Page 4 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

T he fire in the study burned low, casting long, twitching shadows across the carpet. Mr. Bennet sat in his usual chair, the same leather seat he had occupied for more than a decade, and yet the room no longer felt quite his own.

Too many changes, thought Mr. Bennet. Too many people.

Stephens sat nearby, also with a book in his hand, though he had not turned a page for the better part of an hour.

Things were different now at Longbourn in the six months since Fanny Gardiner became Mrs. Bennet.

Longbourn had grown—not in size, but in inhabitants.

The new mistress of the home brought along her maid—a young woman by the name of Faith—and Mr. Bennet’s wife could frequently be heard shouting “Hill!” whenever she became ill from her pregnancy.

Additionally, the kitchen now bustled with more than just Cook.

A new girl—barely older than ten—aided the Cook in preparing meals, fetching the eggs, and washing the dishes.

A scullery maid handled the grates and the fires, and the two girls shared a room in the servants’ quarters.

A stableboy and footman were hired by necessity to accommodate the new carriage purchased for Mrs. Bennet, and they, too, slept indoors, as there was no longer any room in the stables.

Stephens, who had always fulfilled role of both valet and butler, had stepped into his expanded duties in overseeing the male servants without complaint.

And yet, for all the increased movement within the house, Mr. Bennet felt more still than ever.

Evenings were passed quietly in the parlor now.

Fanny sat with embroidery or a book, subdued and docile, nothing like the sparkling girl who had bounced on her toes at the prospect of meeting militia officers in red coats.

He remained with her out of duty and kindness.

Not that he disliked her company—but she was no longer a child, and she was certainly not a wife in the way the world expected.

He had told her so, gently and directly, on their wedding night.

“I will not be visiting you,” he had said, awkwardly, but kindly. “At least—not until after the child is born, and only if we are both in agreement.”

She had flushed, looked away, then nodded. “Thank you,” she had whispered. The relief in her voice had made the extremely uncomfortable conversation worth it.

Since then, he had allowed her to redecorate several rooms—nothing lavish, but fresh curtains, new cushions, softer color palettes. She needed something to control, some way to take root in her new life. He gave her what he could.

A sudden scream pierced the ceiling, causing Mr. Bennet to sit upright.

Stephens calmly closed his book. “I believe the end is finally coming, sir.”

Mr. Bennet nodded and stood, pacing toward the door and back again. The midwife had arrived some hours ago, her lips pinching in disapproval as she eyed the parents, making note of their difference in age.

Both a nanny and a nursemaid had been installed into the nursery a week ago, and a wet-nurse had been procured as well. All of the preparations had been seen to, and they only had to wait for the child to arrive.

They did not have to wait long; only a few days later, Fanny had gone upstairs with Hill and one of the maids in the middle of supper, clutching her lower back and breathing shallowly.

Another scream, sharper this time.

He clenched his jaw and pressed one hand against the back of the chair to steady himself. His thoughts raced, not to protocol or timing, but to him —the officer. Colonel Millar. Older, experienced, practiced in false promises.

It was his fault young Fanny was in this potentially fatal situation.

Curse him.

He felt rage. Guilt. Helplessness.

He found himself whispering a prayer—not one of piety, but of hope.

Let it be a boy. Please. Let it be a boy.

If it were, then there would be no need to make the attempt at an heir. And the current heir, a miserly sort of man with a young son, would be deposed.

Time slowed. The fire popped. Footsteps passed above.

Then the door creaked open and the midwife descended the stairs with brisk but even steps.

“It is a girl,” she announced.

“How is my wife?” he asked, dismissing the woman’s words.

The woman tilted her head, a faint note of approval at his concern warming her eyes. “Very well. Very well indeed, considering her age and the circumstances. She is resting now. Strong as an ox, that one. And brave. You may go to her, if you wish.”

He nodded his thanks and climbed the stairs, each creaking tread carrying him further from solitude and closer to something else. Something heavier.

Fanny lay against the pillows, her face pale and damp, her dark hair curling against her temples. She looked young again—too young, and yet older somehow. In her arms was a swaddled bundle wrapped in soft flannel.

She saw him and smiled faintly. “Mr. Bennet,” she said, voice trembling. “She is very small.”

