Page 32 of A Debt Inherited

“An occupation, my love, which may outlast me,” he returned, smiling. “Next, we have our philosopher Lizzie, who insists upon drawing the world before she understands it—an excellent preparation for womanhood. When she weds, she will correct her husband’s opinions with the same ease she now corrects the shape of a cloud.”

Elizabeth twirled her pencil between her fingers. “Perhaps I shall not marry at all, Papa. I may take up painting for a living.”

“A shocking thought,” Bennet said. “The horror of commerce! But I suspect that some poor gentleman will be forced to purchase both your art and the artist.”

Mrs Hill turned from dusting the mantel. “A true likeness of her father, if I may be so bold.”

Bennet inclined his head to her. “Mrs Hill, I have long maintained that no housekeeper may speak freely save my own. You are therefore permitted to be right.”

Laughter followed—small, bright, and easily shared. Even Mary looked up from her book and allowed her mouth the ghost of a smile.

“And me, Papa?” asked Kitty, who worked to untangle her pink ribbon from Lydia’s blue one. “Me in the picture too?”

“You, my love,” Bennet said, “will be the very spirit of motion in it—the child who will not sit still. Painters love a challenge, though I should warn them to keep their brushes quick, lest you blur their work.”

Kitty clapped, pulling the ribbon free with a victory cry that made their governess, Mrs Ecclestone, sigh without raising her eyes.

“And Lydia?” Mrs Bennet asked, her needle resting upon the linen, her smile half maternal, half mischievous.

Bennet looked towards the youngest, who had placed a tiny teacup upon a small saucer. “Lydia, my dear, would be the crowning glory—golden curls, blue eyes, and a disposition to topple every general within reach. The painter would call her an angel; I should call her a threat to the peace of Europe.”

Lydia squealed and ran to her father’s knee. He lifted her easily—though his hip protested—and she settled against him, clutching the end of his neckcloth in one small fist. “I’ll be good—then pony, Papa?”

“I shall consider your proposal once I have lived through the first week of it.”

Her eyes widened. “Is a week forever?”

“For you, my love, it very nearly is.”

Mrs Bennet laughed. “You are impossible, Mr Bennet.”

“Undoubtedly,” he said. “But it is only fair; one cannot live in paradise without the occasional serpent of humour to keep the fruit fresh.”

She shook her head. “And pray, sir, where would you place me in this grand portrait of yours?”

Bennet tapped his cane thoughtfully. “Ah, that is the question. I would have the artist paint you last, for once he saw you clearly, he would lose all sense of the rest. He would forget his trade, abandon his brushes, and follow you about the house declaring himself unfit for any other commission.”

Mrs Hill let out a gasp that might have been laughter disguised as duty. Mrs Bennet’s colour rose; she dropped her gaze to the embroidery frame. “You will make Mrs Ecclestone blush, sir,” she said.

“Indeed not,” the governess murmured, as she rose. She clapped her hands. “Ladies, follow me.”

Lydia went first, clutching one rescued ribbon; Kitty followed with the other. Mary came next with Pilgrim’s Progress still open in her hands, Elizabeth behind her with her pencil tucked into her sleeve, and Jane last, gathering the whole procession with a look before she closed the door.

When the door closed behind Jane, Bennet continued.

“I speak only what any honest man must think. Were an artist to capture your likeness, my dear, I should be forced to fight a duel before the paint was dry.”

Mrs Bennet raised an eyebrow. “And what would you do in such a duel, my invalid husband? Throw your cane?”

“I should rely upon Hill to prop me upright at the critical moment.”

At this, Hill—who had been standing at ease by the door—cleared his throat. “If I might, sir, I would be honoured to serve as your second.”

Bennet laughed. “You see, my dear? A man may limp and yet have honour enough to share!”

Mrs Hill curtseyed with mock solemnity. “You will have him killed, sir, with your nonsense.”

“Then bury me in the rose bed,” Bennet said. “I shall come up every spring to see if my daughters still bloom.”