Page 14 of Companions of Their Youth
The woman’s jaw dropped slightly. “Sir, I am not certain I have enough milk for two.”
“I have already given orders to find another. In the meantime, let us make the best of it.”
He lowered himself to Jane’s level and gently introduced the toddling child to her sister. Jane blinked, reached out her small hand, and kissed the baby’s forehead, delighting the nanny and the wet-nurse.
“She is always such a little angel,” the nanny said warmly. “Never gives me a bit of trouble.”
“I can see that,” Mr. Bennet replied. “She will be a perfect example to her younger siblings.”
He handed Elizabeth to the wet-nurse. “I had better check on Mrs. Bennet,” he said. “And be present for… what comes next.”
He walked slowly down from the nursery to the second-floor landing, where he paused as another newborn cry filled the air.
He stood still, his hand braced on the balustrade, and whispered another prayer. Please, God. I love this little girl already. But I cannot keep doing this. Not again. I am tired, and I am old. If ever You would show me mercy, let it be now. I do not deserve it, I know. But I ask anyway.
The door opened and the midwife emerged. “Mrs. Bennet is ready now.”
Mr. Bennet raised an eyebrow. “Any more in there I ought to be aware of?”
She gave a weary, rueful smile. “No, sir. That is all of them. I am sure this time.”
When he entered the room, Fanny was positively glowing, her hair damp and curling around her face.
“Come, Mr. Bennet,” she said joyfully. “Meet your son!”
He let out a long breath and crossed to the bed.
“A son,” he repeated. “A son.”
Fanny beamed. “What shall we name him?”
“Marcus,” Mr. Bennet said with a half-smile. “After Marcus Aurelius, whose wife gave birth to two sets of twins.”
Fanny rolled her eyes affectionately. “I should have known you would choose someone from one of your stuffy old books.”
“Stuffy? I am wounded.”
She giggled weakly. “Perhaps a compromise? Would you consider calling Mark instead of Marcus? Marcus Thomas sounds rather odd.”
He pretended to consider, then gave a mock sigh. “Very well. Mark Thomas Bennet it is.”
Mrs. Bennet laughed, and the midwife—now tidying her implements—gave them a glance and nodded in approval at the new father’s acquiescence.
Mr. Bennet looked down at his son.
The child was red-faced and squirming, arms already flailing as if making his presence known. But he was strong, whole, and his small fist had wrapped tightly around the edge of the blanket as if to claim it.
Mr. Bennet bent low and placed a kiss on his son’s forehead. He swallowed once, deeply, then gave a silent prayer.
Thank You. I do not know how I will do this, but I will do it. I swear it.
He looked back to Fanny, who was watching him, tired but full of light. Her eyes closed as she leaned back against the pillows, a soft sigh escaping her.
He drew the blankets up around her and tucked them gently beneath her arms. Then, before leaving, turned and looked back at them.
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.
