Page 16 of Companions of Their Youth
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.
