“Another babe!” the midwife barked. “We have twins!”
Maria had no breath to answer. She screamed instead, the pain wrenching her anew.
Minutes later, another wail rose in the room.
The second boy.
So similar to the first in shape and size—but this one bore a deep red birthmark on the left side of his face. A dark, wine-colored bloom over his cheek and temple.
The room fell silent for a moment.
Then Timothy stepped forward.
“We shall name him Nathaniel,” he said firmly. “And he is perfect.”
Maria burst into tears again, not from pain this time—but from love. She reached for both her sons, one nestled in each arm, and held them close.
Theodore and Nathaniel.
Twomiracles.
Twohearts born of her own.
A sibling is a built-in best friend,Maria thought drowsily.They will never feel lonely with their brother at their side. They came into the world together. May they always walk through it the same way.
∞∞∞
November 1745 — Longbourn
Ten-year-old Theodore Bennet sat upright at the study table, quill in hand, brow furrowed as he copied the Latin passage their tutor had assigned. The air in the room smelled of parchment and ink, and outside the window, the late autumn sun slanted across the Longbourn fields in lazy gold.
“Master Theodore,” said Mr. Lambert, their tutor, “very good. Keep your line steady and your script clean—this is an important skill for a landowner to have.”
Theodore nodded, barely glancing up. He liked the quiet hum of study, the feel of a well-trimmed pen between his fingers, the orderly progression of lines across the page. It made sense to him, this rhythm of learning.
Then came the snort.
He turned—too late.
Nathaniel, lounging with one ankle propped on his knee, had torn a strip of paper into narrow curls and flicked them into the inkpot when Lambert’s back was turned. With a perfectly timednudge, the soaked wad arced through the air and struck the edge of Theodore’s page, splattering ink across three neat lines.
Theodore sat back with a groan. “Natty!”
His brother grinned unrepentantly, the wine-stain mark stretching on his face like the ink on Theo’s page. “You were looking too smug again.”
Mr. Lambert spun around, his powdered wig tilting slightly. “Master Nathaniel! I shall not warn you again. These lessons are not a game.”
Nathaniel only shrugged and leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. “You already said that yesterday.”
Letting out a long, fraying sigh, Mr. Lambert smoothed down his waistcoat. “Your actions have the very real consequence of damaging your future prospects. You may not inherit Longbourn, Master Nathaniel, but it is still vital that you obtain an education. A profession will require diligence and discipline.”
Theo’s quill stilled. His eyes flicked toward his brother, but the fervor in the tutor’s voice had a strangely sobering effect. Natty shifted forward and let the chair’s back legs settle onto the floor with a muted thump. He said nothing—just stared at his open book, lips pressed tight.
The rest of the lesson passed in relative quiet.
That evening at supper, Natty barely touched his meat and said nothing at all beyond a muttered thanks when Nurse passed the bread. When they retired to their beds for the evening, the usual talk and teasing felt oddly muted. Theo tried twice to draw him into some harmless joke about Mr. Lambert’s drooping wig, but Natty only nodded absently.
Theo’s stomach turned uneasily.
