Chapter Five
Hertfordshire
Elizabeth
Elizabeth conversed warmly with Charlotte Lucas.
Though seven years her senior, Charlotte had a steadiness that Elizabeth admired.
She had taken the younger girl under her wing, and in the few years since their first acquaintance, she had become both confidante and counsellor, ever ready with observations shrewd yet kindly delivered.
Her practical intelligence, measured humour, and keen understanding of their neighbours made her an invaluable friend.
At two-and-twenty, Charlotte had been out in society for several years now—since her eighteenth birthday.
Elizabeth sometimes wondered why her own mother had pressed her into company at so young an age, for she had not felt ready for such exposure.
Now, however, she had found her footing and took pleasure in the amusements of the neighbourhood, with Charlotte and Jane at her side.
Miss Lucas sighed and leaned back against the finely upholstered chair.
“Is something amiss?” Elizabeth asked, her curiosity piqued. Her friend had been uncommonly quiet that evening, so unlike her usual manner.
“Mr Martin has offered for Miss Noland,” Charlotte murmured dismally. “I had thought for certain he would offer for me.”
“He has been very friendly. What do you make of it?”
Charlotte gave a slight lift to her shoulders. “It is likely he regards me only as a friend, and in my eagerness to see meaning where there was none, I deceived myself.” She was calm, but Elizabeth saw the hurt beneath her feigned indifference.
Elizabeth reached out and took her hand. “You are not so very old yet. There is time still for your happiness!”
Charlotte laughed in surprise. “To one so young as yourself, I dare say anyone past their nineteenth year seems a relic,” she teased. “Thank you for cheering me, Lizzy.”
“Oh, but I did not mean—” Elizabeth frowned, fearful that she had added to her friend’s pain. “I only meant—”
“I know. You meant to comfort me, and you have. I am not offended.” Charlotte pressed Elizabeth’s hand to set her mind at rest.
“Still, I ought to guard my tongue before my words go tumbling out unbidden.” Elizabeth grinned bashfully, causing Charlotte to laugh once more.
“Aye, that would be prudent. Now, tell me—has Mr Fiennes been a frequent visitor at Longbourn of late?”
Elizabeth made a face. “Aye, far too frequent, and I do not know why. He spends more time in my mother’s parlour with the ladies than in my father’s company, so it cannot be for male conversation.”
Charlotte’s gaze drifted across the room to where Mr Fiennes stood. “You take exception to the gentleman?” “He is handsome, well established, and possesses a considerable fortune. Such a match would be advantageous for your family.”
Elizabeth blew out a breath, her lips pursed in vexation. “I cannot quite name what I am feeling. His attentions seem…contrived. There is something beneath his happy manners that unsettles me, as though he hides a less agreeable nature.”
Charlotte laughed, yet to Elizabeth it seemed less like shared mirth than amusement at her expense.
“He stares at you a great deal, Eliza. I had thought he would pursue Jane, yet he has scarcely looked in her direction this evening.”
Elizabeth frowned, a sense of unease stealing over her. “I confess I had not noticed his attention,” she murmured, her fingers worrying the fringe of her shawl. “When he calls for tea, he speaks with everyone but always contrives to draw me into conversation; he asks too many questions.”
“You are fortunate to have gained his regard.”
Elizabeth attempted to put off her friend with a laugh. “Such a silly notion. He is merely friendly, that is all. There can be no regard, for there has been no time for it to form. Besides, he is five-and-thirty—old enough to be my father!”
“Age has little to do with marriage,” Charlotte spoke with quiet resolve, her expression brooking no contradiction. “He possesses every requisite to recommend him as a husband. Most would not age him above eight-and-twenty, so youthful is his appearance.”
“That hardly signifies. I do not love him—I do not even like him particularly well. I shall never marry where there is no affection, and so his regard, as you call it, must wither and die for want of nourishment.” Elizabeth smiled in triumph, quite pleased with her turn of phrase.
Charlotte looked at her intently. “Remember your family’s circumstances, dear friend. You are young—only fifteen—and it would not do to cast aside a good match for so paltry a reason.”
“You would not be so mercenary!” Elizabeth could not believe it of Charlotte.
