Chapter 2
Ashby’s chair had three flaws: a split rail, an ink stain, and a scorch at the edge where a candle once slipped. Bennet counted them—once, then again—until Mr Elias Finch, whom some undergraduates unkindly called the Bird, began.
Rain pressed against the panes, a soft percussion that blurred the grey morning. Quills scratched. Around them, other students filled the long oak benches, their ordinary ease at odds with his mood.
Bennet mistrusted it.
Darcy sat one bench to the left, straight-backed, precise, as though Cicero required a soldier’s posture.
Fitzwilliam lounged, legs splayed, his classroom expression the practised nonchalance of a man born to be forgiven.
Between them—Ashby’s empty chair, ordinary for the hour, conspicuous with time.
“Virtue,” Mr Finch read, “is not the act, but the disposition towards the act.” His voice was thin, the rasp of an old hinge.
At that, Bennet’s eyes returned to the split rail. A splinter jutted like a vein in bone. The ink stain had dried to a brown-black blot. He reached for his quill but did not write.
Fitzwilliam’s quill tapped once, twice, then stopped. Darcy turned a page with deliberate care, the paper whispering against his sleeve.
The Bird’s gown gaped at the throat, chalk dust softening the black; his small head darted as he read, quick and jerky, like a wren startled in a hedge.
Bennet shifted his boot beneath the bench, feeling the wobble in the leg—one flaw more than he had counted.
“Mr Bennet,” said Mr Finch without looking up, “your translation, if you please.”
“Injustitia autem omne naturae vinculum dissolvit.”
“Injustice dissolves every bond of nature.”
“Just so.” Mr Finch’s hooded eyes gave the approval little warmth.
Bennet’s gaze drifted once more to the empty chair. Whatever bond of nature Cicero praised, it had already begun to unravel.
The bell struck eleven. Mr Finch closed his folio.
“You will each, before next meeting, compare Cicero’s treatment of moral duty to Seneca’s letter on friendship,” he said. “I will expect clarity from you, not merely quotation.”
Benches scraped. Inkwells were capped.
Darcy gathered his notes in neat stacks; Fitzwilliam shoved his into a satchel without order.
“Mr Fitzwilliam, Mr Darcy—remain a moment.” Bennet looked up to see the Bird’s beady eyes fixed on him, lips pressed tight. “You as well.”
The door shut behind the others. Bennet forced himself not to look at his friends.
Mr Finch folded his hands upon the folio. “Lord Ashby did not attend the morning meal. Nor has he presented himself for lecture.” His tone was mild, observational. “As I understand, you are his companions.”
Darcy straightened. “We are.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me whether he is ill, or abroad.”
“He spoke to me of a horse in Newmarket the other day.”
True enough to pass muster, Bennet thought. Fitzwilliam always fought fog with fog.
“A horse.” The Bird’s brow rose slightly. “On a Monday in term?”
Fitzwilliam shrugged, the motion too studied to be careless.
“And you?”
The Bird did not look away; the silence lengthened, thin as wire.
Bennet heard the seed of derision underlying the query, as well as the absence in address. “I have not seen him since Sunday evening, sir.”
“Ah.” The Bird’s gaze lingered on him. “Sunday evening, you say.”
“As I said.”
“Late in the hour?”
“After Hall,” Bennet replied. “We spoke a short while in the court.”
“And you recall nothing of his intentions for the following day?”
“He mentioned none, sir.”
“Nor to you, Mr Darcy?”
Darcy’s expression was even. “He was in good spirits when we parted, sir. Nothing more.”
The Bird leant back, the chair giving a faint creak. “Good spirits. That will console the dean, I am sure.”
A beat passed. The clock on the mantel clicked its slow rhythm.
“It is no crime to leave the college grounds,” Fitzwilliam said, rising to his full height. Bennet admired the ease of it—the careless lord before a tradesman.
“Indeed, Lord Fitzwilliam,” the Bird replied, “but it is required that one make a declaration of absence.” He turned to Darcy. “You understand the reason.”
“We do,” Darcy said.
