Page 5 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

He swallowed. “It would be hard on your body, at your young age. Perhaps we could wait a little longer.”

“But what about your own age? If something were to happen, Jane and I would be without a home.”

“Well, you do have the ten-thousand-pound dowry your father left. I have not touched the principal, or the interest. It would be quite enough for you both to live on in a cottage.”

She nodded reluctantly but did not speak, choosing instead to look down and pick at a stray thread on her gown. After several moments, he broke the silence. “Is there something more?”

She nodded slightly, then hesitated. “When my mother died,” she said, “no one ever held me again. My father… it was only pats on the head or brief squeezes of the shoulder. And my brother left…and Agatha was not interested in spending time with a silly sister…”

He looked at her, puzzled. “Surely you know they care for you? Your father loves you deeply.”

“I suppose,” she said, her voice shaking. “But when Colonel Millar—when he held me, took me in his arms… and kissed me… it was the first time I felt loved. I think I gave more than I wanted to because I was so afraid he would stop. I did not even like it. But I did not want him to pull away.”

His eyebrows raised high on his head. “That is quite profound of you to recognize.”

She shrugged. “I have had quite a lot of time to think about it. I am not as silly as I once was.”

He sat very still, waiting for her to continue.

She turned toward him, her eyes red but clear. “I think… I would very much like to be held by you. You are kind. You are patient. And I trust you.”

He inhaled slowly, willing his thoughts to still. “Fanny,” he said, “I am an old man. I am not… virile, like your colonel. It has been many, many years since I have been with a woman. And… the fact that you did not enjoy it with him gives me pause.”

She blinked, then looked away.

“It is not that you are undesirable,” he added, quietly. “It is that I do not want to hurt you. I see you more as—” He stopped short, not finishing the word.

“A daughter,” she said glumly. “I know. It is all the old matrons could say when they began calling after the wedding.”

“I am sorry,” he said lamely, uncertain of how to fix the situation.

“But I am not your daughter; I am your wife ,” she burst out. “Everyone else talks about how their husbands will not leave them alone. They pretend to have headaches to escape. But for us, it is the opposite. And it hurts.”

The words were simple. Honest.

And they broke his heart.

He took her hand again and held it between both of his. “Would it help,” he said slowly, “if I came to your room each night? Only to hold you. Until you fall asleep.”

She blinked in surprise. “You would?”

“I cannot promise more than that,” he said. “But I can give you that much.”

Her shoulders sagged with relief. “Yes. That would help very much.”

He smiled faintly. “Not tonight. I am not… not prepared for it.”

Her answering smile was small but real. “That is all right.”

He drew her gently into his arms, and she leaned against him, her head resting on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin lightly atop her head.

They stayed that way for a long time.

And as the fire hissed softly behind the grate and the house settled into stillness around them, Mr. Bennet stared at the door Stephens had gone through and prayed silently in his heart.

Lord, I do not know how to do this.

∞∞∞

One month later…

The fire had burned low. Outside, frost rimed the windows in delicate webs, and the steady tick of the longcase clock in the corridor was the only sound in the quiet house.

Mr. Bennet lay on his side atop the coverlet, fully clothed but relaxed, his arm loosely around Fanny’s shoulder as she nestled beside him.

These nights had become routine—quiet, unspoken, and surprisingly easy.

She would lean into him as they lay still, and he would hold her, his hand sometimes gently stroking her hair until her breathing slowed and sleep claimed her.

He had come to look forward to it—these moments of closeness, untethered to expectations.

“Mr. Bennet?” she murmured sleepily.

“Hm?”

“I think… I would like to have another baby.”

He stiffened, just slightly.

Fanny did not look up. Her voice remained soft, but sure. “I know I am ready this time. It would not be like before.”

He was silent for a long time. Her hand tightened slightly on his sleeve.

“I know you are not in love with me,” she added. “And I know it is strange. But I—I want a child that is ours. Not just mine.”

Her voice faltered. “And I want to do something right this time. On purpose.”

When he finally looked down at her, he saw that her eyes were bright with tears, though she blinked them away quickly.

His heart twisted painfully.

He cleared his throat. “Not tonight,” he said gently. “But… perhaps we might find a routine. Once a week. I am not as young as I once was, Fanny.”

She gave a watery laugh, her relief almost childlike. “All right. Once a week is more than enough.”

She burrowed closer against his chest, and he held her quietly, letting her contentment wash against him like tidewater on stone.

∞∞∞

The next morning, Mr. Bennet was unusually still as Stephens adjusted his cravat. The air between them was calm, as it always was in the quiet rhythm of morning dressing, but something unsaid hummed beneath the surface.

Mr. Bennet kept his eyes on the mirror. “It seems,” he said mildly, “that I have agreed to become a husband in more than name.”

Stephens’s hands stilled for half a second. Then resumed. “Indeed, sir.”

“A strange thing, is it not?” Mr. Bennet continued, tugging gently at one sleeve. “To enter into something long after one thought oneself finished with such matters.”

Stephens said nothing. He reached for the waistcoat and held it out.

“I am not sure I remember how to begin,” Mr. Bennet added softly, slipping his arms into it.

“You will manage, sir,” Stephens replied, his voice even. “You always do.”

There was a beat of quiet.

“She is very young,” Mr. Bennet said. “And I… am not.”

Stephens fastened the buttons with slow, deliberate fingers. “Then you will need to be patient. With her. And with yourself.”

Mr. Bennet nodded, eyes still fixed on the mirror, though he did not seem to be looking at his reflection. “I have no idea how to do this, Stephens.”

“Might I recommend wine, sir?”

“Would wine help?” he asked, not lightly.

Stephens did not answer immediately. He tucked a shirt cuff neatly in place, then said with tactful precision, “Many gentlemen find a little wine helpful. For both parties.”

Mr. Bennet gave him a dry look. “A great deal of wine, in some cases.”

“I have seen new brides drink it to calm their nerves,” Stephens replied, straight-faced. “And I have seen older grooms take it to forget... inconvenient truths.”

Mr. Bennet regarded his valet in the mirror. “Such as?”

Stephens met his gaze. “Such as who their partner is. Or how young she still seems, even when she does her best to seem grown.”

There was a pause.

“Yes,” Mr. Bennet said softly. “Quite.”

That evening, he knocked once on the adjoining door and entered carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. He had taken two full glasses of port in his own room before coming over. His hands were steady. His breath was slow.

Fanny was already sitting up in bed, wearing a nightgown that was very clearly new—and very clearly chosen to make a statement. The lace at the neckline was scarcely worthy of the name, and the silk clung delicately to her figure.

She looked nervous, but hopeful.

“Wine?” he asked, lifting the bottle slightly.

She smiled and nodded.

They drank slowly, talking about little things—the estate, the weather, how Jane had tried taking her first steps and had very nearly succeeded. The warmth of the wine dulled the awkwardness.

When her fingers brushed his as she took the second glass, she held on just a moment longer.

Then she leaned in and kissed him.

He did not pull away.