Page 21 of In Want of Connections
In those early days, he had been contented with superficial pleasures. He had a beautiful wife on his arm and in his bed, whose soft sighs filled their bedchamber in private moments. His mother had taken Franny under her wing, patiently instructing her in the duties of a landowner’s wife, while his father had dragged Bennet reluctantly from his beloved library into the muddy business of estate management. For three years, they had lived thus, their happiness crowned by the births of Jane, with her angelic blonde curls, and Elizabeth, whose dark, intelligent eyes mirrored his own.
Then his father had gone to bed one bitter winter evening and never woke up. Suddenly, Thomas Bennet found himself master of Longbourn, responsible for decisions that affected dozens of lives. Tenants with weather-beaten faces and calloused hands looked to him for guidance he was unqualified to give. He had detested the burden, shirking duties until ledgers piled high on his desk and could no longer be avoided, while ignoring his mother’s disapproving glances across the dinnertable. Then tragedy had struck again with the swiftness of a summer storm. Within a year of his father’s passing, his mother succumbed to an influenza outbreak that also afflicted Franny, leaving her feverish and delirious for days. In her weakened state, she had delivered their long-awaited son, the heir who would secure Longbourn’s future. But as Franny struggled to recover, her nightgown soaked with sweat and her once-vibrant hair limp against the pillows, their precious boy had slipped away in the cold light of dawn, not even a week old, his miniature fingers uncurling one last time against Bennet’s trembling palm.
It was then, to his everlasting shame, he cruelly laid the blame for the death of his son, along with his mother’s, at his wife’s feet, citing her fondness for local news as the root cause. “Had you not insisted on knowing every trifling detail in the parish,” he had shouted, “you would never have encountered that wretched illness!” His reasoning defied logic, but grief and fury had blinded him. He fled Longbourn, taking refuge with an old university companion. There he remained for nearly a month, drowning his sorrows in spirits, too proud to return home and seek his wife’s pardon. The cold reality of waking one morning to find one of the housemaids lying next to him brought about instant sobriety.
The evidence of their indiscretion lay scattered about, from garments strewn across the floor to bed linens in disarray. Mortified by his conduct, he extracted a promise from the girl to inform him should their liaison bear consequences. Four months later, a crudely penned letter arrived announcing a child would come with the spring thaw.
With a heavy heart, he confessed his transgression to Franny and once more implored her forgiveness. After the infant’s birth, he engaged a wet nurse and brought little Mary to Longbourn.His wife, admirably, embraced the child as her own, though anyone could see that Mary stood apart from her sisters, strongly resembling her birth mother’s family. Fortunately, she had inherited her father’s eyes and hair, allowing them to shield this painful secret from the world, even their own daughters.
Bennet cleared his throat. “I have failed you as a husband, Franny.” She pressed her lips together, but offered no contradiction. “After Mother and little Matthew were taken by the fever...” A sob caught in his wife’s throat. “I blamed you unjustly. The illness that ravaged so many homes was not of your making. That you survived when our babe did not…” His voice faltered as he offered her his handkerchief, and she took it with trembling fingers. “While you mourned, I retreated into selfishness. I fled our grief, only to return with Mary. Perhaps bringing her to Longbourn was a mistake. I should have left her with her mother.”
“No!” Franny exclaimed. “Do not say that.”
“You cannot deny that Mary is sometimes the forgotten child. We have ignored that poor girl, letting her bumble about on her own with no guidance from either you or me. Is it any wonder she clings to the church and wishes to remain in Meryton with the rector and his wife?”
“That little girl,” Franny whispered, “with those deep, knowing eyes... she mended something in me when our Matthew died, and all you offered were cold words and judgment.” She looked up. “Longbourn is where she belongs.”
“Do you truly believe that?”
“With all my heart, Thomas. The Lord took our son but blessed us with Mary. My only regret is not better understanding her quiet nature when our other daughters are so lively.”
Bennet’s lips curved slightly. “She reads more than Lizzy.”
“Her reading material is suspect. Who in the world introduced her toFordyce’s Sermons for Young Women?”
Bennet ducked his head and cleared his throat.
“I did, purely as a joke,” he admitted when his wife harrumphed. “Mary was asking for doctrinal tracts, and I thought she would be amused by the outdated ideas that the moralising fool spouted.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Little did I know she would forsake the sound teachings of Holy Scripture for that claptrap.”
“Thank goodness for Mr. Allen and his wealth of knowledge, and the patience to answer all her questions.”
“Aye, he and his wife have, in many ways, adopted her as one of their own.”
“Thomas,” Franny ventured hesitantly. “Mrs. Allen strongly resembles Mary. Am I wrong in thinking that?”
“You are not mistaken,” he replied. “When I granted Mr. Allen the living at Longbourn, I was aware that Mrs. Allen is the sister of Mary’s mother.”
“Do they know who Mary is?”
“They do.”
“Are you not concerned that Mary’s natural mother might demand money, now that you are an earl?”
“I am not. Mrs. Allen’s sister made more than one mistake in her life, and, sadly, she died in childbirth less than two years after having Mary.” Bennet took his wife’s hand in his and squeezed. “I have entrusted Mrs. Allen to tell Mary the truth when she deems our daughter ready.”
“Mary will be so disappointed in us. I must know when she learns the truth. I want her to understand that though she is not my daughter by blood, she is the daughter of my heart.”
“Why not send her a letter expressing exactly that, withoutrevealing the full reason?”
“Yes! I shall do so at once.” Franny took her husband’s hand in hers and raised it to her cheek. “You are so clever. I have never once regretted marrying you.”
“And I do not regret marrying Miss Frances Jane Gardiner. She… You are the love of my life, even with your silly nerves.”
“How you vex me, Mr. Bennet,” his wife teased.
“You are the only woman I choose to vex.” He looked closely at his wife, appreciating the way the warm glow from the fireplace softened her features and enhanced her beauty. “Lady Rumley,” he ventured softly. “May I stay with you this evening?”
“Oh, Thomas,” she whispered, her eyes wide, her lips trembling. “I… of course. It would be my pleasure.”
