Page 70 of A Debt Inherited

“Much to our liking, sir. The town has an air of good order; the shops are sufficient; the people civil. The magistrate obliges us. Sir William informed me of several gentlemen of the neighbourhood whose goodwill is of consequence. Your name, sir, was among the first.”

Bennet inclined his head. The fire settled faintly.

Townsend cleared his throat. “We are, at present, in comfortable quarters, sir; no imposition upon any gentleman’s house is intended. We are content to live within our means.”

Bennet glanced at the captain’s cuffs—darned fine enough to hide their history—and allowed one corner of his mouth to acknowledge the effort.

“You come for acquaintance then, not accommodation,” he said. “A wise beginning. The county likes to know the cut of a coat before it lends it a brush.”

Forster’s hands met lightly, palm to palm. “That is well said. We hope to appear no burden. The men have orders respecting public-houses, hours, and conduct; the officers are to set no poor example.”

“Officers,” Bennet repeated. “You have all you require for their example?”

Forster’s eyes moved once to Townsend, then back. “We are well enough provided.”

A small pause came and went. Bennet let it pass.

“Hill,” he said.

Hill had not vanished far. He appeared in the doorway at once, silent, attentive.

“Port,” Bennet said, “and a clean glass. The gentlemen will take wine.”

Forster made the smallest objection with his hand; Bennet ignored it as good manners require. Townsend sat straighter. The young man’s mouth had already agreed with the glass.

Hill went; Bennet set one hand upon his walking-stick where it leant against the desk, the wood polished where a thumb had lived.

Forster’s gaze touched the head of the stick and paused. The pause had recognition in it. He did not name what he saw. His fingertips met his gloves again; he left the matter sitting as a gentleman leaves a calling card—offered without insistence.

“The county is fortunate,” Forster said, voice even, “in sober households. We hope to be as little remarked as soldiers can be. My officers will remember themselves.”

“May they,” Bennet said.

Townsend managed a laugh, then stifled it, and coloured for having owned it. He looked at the books, the hearth-tools, the sober print above the mantel. His eyes returned to Bennet’s stick and, finding the colonel had looked, he looked also, quickly away.

Hill returned with a tray; he set it down without noise. The decanter was old glass, the stopper stubborn; Hill released it with a practised twist and poured three measures as if he had known all his life how long a gentleman means when he says “just so.” He withdrew.

Bennet offered the nearest glass with a short inclination. Forster took it, then Townsend. The port held to the light with the steady colour of a well-kept promise.

“Your health,” Forster said.

“To your quiet quartering,” Bennet returned.

They drank. Townsend’s first sip became two. He coloured, then put the glass down with care.

“Should any inconvenience arise from the regiment’s proximity, you have only to write,” Bennet said. “We are accustomed to a quiet lane, Colonel. It would be a pity to lose it for want of a word between neighbours.”

Forster bowed from his chair. “You are exceedingly obliging, sir. We mean to put as little weight as possible upon any private convenience. We have very proper men.”

“Have you?”

Forster took up the thread. “We examine character and competence to the best of our means. A county’s eye is on us.”

“Yes, the town will see your men in the street, Colonel,” Bennet said. “It will see them at the inns and at the pump.”

Townsend cleared his throat. “We have a very decent number of gentlemen in our corps. Good names. Good behaviour. The militia suits them, as well as the county. Everybody of sense understands what is possible.”

Bennet rested the tip of his stick upon the floor and turned it once, slow, under his palm. “Possible?”