Elizabeth said nothing. Her father’s voice had not its usual wry edge. It was quieter, steadier—more like a confession.
“I must ask your forgiveness in advance,” he said. “I would never speak of such matters to any female. Certainly not to a daughter, but in order to understand, you must begin from the beginning.”
Elizabeth swallowed and nodded. “Yes, Papa.”
“Well, I suppose it all began when I went away to school.”
Chapter 5
Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair, staring into the fire. “I was ten years old when my father sent me to Harrow. Most boys did not begin until they were twelve, but he said I was soft and bookish and needed discipline. He wanted me to become a man. I do not believe he much cared how it happened.”
She stiffened. “You were so young.”
He gave a mirthless smile. “Yes. Far too young. We began lessons at six in the morning. Latin, Greek, logic. I memorized more declining verbs and conjugations before the age of eleven than I have since read in all of Livy and Cicero combined. The school day continued until eight in the evening, with one hour in the afternoon set aside for games or sport—though that time was usually reserved for punishments or errands from the older boys.”
Elizabeth’s brows drew together. “Did they really—?”
“Birching, yes,” he said flatly. “For minor infractions. If one forgot a book, stumbled over recitation, or—God forbid—spoke out of turn. One was summoned to the Headmaster or Lower Master and beaten. Birch rods. Open hand. Sometimes worse, though that was usually left to the older boys.”
She flinched. “But surely—”
“You ask about rules,” he interrupted gently. “There were rules. But no one enforced them. Not for the boys in Sixth Form, who had free rein over their fags. We younger boys were expected to light fires, polish boots, fetch their water, wake them each morning, clean their chamber pots. I did not see a kindness for the first full year—save one.”
He lifted his glass but did not drink.
“My first fag-master was not cruel. He was—surprisingly decent. He never struck me. He taught me how to fold a cravat, how to oil a razor, how to speak softly so as not to be noticed by the masters. But he left at the end of my first year.”
His expression darkened.
“The boy who replaced him was not so kind. Nor were his friends. They did not beat me, not often. They preferred other entertainments. To humiliate. To isolate. I was small for my age. Quiet. Too clever to be liked, but too meek to fight back.”
Elizabeth’s fists clenched in her lap.
“Then, when I was twelve, a new boy arrived. Stephens. He was also twelve, and the other boys took an immediate dislike to him. He was on scholarship. His mother had been a maid. His father—some unnamed baron, I suspect—had paid for his education in hopes of keeping him out of sight, but respectable.He would never be anything more than a servant in the eyes of society, and yet he was clever. Resourceful. Kind.”
Elizabeth leaned forward slightly.
“We took to each other quickly,” her father continued. “We hid from the other boys. Read by candlelight. Stole scraps from the kitchens. There were nights when the only comfort I had in the world was the sound of him breathing beside me as we shivered under a shared coat. It was friendship. Fierce, loyal, and unlike anything I had ever known.”
He paused and drank from his glass at last.
“But as we grew older, and our bodies changed, it became something else. Something I did not have a name for. Nor did he. There were moments—brief, sacred, confused—when a touch lingered too long. When our eyes held fast. And though we never spoke of it, I knew we both felt it.”
Elizabeth’s breath came shallowly. She felt as if she were glimpsing something precious and private—a secret long buried beneath the facade of books and irony.
“We graduated together. He had no prospects, of course. He was clever enough for Oxford, but no one would sponsor a bastard servant boy. I could not bear the thought of parting from him. So I begged my father—lied, if I am honest—and said that I could not possibly be properly dressed without my own valet. My father relented, likely because he thought me vain, and I hired Stephens that day. He has been at my side ever since.”
Elizabeth stared at the flickering fire, her mind reeling.
“You have loved him for almost forty years,” she said quietly.
“I do not know if I have the right to use that word,” her father replied. “Not when it is a crime—and a sin—to feel it.”
She turned toward him. “But you do love him.”
“Yes,” he said simply. “I love him.”
The two sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their thoughts, though Elizabeth at times opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.
