Page 7 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

My wife. My son.

He did not smile, but something inside him settled, and he felt complete. He turned off the lamp and left the room in silence.

∞∞∞

Two months later…

Mr. Bennet could hear the shouting even before the carriage wheels on the front driving had ceased to clatter over the cobblestones.

“You cheated me, Bennet! You lied! I shall see this contested in Chancery!”

From the parlor window, he could see his cousin, Isaac Collins, climbing out of a dusty traveling coach, his face red with fury. Beside him stumbled a thin, pale boy of about five, clutching a small cloth bundle and blinking in the sunlight.

Stephens appeared at the study door without being summoned. “Shall I show him in, sir, or direct him to the pigsty where he might feel more at home?”

Mr. Bennet rose slowly. “Let us be charitable, Stephens. A pigsty is cleaner than Isaac’s temper.”

He stepped into the hall just as the door flew open. Isaac Collins stormed in, his boots stamping hard enough to rattle the coat hooks. Young William followed hesitantly, his wide eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.

“You scum!” Collins spat, spittle catching in the edges of his graying beard. “You waited until I had resigned myself to your female offspring, and then you went and bred a son !”

Mr. Bennet crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway with a languid expression. “I must admit, I rather hoped it would remain private business, but I see you have come to make a public declaration of your fascination with my fertility.”

“Blast you, Thomas!” Isaac roared. “Longbourn was meant to come to me! God Himself cursed you to bachelorhood, and I thanked Him for it. But no, no—you had to go and get married and get your wife pregnant and ruin everything!”

“Indeed,” Mr. Bennet said mildly. “Imagine my nerve—choosing not to die alone and childless. Quite scandalous of me.”

“This child of yours—this boy—is an infant !” Isaac thundered. “He may not even live! And yet you dare to name him heir and deny me and my son what was rightfully ours?”

At that, Mr. Bennet’s expression cooled.

“Your son,” he said, voice low and even, “looked rather frightened when you dragged him up my steps shouting like a madman. I suggest you lower your voice before he begins to think you would raise your hand to him next.”

Collins’s lips curled. “Do not presume to tell me how to raise my child. Besides, ‘spare the rod’ and all that.”

“Ah, but you see, Isaac,” Mr. Bennet replied steely, “when you burst into my home and scream about my child, you forfeit the right to fatherly moral high ground.”

Isaac looked ready to strike, but Stephens had reappeared in the hallway behind Mr. Bennet, arms folded and gaze like iron.

“You think this is over?” Collins hissed. “I will take you to court. I will prove you tricked the registry. Perhaps the boy is not even yours!”

Mr. Bennet raised a single brow. “I imagine a judge will be delighted to hear that argument. Particularly after seeing the boy, who has my mother’s hair, my grandfather’s chin, and my distinct inclination to scream only when truly provoked.”

“You arrogant—”

“Isaac,” Mr. Bennet cut in sharply, his voice like steel.

“The entail is still intact. But I married. I sired a son. You may hate me, but the law is not on your side. Take your temper and your threats elsewhere—or I shall be forced to call on one of your creditors and inquire about the horse you recently sold under false pretenses.”

Isaac’s face turned a livid shade of purple. “This is not over.”

“No, it is not,” Mr. Bennet said quietly, looking down at the small, trembling boy behind his cousin. “But the next part of it will be lived without your boot marks on my doorstep.”

Collins gave a furious growl, seized William by the arm, and dragged him from the house. The child looked back only once, eyes wide and wet.

Mr. Bennet stood in the doorway long after they left, watching the road until the dust settled.

Only when it was quiet again did he murmur, “Poor boy. That child deserves better.”

Stephens approached. “There is nothing you could have done, sir.”

“I know,” Mr. Bennet said. He rubbed his brow, weariness pressing down on his shoulders. “But I can do better for mine.”

He returned to the study and sat down again, but this time, he reached not for his novel, but for the pamphlets he had received from an estate agent in Oxfordshire—on soil management, crop rotation, the latest improvements in sheep breeding.

He turned the pages slowly, absorbing every word.

That afternoon, he sent two letters—one to his brother-in-law, Edward Gardiner, with inquiries about investing a portion of Fanny’s dowry, and the other to an agricultural bookseller in Cambridge.

Longbourn would no longer be merely inherited.

It would be built.

For Jane. For Elizabeth. And for Mark.

∞∞∞

Six months later…

The late afternoon sun had begun to dip toward the horizon, casting golden light across the hedgerows as Mr. Bennet guided his horse back toward Longbourn. His coat was dusty, his boots muddied from field paths and tenant yards, but he felt more satisfied than he had in years.

