He opened a small leather-bound book and tapped a column with his finger. “Mr Jones of Purvis Lodge wrote recently. He and his family are happy in Surrey, and he wishes to dispose of the property. Though we cannot purchase it outright, I have arranged to buy the property that borders Longbourn’s lands. It will add four additional tenant farms. If my calculations are correct, the estate’s income will increase by around five hundred pounds a year, once improvements are made and proper crop rotation applied. The soil is good on those plots, and the tenant cottages are well-maintained.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “Purvis Lodge only brings in a little over a thousand pounds a year, does it not? What price is our former neighbour asking?”
“Fifteen thousand pounds—an exceptional price. I could purchase it using the funds for your dowries, but I dare not. I could not leave my girls destitute.” His voice was flat, tinged with a rare gravity. “I considered asking your uncle for a loan. He would give me a fair rate. But, I do not need the Lodge—Longbourn has a dower house. The tenant farms will be enough.”
She saw the hesitation in his eyes, the weight behind his words that he tried to mask with casual pragmatism. Her heart ached with understanding. Her father was not a man to speak often of emotion, but here it was—quiet, dignified concern. He was making plans, contingencies, safeguarding them as best he could, though they all lived upon a lie. The edges of his reserve had worn thin, and in that glimpse, she recognised the toll their secret had taken.
“How long would it take to pay off the loan?” she asked hesitantly.
He exhaled slowly. “We have lived frugally. After all expenses, we have around a thousand pounds a year left over. Your dowries are earning interest—I have not added much in the last year or so. Instead, I have used the funds to better the estate. I would prefer not to spend the entirety of our disposable income each year. So, conservatively, it would take me fifteen years to repay your uncle if I were to make the purchase.”
He hesitated, then picked up a folded letter from the corner of the desk. “There is another option. I received a rather unexpected letter this morning. Here, read it and tell me what you think.”
Elizabeth unfolded the letter and read in silence, her brow furrowed as she progressed through Mr Collins’ loquacious prose. When she finished, she looked up slowly.
“I am afraid I do not understand,” she said, lowering the paper.
“Mr William Collins is the rightful heir to the estate,” her father explained quietly. “His father was a miserly, illiterate man with a temper. Our falling out was… Well, let us not discuss it. Suffice it to say, I never set eyes on his son and only received a letter from his father’s solicitor when he was born. My living cousin is, as of yet, unmarried. If he were an agreeable sort of gentleman...”
He trailed off, watching her with expectant eyes.
Elizabeth stared at him, her mouth slightly open. “You wish for one of us to marry him?” Her voice held disbelief.
Mr Bennet smiled faintly. “It is rather brilliant, is it not? If our ruse is discovered—and it might be, someday—then having the heir to the estate married to one of my daughters is the perfect solution.”
“You sound like Mama,” Elizabeth said bluntly. The words slipped from her lips before she could temper them, and she instantly regretted it.
To her surprise, her father’s mouth opened in a rare expression of astonishment. “Do I? Well, imagine that.” He regarded her over the rimof his spectacles. “He sounds like a sensible man, if a little long-winded. It would not hurt to entertain the idea.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Be warned, dear Father, I shall not marry him if we do not suit. I shall not be persuaded to give up my freedom. Have I not sacrificed enough?”
Her voice cracked at the end, and she looked away, blinking against the sudden sting in her eyes. It was not only the weight of expectation that pressed down on her, but the quiet desperation of having been forced to uphold a fiction for so long. Her shoulders stiffened, though her heart longed for reassurance.
“Then we shall see if he and Mary are compatible,” Mr Bennet replied, more gently now. “I could demand it of you as your father.”
Elizabeth froze. Her pulse pounded in her ears. “You would not,” she whispered. She could not tell if he teased or not.
He leaned forwards, his expression one of amusement. “No, I do not think I would take the trouble.” He grew serious. “But I could. Elizabeth, I am a weak man and a negligent father—surely, you see it. I have always cared more for my comfort than for the well-being of my children. And though I have tried diligently to change, it has not come easily. If marriage to my cousin can ensure my…actions…do not come back to torment me, then I shall do everything in my power to see it done.”
The words struck her like a blow. For all his usual levity, this was Mr Bennet in earnest. His voice was weary, his shoulders bowed under the weight of guilt and regret. He was trying to protect them in the only way he knew how. There was pain in his confession, a father burdened by past mistakes, struggling now to be the steward his family deserved.
Elizabeth stood and nodded, her voice faint. “When do you mean to reply?”
“Immediately. I shall suggest a date in November. Hopefully, by that time, Mr Bingley will have proposed to your sister. A wealthy son-in-law is yet another safeguard.”
He paused, looking stricken. “Good heavens, I really do sound like your mother!”
That coaxed a reluctant chuckle from Elizabeth. “You do.”
She turned and left the study, her thoughts anything but settled. Her father’s words lingered with her—not as comfort, but as disquiet. He spoke of prudence now, of arrangements and foresight, as though order had always governed his decisions. Yet Elizabeth could not forget how long matters had been left to drift, how easily responsibility had been deferred until circumstance forced his hand. He was not sacrificing so much asbelatedly managing, and the distinction troubled her more than she wished to admit.
What unsettled her most was not what he had said, but what remained unspoken. Thomas. The truth hovered at the edges of every plan her father so carefully described—inheritance secured, alliances assumed, futures neatly aligned. All of it rested upon a silence that could not endure forever. If the truth were known, it would unravel more than one comfortable assumption: Thomas’s place in the family, her father’s authority, even the security he believed he had restored. And if she spoke—ifshechose honesty over protection—there would be no retreat from the consequences.
The hallway beyond the study felt colder than before. Elizabeth let her fingers trail along the wall as she passed, anchoring herself to something solid while her thoughts raced ahead. Autumn light slanted through the windows, warm in colour but offering no reassurance. She paused on the stairs, breath unsteady, knowing with sudden clarity that the choice before her was not distant or theoretical. It was coming. Silence or truth.Protection or upheaval.
Outside, the air was sharp with the scent of earth and wood smoke. Elizabeth stepped into it without direction, needing motion more than answers. For now, she would not decide. But she could no longer pretend that the decision was not hers to make.
The garden paths were scattered with fallen leaves, crisp and brittle beneath her shoes. The once-lush roses had faded to dry brown stalks, the last blooms drooping as if mourning the summer’s end. She let her hand trail over a hedge as she passed, grounding herself with the texture of something real—something that could not lie.
