Page 85 of A Debt Inherited

Bennet began the slow progress down the aisle, Miss Bennet at his side, one hand beneath his arm and the other free to answer what courtesy required. She inclined her head to Mrs Hodge, promised to call on Tuesday, reminded Sir William that her father would receive him on Wednesday if the weather held, and answered the vicar’s inquiry with such composed attention that no one seemed to remember Mrs Bennet’s absence.

The militia stood as Bennet approached. Captain Townsend bowed with careful respect.

“Mr Bennet.”

Bennet gave the smallest inclination of his head. “Captain.”

No more.

The single word checked even Townsend’s smile. Bennet did not pause. Wickham bowed with practised ease; Miss Bennet returned the courtesy with a cool nod and no warmth. Her gaze touched Kerr only long enough to recognise him.

He bowed.

She turned away.

Kerr straightened slowly.

Bennet moved on, Miss Bennet at his side, his cane striking once, then again, upon the stones. The parish followed by degrees: Sir William first with his solemn bows, Mrs Long with her gloves gathered close, Mrs Hodge dabbing at one eye as Miss Bennet bent to hear her. The aisle filled before they could step out.

Townsend remained standing, smile gone thin. Denny shifted his weight and looked towards the blocked pew door. Wickham only laughed under his breath.

“A country cut,” he murmured. “How singular for you.”

Kerr watched the Longbourn pair pass into the light beyond the porch. The village closed behind them.

Outside, the morning had brightened. The vicar stood upon the path, shaking hands. Bennet emerged last, Miss Bennet still at his side, his cane striking the stones with a measured tap. The parish parted for him without thinking.

Wickham drew on his gloves. Kerr watched Bennet settle his hand upon his daughter’s arm before descending the step.

“Well, Kerr?”

Kerr did not answer. Elizabeth Bennet had turned from him with Longbourn at her back—and behind Longbourn stood Thomas Robert Bennet, Cambridge, Stamford, and a grave no court had troubled itself to answer.

Very well, he thought. A father’s debt might be collected through a favourite daughter.

Chapter 33

Longbourn, June 1812

The afternoon lay warm upon the fields, the grass brushed smooth by a soft wind. Elizabeth met her father at the wicket by the south meadow; his walking-staff served as both prop and measure, the ground uneven enough to warrant its every touch. They set out along the hedgerow, the scent of hawthorn and new-cut hay drifting in little tides.

“You inspected Harris’s fence this morning,” he said. “What is your verdict?”

“Sound enough where it stands,” Elizabeth answered. “But the lower rails by the brook are soft. They must be set again before the cows discover their liberty.”

“A timely philosophy,” he said. “We should prevent temptation where we can. Even cows prefer the neighbour’s grass.”

She smiled. “The appetite grows by what it feeds on.”

“Shakespeare in service of husbandry,” he observed. “A useful education at last.”

They turned through a gate into the barley; the heads were just beginning to weigh the stems.

“You marked the acreage?” he asked.

“I did. Tom Weller paced the boundary. We are an acre short of last year, but the soil is better for the rest. Harris swears by fallow; I think clover would do more for us.”

“And your authority for such reform?”