“You will, sir—presently,” Mr. Cobb replied with a smile that suggested this was a promise made daily and redeemed as often as circumstances allowed. “He is with a client whose affairs admit of neither brevity nor interruption. If you will excuse the confusion—” He gestured vaguely at the papers. “—we are rather pressed at present.”
“So I perceive,” said Mr. Bennet, glancing about him with mild interest. “One might suppose the law a quiet profession, if one did not step inside its offices.”
Mr. Cobb laughed softly. “That illusion is best preserved from a distance. Up close, it is all deadlines and documents, sir—documents that must be copied twice, sometimes thrice, and never quickly enough to satisfy those who wait upon them.”
Mr. Bennet’s brow lifted slightly. “You speak as one overburdened.”
“Habitually,” Mr. Cobb answered without complaint. “We are fortunate in business, which is to say, unfortunate in leisure. I do not complain—only state the fact.”
Mr. Bennet seated himself upon the offered chair. “I shall not trouble you long. I wished only to make a general enquiry, and as you appear to be the person most immediately acquainted with the workings of this office, I hope you will indulge me.”
“I shall do my best, sir.”
“It occurred to me,” Mr. Bennet began, with studied ease, “that a young person, properly disposed and tolerably educated, might be of some service here—as a copyist, perhaps. I do not speak of anything advanced, merely of assistance in the mechanical part of the work.”
Mr. Cobb stared at him for a moment, then let out a short breath that was almost a laugh.
“Of help?” he repeated. “Sir, it would be nothing short of a miracle.”
Mr. Bennet smiled faintly. “That great a need?”
“That great, and greater,” Mr. Cobb replied readily, warming to the subject. “If I had a boy who could read a hand without despair, copy without invention, and keep his ink off the margins, I would count him a treasure. At present, every letter, every deed, every abstract must pass under the same few pens, and the day ends long before the work does.”
“And an apprentice,” Mr. Bennet ventured, “would not be thought an encumbrance?”
“An apprentice who required constant correction—yes,” said Mr. Cobb frankly. “But one who could be trusted with fair copying, even under supervision, would lighten our labors considerably. It is the copying that consumes us, sir, not the judgment. Judgment belongs to Mr. Jennings, and he isboth thorough and exacting. The rest is patience and legible handwriting.”
Mr. Bennet considered this. “And instruction? Would there be opportunity for a boy to learn, as well as to serve?”
Mr. Cobb nodded at once. “If he were willing, and steady, and not offended by repetition. He would learn more law from copying a single brief properly than from hearing ten lectures badly delivered. And,” he added, with a glance toward the inner door, “Mr. Jennings is an employer who values diligence. He notices those who save him time.”
“That is a rare virtue in any profession,” Mr. Bennet observed.
“Rare, but not unrewarded,” Mr. Cobb agreed. “I began here with little more than a decent hand and a willingness to stay after hours. I have not regretted it.”
Mr. Bennet rose. “You have answered my enquiry very fully, Mr. Cobb. I am obliged to you.”
“If Mr. Jennings is inclined to receive you,” Mr. Cobb said, rising also, “I believe you will find him receptive to any proposal that reduces the number of papers upon his desk. And if you have a boy in mind—” He hesitated, then smiled. “—I should be glad to see him spared the inn-yard, if he has the temper for better things.”
Mr. Bennet met his look steadily. “That remains to be seen. But I thank you for your candor.”
“You are very welcome, sir.”
At that moment, the inner door opened, and a gentleman of sober dress and businesslike countenance emerged, still engaged in low-voiced conversation with Mr. Jennings. Brief courtesies were exchanged; hats were lifted; the client took hisleave with visible relief. Mr. Jennings’s voice was heard, firm but courteous, dismissing him at last.
Mr. Cobb stepped aside at once.
“That will be Mr. Jennings now. If you will permit me, I shall announce you.”
Mr. Bennet inclined his head, his thoughts already moving beyond the room, beyond the conversation—toward a path not yet shaped.
The office into which Mr. Bennet was then introduced lay not far from the quay, yet was sufficiently withdrawn from it to reduce the ceaseless clamor of Portsmouth to a distant and tolerable murmur. The air bore that familiar mingling of dust, ink, and well-handled paper which belongs to places where business is conducted with deliberation rather than haste. The apartment was furnished with unassuming propriety: a high desk polished by years of use, a tall stool drawn close beside it, shelves crowded with ledgers and bundles secured by red tape, and a single window admitting a generous supply of light, though offering little in the way of prospect.
Mr. Jennings advanced immediately upon Mr. Bennet’s entrance.
“Mr. Bennet,” he said, with a bow that conveyed gravity without stiffness or undue familiarity, “I am deeply obliged to you for attending with such promptitude. Your journey from Hertfordshire cannot have been altogether agreeable.”
“It was tolerable enough,” replied Mr. Bennet, accepting the chair that was courteously offered. “Your letter conveyed a sense of urgency, as though any postponement might prove inconvenient.”
