Page 99 of The Longbourn Bloodline

“Then acquire another dog, Charles.”

“Jane won’t let me. She says five children and one spaniel is already more trouble than any reasonable household can contain.”

From the terrace, Mrs. Bennet’s voice rose above the general din: “Children! Children, attend me! Your sashes are not straight! How can you compete with crooked sashes? Thomas, stand still. Catherine, do not chew on the ribbon… George, that is not a weapon. Lydia, get Henry out of the jam pot this instant!”

Two-year-old Henry Collins—named, regrettably, for Lydia’s father-in-law and entirely unconnected to the late Mr. Collins of Hunsford, though Lydia found the coincidence hilarious—had located the strawberry preserves meant for the victory tea and was now anointing his face, pinafore, and the leg of Mary’s husband with admirable thoroughness.

“I believe,” the Reverend James Ellsworth said mildly, extracting his trouser leg from Henry’s sticky grip, “that this child has been sent to test my patience.”

“He is enthusiastic,” Lydia said, swooping in to retrieve her jam-covered offspring. “Captain Collins says enthusiasm is the foundation of all great military careers.”

“Captain Collins,” Mary observed, not looking up from her book, “once led a charge against a flock of sheep he mistook for French infantry. His standards for enthusiasm may be suspect.”

“That was a single time, Mary, and the moonlight was very deceptive.”

“She has been preparing for this event for three weeks,” Elizabeth observed about their mother. “I believe she considers it the culmination of her life’s work.”

“The organized warfare of her grandchildren?”

“The campaign she set out to win when she asked my father to call on Bingley. She has commissioned sashes. There are medals. Papa has been taking bets since breakfast.”

Her parents, Elizabeth reflected, had mellowed considerably over the past decade. Mrs. Bennet’s nerves had not vanished, merely discovered a new vocation. Where once she had agonized over marriages, entails, and the specter of the hedgerows, she now directed the full force of her anxious energies into the orchestration of twelve grandchildren. Mr. Bennet had grown older; his hair was grey, his step less sprightly, but his eyes still sparkled with mischief, and he remained a master of observing bedlam from a safe and comfortable remove.

“I have five shillings on the Bennets,” he called across the lawn, noticing Elizabeth’s gaze. “Your spawn inherited your ruthlessness, Lizzy. The Darcys are far too amiable by half.”

“The Darcys,” Bingley protested, with Jane on his arm, “are perfectly capable of ruthlessness when required. Young Charles once refused to share his pudding with Margaret for an entire fortnight.”

“My money also rests on the Bennets,” Kitty said, settling onto the blanket with three-month-old Horatio Harville. Her husband, Lieutenant Edward Harville, now a gentleman farmer finding the sea less agreeable to his constitution than Hertfordshire soil, struggled to help Mrs. Bennet straighten the children’s sashes, making a hash of it. “Sorry, Mr. Darcy, but your namesakes are too easily distracted from their task, being essentially Bingleys in disguise.”

“Then which team shall Lydia’s Henry join?” Elizabeth mused. “He might prove the deciding factor.”

“Henry is two,” Lydia said, wiping jam from his eyebrows with her sleeve. “He cannot even grip the rope. But he could serve as… mascot? The battle crier? Captain Collins insists small but loud is as effective on the battlefield as large and quiet.”

“Then we need Georgiana to spill out a couple of more Darcys to shore up the Darcy team.” Bingley rubbed his hands as Georgiana and her new husband, the solicitor Edward Waring, appeared hand in hand. Ever since the female entail had gained favor amongst their set, Darcy and Elizabeth had secured Netherfield Park and created a new entailed estate for the heirs of the body of Georgiana Darcy. She did not need to change her name to Bennet, and Mr. Waring had agreed that Darcy was a suitable surname for his branch of the family. Being a younger son, he was not beholden to any degree of name snobbery.

“We have been married four months, Charles,” Georgiana said, color rising in her cheeks. “Grant us time.”

“I gave Jane and Elizabeth no time at all. Thomas arrived precisely nine months after the wedding, and Charles Junior was⁠—”

“Bingley,” Darcy said, in the tone that had once silenced London drawing rooms, “perhaps we might discuss something other than the reproductive timeline of our respective marriages.”

“Yes, quite right, sorry, forgot myself⁠—”

The terrace door opened again, admitting Charlotte and Colonel Fitzwilliam. They had been married eight years now—a match that had surprised everyone except Elizabeth, who had observed the Colonel’s growing admiration for Charlotte’s practical intelligence during the tumultuous months following the revelation of the Bennet bloodline. Charlotte had needed purpose; Richard had needed a woman who could match his wit without being dazzled by his charm.

“I have been dispatched to inform you,” Richard announced, “that the tournament will commence in precisely fifteen minutes, and all combatants, those two years of age and above, are required to take their positions.”

“Tournament?” Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Do we now dignify children’s games with such titles?”

“The Great Longbourn Tug-of-War between the Bennet Griffins and the Darcy Spaniels. I am officiating. Charlotte has the stopwatch. Your mother-in-law has the medals. And Mr. Bennet has the betting book, which I believe now contains wagers from half the county.”

“The Lucases have put ten shillings on the Spaniels,” Mr. Bennet called. “Sir William claims it is a strategic investment. I believe he enjoys contradicting me.”

Mary looked up from her book. “Must I participate in this?”

“You must observe,” Mrs. Bennet said firmly. “In the event of a tie, you shall cast the deciding vote.”

“I do not wish to cast the deciding vote. I wish to finish my chapter.”