Page 86 of A Debt Inherited

“Arthur Young,” she said, lightly. “And common sense.”

“A formidable pair,” he replied. “Who is Tom Weller, by the bye?”

“The younger of Hill’s nephews,” she said. “He came after Michaelmas. The one who built the pigeon roost in the west loft.”

“Ah yes,” said Mr Bennet. “The engineer who out-talked the carpenter. You are surrounding yourself with talent, Lizzy.”

“I am surrounding you with competence, sir.”

They walked the furrow’s edge, careful of the young growth, her father leaning now and then upon the staff with practised ease.

“Simms and Harris are gone,” Mr Bennet said after a time. “Do we miss them?”

“Only their boots upon the steps,” Elizabeth said. “The stables are quieter. Hill says the horses have regained their tempers now that no one is forever saddling them to ride into Meryton for news of red coats.”

“Peace is a harsh master,” he said. “It expects us to be pleased with little.”

“I am pleased with much,” she answered; then, fearing she had spoken too quickly, added with a smile, “—that is, with hedges properly laid, ditches properly cleared, tenants properly paid, and Mama properly amused at the sea.”

They reached the stile at the far corner and paused to look back over the sweep of fields to the low grey line of the house. Smoke lifted from the kitchen chimney, delicate as thread.

“You wrote to your sister?” Mr Bennet asked.

“I did. I told her of geese behaving without a licence, of fences confessing their failings, and that Papa is all benevolence so long as I earn my keep.”

“A calumny I shall endure,” he said. “Did you quote any poets to her?”

“A line for the hearth,” Elizabeth replied. “To remind her that warmth is not confined to Town—that sometimes the truest society is found by one’s own fire.”

“Ah,” he said, “Cowper again, dressed as philosophy.”

“Perhaps,” she smiled, “but I believe the hearth holds more truth than any drawing room.”

They stepped down into the lower pasture where the ground kept the last of spring’s damp. Here the hedgerow thickened with hazel and young ash; primroses still lingered in the cool shade, though June had nearly run. Mr Bennet touched the hedge with his staff.

“This will want laying in winter,” he said. “What say you to coppice the hazel and let the ash alone?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “We will have stout stakes from the hazel and leave the ash another year for shade. Mr Carter’s cows favour this spot.”

“You observe even the cows,” he murmured. “You must be stopped before you begin to know the tempers of our pigs.”

“Too late,” she said. “The white sow cherishes resentment and the red one philosophical resignation.”

He laughed. “Now—if a certain gentleman were to ask you to account for the poor rate—”

“I should say,” Elizabeth began, settling into the game, “that we gave out six loaves last week and eight pence to old Mrs King when the rain came in at her chimney. Mr Long promised a mason; I shall hold him to it.”

“You will make enemies,” he warned.

“Only among those who fall short of their promises,” she said.

“And among men who discover that a young lady keeps a ledger,” he added.

“Let them discover it,” Elizabeth said. “If they would not have me keep accounts, they should not leave sums to be mislaid.”

They crossed the small wooden bridge over the brook. Mr Bennet rested his weight lightly upon the staff before stepping onto the bridge, sunlight breaking upon the water below. Elizabeth rested her hands upon the rail and looked down at their reflections—two figures rimmed in light, the water altering them with every little current.

Somewhere in the hedge behind them, a bird gave one sharp note and fell silent. Elizabeth looked back, saw only leaves, and turned again with a smile for her own nerves.