“I cannot promise more than that,” he said. “But I can give you that much.”
Her shoulders sagged with relief. “Yes. That would help very much.”
He smiled faintly. “Not tonight. I am not… not prepared for it.”
Her answering smile was small but real. “That is all right.”
He drew her gently into his arms, and she leaned against him, her head resting on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin lightly atop her head.
They stayed that way for a long time.
And as the fire hissed softly behind the grate and the house settled into stillness around them, Mr. Bennet stared at the door Stephens had gone through and prayed silently in his heart.
Lord, I do not know how to do this.
∞∞∞
One month later…
The fire had burned low. Outside, frost rimed the windows in delicate webs, and the steady tick of the longcase clock in the corridor was the only sound in the quiet house.
Mr. Bennet lay on his side atop the coverlet, fully clothed but relaxed, his arm loosely around Fanny’s shoulder as she nestled beside him. These nights had become routine—quiet, unspoken, and surprisingly easy. She would lean into him as they lay still, and he would hold her, his hand sometimes gently stroking her hair until her breathing slowed and sleep claimed her.
He had come to look forward to it—these moments of closeness, untethered to expectations.
“Mr. Bennet?” she murmured sleepily.
“Hm?”
“I think… I would like to have another baby.”
He stiffened, just slightly.
Fanny did not look up. Her voice remained soft, but sure. “I know I am ready this time. It would not be like before.”
He was silent for a long time. Her hand tightened slightly on his sleeve.
“I know you are not in love with me,” she added. “And I know it is strange. But I—I want a child that is ours. Not just mine.”
Her voice faltered. “And I want to do something right this time. On purpose.”
When he finally looked down at her, he saw that her eyes were bright with tears, though she blinked them away quickly.
His heart twisted painfully.
He cleared his throat. “Not tonight,” he said gently. “But… perhaps we might find a routine. Once a week. I am not as young as I once was, Fanny.”
She gave a watery laugh, her relief almost childlike. “All right. Once a week is more than enough.”
She burrowed closer against his chest, and he held her quietly, letting her contentment wash against him like tidewater on stone.
∞∞∞
The next morning, Mr. Bennet was unusually still as Stephens adjusted his cravat. The air between them was calm, as it always was in the quiet rhythm of morning dressing, but something unsaid hummed beneath the surface.
Mr. Bennet kept his eyes on the mirror. “It seems,” he said mildly, “that I have agreed to become a husband in more than name.”
Stephens’s hands stilled for half a second. Then resumed. “Indeed, sir.”
