Page 33 of A Debt Inherited

Mrs Bennet’s eyes softened. “You speak too lightly of such things.”

“Because I have lived too closely with their shadow,” he answered quietly. “There is courage, my love, in laughter.”

She smiled at that.

“A husband who watches his wife too dearly, his children too fondly, and his butler too suspiciously—that is what I have become.”

“You are content, Mr Bennet, I daresay,” she said simply.

He nodded. “Aye. Though sometimes contentment feels like a fragile vase—beautiful, and always at risk of falling.”

Mrs Hill came with the tea tray then, Hill close behind. Bennet watched them—the unspoken choreography of long service, her solicitous care, his steady precision—and thought every household kept its peace by such small loyalties.

He poured tea for his wife himself, insisting upon it. She smiled at the attempt, though the tremor in his hand made her reach out to steady the cup before it could spill.

“See?” she said. “You require a second even at the tea table.”

“And what gallant companion I have,” he returned.

Outside, the bell from Meryton church drifted faintly through the open window. Bennet turned his head towards it. The sun had climbed, gilding the glass until it shone like coin. He thought of all he had lost—father, brother, house—and all he had somehow been given in return.

Mrs Bennet set her cup aside and reached across the arm of her chair to rest her hand upon his. “Thomas.”

He looked up.

“You have done all this,” she said softly. “Every bit of it. You brought life back to a house that had forgotten laughter.”

He shook his head. “No, my dear. I only opened the door. You walked in and turned it into home.”

She squeezed his hand. “Perhaps a short walk in the garden after?”

He looked at her, at the gentle play of light upon her face, at the quiet order of the room—the embroidery left half done, the scent of tea, the faint echo of childish laughter above—and felt no want.

“If the painter ever comes,” he said, “he must be quick. Beauty does not sit still for long.”

She smiled. “Then he will find us exactly as we are now.”

He took his wife’s hand again and held it.

Chapter 15

Upper Gower Street, London, February 1802

The house in Upper Gower Street had been built for temporary men.

That had been its first honesty. It stood in a respectable row, narrow-fronted and correct, with iron railings below, clean steps above, and a fanlight that admitted more fog than sun. Major Robert Kerr had used it in his London seasons before Drumcairn, marriage, and death claimed him in their several orders. His family, having little use for London expense and much use for appearing generous, had granted the lease to his son for life.

For life.

Alexander Kerr had read the phrase so often that evening it had lost all kindness.

It had not sounded unkind when Lady Isobel first explained it to him. He had been too young then to understand the careful generosity of relations who gave shelter where affection would have cost more. Glenbride had already vanished behind closed doors, Drumcairn behind polite refusals, and his grandmother had carried him from one house to another with the same gloved composure with which she carried mourning. She never called it exile. She called it prudence.

He had learnt early that prudence had rules. A boy might have Latin, Greek, a clean collar, and a seat near the fire, provided he did not ask why other boys possessed cousins, estates, fathers’ names, and futures. He might be praised for industry, trusted with ledgers, commended for discretion, and still find every introduction phrased with an apology hidden beneath it.

Lady Isobel had not apologised for him.

That, more than the money, had been her true bequest.