Theo stood in the wreckage of what had once been their family, his throat tight with words that had come too late.
∞∞∞
July 1762 — Longbourn
Theodore Bennet sat alone in his study at Longbourn, the windows flung wide to let in the slow, heavy warmth of a Hertfordshire summer. The late afternoon sun gilded the dust motes in the air, but the golden light did little to ease the knot in his chest as he stared at the unfolded letter upon his desk.
His fingers trembled slightly as he ran them once more over the elegant script. He had read the letter three times already. Still, the words did not change.
“Nathaniel Bennet was last seen in the market town of Wroxford, residing under his own name. Local records confirm he enlisted in the Wroxford Militia in 1754. Service was limited to training and regional assignments—no foreign campaigns. We believe he remained in the area until his death last year.”
Dead.
Theo swallowed, the grief catching at the back of his throat like dry ash.
It had been nine years since that fight in the drawing room—since Natty’s bitter words and his angry departure. Nine years without a letter, a sign, a word.
He had always hoped, in some quiet, stubborn corner of his heart, that his brother would come home. That Natty would walk through the doors of Longbourn with that crooked grin and some ridiculous story and say it had all been a grand mistake.
But now...
He looked back at the letter, reading the next paragraph aloud in a hoarse whisper:
“Marriage record located for Nathaniel Bennet and Miss Nancy Collins, daughter of Josiah Collins, blacksmith. Date: 24 March 1760. Witnesses: Tobias and Henry Collins,presumed brothers. Circumstances suggest coercion. Birth of male child recorded same year—William Collins.”
The paper crinkled slightly in Theo’s grip.
William. Collins.
Not Bennet.
Theo leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. He remembered his own wedding that same spring—how happy Maria had looked, how full of promise their little life had seemed. And somewhere, not too far away, his twin had been at the altar too—dragged there, no doubt, by furious blacksmiths.
Theo rubbed a hand across his face.
Was it bitterness that made Nathaniel give the child his mother’s surname? Defiance? Shame?
Or had he wanted nothing—nothing—to do with the family ever again?
The thought pierced deeper than Theo wished to admit.
His gaze drifted to the far wall, where a pair of miniature portraits hung: one of himself at twenty, the other of Natty, their features nearly identical but for the faint wine-colored mark across Natty’s left cheek.
Theo rose and crossed the room slowly, his footsteps muffled against the rug. He stood before the painting of his brother and studied the boy he remembered—the mischief in his eyes, the sharpness in his smile.
You should have written to me.
A light knock at the door stirred him.
“Come,” he called.
A maid entered with a covered tray. “Your mother’s rest is not improved, sir. She asked for you after supper.”
Theo nodded absently. “I will go to her shortly.”
As the door closed again, he turned back to the letter on his desk. His eyes lingered on the last line.
“The boy still resides with the Collins family, aged two. The father’s death occurred late last year from fever.”
