Page 68 of A Debt Inherited

“I do. It is not kind to let a fool wonder too long.”

She smiled faintly. “The entail has already been kind enough to him.”

“You bear it more easily than most would.”

“Because you have made it easy, my love.” She drew from her glass; the light caught her mouth. Bennet looked down before his admiration became too plain. “There is the dower house—and enough set by that I may not live on charity.”

“It was never my intention that you should. A husband ought to provide against his own mortality. Collins may take the fields, but he shall not take the roof above your head.”

She gave a small, approving nod. “Still, it is strange to think that a cousin we scarcely know holds Longbourn’s future in his hand.”

“Not strange—merely English,” Bennet said dryly. “Entails were devised by men who thought their blood too precious to mix freely with sense.”

She shifted, the hem of her gown falling from one foot. He caught the slipping hem and settled it back over her slipper with more care than necessity required.

“He wrote of Lady Catherine’s counsel,” she said. “Do you suppose she advised him to make peace?”

“Lady Catherine advises every man to what increases her own consequence. Mr Collins’ peace would be her triumph.”

Mrs Bennet smiled. “Then we will deny her both.”

He laughed softly. “My dear, you have grown positively formidable.”

“Practical, Mr Bennet. Five unmarried daughters will do that.”

They sat a moment longer, listening to the tick of the clock and the faint rush of wind at the windows.

“Thomas,” she said at last, “promise me you will not trouble yourself about Collins again tonight.”

“I shall not,” he said, extending his hand towards her. “When I trouble myself, it will be about daughters rather than cousins.”

She grasped his hand; he drew her closer, her laughter quiet against his shoulder. “Then your work is secure for years to come.”

He smiled. “Just so.”

The fire settled with a sigh. In that quiet, the matter of Mr Collins—and all the absurdities of inheritance—seemed no larger than the coal’s dull glow.

* * *

The morning broke clean and bright, the kind that promised work rather than leisure. The air smelt of hay and damp stone; a milk cart creaked somewhere on the lane. Bennet crossed the yard with Hill beside him, the dew clinging to their boots.

The stable doors stood open. One of the grooms looked up from the bay mare’s foreleg, then bent again to his work when Hill’s glance passed over him. Beyond the yard, the gate stood shut.

“The girls will wish to walk into Meryton before the week is out,” Bennet said.

“They will wish it sooner, sir.”

“Then they will realise disappointment. None walk without Jane and Elizabeth. No calls are to be made upon the militia. No officer is to be received without my leave.”

Hill’s face gave nothing away. “Yes, sir.”

“And Mrs Ecclestone?”

“Informed.”

“How did she receive it?”

“As one who expected to be asked before breakfast and found us late.”