Page 149 of A Debt Inherited

Boots crossed the boards with a hard, ill-tempered tread. The bolt on Elizabeth’s door lifted.

The door opened no farther than his shoulder required. Mr Wickham held out his hand.

Elizabeth looked at him once, then took up the bucket by its handle and set it beyond the threshold.

His mouth curved. “A charming morning ritual.”

She said nothing.

The bucket vanished. A carafe of water and a small cloth sack appeared in its place.

“Your champion is particular,” he said.

“Then I am in his debt.”

Mr Wickham shut the door, and the bolt dropped back into place.

She drank too quickly. Water ran over her chin and spotted her gown. She set the carafe and the sack upon the small stool, then returned to the plaster.

Beyond it, Mr Wickham’s boots crossed back towards Mr Darcy.

“Miss Bennet has been seen to,” Mr Wickham said. “Now you will oblige us.”

“I have already written my man of business.”

“A convenient gentleman, this Mr Harding. Invisible, but hardly obedient.”

“It has been less than a day, Wickham.”

“You produced a bank draft for three thousand pounds from your desk.”

“Because I had expected you.”

“Expected me?”

“Men of your habits do not long neglect a fresh estate.”

Mr Wickham’s laugh came sharp through the wall. “And yet you call me mercenary.”

“I call you predictable.”

Elizabeth heard the slap through the wall.

A chair scraped hard against the boards.

“Stop,” Mr Kerr said.

Silence followed.

“Darcy is delaying both of us,” Mr Wickham said.

“Then stop helping him.”

“I am helping myself.”

“Precisely.”

A step crossed the boards. Mr Kerr’s voice came nearer the wall.