Page 80 of A Debt Inherited

“Then I must take care not to offend him,” he said. “The last thing Hertfordshire requires is another man of consequence.”

The ladies tittered. Mr Bennet bowed, wished them a pleasant morning, and left the room as he had entered.

Elizabeth watched the door close behind him.

Miss Harrington had already resumed Mr Wickham’s praises. His sensibility, his modesty, his injured prospects came in admirable order. Jane listened with patient kindness. Miss Long took another lump of sugar.

Elizabeth folded her hands, eyes steady on the teacup before her. “How singular,” she said, “that Mr Wickham’s sufferings should improve with every telling.”

* * *

Bennet went directly to his study. The rain had left the air cool enough for a fire, and the lamp cast a low, amber circle upon the desk. He shut the door, not to keep anyone out, but to keep memory in.

Darcy of Pemberley. Edmund Darcy.

He stood a moment by the shelves, his hand tracing the spines. Some volumes had not been moved since his return from Barbados; others bore the faint scent of salt even now. Near the end of the second shelf sat a narrow book in blue calf, its edges roughened by heat and years—Cowper’s The Task. He drew it down, brushed the dust from the cover, and turned the pages with the care one gives to an old wound.

The folded sheet lay where it had always lain, pressed between verses on mercy and storm. The paper had yellowed to a pale ochre, the ink browned, but the hand was unmistakably familiar. He unfolded it and read once more:

My dear Bennet,

I write only to acknowledge a debt of honour. I would not have you suppose that silence or delegation arose from indifference. There are obligations a man must own, even when he cannot name them aloud.

May Providence keep you.

ED

Meministi, amice

The words had faded slightly, but the intention had not. He read them again, and the voice returned—measured, dry, steady as it had sounded across a Cambridge quad half a lifetime ago. A debt of honour. There had been no further letter, no proof of what that debt entailed, and yet it had been enough.

He sat, the letter open on his desk. Twenty-seven years since that packet had reached him in Bridgetown, one month after the lawyer’s note that had closed their acquaintance.

He refolded the paper and slipped it back between the same verses: To feel Thy presence in the calm, and own Thy mercy in the storm.

The book closed with a faint sigh.

Chapter 31

Longbourn, May 1812

The fine weather had brought callers again. Before noon, Hill appeared at the parlour door to announce, with his usual gravity, “Miss Lucas and Miss Maria Lucas.”

“Charlotte! What a pleasure,” said Mrs Bennet, rising with composure and extending a hand. “And Maria—how elegantly turned out you are today; Meryton will be quite envious. Come in, my dears, come in.”

Charlotte entered with her familiar serenity; Maria followed, her eyes bright with the cheer of spring and a new ribbon on her bonnet. Jane made room upon the sofa, Elizabeth drew the tea forward, and Mary, at her mother’s quiet nod, went to the pianoforte. The air filled with low, agreeable notes that softened the bright chatter of the room.

“You will have heard, perhaps,” Charlotte said, “that the militia are to remove to Brighton before the month’s end. My father has learned that Colonel Forster has received his orders.”

“To Brighton!” cried Maria, clasping her hands. “Think of it, Lizzy—sea air, music, promenades, and officers everywhere!”

Charlotte laughed softly. “It appears my sister finds the prospect of martial discipline most diverting.”

“I find the prospect of Brighton diverting,” Maria said, unrepentant. “Hertfordshire will be half dead when the red coats go.”

“And the other half grateful,” Elizabeth returned, earning a smile from Charlotte and a scandalised look from Maria.

“Oh, Lizzy, you are horrid,” Maria exclaimed. “What shall we do without them? There will be no balls, no concerts, not even a card party.”