Page 88 of A Debt Inherited

They crossed into the garden. Bees worked the last of the clover; a cat slept upon the warm flag by the step and blinked at their shadows. Elizabeth set her hand upon the door, then paused.

“Papa,” she said quietly, “are you—content?”

He studied her a moment. “With my dinner, entirely; with my daughters, immoderately; with my sins, not at all; with my house, more than I deserve.” He smiled. “And with my steward—beyond all justice.”

“You are extravagant,” she said, though her throat felt not quite steady.

“Economical,” he corrected. “Praise costs less than mistakes.”

She laughed and opened the door. Warm air came out to meet them, carrying the fragrance of something sugared from the oven. In the passage Mr Bennet touched her hand with the back of his fingers, a brief, fatherly benediction that no one saw.

“Come, Lizzy,” he said. “Burke and Johnson await your contradiction.”

“I shall contradict them both,” she said.

“Then we are sure of an agreeable evening,” he replied.

Behind them, the garden settled into dusk. The cat lifted its head once towards the lane, listened, and laid it down again.

PART FOUR

Justice

Fiat iustitia, ruat caelum

—Latin legal maxim

Chapter 34

Near Longbourn, July 1812

She had not meant to go so far. The path wound between hedgerows high with late blossom; bees moved heavy among the bramble, and the air was warm with cut hay. The fields lay quiet in the sun. Longbourn lay behind her, too still in the absence of sisters, callers, and Charlotte’s sensible voice. A little after noon, the quiet of Longbourn had driven her outdoors, and her father’s cautions seemed almost tenderly absurd.

A quarter hour more, then home.

She stepped over a shallow rut where last week’s rain had gathered, and the leather of her half-boot creaked.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

She stopped. Her name fell soft, almost cheerful. Mr Wickham stood where the lane narrowed, hat in his hand, the turn of his mouth easy as ever.

“I thought you were in Brighton,” she said.

“So did half the county,” he answered, with a small laugh. “Nearly gone, I assure you. I remained to help the Colonel with some tedious matters—accounts, horses, lodging bills—nothing romantic at all. I am the least fortunate of men.”

He looked very much himself: neat coat, light step, the practised brightness in his eye. Yet something in the set of his shoulders—too careful—set her on caution. She gave him a civil inclination and kept to the sunlit side of the lane.

“You walk far.”

“Far enough,” she said. “Good afternoon, Mr Wickham.”

She would have gone by him. He shifted, half a pace only, not in her way, yet there. His smile did not alter. Behind him the hedge stood unnaturally still. No cart creaked in the lane beyond, no labourer called from the field, no bird broke cover.

The quiet had weight.

“How fortunate to meet you,” said he, stepping from the shade. “I thought all company had flown to the seaside. Hertfordshire must seem half-empty without its prettiest faces.”

“You are lavish in your compliments, sir,” she said with a faint smile. “I can claim no share in such distinction.”