Page 5 of A Debt Inherited

“And you.”

The post-boy shifted the reins; metal clinked softly. Ashby looked once more into the coach, nodded, and shut the door behind him. The latch clicked like a pistol cocking, then nothing moved.

Bennet signalled the boy. The whip cracked, gentle, and the horses leant into the traces. Wheels found their rhythm on the wet stones, hissing, then thudding as the coach passed under the gate. The sound faded, swallowed by the mist.

Bennet stood listening until there was nothing left to hear. Silence, he thought, was a talent that served some men better than others.

A gust swept through the court, scattering drops from the eaves. Bennet pulled his collar higher. Somewhere above, a window shutter moved. He imagined Dean Pember was asleep in his rooms. “Miss Arabella Pember will be a viscountess within a se’nnight,” he said to no one, and found the comfort thin.

He crossed the court with haste. The stones glistened like slate; the air tasted of iron. Bennet glanced once at the gate, but the dark beyond showed nothing—not even the swing of a fading lantern.

Inside the stair, his steps echoed. He climbed, thinking how a single night could hold so many small sounds: water falling, leather creaking, a woman’s voice saying go.

Chapter 2

Trinity College, Monday, November 12, 1781

Ashby’s chair had three flaws: a split rail, an ink stain, and a scorch at the edge where a candle once slipped. Bennet counted them—once, then again—until Mr Elias Finch, whom some undergraduates unkindly called the Bird, began.

Rain pressed against the panes, a soft percussion that blurred the grey morning. Quills scratched. Around them, other students filled the long oak benches, their ordinary ease at odds with his mood.

Bennet mistrusted it.

Darcy sat one bench to the left, straight-backed, precise, as though Cicero required a soldier’s posture. Fitzwilliam lounged, legs splayed, his classroom expression the practised nonchalance of a man born to be forgiven. Between them—Ashby’s empty chair, ordinary for the hour, conspicuous with time.

“Virtue,” Mr Finch read, “is not the act, but the disposition towards the act.” His voice was thin, the rasp of an old hinge.

At that, Bennet’s eyes returned to the split rail. A splinter jutted like a vein in bone. The ink stain had dried to a brown-black blot. He reached for his quill but did not write.

Fitzwilliam’s quill tapped once, twice, then stopped. Darcy turned a page with deliberate care, the paper whispering against his sleeve.

The Bird’s gown gaped at the throat, chalk dust softening the black; his small head darted as he read, quick and jerky, like a wren startled in a hedge.

Bennet shifted his boot beneath the bench, feeling the wobble in the leg—one flaw more than he had counted.

“Mr Bennet,” said Mr Finch without looking up, “your translation, if you please.”

“Injustitia autem omne naturae vinculum dissolvit.”

“Injustice dissolves every bond of nature.”

“Just so.” Mr Finch’s hooded eyes gave the approval little warmth.

Bennet’s gaze drifted once more to the empty chair. Whatever bond of nature Cicero praised, it had already begun to unravel.

The bell struck eleven. Mr Finch closed his folio.

“You will each, before next meeting, compare Cicero’s treatment of moral duty to Seneca’s letter on friendship,” he said. “I will expect clarity from you, not merely quotation.”

Benches scraped. Inkwells were capped.

Darcy gathered his notes in neat stacks; Fitzwilliam shoved his into a satchel without order.

“Mr Fitzwilliam, Mr Darcy—remain a moment.” Bennet looked up to see the Bird’s beady eyes fixed on him, lips pressed tight. “You as well.”

The door shut behind the others. Bennet forced himself not to look at his friends.

Mr Finch folded his hands upon the folio. “Lord Ashby did not attend the morning meal. Nor has he presented himself for lecture.” His tone was mild, observational. “As I understand, you are his companions.”