Whatever it cost.
Though she had always shown dedication to Tommy, Elizabeth now threw herself into the role of elder sister with such fervour that even Jane gently cautioned her against exhaustion. Elizabeth only smiled, rose early the next morning, and pressed on. The guilt—the slow, unyielding knowledge that she was living a lie, fostered by conversations with her father and private musings—could not be erased, but it could be outrun for a time by purpose. And so, she poured herself into Tommy.
The household followed her lead. Lydia, competitive when it suited her, soon declared herself Tommy’s equal favourite; Mary taught him poetry and Latin flower names with quiet pride; Kitty taught him to whistle; Jane brushed his curls each evening with careful tenderness. Tommy thrived beneath it all, quick-witted and observant, delighting in the attention and wielding it with a boy’s solemn mischief.
Mr Bennet watched from a distance at first, faintly amused, content to retreat to his study. But he claimed one duty as his own. Each morning, he sat Tommy beside the library hearth and taught him to read—not gently, but earnestly, demanding comprehension as much as imagination. Tommy rose eagerly to the challenge, retelling stories with embellishments so clever that Elizabeth sometimes paused in the doorway, startled by how swiftly the boy’s mind worked.
“I will not raise a dullard,” her father said once, with mock severity.
Elizabeth understood then—slowly, and not without a tightening in her chest. She saw the quiet deliberation in her father’s choices: the reading, the questions, the encouragement to think rather than merely recite. Each lesson was not indulgence, but preparation. Each kindness carried intent. He was building something carefully, brick by brick, against a future neither of them dared name aloud.
The pony came soon after—a small roan with a patient temperament. When Lydia and Kitty protested the imbalance, Mr Bennet merely replied that the child must one day know the land. Elizabeth heard what he did not say.
Spring unfolded brightly—lessons, riding, laughter—until it all stilled.
Tommy’s illness came swiftly. A fever, a cough, then a day when he did not rise at all. Longbourn fell into a hush. Mr Bennet abandoned his study entirely, keeping vigil beside the bed with a devotion that stripped him of humour and sleep alike. Elizabeth remained near, tending the boy, whispering prayers she had not known she remembered.
“I would give everything,” her father whispered once.
Except Longbourn, she thought, and did not say.
When the fever finally broke, relief struck like grief’s twin. Elizabeth wept openly. Mr Bennet closed his eyes and offered a single, broken thanks.
Later, in the quiet of his study, he spoke without jest or evasion. He spoke of purpose regained, of love chosen stubbornly, of believing—perhaps foolishly—that Providence did not condemn such devotion. Elizabeth listened, her head resting against his shoulder, and understood at last how long he had been afraid, and how carefully he had been planning.
“He is ours,” she whispered.
“In every way that matters,” he answered.
When Jane came to announce that Tommy was awake and asking for a story, they went together. Mr Bennet took the chair beside the bed and began a familiar tale—knights, dragons, and the curious business of taxes—while Elizabeth laughed through her tears.
Summer came to Longbourn quietly then, tentative but real. And Elizabeth, watching her father and the boy, knew this was not indulgence, nor denial, nor sentiment alone. It was resolve.
Chapter Nine
Winter was bitterly cold that year. So much snow fell that there were great drifts all over the grounds. Wind whipped through the trees, shaking the limbs and dropping bits of snow and ice onto the heads of unsuspecting passersby. The Darcys spent Christmas together, unperturbed by their solitude. Darcy gifted his sister with new music, handkerchiefs, and a new shawl. She gave him a handsome walking stick, a pair of thick leather gloves, and a stack of books to add to the library.
The days were quiet and contemplative, filled with fireside readings, snow-laden walks when the wind relented, and long evenings spent with music and games. Though the great halls of Pemberley were vast and often silent, their companionship rendered them warm.
December gave way to January and the new year. On a chilly morning, Georgiana came to Darcy’s study. She stood in the doorway, a nervous expression on her countenance. “Come in, dearest,” he said when he noticed her. Carefully, he placed his quill aside and leaned back in his chair.
Georgiana came forwards hesitantly, her hands clasped in front of her. “I wished to discuss a matter of importance with you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She fell silent, as if afraid to continue.
“Go on,” Darcy encouraged. He tried to keep his usual stoic, serious expression at bay, concerned his foreboding appearance might deter her.
“I do not wish to return to school!” she cried. It burst forth as if propelled by something. Weeks of silence, perhaps. “It is dreadful! The girlsare cruel, and the only young ladies who wish to know me often pepper me with questions aboutyou.”
Darcy frowned—he could not help it. “School is important,” he said. Besides, Miss Fairfax, the governess, had found a new position when Georgiana departed for Miss Minchin’s School for Girls in London. It would not be easy to find someone as qualified to take over Georgiana's education.
“I am aware my education is important, but why must it be at a school? Can you not hire tutors? A companion, perhaps? Oh, Brother, it is so dreadful! I cannot face it. Please do not make me go.”
He considered her carefully, unwilling to dismiss her concerns and fears without thoroughly examining them and their impetus. “You said nothing of your misery in your letters,” he said slowly, raising an eyebrow skeptically.
“I did not wish to disappoint you,” she murmured. Georgiana’s hands were twisting together, her fingers interlacing and then releasing over and over again. “Miss Minchin and Miss Isabel encouraged us to include only the best of our news in our correspondence.”
Darcy thought back to his sister’s letters. They had, indeed, been very cheerful, filled with the minutia of her day-to-day life. There had been no sign of conflict. But the missives had felt strangely…flat. He recalled wondering if Georgie’s spirits would ever recover.
“I can promise only to consider the matter,” he finally replied, standing and moving around the desk. He placed both hands on Georgiana’s shoulders. “You require more aid than I can give to become a proper young lady. A brother is a poor substitute for a mother.”
