Page 65 of A Debt Inherited

“You speak as one who has known soldiers,” Bennet said softly.

“Enough to respect those known to me,” she answered, meeting his gaze. “And to be cautious of those that are not.”

Bennet raised his water glass.

Dinner continued, but Mrs Ecclestone did not permit scarlet coats to govern Kitty’s and Lydia’s conversation. She asked Mary for Dr Johnson’s opinion on youthful vanity. The two youngest groaned, realised their error, and apologised.

Mary rose to the occasion with alarming readiness.

“Vanity,” she began, “is most usually found where merit has least employment.”

Kitty looked at her plate. Lydia opened her mouth, saw Mrs Ecclestone’s hand settle beside her plate, and shut it again.

“Need I continue, Papa?” Mary asked.

Elizabeth and Jane exchanged a glance.

“No, my dear,” Bennet said. “The lesson has ended.”

When the cloth was drawn and the ladies withdrew, Hill poured a small brandy. Bennet did not drink it.

“We have a Herculean task before us, Hill.”

“Yes, sir,” Hill replied.

“We must secure the gate,” Bennet said.

Hill inclined his head. “It shall be watched, sir.”

“And the stable-yard? The garden?”

“No errand-boy, groom, or tradesman shall be admitted without name and business.”

Bennet turned the glass once between his fingers. The brandy caught the candlelight and burned.

“Do so quietly,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“And Mrs Ecclestone?”

“Already watchful.”

“Make her more so.”

Hill’s face gave nothing away. “She will understand.”

“I daresay she will.” Bennet set the glass down untouched.

The laughter of girls drifted in from the corridor. Bennet thought of the roads filling with drums and dust, of second sons and substitutes marching towards daughters who had never seen the world look back at them.

The danger did not lie in every red coat. That would have been easy. It lay in the men who wore scarlet in place of character.

* * *

The house had gone still. A clock in the hall gave its measured count, and the wind pressed faintly against the panes before passing on. Bennet sat in his study, the lamp drawn low, the scent of sealing wax and smoke mixing in the quiet. Papers lay before him, untouched. The brandy glass from supper stood where Hill had left it, the amber line unchanged.

He could hear the faint murmur of voices above—the girls settling, laughter dimmed by distance. It was a sound he loved, though it carried the ache of time. Years ago, the same sound had come from a single cradle, a single cry. Now it was five distinct lives, each drawing farther from him with every season.