The Bird’s eyes went from Bennet to Fitzwilliam, settling upon Darcy. “If you learn anything—anything at all—you will inform me before dinner.”
“We shall.”
The Bird stood and waved his hand. “That will be all, gentlemen.”
As they reached the door, he spoke again. “Mr Bennet.”
Bennet paused.
Mr Finch regarded him steadily. “You translate Cicero well. See that you live him equally.”
Bennet inclined his head. “I shall try, sir.”
He stepped into the corridor, the air cooler there. Fitzwilliam exhaled sharply once they were clear.
“Well,” Darcy said, “that was a sermon in disguise.”
Fitzwilliam sniffed the air. “He knows nothing certain.”
“He suspects enough,” Bennet murmured.
They moved through the passage, their footsteps hollow on the worn stone.
“He will run directly to the dean,” Darcy said.
Fitzwilliam gave a slight nod. “Then we should dine elsewhere.”
Bennet said nothing.
By afternoon the rain had lifted, leaving a dull sky the colour of pewter. Bennet walked the cloister alone, counting his steps against the echo of his thoughts.
A porter crossed the court, cap in hand, his eyes uncertain.
“Beg pardon, sir,” the porter said. “The dean’s man has been asking after Lord Ashby. Thought you’d wish to know.”
Bennet’s jaw tightened. “Thank you.”
The porter nodded and went on.
Bennet looked up at the chapel windows, their clear glass filmed with rain, the lead lines cutting the pale light into wavering shapes. Within those walls, Dean Pember genuflected on the road to salvation; his daughter, at Ashby’s side, had taken another road entirely.
If I were a father, what would I do?
* * *
Bishop’s Hostel, Saturday, November 17, 1781
After the Saturday disputation, Bennet left the lecture room with the faint ache that always followed an hour of forced civility. As usual, Fitzwilliam was nowhere to be found. Darcy’s absence, however, surprised him; the man seldom neglected his duties, however disinclined to speech.
The Bird had been absent as well, replaced by a nameless fellow who discoursed solemnly upon ornithology. Bennet had savoured the mercy.
He crossed towards his rooms beneath dripping eaves, the air rich with wet stone and coal smoke. The old walls of Bishop’s Hostel came into view—moss-edged, solid, a little bowed with age. His boots struck echoes from the flags as he went.
By now, Ashby and the dean’s daughter would be wed, Miss Pember made, by law if not by blessing, his viscountess: a pleasant match to his restless friend. Had Bennet thought the match dishonourable, he would never have lent his hand to it.
The day belonged to celebration and dispatches south.
The fire had sunk to embers; the air still held yesterday’s tobacco and the slow decay of ink. He shut the door behind him and stood a moment in the stillness, imagining Ashby’s return: the lovers triumphant, the families disapproving, and happiness obliged to defend itself.
He crossed to the table, drew the stopper from a half-empty bottle, and poured himself two fingers of port. “To Ashby and his lady,” he murmured, and drank.
He was setting down the glass when a sheet of paper slid beneath the door, catching on the worn edge of the rug. He did not recognise the handwriting.
It is done. The matter rests. You have been a true friend to us both, and you will not be forgotten.
Fides servanda est.
Three deliberate blows struck the door.
Only then did he see it: the closing—Fitzwilliam’s oft-muttered refuge when a scrape had passed beyond laughter.
He crossed to the hearth, thrust the note into the embers, and watched the edges curl and blacken. The Latin flared last, bright as a confession.
A second knock came—louder now, the tone less patient. “Mr Bennet, do you hear? Open, sir!”
He glanced once at the grate. The note lay in ashes. Bennet corrected his waistcoat.
He opened the door to find three figures in the corridor: the Vice-Chancellor’s Secretary, pale and precise in his gown, a folded paper in one hand; behind him, two of the college Bulldogs, broad-shouldered men whose silence carried more threat than speech.
One held a lantern, the other a short staff of office.
“Mr Bennet,” the Secretary said. “You will come with us.”
Bennet reached for his coat.
In the hearth, the embers continued to fade.