Page 3 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

Besides , he thought, it would feel stranger to be alone in the house, with Stephens confined to the servants’ quarters each evening.

While Longbourn was a moderately prosperous estate of around two thousand pounds per year—which could be three thousand if the master chose to exert himself—Mr. Bennet was its only inhabitant.

With only one person being waited upon, there was no need pay for the expense of an entire household of servants.

The housekeeper—Mrs. Branson—had two daughters named Meg and Polly, ages twelve and thirteen.

The three of them served as housekeeper and maids, and they resided in a small tenant’s cottage near the main house.

The groom, Jasper, had a room for him above the stables, which was shared with his brother Horace, who worked indoors as a footman.

Thus the only servants who actually resided in the servants’ quarters at Longbourn were the cook and Stephens. Cook, needing to rise early every morning to begin baking and cooking, chose to retire to bed as soon as each evening’s meal was completed.

Thus, most evenings found Mr. Bennet and Stephens, who had been Mr. Bennet’s valet for nearly two decades, as the only two people awake inside the main house of Longbourn. Their habit of reading together in the evenings was one of long standing, and it suited both men very well indeed.

This night in particular was peaceful and quiet--

It was peaceful—the kind of night Mr. Bennet lived for. No noise, no obligations, no tedious conversation.

So, naturally, the knock at the front door was met with a shared grimace.

“I will see to it,” Stephens said, setting his book aside with a sigh and standing.

Mr. Bennet made no reply, merely sipped from his glass and turned the page of his volume with exaggerated calm. He rarely received visitors at this hour, and certainly not unannounced ones. Still, some part of him knew— felt —that the quiet of the night had just ended.

Moments later, Stephens returned, his face unusually tight. “It is Mr. Gardiner, sir. He is asking for you.”

Mr. Bennet stood immediately, setting his book down with deliberate care. That Gardiner would come this late, unannounced and without sending a note, meant something was very wrong.

He found his friend in the drawing room—a space he used so rarely that it felt foreign, even to him. Mr. Gardiner was seated on the edge of the settee, his posture collapsed in a way that betrayed utter defeat. His eyes were rimmed red.

Mr. Bennet’s stomach dropped.

“What is it?” he asked urgently, coming forward. “The children—Edward, the girls—are they—?”

“Edward and Agatha are well. It is… it is Fanny.” Gardiner rubbed a hand over his face. “She is not hurt. Not physically. But—” He exhaled sharply. “Her maid came to me this afternoon. Said my dear girl has not had her courses in the last two months.”

Mr. Bennet blinked, sinking into a nearby chair.

“She is—? Oh, Samuel.”

“I questioned her,” Gardiner continued hoarsely. “At first, she did not even understand what it meant. Her mother died when she was twelve, and I... well, I suppose I assumed she knew. She has always been clever.”

“She is sixteen,” Mr. Bennet said softly. “Girls can be clever and still impossibly young.”

Gardiner nodded bleakly. “She said it was Colonel Millar. From the regiment. He left with them last month. Promised he would return and marry her. She believed him—utterly. She did not even know...” His voice broke slightly.

“She did not understand that you do not have to be married to conceive. She thought—”

Mr. Bennet pressed his fingers against his temple, his own rage beginning to rise. “He was a grown man. She was a child.”

Gardiner nodded again, face taut. “She is distraught. Not over the shame—that has not struck her yet, I think. But she is terrified. Of the having a baby. Or of being forced to give it up. She has always adored children, you know that.”

“I do.”

“I spent all afternoon trying to think of what to do. I thought about sending her to Edward in London,” Gardiner said, forcing logic into his voice now.

“But he is engaged now. Besides, there is a risk she might encounter someone she knows; Sir William’s new knighthood means he is discussing the possibility of joining society in town.

If he sees her there, if anyone finds out.

..” He trailed off. “There are no distant cousins. No forgotten aunts in Cornwall. I have no one I can send her to. And even if I hunted the man down, how could I prove the child was his?”

Mr. Bennet’s mind was already racing. And one thought kept pressing forward. This is all my fault.

He had seen them—Fanny and that officer—in the shadows of a wedding alcove, flushed and laughing, too close to be innocent. And he had done nothing.

He could still see her: eyes closed, lips parted, glowing with delight. She had looked so happy. So unaware.

And he had turned away.

He had not warned her. Had not told Gardiner. Had not so much as offered a word of caution.

