Page 10 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

M r. Bennet leaned back in his chair, staring into the fire.

“I was ten years old when my father sent me to Harrow. Most boys did not begin until they were twelve, but he said I was soft and bookish and needed discipline. He wanted me to become a man. I do not believe he much cared how it happened.”

She stiffened. “You were so young.”

He gave a mirthless smile. “Yes. Far too young. We began lessons at six in the morning. Latin, Greek, logic. I memorized more declining verbs and conjugations before the age of eleven than I have since read in all of Livy and Cicero combined. The school day continued until eight in the evening, with one hour in the afternoon set aside for games or sport—though that time was usually reserved for punishments or errands from the older boys.”

Elizabeth’s brows drew together. “Did they really—?”

“Birching, yes,” he said flatly. “For minor infractions. If one forgot a book, stumbled over recitation, or—God forbid—spoke out of turn. One was summoned to the Headmaster or Lower Master and beaten. Birch rods. Open hand. Sometimes worse, though that was usually left to the older boys.”

She flinched. “But surely—”

“You ask about rules,” he interrupted gently.

“There were rules. But no one enforced them. Not for the boys in Sixth Form, who had free rein over their fags. We younger boys were expected to light fires, polish boots, fetch their water, wake them each morning, clean their chamber pots. I did not see a kindness for the first full year—save one.”

He lifted his glass but did not drink.

“My first fag-master was not cruel. He was—surprisingly decent. He never struck me. He taught me how to fold a cravat, how to oil a razor, how to speak softly so as not to be noticed by the masters. But he left at the end of my first year.”

His expression darkened.

“The boy who replaced him was not so kind. Nor were his friends. They did not beat me, not often. They preferred other entertainments. To humiliate. To isolate. I was small for my age. Quiet. Too clever to be liked, but too meek to fight back.”

Elizabeth’s fists clenched in her lap.

“Then, when I was twelve, a new boy arrived. Stephens. He was also twelve, and the other boys took an immediate dislike to him. He was on scholarship. His mother had been a maid. His father—some unnamed baron, I suspect—had paid for his education in hopes of keeping him out of sight, but respectable. He would never be anything more than a servant in the eyes of society, and yet he was clever. Resourceful. Kind.”

Elizabeth leaned forward slightly.

“We took to each other quickly,” her father continued.

“We hid from the other boys. Read by candlelight. Stole scraps from the kitchens. There were nights when the only comfort I had in the world was the sound of him breathing beside me as we shivered under a shared coat. It was friendship. Fierce, loyal, and unlike anything I had ever known.”

He paused and drank from his glass at last.

“But as we grew older, and our bodies changed, it became something else. Something I did not have a name for. Nor did he. There were moments—brief, sacred, confused—when a touch lingered too long. When our eyes held fast. And though we never spoke of it, I knew we both felt it.”

Elizabeth’s breath came shallowly. She felt as if she were glimpsing something precious and private—a secret long buried beneath the facade of books and irony.

“We graduated together. He had no prospects, of course. He was clever enough for Oxford, but no one would sponsor a bastard servant boy. I could not bear the thought of parting from him. So I begged my father—lied, if I am honest—and said that I could not possibly be properly dressed without my own valet. My father relented, likely because he thought me vain, and I hired Stephens that day. He has been at my side ever since.”

Elizabeth stared at the flickering fire, her mind reeling.

“You have loved him for almost forty years,” she said quietly.

“I do not know if I have the right to use that word,” her father replied. “Not when it is a crime—and a sin—to feel it.”

She turned toward him. “But you do love him.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “I love him.”

The two sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their thoughts, though Elizabeth at times opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.

At last, Mr. Bennet said, “Do you have any questions for me?”

“Oh, so many.”

He chuckled at her wry remark. “Do not hesitate to ask them, my dear, for this will be the only time I will discuss this topic with you. After tonight, it is to be locked away.”

“Of course, Papa.”

She sat quietly for a few moments, organizing her thoughts, scarcely knowing where to begin. Finally, she said, “I do not know how to reconcile the idea that you love a—a man, but you are married to Mama.”

He sighed. “I care very deeply for your mother, and I have since I met her. But it is not the kind of love that I have for Stephens.”

