Page 17 of Companions of Their Youth
Then Mr. Jones said quietly, “He is dead.”
Mr. Bennet froze. “What?”
“He was struck by the horse—trampled. The injury was immediate and fatal.”
A strange hollowness opened in his chest. “His son—William…”
“He saw it happen,” Fanny whispered, her voice trembling. “But he is here. He has been in the nursery.”
Mr. Bennet tried to sit up—pain shot through his lower back like fire.
“Do not move,” the younger Jones said firmly, pressing him down.
“We must examine you properly,” the elder added. “Mrs. Bennet, if you would—”
She nodded and left the room reluctantly, dabbing at her eyes.
Mr. Jones’s hands were gentle but thorough. They pressed along the spine, testing sensation, watching for reaction. The younger Jones asked him to move his feet, flex his legs.
“I can feel them,” he said. “But it… hurts.”
“Can you move your toes?” the son asked.
He focused. Slowly—just barely—he wiggled them.
The young man nodded. “That is a good sign. The spine is likely bruised, not broken. But it will take time. Weeks at least. Perhaps longer.”
The elder Jones folded his hands. “You may regain full movement, Mr. Bennet. But I would caution you to rest, completely. You will need to be lifted, turned. Walking—if it returns—will not be swift.”
Mr. Bennet exhaled. His chest felt tight, his throat dry.
The elder Jones began gathering his instruments, but Mr. Bennet cleared his throat awkwardly. “Mr. Jones. One… one more thing.”
The physician paused.
“Will this injury affect… other areas?” he asked delicately.
The younger Jones looked toward his father, who sighed and met Mr. Bennet’s eyes.
“It may,” he said gently. “Injuries of this nature sometimes affect a man’s ability to… engage in activities that could lead to children. But we will not know for certain. The fact that you can move your toes gives us reason for hope.”
Mr. Bennet nodded slowly. “Thank you.”
They departed quietly.
And when the door clicked shut, Mr. Bennet closed his eyes.
At last, he thought with relief.I am free
Chapter 4
Longbourn, 1801
“Papa!”
Ten-year-old Elizabeth burst through the front door, her feet skidding slightly on the polished floorboards. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her ears. “Papa! Where are you?”
She did not wait for Stephens or Hill or anyone else. She knew where he would be—it was where he always was at this time of day.
