Carefully.
And with each word, the weight of what he had been avoiding settled more firmly upon him. If he did not return, the results would be devastating to more than just himself.
His son would not only be deprived of a family, but of an inheritance. The chance to be master of an estate.
Moreover, his nieces—hisdaughter—would be left to the mercy of a man whose ancestors lived on spite and jealousy.
There was no question anymore; to England, he and Teddy would go.
He sold everything: his interests, his ventures, his carefully built position—all of it.
His partners protested at first, then argued, and then, with increasing urgency, fought to persuade him to remain.
“You have no equal,” one of them insisted. “You will not find such success again.”
Frederick did not doubt it. But success, he had learned, was not always measured in profit. “No,” he said simply. “I shall not.”
And that was the end of it.
Passage was secured. Arrangements were made. What could be carried was gathered; what could not, was left behind.
And at last, he and his son boarded the ship and left the glistening sands of India for the dreary clouds of England. Along the way, he realized that his arrival would occur nearly a week after Elizabeth would reach her majority—at least, according to theactualday she was born.
This filled him with relief. Whatever truth might come to light—whatever scandal might arise—she would at least stand upon her own footing, less vulnerable to the consequences of it.
It was a poor consolation, but it was something.
He rested his hands upon the rail, his gaze fixed upon the shifting water. He had made his choice. Whether it was the right one or not, only time would tell.
And as the ship bore him steadily toward England, Frederick Bennet could do nothing but look out upon the restless sea and wonder what awaited him—and whether his return would mend what had been broken, or only fracture it further.
Chapter 42
Longbourn—1812
Elizabeth’s cheeks were wet with tears as Frederick sat back in his seat, his gaze fixed upon the fire as though he saw not the present, but all that had come before it. She could not even begin to imagine the weight of what he had endured: the years of absence, the quiet sacrifices, the loss.
From the stillness in the room, she knew she was not alone in the thought. No one spoke. No one seemed inclined to break the fragile hush that had settled over them all.
At least Jane is not here, she thought, her heart tightening.She would not bear this well.
The reflection came unbidden, but it brought with it a small measure of relief. Jane’s tender heart would have suffered under such a tale, and Elizabeth was grateful, for perhaps the first time in her life, that her sister had been absent.
And Lydia… and Kitty, too.
Elizabeth almost smiled through her tears at the thought. Neither of them would have remained quiet so long, nor listened with such solemn attention. There would have been whispers, interruptions, exclamations ill-timed and ill-considered.
This, naturally, led to thoughts of her last sister, and she scowled slightly.I would rather have Kitty and Lydia here with their laughter than endure Mary’s moralizing over the matter. She would probably say something along the lines of Anya’s death being the sins of the parents falling on the heads of their children.
But Mary was now Mrs. Collins.
Mr. Collins… who is now no longer Papa’s heir!
Elizabeth let out a small, strangled sound, shattering the silence in the room.
It had escaped her before she could stop it. She pressed her hand to her mouth, as though to contain it, but it only grew, bubbling up inside of her, and she nearly choked.
Darcy turned to her at once. “Elizabeth, are you unwell?”
