For a moment, she thought she saw doubt flicker across his face—fear, even—but it was gone almost before she could be certain it had been there.
“Never you mind about that, Elizabeth.” Mr. Bennet’s voice was firm and brooked no argument. “I shall decide what is to be done in due time. I have not forgotten what this could mean for your mother—and for all of you. Prudence is not always sosimple as obedience. For now, we continue to speak of this to no one.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.How can silence ever be safe,she wondered,when the whole countryside has begun to dig?Yet what alternative was there? To report it was to lose everything. To conceal it was to risk ruin. There seemed no path that did not lead to consequence.
She could not help but think of that day—the disturbed earth, the hurried concealment, the quiet instructions given to ensure no notice was drawn. Had they been as careful as they believed? Or had some small trace—overlooked in haste—invited curiosity where none had existed before?
“And the treasure-hunting frenzy that is certain to rise from the discovery of bronze coins?”
“It is of no concern to us. We shall let the others dig in the dirt while knowing we have the real reward safely tucked away.” Mr. Bennet picked up a ledger, a deliberate gesture of dismissal. “If you will excuse me, I need to see to the books.”
Elizabeth’s shoulders drooped, the weight of helplessness settling upon her. Without another word, she left the room, determined to go walking to clear her troubled mind—though she knew, with a sinking certainty, that no amount of fresh air would quiet the unease now lodged firmly in her heart.
Despite his apparent nonchalance with his daughter, Mr. Bennet was indeed rather concerned about the recent turn of events. The mask he wore so easily for his family slipped the moment Elizabeth closed the door behind her. He stood for a moment, staring at the shelves of books that lined his library, seeing noneof their familiar comfort. At last, with an impatient sigh, he tossed the ledger onto his desk and rang for Mrs. Hill.
The good housekeeper appeared promptly, dipping a curtsy politely, her expression attentive but incurious—one of her greatest virtues.
“I have much work to which I must attend,” he began, running his finger along the edge of his desk, tracing the worn groove left by years of habit. “I am locking the door. Please see to it that I am not disturbed.”
“Very good, Master.” Hill bobbed another curtsy before exiting the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Mr. Bennet went to the door, locked it, and pocketed the key, the small, final click sounding louder than it ought. Slowly, each step carrying weight, he moved to the corner of the room and carefully drew out the crate concealed beneath its covering of books. He paused a moment, his expression tightening as he looked down at it, internally measuring the consequence of what must now be done. Then he lifted it, his arms straining slightly with the burden, and carried it to his desk, setting it upon the chair beside it. A large linen cloth was spread across the surface with deliberate care, smoothed flat beneath his hands, as though ritual might lend clarity to confusion. That confusion had once been tolerable—abstract, even. Now it pressed upon him with unwelcome urgency. What had been a question of conscience had become a matter of consequence.
One by one, he pulled the artifacts out and placed them carefully on the cloth. The silver was tarnished but still glistened slightly, catching the candlelight in muted flashes. The gold was untouched by time and shone as if hundreds of years had not passed—warm, rich, and undeniably seductive.
What am I to do?
Bennet hardly knew. The sheer magnitude of the collection stole his breath. The sum that such a collection could fetchwould tempt any man—particularly a man who had spent decades laughing off responsibility, trusting to luck, affection, and indulgence rather than preparation. He had always been honest to a fault. Was he now to cast aside all his morals, his efforts to be a law-abiding man? To become the sort of fellow he had once mocked?
For what?
For the ability to provide for my family.
The answer came swiftly, and with it a pang of guilt sharp enough to make him wince. Logically, it made sense—indeed, it madepainfulsense—to do whatever he could to make life easier for his ladies when he passed to his reward. The treasure had been found on his land, unlike the bronze coins found in the common. Still, the law required him to report what he found. He knew that as surely as he knew the titles on his shelves.
But knowing a thing and doing it were very different matters.
Thoughts of his beautiful Fanny living in a small cottage filled his thoughts—Fanny, who had trusted him with her future; his dear wife, who had married for love and paid for it in uncertainty. He could not condemn his wife to a life of genteel poverty. He could not bear the image of her counting pennies, of his daughters forced into dependence or ill-considered marriages.
Finder’s fees were rarely large. No, it would be better to quietly find a private collector—someone discreet, someone knowledgeable, someone who would ask no inconvenient questions. Antiquarians existed precisely for such purposes, did they not?
Still conflicted, Bennet placed each object back into the crate, his movements slower now, more reluctant, like he were sealing away not only gold and silver but a decision he was not yet prepared to face. He returned the box to the corner of the roomand hid it once more beneath the crates of books, the familiar volumes now complicit in his secrecy.
Wearily, he returned to his desk and sank into his chair.Oh, what am I to do?he thought, rubbing a hand over his eyes, the candlelight blurring into indistinct shapes.
Would he ever find the correct way forward—or had he already stepped onto a path from which there was no easy return?
Elizabeth walked into Meryton with the vague hope that movement might quiet her thoughts. It did not.
The town was alive with conversation, more animated than usual for a weekday morning. Shop doors stood open despite the chill, and small knots of people lingered where errands might otherwise have been concluded quickly. She slowed her pace as voices carried to her with startling clarity.
“…Roman coins, they say—green as moss, but unmistakable…”
“…Turner lad found them near the common. If there is bronze, there may be better metal deeper down…”
“…No one ever reports such things. Why should they? Melt it down, sell it quietly—no harm done…”
Elizabeth felt a tightening in her chest. She passed the milliner’s shop, then the apothecary, her ears catching fragments she would have preferred not to hear.