“If my future hung in the balance, then yes, I would.” Charlotte turned to her with an air of solemn concern.
“Remember what I have said, Lizzy. The world is not kind to ladies of our station, who have neither fortune nor prospects.” With that, she rose and crossed the room to the refreshment table, taking up a glass of punch.
Unhappily for Elizabeth, Mr Fiennes claimed the vacant seat only a moment later. “How do you do this evening, dear Miss Elizabeth?” He reached for her hand with practised warmth.
She resisted the urge to pull away and offered a polite smile that never touched her eyes. “I am well, Mr Fiennes. And you?”
“Better now that I have your sole attention.” He edged nearer, his hand tightening around hers and drawing it to rest beside his leg. “Tell me, my dear, have you missed my company as much as I have missed yours?” He raised her hand and brushed his lips against it before releasing her.
A tremor of panic rippled through her, though she struggled to maintain her composure. “Pray, do not address me so intimately, sir. There is no cause for such familiarity—we are but acquaintances.”
Something in his eyes made Elizabeth feel like a rabbit cornered by a fox, and she shifted away, grateful to be in possession of her hand once more.
Mr Fiennes laughed as though humoured by a child. “You are a lovely creature.” His smile conveyed only tolerant amusement. “I am glad to be the recipient of your wit and vivacity this evening. Tell me, have you read anything of interest lately?”
The question piqued Elizabeth’s interest, for in all his calls they had never spoken of books.
She launched into a lively account of the volume of philosophy she had lately finished and felt gratified when he responded with intelligent questions.
He seemed engaged, and Elizabeth began to wonder whether she had misjudged him.
Perhaps he merely lacked ease in his attentions and stumbled in his attempts to please.
She would need to find a way to discourage him without wounding his pride.
“That is fascinating,” he observed when she concluded. “I tend to read works of a more practical nature. Mayhap I ought to attempt something new.”
“If philosophy wearies you, you might try Gulliver’s Travels,” she suggested. “It has enough adventure to satisfy anyone.”
“I shall take that under advisement.” Mr Fiennes adjusted his cravat pin, appearing thoughtful. “Have your walks been curtailed?” he asked, shifting the subject with studied ease.
Elizabeth’s former disquiet returned, and her smile faltered. Of late, she had kept closer to Longbourn in her rambles, often fancying that unseen eyes followed her when she ventured beyond her father’s land.
“They have,” she replied, lying boldly. “The weather has turned cold enough to keep me from wandering far from the house.”
“What a pity.”
Mr Fiennes turned in his chair, his attention settling wholly on her.
“I have not yet abandoned my rides, though I confess, with winter upon us, the scenes to observe are far less…diverting.” His eyes fixed on her, and she sensed an unspoken meaning beneath his words.
“Perhaps,” he continued, “it is time I forgo my morning rides until spring.”
Elizabeth swallowed and compelled herself to meet his look. “If that is your wish, I am certain one of your grooms could exercise your horse.” She rose.
“If you will excuse me, I must find Jane.”
Without another word, she moved as swiftly as propriety allowed, her back prickling beneath the weight of his eyes as she crossed the room.
Fiennes
He watched her figure sway in her haste to escape his company.
For a while she had let her guard fall and spoken to him as she did with others.
Few things pleased him more than to witness order spring from his own design.
The animation with which she described the dreary tome she had read—her hands moving in emphasis, her eyes bright with thought—inflamed him, and he impatiently counted the months until he could strike.
Nearly a year must pass before that moment arrived.
There must be a way to make the time move faster, he thought in mounting vexation.
He was already enduring lessons from his so-called “masters” in the art of refinement—posture, speech, restraint—all tedious necessities for a man intent on rising above his birth.
Perhaps a few months in town would further his cause.
There were connexions to be forged, circles to infiltrate, and reputations to build.
Yet none could ever discover his true origins, or all his plans would come to naught.
Having achieved his aim of securing at least a quarter hour in Elizabeth’s company, he grew bored and ventured towards the card room.
The men there played with money their wives would never know of, and the stakes were far higher than a few shillings tossed away on gossip.
Fiennes could well afford to join, but he refrained.
He preferred to observe. Watching men was ever more instructive than playing beside them.