Page 15 of Companions of Their Youth
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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 hadresignedmyself to your female offspring, and then you went andbred 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 wasmeantto 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 andruineverything!”
“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 aninfant!” 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 amadman. I suggest you lower your voice before he begins to think you would raise your hand tohimnext.”
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 intomyhome and scream aboutmychild, 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 isnotover.”
“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 Icando 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.
