Page 8 of Companions of Their Youth
He shook his head and leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. “Never apologize for bringing a miracle into the world. She is perfect. She is yours.”
“She is ours,” Fanny whispered, barely daring to say it.
He looked down again at the child. Something warm and quiet began to settle in his chest.
“Have you thought of a name?” she asked.
“I assumed you might have something in mind.”
She shook her head. “I thought you might want to name her. She will carry your name, after all.”
He paused. Thought. Then said, “What do you think about Jane?”
Fanny’s eyes welled at once. “My mother’s name.”
He nodded. “Jane Frances Bennet. If that suits you.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks as she smiled. “Yes. It suits me very well.”
∞∞∞
Longbourn, 1790
Mr. Bennet sat shirtless on the edge of his bed as Stephens tugged at his boots in preparation for bed. The fire had burned low, and the room was calm, even elegant in its simplicity. The days were long, but the evenings after he retired to his room brought him the closest thing to peace he could claim.
He rarely lingered in his seventeen-year-old wife’s company after supper, but he did not avoid her either. Their evenings in the drawing room had settled into a quiet rhythm—he would read while she stitched, and though they spoke little, there was a kind of courtesy between them.
Fanny no longer laughed as she once had before her marriage and pregnancy, but her spirits had recovered somewhat with the birth of her little girl, who had turned one year of age just a few days prior. She had decorated the yellow morning room with soft pastels, overseen the replanting of the herb garden, and taken joy in little Jane’s daily progress with the wonder of a young mother.
He had made peace with the idea that this was to be his life: ordered, kind, remote.
Until the door between his chamber and hers creaked open.
He and Stephens turned at once, both startled.
Mrs. Bennet stood in the doorway, her nightgown a pristine white and edged with delicate lace. Her hands were tightlyclasped in front of her, twisting nervously. She looked as if she had rehearsed this moment many times and still had not decided whether to speak or flee.
Mr. Bennet opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“Could I speak with you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
There was a long pause. Mr. Bennet glanced at Stephens, who was blinking in astonishment. “Yes, of course,” he said finally.
The silence stretched again, awkward and brittle.
Fanny’s eyes darted toward Stephens several times, who realized belatedly that his presence was now quite in the way.
“I shall wait for you to call me, sir,” he said, bowing.
Mr. Bennet nodded and met his valet’s eyes. “Thank you, Stephens. I will most likely still be in need of assistance in a bit.”
As the door to the dressing room closed behind the man, Mr. Bennet turned back to his wife.
“Is something the matter?” he asked gently. “Are you unwell?”
She stepped forward, took a breath—and untied the neckline of her gown. The fabric slipped from her shoulders and dropped to the floor in a whisper of cotton.
He turned away instantly, his face burning hotly. “Please, put your gown back on.”
