Page 91 of A Debt Inherited

That suited him. A man with reins in his hands had less leisure for invention, and Wickham, left idle, inclined too readily towards ornament. The cart took the lane at a sober pace, its canvas brushing leaves from the hedge. Beneath the tilt, boards creaked.

Miss Bennet breathed through the sack in slow, forced measure. Fear had not slackened her.

Kerr had seen fear spend itself in many poor ways: shouting, pleading, bargaining, weeping before the first blow fell. Miss Bennet had spent her first strength in one sharp burst.

Her bound hands rested near her breast; the cord at her ankles denied leverage. She lay on her side, skirts twisted about her legs, unmoving.

A rut caught the left wheel. The cart lurched; she rolled hard against the side plank. Kerr caught her before her head struck wood. She twisted under his hand.

“No,” he said, his fingers closing once upon her shoulder.

She stilled.

From the box, Wickham called back, “Is she injured?”

“No. She struck the board. Nothing more.”

“That is no comfort.” Wickham’s shoulder shifted beyond the opening as he glanced back. “A pity we could not have done it more prettily. A chaise, a note, a willing step into the dark. The county understands an elopement. It gives them a story fit for tea.”

Kerr looked at the hooded girl. She had gone very still.

“Elopement has not served either of us well,” he said.

Wickham’s posture stiffened.

The cart dipped into another rut. Miss Bennet slid hard against the plank; Kerr caught her by the arm and held her until the wheels steadied.

From the box, Wickham said, lower, “You need not return to Ramsgate.”

“We are here,” Kerr said, “because of Ramsgate.”

The reins creaked. The horse slowed where the road dipped beneath overhanging trees.

“Your Miss Bennet hears everything,” Wickham said over his shoulder.

“Then speak less.”

Kerr leant over her and pushed straw between her and the side planks.

For several minutes Wickham obeyed. The road narrowed under trees, and the canvas took the scrape of leaves with a dry whisper. The horse slowed where the ground rose.

At last Wickham said, “How long are we provisioned?”

“Four days.”

Miss Bennet moved at that. Not a start, not panic at first, but a hard gathering of the body, skirts twisting as she tried to bring her knees beneath her. The cord checked her ankles; her bound hands strained once near her breast.

Kerr caught her before she struck the plank again and pressed her down with one forearm across her shoulder.

“Still.”

She fought him then, short and blind and furious, the sack rasping against the boards. He pressed her down until the strength went out of the effort.

From the box, Wickham said, “Four days troubled her.”

Kerr lifted his forearm a fraction. She did not press back.

“Your father will be told what is required. The sooner he obeys, the sooner this ends.”