Elizabeth tilted her head slightly, trying to read the truth in her father’s face. “Then why did you marry her?”

There was a long pause.

He swirled the port in his glass. “Because I failed her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her father and I were good friends, though he was in his fifties and I was just forty years of age. We shared a love of Latin, and he and I were like brothers. It was almost as though I were a second father to his children, in many ways. Much like Sir William Lucas is to you Bennet children.”

She nodded in understanding, and he continued. “Your mother had just turned sixteen years of age. She was bright and impulsive, full of joy. But she also very young and very naive.”

His lips pressed tightly together. “She thought herself in love with an officer who whispered all the right promises until he took her virtue right before the regiment moved on.” He glanced toward the fire.

“And I—I saw her with him once. Before the child. I should have said something to her father, should have stopped it before it began. But I convinced myself it was not my place.”

His voice quieted.

“She fell with child, and there was nothing that could be done. Her officer was long gone, and if he had wished to do his duty, he would have said something before leaving. When Gardiner came to me in desperation, ashamed and lost for a solution, I realized I could do nothing to save her from disgrace—except to make her my wife. I thought it a kindness. Perhaps it was. But it was also a form of penance.”

“Penance?”

“For not speaking up sooner. So I married her and took away her shame. She was like a daughter to me, and I could not allow her to be ruined.”

Elizabeth stared at him, stunned. “You are not Jane’s father.”

“No. But I raised her as my own. I gave her my name. I loved her the moment I saw her.”

She blinked away the sting behind her eyes. “But… you and Mama have other children. How—?” Her cheeks flamed, but she forced herself to meet his gaze.

Mr. Bennet gave a tired, lopsided smile. “Ah. That.” He took a slow sip of port before answering. “When your mother asked me if we might try to have another child, I demurred. But she so desperately wanted another child, an heir. And she wished for intimacy.”

“But what of Stephens?”

“Stephens… encouraged me.”

Elizabeth’s mouth opened slightly. “ Stephens encouraged you?”

“It was his idea, in part. He knew how much it mattered to her, and he said it would bring her joy. And, in his own way, he wished for me to be seen as a proper man, a husband and father. He knew me well enough to understand it would be a trial. And yet, I did what was asked.”

Elizabeth sat back in stunned silence. “I still cannot believe it.”

He smiled fondly at her. “He has always wanted me to be good to her, and he was secure in my love; there was no jealousy. And because I cared for her… I found a way. I will not pretend it was easy. But I did what I could.”

She flushed. “But… that sounds so unnatural.”

“It was,” he said plainly. “At first. But she was patient, and I was kind, and we managed. Not every family is born of passion, Lizzy. Some are born of mutual understanding. Of care.”

She looked down into her glass, biting her lip. “But then… how are there so many of us? I mean, you had your heir.”

Mr. Bennet looked at her with surprising softness.

“After you and Mark were born, and William’s father caused my horse to throw me, I could not move from bed for weeks.

Mr. Jones warned me that I might never walk properly again, and that I might no longer be able to…

engage in activities that would father children. ”

“But you recovered. You can walk.”

“Yes, I recovered—fully. But God forgive me, I told your mother that I had not.”

Elizabeth’s eyes rose high on her head.

“And I also told her—very gently—that if one day she found herself with child again, I would not ask questions. I would be glad for her. I would raise that child as my own. Because I did not want her to be alone. And because, by then, we had made peace with the life we had made.”

She was quiet for a long time. Her eyes widened. “You gave her leave to…?”

“I gave her honesty. At first, she was terribly offended. Hurt. But I explained that it was not a license to sin, only a hope that she not be lonely. And we continued to share a bed. To talk. To comfort each other. But no more.”

“So Kitty and Lydia…” Her voice trailed off.

“I do not know who their fathers are,” he said simply. “I have never asked, nor will I ever. She bore them into this world, and I loved them the moment I heard their first cries. That is all that matters.”

Elizabeth gripped the arms of the chair. Her thoughts churned. “You do not resent her for her unfaithfulness?” she asked.

“Not in the least. I have only ever wanted her to feel loved, and to be safe. To do otherwise would make me a hypocrite of the worst kind.”

The silence stretched again, heavy with questions she could barely articulate.