Page 115 of A Debt Inherited

“And after he answers?”

Kerr did not reply.

There it lay at last: not in his words, but in their absence. He had built a room, a demand, a vengeance, and perhaps even an account in which every old injury balanced; but he had not built the hour after payment.

Elizabeth saw it and took one careful step nearer.

“You have not decided.”

His eyes met hers.

“That is why you untied my hands,” she said. “Not mercy. Uncertainty.”

“Do not flatter yourself.”

“I am not the one flattered by my own importance.”

His colour changed. Faintly, but enough.

“You speak boldly for a woman behind a barred door.”

“And you speak boldly to one.”

The room held them close. Dust shifted in the thin light beneath the shutter. Elizabeth heard her own pulse and made herself stand still, because he must not see that every word cost her.

Kerr opened the door.

“Water before evening,” he said.

“Mr Kerr.”

He paused.

“If you mean to punish my father, you should first make certain you have understood him.”

“I have spent years understanding him.”

“No,” she said. “You have spent years arranging him to fit your injury.”

For the first time, his composure failed. Not greatly. No oath, no stride towards her, no raised hand. Only a quick intake of breath, as if she had touched a bruise hidden under his coat.

Then the stillness returned.

“Eat,” he said again, and stepped out.

The door closed. The bar fell into place.

Elizabeth stood where he had left her until his footsteps crossed the yard and faded. Then she let out the breath she had held too long and turned back to the room.

Bread. Cheese. Water. Shutter. Door. Hatch. Pail. Straw. Pallet.

She ate half the bread and wrapped the rest in the cloth. Hunger could wait.

Escape might not.

Chapter 43

Darcy House, that afternoon