia rolled her eyes but dutifully straightened her spine and returned her attention to her plate. Miss Lane gave her a subtle nod of approval.
Tommy, meanwhile, had launched into his petition. “I want themroasted. Or with butter. Or mashed with milk like Nanny does it. But not boiled! That’s for old people. Even potatoes in stew taste better.”
