The study fell silent, save for the gentle ticking of the clock. Mr Bennet found himself unexpectedly moved by the plain, practical kindness in his cousin’s words. It was not pomp or self-importance that guided Mr Collins, but a simple desire to do what he believed was right.
“You speak wisely, sir,” Mr Bennet said at last, his voice quiet, tinged with something like gratitude even whilst his heart filled with guilt. “I will confess, it is not a notion I relish dwelling upon, but I am not so foolish as to deny the truth in your words.”
Mr Collins’s shoulders eased, and he nodded, visibly relieved that his intentions were understood.
Mr Bennet leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he regarded the man before him. How fortunate he was to have Tommy, who had turned their family’s fortunes so unexpectedly. Yet beneath that gratitude lay the persistent, gnawing worry that he could not shake. He thought of Mr Darcy, of the quiet, keen-eyed observations Elizabeth had shared aftertheir conversations at Netherfield and the ruins. The gentleman’s as-of-yet unspoken suspicions about Tommy had taken root in Mr Bennet’s mind, no matter how he tried to dismiss them.
How fragile it all was, this peace, this security they had found. And how quickly it could vanish.
“Tell me, Mr Collins,” Mr Bennet said, drawing himself back to the present, “is it your intention to court one of my daughters immediately, or will you take some time to acquaint yourself with our family first?”
Mr Collins hesitated, then spoke with a quiet earnestness. “I would not presume to rush, sir. I would like to become better acquainted with your daughters and allow them to judge for themselves if I am worthy of consideration. Though I admit I hope a decision is finalized before I must return to Kent.” His cheeks went red.
A small smile touched Mr Bennet’s lips, softening the lines of care that had formed over the past years. “That is well spoken. I thank you for your honesty, and for your concern for my family.”
Mr Collins nodded, rising to take his leave, his steps lighter than when he had entered. As the door closed behind him, Mr Bennet allowed himself a sigh, leaning back in his chair, eyes drifting to the window where the late autumn sun was fighting to break through the clouds.
He would have to speak with Elizabeth, he decided, and gauge her thoughts on Mr Collins’s quiet proposal of security. Though he could almost predict her reaction, he owed her the conversation. Then again, perhaps Mary would be the better option.
For now, he would allow himself to be grateful for a cousin who, despite his awkwardness, wished to offer protection should the worst ever occur—and grateful, too, for the child’s laughter that still echoed through Longbourn’s halls, and the daughter whose sharp eyes and keen wit might just prove the salvation of them all.
Mr Bennet did not hear the door open.
He was seated at his desk, spectacles pushed low upon his nose, the candle guttering beside a ledger he had read without comprehension for the better part of a quarter hour. His thoughts were elsewhere—on entails and contingencies, on futures that could not be spoken aloud—when a small weight leaned against his knee.
“Papa?”
The word was soft, uncertain, as though Tommy feared he had spoken out of turn.
Mr Bennet looked down.
Tommy stood beside him, hair still tousled from sleep, clutching a book nearly as wide as his chest. One corner of the cover had been gnawed into softness, a habit he had not yet outgrown.
“Well,” Mr Bennet said quietly, setting aside his spectacles. “If this is a raid upon my solitude, you have timed it most agreeably.”
Tommy smiled, relief brightening his face. “Mrs Hill said I might come if I was quiet.”
“A dangerous promise,” Mr Bennet murmured, reaching down to steady the book as it tipped dangerously. “Quiet children are always plotting something.”
Tommy’s brow furrowed in thought. “I am not plotting,” he said seriously. “I only wanted to show you.”
He opened the book with great care and pointed to a line halfway down the page. “I read this all by myself.”
Mr Bennet drew him closer, lifting him onto his knee with practised ease. He followed the line with his finger, surprised—though he ought not to have been—by the accuracy of the boy’s reading. The words were not simple. They had not been chosen for a child.
“You did very well,” he said at last.
Tommy straightened. “Mrs Hill says I read better than most boys.”
“I suspect Mrs Hill is understating the matter,” Mr Bennet replied, his voice light but his chest tightening all the same.
He brushed his thumb over the boy’s temple, marvelling—as he so often did—at the alertness in his gaze. There was an intelligence there that went beyond precocity. Tommy listened when others spoke. He noticed absences. He remembered things no one thought he would.
It frightened him sometimes.
“You will read too much,” Mr Bennet added gently. “It is a dangerous habit. It leads to thinking.”
Tommy laughed—a quick, delighted sound—and leaned against him without hesitation.
