The gentlemen chuckled and raised their glasses, the atmosphere once again settling into conviviality. Fitzwilliam,however, leaned forward slightly, his gaze curious but not intrusive. “Mr. Bennet, surely a man as observant of follies as yourself must have stories of his own to share. Some escapade of your youth, perhaps?”
Mr. Bennet’s expression shifted subtly, a shrewd expression replaced by a thoughtful stillness. He took a deliberate sip of his port, his eyes glancing toward the fire as though searching for something in its flames. “Ah, Colonel,” he said quietly, “some stories are better left alone.”
Fitzwilliam tilted his head, his persistence softened by a note of respect. “Surely there is one tale that might enlighten us, sir?”
Mr. Bennet’s lips curved into a faint smile, though his gaze remained distant. “There is little to tell. I was my father’s only child, and he was made a widower by my birth. I was sickly as a boy, and so we spent a good deal of time together in this very room. He read to me a great deal and when he grew old, I read to him. We were close, and we carried on as best we could.”
The room grew quiet.
Darcy had not been ill as a child, but he shifted slightly in his chair, recognizing in Mr. Bennet’s words a reflection of his own childhood after his mother’s passing.
“He managed Longbourn,” Mr. Bennet continued, his tone steady but laced with a quiet gravity. “And when it fell to me, I did the same. One learns quickly, I think, when there is no other choice.”
Fitzwilliam, now more subdued, refilled Mr. Bennet’s glass. “It seems to me, sir, that you learned well enough. Longbourn thrives, after all.”
Mr. Bennet offered a slight nod, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps. Though I cannot claim the credit for its survival. It has always been the people—the tenants and the servants—and even the land itself that have carried it forward. The master of thehouse is often little more than a steward, whether he realises it or not.”
Bingley, ever eager to lift the mood, smiled. “And yet you speak as one who understands his responsibility, Mr. Bennet.”
Mr. Bennet glanced at him and nodded. “Responsibility is a peculiar thing, Mr. Bingley, and it can reveal itself in ways more significant than running an estate. But I would not say it is unwelcome. It can bring great rewards.”
Darcy felt the words like a dagger in his chest. He studied the older man, sensing in his measured words a depth he had not previously considered. There was no bitterness, only a quiet acceptance of what life had required of him. And as the firelight played across his features, Darcy saw not the satirical observer of life’s follies, but a man who had quietly performed the duty required by his circumstances.
Not entirely unlike himself.
Fitzwilliam raised his glass with a nod of respect. “To responsibility, then. And to those who bear it with grace.”
The men drank in reflective silence, the earlier levity softened but not lost. As the conversation moved on to lighter topics once more, Darcy resolved to tread carefully in his pursuit of the truth about Longbourn and Mr. Bennet’s past. It was clear now that the story of this house, and the man who managed it, were more complex than he had imagined.
Chapter Twelve
Elizabeth sat in the music room with the ladies, the air thick with the hum of conversation.
Her mother and Lady Lucas occupied the most comfortable chairs by the fire, discussing their daughters’ marriages with the competitive nature of seasoned generals recounting their victories. Jane stood beside the pianoforte, turning pages for Mary, who played a symphony with her usual precision, though it lacked any true feeling. Lydia and Maria Lucas were giggling together while Kitty and Miss Darcy listened.
Elizabeth had taken a seat near Charlotte, relieved to find her friend willing to engage in a more serious discussion amidst the din. Charlotte’s calm presence was very welcome, even if the topic of her impending marriage to Mr. Collins was one Elizabeth found difficult to contemplate.
“You must come to Kent, Lizzy,” Charlotte said softly. “You hesitated before, but I hope you will reconsider. Rosings Park is sure to be diverting if nothing else, and I think you would findmuch amusement in Lady Catherine’s company. My father and Maria will come to me in March, and you might join them.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly, though she did not share her friend’s enthusiasm. “Amusement, perhaps, but I cannot imagine I would find the great lady’s company tolerable for long. Are you absolutely certain you wish to endure it?”
Charlotte’s expression was kind but firm. “I am. Mr. Collins is not the cleverest of men, but he is respectable, and he will give me a home of my own. That is no small thing, Lizzy.”
She hesitated, torn between her own feelings and her desire to support her friend. “You deserve more than respectability, Charlotte. You deserve someone who sees your worth.”
Her friend’s gaze flickered briefly away, as though imagining her betrothed in the room with them. “Isee my worth, Lizzy. That is enough. Please say you will come.”
Elizabeth could not refuse the quiet plea in Charlotte’s eyes. “Very well,” she said softly. “If my father can spare me, I will come to Kent.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said, her posture relaxing.
Across the room, Mamma’s voice rose in sharp contrast to their quiet exchange. “Of course, Charlotte will be very comfortable with Mr. Collins, but Jane has secured the better match, as anyone with eyes can see. Mr. Bingley is a fine gentleman.”
Lady Lucas sniffed. “A fine gentleman, to be sure, but my Charlotte will be the mistress of Longbourn one day, while Jane—”
“Jane will be mistress of Netherfield!” Mrs. Bennet interrupted, her voice shrill with indignation. “And far sooner than Charlotte will return here.”
Elizabeth stifled a sigh, exchanging a weary glance with Charlotte. This rivalry between their mothers was both predictable and exhausting.