He crossed the room, uncertain of where to look—her flushed face, the child, the pale blue curtains. She turned the bundle slightly so he could see.

The baby had a shock of blonde hair and a pinched little mouth. Her eyes were closed.

“I am sorry,” Fanny said softly, not meeting his gaze. “I know you were hoping for a boy.”

He shook his head and leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. “Never apologize for bringing a miracle into the world. She is perfect. She is yours.”

“She is ours,” Fanny whispered, barely daring to say it.

He looked down again at the child. Something warm and quiet began to settle in his chest.

“Have you thought of a name?” she asked.

“I assumed you might have something in mind.”

She shook her head. “I thought you might want to name her. She will carry your name, after all.”

He paused. Thought. Then said, “What do you think about Jane?”

Fanny’s eyes welled at once. “My mother’s name.”

He nodded. “Jane Frances Bennet. If that suits you.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she smiled. “Yes. It suits me very well.”

∞∞∞

Longbourn, 1790

Mr. Bennet sat shirtless on the edge of his bed as Stephens tugged at his boots in preparation for bed.

The fire had burned low, and the room was calm, even elegant in its simplicity.

The days were long, but the evenings after he retired to his room brought him the closest thing to peace he could claim.

He rarely lingered in his seventeen-year-old wife’s company after supper, but he did not avoid her either. Their evenings in the drawing room had settled into a quiet rhythm—he would read while she stitched, and though they spoke little, there was a kind of courtesy between them.

Fanny no longer laughed as she once had before her marriage and pregnancy, but her spirits had recovered somewhat with the birth of her little girl, who had turned one year of age just a few days prior.

She had decorated the yellow morning room with soft pastels, overseen the replanting of the herb garden, and taken joy in little Jane’s daily progress with the wonder of a young mother.

He had made peace with the idea that this was to be his life: ordered, kind, remote.

Until the door between his chamber and hers creaked open.

He and Stephens turned at once, both startled.

Mrs. Bennet stood in the doorway, her nightgown a pristine white and edged with delicate lace. Her hands were tightly clasped in front of her, twisting nervously. She looked as if she had rehearsed this moment many times and still had not decided whether to speak or flee.

Mr. Bennet opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Could I speak with you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

There was a long pause. Mr. Bennet glanced at Stephens, who was blinking in astonishment. “Yes, of course,” he said finally.

The silence stretched again, awkward and brittle.

Fanny’s eyes darted toward Stephens several times, who realized belatedly that his presence was now quite in the way.

“I shall wait for you to call me, sir,” he said, bowing.

Mr. Bennet nodded and met his valet’s eyes. “Thank you, Stephens. I will most likely still be in need of assistance in a bit.”

As the door to the dressing room closed behind the man, Mr. Bennet turned back to his wife.

“Is something the matter?” he asked gently. “Are you unwell?”

She stepped forward, took a breath—and untied the neckline of her gown. The fabric slipped from her shoulders and dropped to the floor in a whisper of cotton.

He turned away instantly, his face burning hotly. “Please, put your gown back on.”

A soft sob escaped her, and he heard the rustle of fabric as she obeyed, hasty and humiliated.

She turned to leave, her hands fumbling for the doorknob, but he rose quickly. “Wait.”

She froze, her back to him, shoulders shaking.

He walked to her side and gently took her hand. “Come,” he said, leading her to the edge of the bed. They sat down in silence, her fingers still trembling in his.

Remembering his own undressed state, he hastily shrugged on his discarded shirt before once again taking her hand in his. He patted it gently and asked in a tender voice, “Now, now. What brought all this on?”

She choked back another sob. “I know I am supposed to give you an heir. But you never come to my room… you never touch me… I—” Her voice faltered.

“I know I did wrong, letting him… I know I am not as pretty as I was before Jane. But I want to give you a son. I want to do right. Do you… do you find me ugly? Or disgusting, because of what happened?”

Mr. Bennet stared at the fire, his chest tight with guilt and confusion.

“You are not ugly,” he said. “And I have never thought you disgusting. I only wished to give you time. You were very young when we married. You still are. And I… I am old enough to be your father. That is not a thing easily set aside.”

She wiped her cheeks, still looking down. “But I am a woman. Not a child. I love Jane dearly, but I should like more children. A boy, if I could.”