Page 67 of A Debt Inherited

“The post, Papa.” She held out the letters.

He adjusted his spectacles. “A rare event: both London and Kent seem determined to be heard.”

She handed him the top letter. “Aunt Gardiner’s seal.”

“Then let us begin with sense before folly.”

He opened it carefully, the familiar hand awakening old regard. Mrs Gardiner wrote of the bustle of Gracechurch Street, of her husband’s business and their children’s high spirits, of the changing fashions that made London both ridiculous and alive. Bennet read aloud: The city grows louder by the hour and Edward declares it a mercy that noise is not yet taxed, or we should all be beggars.

Without looking up, Mrs Bennet said with a smile in her tone, “That sounds like my brother.”

“It sounds like a man with too many children underfoot,” Bennet said. “But he bears it with profit.”

Jane looked up. “Does Aunt Gardiner mention the holidays?”

“She hopes to come again at Christmas, if the youngest may be trusted to travel without mischief.” He folded the letter with care. “She adds her love to you all—and a warning to avoid any gentleman who wears too much lace.”

Elizabeth laughed softly. “She will find Hertfordshire disappoints her on that point.”

Bennet reached for the second letter and handed it across. “You may read this one aloud, Lizzy. It promises entertainment.”

She broke the seal. “From Hunsford—Mr Collins.”

“Just so. Proceed at your peril.”

Elizabeth read the opening with mock gravity.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh, in the bounty of that condescension which distinguishes all her acts, has recommended that I renew my acquaintance with my amiable cousins of Longbourn, and extend, as she most judiciously expressed it, an olive branch, in proof that all former coolness may be forgotten.

Her composure failed; laughter broke free, clear and irrepressible. “Oh, Papa—an olive branch! Will he arrive bearing it in person, do you think, or send it by post?”

Mrs Bennet looked up sharply, though amusement flickered in her eyes. “You will not encourage him, Mr Bennet.”

“Certainly not. I find warmth preferable to frost, but I am not inclined to burn the house to achieve it.”

Mrs Bennet’s eyes narrowed with satisfaction. “Then you will answer him?”

“I must, else silence will convey acceptance, in his foolish mind.”

“Let him look elsewhere for his olive branch,” she said, resuming her knitting with decisive grace.

Bennet nodded. “Agreed. Let the good parson console himself with Lady Catherine’s piety. There’s more of it than any one man should be asked to endure.”

Elizabeth’s laughter escaped in a quiet ripple; Jane shook her head, smiling.

Across the hall, Mary’s music rose—clear, strong, almost joyful. Bennet listened a moment, the sound filling the space between them all.

“How pleasant the house sounds when everyone is employed,” Mrs Bennet said.

“It is the best defence against mischief,” he said, while Mary’s music held steady behind the door.

* * *

The lamps were trimmed low; the day had folded itself into quiet. Bennet sat by the hearth in their shared sitting room—a modest retreat between their bedrooms—where the fire’s last coals glowed a steady red. Mrs Bennet had joined him, her feet tucked under her as she reclined, a glass of wine in her graceful hand.

For a while, neither spoke. Outside, the house settled—the last creak of boards, the faint sigh of doors closed for the night.

At length she said, “You mean to answer Mr Collins tomorrow?”