P&P:TUS The Reflections of Thomas Bennet

Reflections of Thomas Bennet

November 17, 1812

Thomas Bennet was not by his nature a reflective man. Reflection tended to bring on discomfort and discontent, neither of which he favored. But his house—and his life—were in disarray on the cusp of his daughters’ weddings and a little reflection could hardly make his discomfiture worse.

He picked his way around the trunks and boxes piled in the hall way. It was only a matter of time before Mrs. Bennet began demanding they be removed somewhere else lest the guests for the wedding breakfast see them. Thankfully Mr. Bingley had offered space at Netherfield for his daughters’ things.

He slipped into the study and fell into his favorite chair. All the lumps and bumps in the seat matched his own. At least some things in his life would not change. He had this old chair for decades and resisted all Mrs. Bennet’s insistence that it be replaced.

But it seemed like everything else around him was changing, and he was certain he did not like it. Change brought disorder and distress. Change took away…

A lump rose in his throat. He pushed up from his chair and locked the door. A visit to the brandy decanter, and then he returned to his chair.

Lizzy told him Lady Catherine said a daughter was never of much consequence to a father, but the great lady was very, very wrong. He sipped his brandy and leaned his head back. Society told him he should want fine strapping sons—an heir and a spare to inherit his estate and carry on his name. But he did not.

Oh, he had intended to father a son, to be sure, but his heart had not been in it. Perhaps that was why Fanny only conceived daughters. That was what his father argued when he scolded his eldest son for not producing the required heir. As if a father’s will could influence the choices of Providence. He shook his head and closed his eyes.

Though he would never say it aloud, it was best this way. After living with his father and a brother who was just like his sire, Bennet did not trust himself with sons. He could not shake the lingering fear that a son might be like his grandfather or like Collins’s father. He shuddered.  No, far better to have daughters.

Upon daughters, a man could dote. He could delight in them rather than try to shape them into the image of himself. He laced his fingers and rubbed his thumbs together. He was satisfied with his girls, the eldest two in particular, except for one thing, they were about to leave him.

True, he hardly missed Lydia, but she was her mother’s daughter. Jane, and especially Lizzy were more his girls. Jane would sit and read to him. She had the most delightful reading voice. Lizzy was his chess partner and the one with whom he could discuss his interests.

Only yesterday he had bounced them on his knees, taught them to love the classics and to reason. Those days had flown so quickly. If only there were some way to recapture them.

He pulled his top lip down over his teeth. What we would give to turn back time and be with his little girls again. But that could never be. Perhaps the emptiness that kept threatening his consciousness would become a permanent fixture in his life. He stroked his chin.

On the other hand, he could tolerate Bingley’s company with some equanimity and, though he would not admit it aloud, Darcy’s presence grew more and more tolerable as well. They girls had found fine men to be their partners in life. Well, Lydia had not. Wickham was every bit as silly and banal as she.

If he could keep Fanny from alienating Jane with constant intrusions, they might remain welcome at Netherfield. In time, after Darcy’s memory of Fanny’s effusive praises had faded, they might even enjoy invitations to Pemberley. Then, if, no when, there were children, his grandchildren, he could be the grandfather his girls never had. Surely one among them would have Jane’s disposition and another Lizzy’s. He might be able to recapture those days after all.

He smiled, eyes a little moist. Sometimes a little reflection was indeed good for the soul.

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