Page 110 of A Debt Inherited

“Read every word,” Bennet said.

“I understand.”

“No, Wickham,” Bennet said. “You have not yet begun to understand.”

Wickham’s mouth tightened. Then he drew breath and read.

“Mr Thomas Bennet is required to place ten thousand pounds in Bank of England notes, wrapped in oilcloth, beneath the third milestone upon the St Albans road by twelve o’clock three nights hence. He will come alone. He will speak to no magistrate, officer, neighbour, servant, or relation. If any alarm is raised, or any man follows the bearer, his daughter’s safety is forfeit. Lord Julian is not forgotten.”

Bennet felt the floor alter under his feet, though nothing in the study moved. The map lay folded upon the desk. The tray still gave off its sickly smell of cold ham and cooling broth. Wickham stood with the paper in his hand and Hill by the door; yet for one breath Bennet stood again in Dean Pember’s overlit rooms, with chairs set in obedient half-circles and candles multiplying themselves in the glass. He saw the square pianoforte, dark and polished. He saw Miss Pember raise her eyes. He saw Ashby’s smile come too quickly to be polite.

Ju—

Her lips had shaped the first syllable before she remembered the room.

Lord Julian is not forgotten.

Bennet looked at Wickham.

He held out his hand. “Now give it to me.”

Wickham obeyed, though not at once. His fingers lingered upon the page as if the paper had become a shield and not a charge against him. Bennet took it from him and read the words himself. They did not improve by silence.

Ten thousand pounds. St Albans road. Three nights. No magistrate. No servant. No relation.

Lord Julian.

He folded the paper once. “When are you expected to return?”

Wickham’s eyes sharpened. He had found a question he could answer and took refuge in it. “To-morrow.”

“At what hour?”

“Noon.”

“Then you shall return at that time.”

“For your answer?”

“For my answer.”

Wickham bowed. “For Miss Elizabeth’s sake, sir, I trust it will be the prudent one.”

Bennet placed the paper upon the desk with exact care. “You have already used my daughter’s name once too often.”

Wickham’s colour rose, but he held his tongue. That restraint, Bennet thought, cost him more than sincerity ever had.

“Hill,” Bennet said. “Show Mr Wickham out. See him to the gate.”

Wickham looked towards the door, then back. “I am sorry to have brought such distress to Longbourn.”

“No,” Bennet said. “You are sorry to have found it armed.”

The smile vanished. Wickham bowed again, lower than before, and left the room with Hill at his shoulder.

The door closed.

Bennet stood until the sound of their steps had gone from the hall. Only then did he set one hand upon the desk. The edge pressed hard into his palm. He welcomed the pain. It belonged to the present.