Mr. Bennet looked up from his book. For a moment, something almost like his usual dry amusement flickered across his face.
“An unfortunate habit of mine,” he said. “To be found among the books when one least expects it.”
Elizabeth stepped further into the room, closing the door behind her with deliberate care.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
It was strange—standing there, looking at him.
Nothing had changed.
And yet everything had.
“I wanted to ask you something,” she said at last.
Mr. Bennet set his book aside, though he did not rise. “That sounds ominous.”
She did not smile. “What was he like? Your brother.”
The lines in his face somehow deepened. “Freddy,” he said softly. “Your father…”
He paused, unable to speak, as though the words had caught on something
Elizabeth crossed the room and knelt down at his side, taking his hand in hers. “You may call him that,” she said gently, “but it does not change anything.”
He looked at her with watery eyes, and she held his gaze.
“Youare my papa,” she said. “You raised me. That is not something that can be altered by a story told after twenty years.”
“You are a good girl, Lizzy,” he said, his voice roughened. “Far better than I deserve.”
“I do not think so.”
That earned the faintest huff of breath from him—almost a laugh, though it did not quite reach it. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, quietly, “Frederick was… very different from me.”
Elizabeth moved to the chair opposite and sat.
“He was restless,” Mr. Bennet continued. “Impatient with quiet life. Where I was content to remain, he was always looking beyond.”
Elizabeth listened, her heart tightening at the picture he painted—of a young man so full of life, so eager, so determined.
“He laughed easily,” Mr. Bennet continued. “And loved easily, too. Though I told him he was a fool for it on many occasions.”
A faint ghost of a smile passed over his face. “He did not care.”
There was a pause, then Mr. Bennet’s expression grew more somber.
“It is as I told you all yesterday; he came home one holiday,” Mr. Bennet said, “and spoke of a young lady.”
Elizabeth leaned forward slightly.
“Cathy,” he added, almost reluctantly. “He was already half lost to her.”
A faint, rueful breath escaped him, and Elizabeth almost smiled.
“I have told you how it ended,” he said quietly. “But I have not told you this—I admired him. Even when I disagreed with him, I admired him. He had a courage I never possessed.”
