Chapter 36
Willicot, Derbyshire
Lucinda picked her way along the lane at such a cautious walk that Henry felt certain she comprehended his condition fully and was taking care of him. He still needed the care, but at least the day's experiment seemed to be going well. Henry was not yet in a position to walk any distance himself out of doors, but in this way he could allow Lucy to do the walking, and finally appease the restlessness that dominated this phase of his recovery. Beside him, his father was mounted upon mama's old swaybacked gelding, who was of an age to keep to a sober pace because he never desired to move any faster. Henry had been surprised that his father wished to make the attempt to ride at all and felt the honour of his companionship. It had been years since papa had ridden, and decades since he had been the vigorous man who led the field in the Willicot hunt.
"How are you feeling, Henry? Do you need to turn back?"
"Nay, I am well enough," stated Henry. His wounds did still ache, but he had done without the laudanum for almost a full week now, and so at least his mind was fully restored. "And how are you feeling, papa?"
"Better on horseback than my own two feet. I believe I may keep this up even after you and that mare are ready to run circles around me."
Henry grinned. "We can run circles and still have a walk with you, I think. It will be good for the both of us to keep this up – at least until you are ready to return to town."
"I'll not be returning to town, Henry. I am not sure whether I have another journey left in me."
"I am sorry to have pulled you away from what you hoped to accomplish in town, then."
"The fault is in nowise yours, Henry, and even if it was, I would have no regrets. This time – this time is precious to me, and now I have the comfort of knowing you will succeed me in the House of Lords. When I die, I trust that you will complete anything I could not. So I will live out my days here at Willicot."
"Papa, this time – this time is precious to me as well. I will do my best to ensure your days here are comfortable, to ensure they are all good days."
"There is something you can do to aid in that, if you will."
"Of course – tell me what it is, and I shall do it. I presume you would not ask if it was not in my power."
"You should still take care of making promises before you know what it is you are promising, Henry," his father grinned, looking very well amused with himself. "I want you to bring that Bennet girl up here and marry her. Give me some hope of grandchildren, even if I do not live to see them, and let me see you happily married. I would caveat that by saying so long as your affections have not changed, but I do not think they have. I suspect she has been much on your mind."
Henry would not have thought a man of his age capable of blushing in the manner he expected he was demonstrating now, so warm was his face. Kitty Bennet had been much on his mind. Their parting had been a test of the strength of his affections, and he knew them thoroughly now: he missed her deeply. He feared that he had been too vague, when speaking of his hopes for the future, and wondered if he had erred in desiring to wait until his physical condition was better before courting her properly. And yet he had also had time to contemplate just what a courtship would mean, particularly for a woman in her situation. She was her father's sole companion, and at his time of life she could not like to leave him alone any more than Henry would wish to abandon his own father.
Henry explained this qualm to his father as the horses walked along, to which papa's response was,
"It would be much to ask a man to uproot his life and leave the home he has known for all of it, but if Mr. Bennet can be convinced to do so, I would certainly enjoy the companionship of one of my generation here. He and I get on well, and if the two of us can occupy each other, it will give you and your wife opportunity for the time together you will wish for when you are newly married."
"It is much to ask of Mr. Bennet, but I believe we have a point in our favour, in such a negotiation. I understand Mr. Bennet is very fond of a good library."
"Ha! Well, then it is settled. He and I will while away our remaining hours in the library here."
"It is not at all settled, papa. I must still ask Miss Bennet the question, and I fear I am not well enough to journey to Longbourn yet."
"Are you confident in the lady's affections?"
"I – I believe she returns my affections, but certainty in love is no easy thing."
"Write to them, then. Put your proposals to them. It may not be the ideal way of going about things, but sometimes we must needs do what circumstances require."
They continued on in silence, save the dull plodding of their horses' hooves, Henry contemplating what he should write to the Bennets. It would be a tricky pair of letters, he was certain, particularly his note to Kitty.
Lucinda pricked her ears forward as they came up over the rise of a hill, listening keenly to the sound of laughter emanating from a cottage garden just down the lane. There, Mr. Kent grasped the new Mrs. Kent by the waist, swinging her in circles. Kent was in the midst of a fortnight's respite from his new position, having been married last week in a ceremony Henry had suffered through in silent pain. That had been his own fault, of course – he would not have missed the event for the world, and he had convinced Kent that the couple should not delay on his behalf. Henry had made it through, but just barely; it was the last day he had required laudanum to dull his pain.
The Kents realised they had an audience and stopped what they were about to wave to the Fitzwilliams, him with pleasure, her with a greater degree of shyness, their spare hands clasped together. Henry returned their greeting, happy for Kent and yet longing to have his own situation so settled, to have a wife he knew returned his affections, to have the strength to pick her up thus.
He prayed all would be resolved in time, but first he would need to write two letters.