Page 69 of A Debt Inherited

Bennet’s mouth curved. “Of course she did.”

They stopped near the gate. The lane beyond lay innocent in the morning light: hedges wet with dew, cart-ruts dark from yesterday’s rain, the first stir of village business carried faintly on the air.

“And if some young gentleman discovers that Longbourn has daughters?”

Hill looked towards the lane. “Then he shall discover first that Longbourn has a gate.”

Bennet rested both hands upon the head of his stick. The answer should have comforted him. It did not.

* * *

Elizabeth stepped out onto the stone path, shading her eyes against the morning brightness. The warmth of the sun already touched her shoulders, and the air carried that mingled scent of hay and lavender that always made Longbourn feel more alive than grand. Beside her, Jane adjusted the ribbon of her bonnet and smiled.

At the gate, Hill stood speaking with a farm lad, one of Perkins’s boys from the lower fields. The boy held a sack against one hip and nodded with great solemnity while Hill examined the folded note in his hand.

“Papa has been abroad since breakfast,” Jane said. “I saw him crossing the yard with Hill before the tea was cleared.”

“And now Mr Hill questions errand-boys,” Elizabeth answered. “I cannot imagine what danger may be concealed in a sack of kitchen onions.”

They met Mrs Hill near the kitchen door, her keys bright at her belt and her expression one of mild amusement.

“Mrs Hill,” Jane said, “has something happened?”

“Nothing, miss.” Mrs Hill’s gaze moved once towards the gate. “Mr Bennet has only given new orders for the yard.”

“New orders?” Elizabeth repeated.

“No one admitted without name and business. No message brought through the kitchen unless Mr Hill has seen it first.”

Elizabeth looked again towards the gate. Hill had returned the note and sent the boy round towards the kitchen path. The boy went at once, still clutching his sack as if it had acquired consequence.

Jane’s face held a thoughtful calm. “Papa has grown cautious.”

“Papa was born cautious,” Elizabeth said lightly. “He merely lets us forget it when the weather is fine.”

Mrs Hill’s faint smile appeared and vanished. “Your father means the house to be easy, miss, not careless.”

Elizabeth heard the unspoken phrase and glanced towards Meryton’s road, bright and empty beyond the hedge.

“Then we must discover what his wishes are, dearest,” she said to Jane, “before Kitty and Lydia learn them from Mr Hill.”

Chapter 26

Longbourn, October 1811

Hill’s knock was a neat, single rap; his voice followed without entering. “Colonel Forster and Captain Townsend, sir.”

“Show them in.”

Bennet rose as the door opened, one hand upon his stick, the other steadying the chair. The fire held a low light; the air was mild with ink and paper. He watched the officers cross the threshold—Forster first, coat close-buttoned, hat in hand; Townsend a step behind, his boots newly blacked. Both bowed the proper measure. The colonel’s smile sat carefully where it ought; the captain’s rose a fraction too quick.

“Mr Bennet,” said Forster, “your servant, sir. We take the liberty of paying our respects. We have just waited upon Lord Haversham and Sir William Lucas; it would not do to neglect Longbourn.”

“It would not,” Bennet said. He pointed to the two chairs set opposite the desk. “Pray, be seated.”

Townsend rested his hat upon his knee. Forster laid his gloves together on the desk’s edge, fingers aligned.

“You find Meryton tolerable, Colonel?”