Mr Bennet gave an exaggerated sigh. “Alas, Iaman old person, and now I must reconsider my entire diet.”
“I do not think you are old, Papa,” Tommy said loyally, then turned back to Elizabeth with widened eyes. “Is the pudding treacle?”
“Figgy,” Elizabeth said, lifting a single brow. “Which you shall not taste unless you eat two more bites of meat and all your carrots and potatoes.”
Tommy made a great show of considering this injustice, then stabbed his carrots with gallant resolution.
Across the table, Mary sat primly between Jane and her father, her gown a modest dove grey with a prim collar. She had only recently come out only two months after Elizabeth—after much negotiation with her father, who had resisted releasing her into society whilst Jane and Elizabeth remained unmarried. Mary had argued the case as if delivering a sermon, citing birth order, moral philosophy, and her own preparation. In the end, Mr Bennet had relented, saying teasingly, “I suppose we must send someone to scowl over the punch bowl.”
She now addressed her sister with serene gravity.
“I believe young Tommy could benefit from a stricter dietary routine. Temperance is a virtue that ought to be instilled early.”
“He is three,” Elizabeth said with a half-laugh. “If he has even one virtue besides charm, I shall consider it a miracle.”
Tommy beamed and held out his empty fork. “I ate the carrots. Can I have pudding now?”
“Potatoes first,” Elizabeth said firmly.
Tommy groaned.
“I think you are being very brave,” Jane said soothingly, leaning forwards with her gentle smile. “Even when I was small, I disliked boiled potatoes. I used to hide them under my napkin.”
Tommy's eyes lit up. “Can I do that?”
“Absolutely not,” Elizabeth and Miss Grant said at once.
Dinner continued in that easy rhythm, full of conversation and the shifting cadence of a family long accustomed to each other's company. Lydia tried to tell a riddle she had heard in Meryton but botched the punchline, to general amusement. Kitty reminded her of it with great superiority, and they squabbled good-naturedly over who remembered it best. Jane was a calm anchor, keeping the mood light with a smile and a soft word here or there. Mary, earnest and proud, offered to read aloud after supper from a new text she had acquired. Mr Bennet murmured something about fortifying his nerves with port before agreeing.
When at last the figgy pudding was brought in—steaming and aromatic—Tommy sat up straighter than he had all evening, his expression one of reverent awe.
“I am going to eat two helpings,” he whispered to Elizabeth.
“Are you?” she replied, placing a generous spoonful on his plate. "That is a lot for such a young man."
He crossed his heart solemnly and picked up his spoon.
It was not a grand evening. There were no guests, no music beyond the crackling hearth and the clink of silverware. But it was warm. It was full. And as the laughter continued, and the pudding disappeared, Elizabeth found herself more content than she had been in many weeks.
Twelfth Night marked the end of the season, but for this one evening, the heart of the house had never felt more full.
Winter gave way to spring far sooner than Elizabeth had imagined. One day the frost still clung to the hedgerows, and the next, crocuses burst up in brilliant defiance of the cold. The thaw came not only to the earth but to the household, as light and laughter seemed to follow wherever Tommy went.
He had grown—alarmingly so. Despite being not quite four years of age, he was now all elbows and knees and wild energy, a half-head taller than any other boy in the parish. The village children, who had once outrun him with ease, now fell behind one by one as he dashed ahead with effortless strides and a crow of triumph. He won every race he entered and declared himself “the fastest lad in Hertfordshire,” a claim no one dared dispute—not because it was necessarily true, but because he could out-talk and out-grin even the most stubborn doubter.
He was a charming terror.
Elizabeth had long suspected that Tommy had more intelligence than most lads his age. He spoke not with childish mimicry, but with an attentiveness that suggested understanding well beyond his years. Even so, he was still a boy, and prone to seek adventure.
She watched him now from her seat beneath the budding hawthorn tree as he darted across the lawn, his coattails flapping like flags behind him. Jane sat nearby with her needlework, and Lydia was meant to be supervising but had been drawn into a giggling conversation with Kitty about ribbon trims.
Tommy stopped just short of the path, turned towards his sisters, and grinned broadly. “Watch this!”
He scrunched his face in fierce concentration, stuck out his ears, and—amazingly—wiggled them.
Kitty shrieked with laughter. Lydia clapped her hands in delight.
“I told you I could do it,” he declared, beaming. “Papa says it is a singular talent—says it proves I am a Bennet.”
