“A strange thing, is it not?” Mr. Bennet continued, tugging gently at one sleeve. “To enter into something long after one thought oneself finished with such matters.”
Stephens said nothing. He reached for the waistcoat and held it out.
“I am not sure I remember how to begin,” Mr. Bennet added softly, slipping his arms into it.
“You will manage, sir,” Stephens replied, his voice even. “You always do.”
There was a beat of quiet.
“She is very young,” Mr. Bennet said. “And I… am not.”
Stephens fastened the buttons with slow, deliberate fingers. “Then you will need to be patient. With her. And with yourself.”
Mr. Bennet nodded, eyes still fixed on the mirror, though he did not seem to be looking at his reflection. “I have no idea how to do this, Stephens.”
“Might I recommend wine, sir?”
“Would wine help?” he asked, not lightly.
Stephens did not answer immediately. He tucked a shirt cuff neatly in place, then said with tactful precision, “Many gentlemen find a little wine helpful. For both parties.”
Mr. Bennet gave him a dry look. “A great deal of wine, in some cases.”
“I have seen new brides drink it to calm their nerves,” Stephens replied, straight-faced. “And I have seen older grooms take it to forget... inconvenient truths.”
Mr. Bennet regarded his valet in the mirror. “Such as?”
Stephens met his gaze. “Such as who their partner is. Or how young she still seems, even when she does her best to seem grown.”
There was a pause.
“Yes,” Mr. Bennet said softly. “Quite.”
That evening, he knocked once on the adjoining door and entered carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. He had taken two full glasses of port in his own room before coming over. His hands were steady. His breath was slow.
Fanny was already sitting up in bed, wearing a nightgown that was very clearly new—and very clearly chosen to make a statement. The lace at the neckline was scarcely worthy of the name, and the silk clung delicately to her figure.
She looked nervous, but hopeful.
“Wine?” he asked, lifting the bottle slightly.
She smiled and nodded.
They drank slowly, talking about little things—the estate, the weather, how Jane had tried taking her first steps and had very nearly succeeded. The warmth of the wine dulled the awkwardness.
When her fingers brushed his as she took the second glass, she held on just a moment longer.
Then she leaned in and kissed him.
He did not pull away.
Chapter 3
Longbourn, 1791
The fire in the study burned low again, just as it had nearly two years before, casting twitching shadows across the worn rug and the legs of Mr. Bennet’s chair. Above him, cries echoed faintly through the ceiling—short, strained bursts of sound that had become more frequent in the past hour.
Stephens sat nearby with a book in his lap, though he had not turned a page in some time. Neither had Mr. Bennet. He stared into the flames, hands folded over his stomach, trying—and failing—not to listen to the screams.