It was strange, this sense of purpose. For most of his adult life, he had managed the estate well enough to keep things afloat, but never with passion.

He had let things be—let the hedges overgrow and the fences lean and the tenants fall a week late on rent so long as the accounts balanced in the end.

But now—now there were three children under his roof who bore his name. And one of them, a bright-eyed boy with his mother’s laugh and his father’s stubborn streak, would one day inherit it all. If Mr. Bennet had any say in it, he would not inherit an estate in decline.

He had spent the past year quietly reshaping Longbourn: walking fields with tenant farmers to learn which rotations yielded best; writing Edward Gardiner about investments with reliable return; hiring a steward to assist with tallies and a new carpenter to repair the roof of the east tenant cottage.

He had even begun planting fruit trees along the lane. Small things. But deliberate.

The hooves clattered against the gravel of the front drive as he rounded the bend—and then he saw him.

Isaac Collins, standing in the center of the lane, red-faced and bristling. His son, William, trailed behind like a shadow, too small for his coat and clutching his father's hand as if afraid to let go.

“You coward!” Isaac screamed as Mr. Bennet slowed his mount. “You stole everything from me! You have ruined my son’s future!”

The horse startled at the sudden movement as Isaac stormed forward. Mr. Bennet tried to rein her in, but too late—the animal reared high, hooves lashing skyward.

Pain exploded down his spine as he struck the ground hard. The breath was punched from his lungs, and a sharp crack echoed in his ears as the world spun sideways. He had a glimpse—only a glimpse—of Isaac's face twisted in cruel satisfaction before the horse came down.

A scream— William’s , he thought—and then darkness.

∞∞∞

He awoke to weeping.

The ceiling above was familiar—his own, at Longbourn—but everything was dull and heavy. The ache in his back was immense. His throat rasped as he tried to speak.

“Fanny…?”

A choked sob, and then her face hovered above his, pale and tear streaked. “He is awake!” she cried, turning toward the window. “Stephens! Mr. Jones! Come quickly!”

Old Mr. Jones bustled in moments later, followed by a younger man—his son, newly returned from medical training in London.

“Mr. Bennet,” the elder Jones said, placing a hand on his shoulder, “you gave us all quite a scare.”

He blinked slowly. “What… happened?”

“You were thrown from your horse,” the younger Jones replied. “You hit your back badly and lost consciousness for over a day. Do you recall anything?”

“I saw Isaac,” he muttered. “He startled the mare. She reared—then I fell…”

Fanny clasped his hand tightly, fresh tears in her eyes.

He turned his head slightly. “Where is he? I would have expected him to be gloating at my deathbed.”

Silence.

Then Mr. Jones said quietly, “He is dead.”

Mr. Bennet froze. “What?”

“He was struck by the horse—trampled. The injury was immediate and fatal.”

A strange hollowness opened in his chest. “His son—William…”

“He saw it happen,” Fanny whispered, her voice trembling. “But he is here. He has been in the nursery.”

Mr. Bennet tried to sit up—pain shot through his lower back like fire.

“Do not move,” the younger Jones said firmly, pressing him down.

“We must examine you properly,” the elder added. “Mrs. Bennet, if you would—”

She nodded and left the room reluctantly, dabbing at her eyes.

Mr. Jones’s hands were gentle but thorough. They pressed along the spine, testing sensation, watching for reaction. The younger Jones asked him to move his feet, flex his legs.

“I can feel them,” he said. “But it… hurts.”

“Can you move your toes?” the son asked.

He focused. Slowly—just barely—he wiggled them.

The young man nodded. “That is a good sign. The spine is likely bruised, not broken. But it will take time. Weeks at least. Perhaps longer.”

The elder Jones folded his hands. “You may regain full movement, Mr. Bennet. But I would caution you to rest, completely. You will need to be lifted, turned. Walking—if it returns—will not be swift.”

Mr. Bennet exhaled. His chest felt tight, his throat dry.

The elder Jones began gathering his instruments, but Mr. Bennet cleared his throat awkwardly. “Mr. Jones. One… one more thing.”

The physician paused.

“Will this injury affect… other areas?” he asked delicately.

The younger Jones looked toward his father, who sighed and met Mr. Bennet’s eyes.

“It may,” he said gently. “Injuries of this nature sometimes affect a man’s ability to… engage in activities that could lead to children. But we will not know for certain. The fact that you can move your toes gives us reason for hope.”

Mr. Bennet nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

They departed quietly.

And when the door clicked shut, Mr. Bennet closed his eyes.

At last , he thought with relief. I am free