Page 7 of A Debt Inherited

“Well,” Darcy said, “that was a sermon in disguise.”

Fitzwilliam sniffed the air. “He knows nothing certain.”

“He suspects enough,” Bennet murmured.

They moved through the passage, their footsteps hollow on the worn stone.

“He will run directly to the dean,” Darcy said.

Fitzwilliam gave a slight nod. “Then we should dine elsewhere.”

Bennet said nothing.

By afternoon the rain had lifted, leaving a dull sky the colour of pewter. Bennet walked the cloister alone, counting his steps against the echo of his thoughts.

A porter crossed the court, cap in hand, his eyes uncertain.

“Beg pardon, sir,” the porter said. “The dean’s man has been asking after Lord Ashby. Thought you’d wish to know.”

Bennet’s jaw tightened. “Thank you.”

The porter nodded and went on.

Bennet looked up at the chapel windows, their clear glass filmed with rain, the lead lines cutting the pale light into wavering shapes. Within those walls, Dean Pember genuflected on the road to salvation; his daughter, at Ashby’s side, had taken another road entirely.

If I were a father, what would I do?

* * *

Bishop’s Hostel, Saturday, November 17, 1781

After the Saturday disputation, Bennet left the lecture room with the faint ache that always followed an hour of forced civility. As usual, Fitzwilliam was nowhere to be found. Darcy’s absence, however, surprised him; the man seldom neglected his duties, however disinclined to speech.

The Bird had been absent as well, replaced by a nameless fellow who discoursed solemnly upon ornithology. Bennet had savoured the mercy.

He crossed towards his rooms beneath dripping eaves, the air rich with wet stone and coal smoke. The old walls of Bishop’s Hostel came into view—moss-edged, solid, a little bowed with age. His boots struck echoes from the flags as he went.

By now, Ashby and the dean’s daughter would be wed, Miss Pember made, by law if not by blessing, his viscountess: a pleasant match to his restless friend. Had Bennet thought the match dishonourable, he would never have lent his hand to it.

The day belonged to celebration and dispatches south.

The fire had sunk to embers; the air still held yesterday’s tobacco and the slow decay of ink. He shut the door behind him and stood a moment in the stillness, imagining Ashby’s return: the lovers triumphant, the families disapproving, and happiness obliged to defend itself.

He crossed to the table, drew the stopper from a half-empty bottle, and poured himself two fingers of port. “To Ashby and his lady,” he murmured, and drank.

He was setting down the glass when a sheet of paper slid beneath the door, catching on the worn edge of the rug. He did not recognise the handwriting.

It is done. The matter rests. You have been a true friend to us both, and you will not be forgotten.

Fides servanda est.

Three deliberate blows struck the door.

Only then did he see it: the closing—Fitzwilliam’s oft-muttered refuge when a scrape had passed beyond laughter.

He crossed to the hearth, thrust the note into the embers, and watched the edges curl and blacken. The Latin flared last, bright as a confession.

A second knock came—louder now, the tone less patient. “Mr Bennet, do you hear? Open, sir!”