Because it was not his business. Because he preferred silence. Because he had not wanted to ruin her joy—or shoulder the discomfort of a difficult conversation. Because he did not think her foolish enough to let things go further.

But now the consequence had come. And it was his business. His silence had let it happen.

He looked at Gardiner, stricken and weary, and something inside him hardened—not with resolve, but with responsibility.

“What if I married her?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Gardiner blinked. “You—? Bennet. That is— You are—she is—”

“I know,” Bennet said. “Too young. I am practically her father. And I assure you, the idea of... sharing a bed with someone so young is hardly appealing to me. But from a practical standpoint—she would be respectable again. The child would have a name. I would have an heir.”

Gardiner stared at him. “You would do that?”

“I do not want to,” Bennet admitted. “But I can think of no better solution. You have no female relations to send her to. No guardian to arrange a discreet confinement. The man who did this is gone. And your daughter—Fanny—is not made for shame. It would kill her to be hidden away. It would destroy her to lose the baby.”

Gardiner’s lips pressed together. His hands trembled slightly.

“Do you think she would agree?”

“I am afraid I do not know,” Bennet said. “But it may be better than the alternatives. She deserves the chance to decide with dignity.”

Gardiner sat back, visibly shaken. “You truly are the most astonishing man I know.”

Bennet gave a dry smile. “I often think that myself, but I find very few people agree.”

Gardiner’s laugh was half-choked, half-sob.

“Thank you,” he said. “From the very depths of my soul.”

Bennet nodded once. “Give her a few days to decide, and then let me know either way.”

And then they sat in silence, two men bound by honor, friendship, and the impossible weight of doing what was right when nothing felt remotely good.

∞∞∞

One month later…

The morning mist clung low across the fields of Longbourn, as if the sky itself was reluctant to witness the events of the day. Inside the small parish church, a modest fire crackled in the hearth, more to banish the chill than to offer comfort. The church was nearly empty.

Mr. Bennet stood at the front, hands loosely clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. He had shaved, dressed, and arrived without fuss. Stephens had offered to press the coat, but Mr. Bennet had declined. There was no reason for ornament today.

He had not slept well.

He had not expected to sleep well.

Across the aisle, Mr. Gardiner stood stiffly with his son Edward beside him. Edward’s expression was clouded, though he had spoken no protest aloud. Gardiner had aged in the weeks since that midnight conversation, but he had accepted the arrangement with quiet, mournful gratitude.

The clergyman rustled some papers. There was no music. No flowers. No crowd.

Just the shuffle of a few shoes as Miss Fanny Gardiner entered the room, her sister at her side.

Her gown was simple, made over from one her sister had worn.

The neckline had been adjusted to something more demure, and the sleeves did not quite match.

Her dark hair was coiled back with more care than skill, and someone had pinned a small sprig of rosemary into it.

She was pale.

Her eyes did not meet Mr. Bennet’s.

When she reached him, he bowed slightly. She gave the barest curtsy in return.

Neither spoke.

The ceremony was short. The words were familiar to Mr. Bennet from countless village weddings he had once found charming, then tedious, then unworthy of notice. This time, they fell with the weight of law and obligation.

“Wilt thou have this woman...”

“I will.”

“Wilt thou have this man...”

A pause. Only slight.

“I will.”

The ring was placed on her finger. A thin band, gold but plain. His own hands trembled just slightly as he slid it into place.

“You may kiss the bride,” the clergyman said, looking as uncomfortable as the rest.

Mr. Bennet leaned forward and brushed the air near her cheek, barely making contact.

Fanny did not move.

The final blessing was given. The names entered into the parish register. It was done.

Mr. Gardiner stepped forward first, clasping Mr. Bennet’s hand silently. Then he kissed his daughter’s brow with trembling lips and whispered something into her ear. Fanny nodded, but her eyes remained dry and distant.

They traveled the short distance to Longbourn in two separate carriages. Mr. Bennet insisted Fanny ride with her brother and father. He rode alone.

At the house, a simple breakfast had been laid out. Cook had done her best. There were a few covered dishes, warm rolls, ham, butter, and a modest cake with pale frosting that was beginning to weep at the sides. No toasts were made. No music played.

Fanny excused herself early, claiming fatigue. “Do you remember where your room is?” Mr. Bennet asked her, and she nodded silently before making her escape.

He watched her retreat up the stairs—his wife now, Mrs. Bennet—and knew only one thing for certain:

He had done the right thing...

…but it would never feel right.