Page 56 of A Debt Inherited

Temperance

Est modus in rebus

—Horace, Satires

Chapter 22

Ramsgate, June 1811

The inn stood above the harbour, its paint flayed by wind and salt. Within, the rooms smelt of seaweed and candle smoke. Wickham called it temporary inconvenience—as if comfort waited only upon the right signature.

Kerr said nothing. He paid the bill, carried the trunks, and let Wickham rehearse his charm upon the landlady.

The weeks passed much the same. Letters came and went through Mrs Younge’s hand; Kerr saw the careful loops of a young girl’s writing, the guarded softness of her phrases, and enough mention of guardians, jewels, and allowance to know Wickham had not lied about the fortune. Wickham spoke of her as if she were a horse already saddled.

When at last he said, “Tomorrow, my friend—we ride for Gretna,” Kerr believed the money possible. The debts would be gone; the future, paid.

Darcy and Fitzwilliam would be made answerable first. Bennet would wait.

But that night, as he sat in the common room counting the last of their coin, the landlord came to his elbow.

“Mr Kerr?”

Kerr closed his hand over the coins. “What is it?”

“There are gentlemen asking for you, sir. In the private parlour.”

“Gentlemen?”

The landlord’s eyes flicked towards the passage. “Quality, sir.”

Behind him stood two men Kerr had not noticed before. They wore plain coats, but their white summer trousers and polished boots betrayed the army. One stood half a pace before the other. The younger man never looked to the landlord for instruction.

Kerr looked from one to the other. “Am I summoned?”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam requires you,” the older man said.

Something in the landlord’s face gave him pause. Fitzwilliam? Here?

Kerr rose, gathered the money, and followed them.

The private parlour stood at the rear of the inn, away from the taproom noise. The older soldier opened the door and stood aside.

Kerr entered.

The room was close and over-warm. A small fire had been lit though June pressed damp and heavy against the windows; its glow trembled over closed curtains, a sideboard, and chairs pushed back against the wall. No glass had been poured.

Wickham sat in the only chair left clear of the hearth.

He had not chosen the seat. Kerr saw that at once. His coat was dragged crooked at the throat, his hair damp at the temples. An officer—Colonel Fitzwilliam—stood behind him, one hand closed in his collar, holding him upright with no visible effort.

Near the mantel stood a gentleman in dark evening dress, tall, pale, and still enough to make the room seem arranged around him.

Wickham’s smile trembled.

The door closed behind Kerr, his escorts outside the room.

Kerr’s throat worked once. He kept his hands at his sides.