Chapter Six #2
Bennet sank back into his chair and pressed his hands to his face.
Fiennes could all but read the thoughts that tormented him: how to sacrifice one daughter to save the rest, and himself besides; how to preserve Longbourn from ruin while condemning his favourite child; how his family might fare if he were sent to debtor’s prison—especially with a flighty woman left to manage it. It was delicious to watch the struggle.
“She is my favourite child,” Bennet whispered after minutes of contemplation.
“I am also very aware of that. It would not be a true payment of the debt if it were not a sacrifice. Is that not so?” Fiennes turned the ring on his finger, as was his deliberate habit, relishing the man’s anguish.
Bennet looked utterly wretched—far worse than Morgan Fields had appeared when he realised Netherfield was lost to him forever.
This was true affection—a father’s love for his daughter—and it pleased him to watch it choke the life from such a pitiable, foolish man.
“There must be some other way.” Bennet looked up once more, his eyes red-rimmed and blinking hard as he attempted to suppress his tears. “I shall pay you double the interest!”
“I have no use for double interest,” Fiennes answered evenly. “I shall marry Elizabeth in three weeks. After we have exchanged our vows, we three shall burn the contracts—all copies. Then I shall take my wife to London, where we shall spend Christmastide and the season at my house in Mayfair.”
“I cannot.” Bennet’s words were scarcely audible, but Fiennes heard the surrender in them.
The man was a coward; he had failed his family for years, and now he would fail his dearest daughter.
Fiennes could have no sympathy for him. And so he resolved to make the moment still more excruciating—more painful—with one final demand.
“There is one more thing I require to settle this debt.” He spoke in a casual manner, looking through a window as if he had not a care in the world.
“You will summon Elizabeth and pronounce her fate yourself. Every detail will be laid bare—nothing spared. She will see you for what you are, and learn what a man will do for the sake of his own comfort.”
Fiennes watched as Bennet’s pallor deepened, pressing a trembling hand to his chest as though stricken. Oh no, this will not do at all. You cannot die before my plans are complete.
“Have a care, man.” His words oozed false solicitude as he crossed to a small sideboard and poured Bennet a generous measure of brandy. The drink restored him, and he leaned back in his chair and sighed.
“You set your trap very neatly.” Thoroughly defeated now, Bennet bowed his head. After a moment, he pulled the bell cord. At the knock that followed, Wilkens opened the study door at the knock that came a few moments later. Mrs Hill appeared, expecting a request for tea.
“Send Miss Elizabeth to me, Hill.” He did his best not to appear devastated in front of his long-time servant, but he doubted his success. The housekeeper withdrew.
Very neatly, Fiennes mused. There was pleasure in agreement freely given; it made the snare appear invisible. He had learnt long ago that gratitude bound more tightly than force.
The three men waited in silence until, after several long minutes, light footsteps were heard in the passage. Elizabeth opened the door and entered.
“Close the door, Lizzy,” Mr Bennet said wearily.
She obeyed and advanced hesitantly, her eyes fixed on Mr Fiennes with a mixture of distaste and trepidation. His lips drew up into a knowing smile, and he offered a deliberate wink. She frowned and turned her face away.
“You asked for me, Papa?” She moved nearer to the desk, the disorder of the study drawing her onwards. Fiennes watched the tension stiffen her posture. Her brow furrowed; concern shadowed her features. “What has happened here?”
“I have wronged you, Elizabeth—wronged you most grievously.” Bennet’s throat tightened with emotion.
“You, who are the most deserving of my daughters. I must beg your forgiveness.” As she reached the side of the desk, he reached for her hand and held it briefly.
He could not look up, keeping his eyes fixed on the desk before him.
“Whatever has happened, you have it,” she vowed.
“Pray, do not offer it so freely until you have heard all.” His words faltered as he confessed his folly and the dreadful consequences that would fall on her because of his own ill-judged decisions. His shoulders sagged as he finished.
“So, you see, my dear Lizzy, you have every reason to think ill of me, and it would not surprise me if, when you leave this house, you never wish to hear of me.”
An intriguing notion, Fiennes thought. It would torment them both to believe the other would rather never speak to them.
“I will not do it!” Elizabeth cried in anger. “There must be another way.” She turned her pleading eyes to Fiennes, whose smile was devoid of warmth. “Please, sir, will you not grant us clemency?”
“I am a businessman, Elizabeth, not a benefactor. Debts are not cleared by sentiment. This is the solution agreed upon by your father. Now the choice lies with you. Will you see him in debtor’s prison?
Will your mother be prudent when she has no one to gainsay her?
What will become of your sisters—and their reputations—if Mr Bennet is sent away in disgrace? ”
Each deliberate word was designed to pierce Elizabeth’s heart and tighten the invisible chains about her. Her colour ebbed; she turned towards her father in silent entreaty, but his eyes remained fixed on the desk. Next, she turned to Wilkens, but she found no comfort there.
“Come now, Elizabeth, it will not be such a trial.” Fiennes laughed outright, his mirth genuine. “I shall give you grand houses and more pin money than you can ever spend.”
“But what of affection, sir? I do not love you.” Her voice quavered, reminding Fiennes that she was still very young.
“I care deeply for you,” he returned. “I have shown it, have I not, these many months?”
Her eyes narrowed. For the first time, Fiennes felt uneasy in her presence; he wondered whether she saw through his pretty words to the corruption beneath.
The sensation was disconcerting. Could she truly perceive him?
She would be the first. Such discernment made her dangerous.
And then, his desire to possess her burned away the momentary doubt.
Elizabeth drew a steadying breath. “Very well. When is the wedding?”
Thank heavens she is but sixteen, he told himself. She knows nothing. A few more years and that proud Bennet spirit would have turned defiant. Youth softens the will—age sharpens it—and I have no wish to cross blades with a grown woman.
Bennet looked up at last, surprise warring with sorrow and relief.
“Three weeks,” Fiennes answered. “We shall then go to London. There is no need to shop for wedding clothes—you may purchase all you wish in town.”
“Only three weeks?” Elizabeth looked at him pleadingly. “Can it not be a longer engagement? We can sign the marriage articles, so that our betrothal be recognised in law.”
Fiennes smiled condescendingly. “It is considerate of you to seek a compromise, but the decision stands. Do not trouble your head over another thing. Now, if you will excuse us, your father and I have further business.”
Elizabeth turned to her father. He waved her away. “We shall speak later, my dear.” With that, she shot Fiennes one last look of disgust and hurried from the room—doubtless intending to seek comfort in the open air.
Bennet’s voice broke the heavy silence after the door closed, weary and broken.
“You will take care of her?”
“I shall settle fifty thousand pounds on her. She will be my heir until there are children. Will that satisfy?”
The arrangement could, of course, be amended in due time. Besides, he expected he would outlive any wife he took; women died in childbed often enough.
Bennet inclined his head, heavy with exhaustion. The man was spent, his spirit subdued, precisely as Fiennes had planned.
“There is one more matter…”
Half an hour later, Fiennes and Wilkens departed Longbourn to the sound of Mrs Bennet’s delighted exclamations. The matron’s knowledge of the betrothal would ensure that all of Meryton heard of it before the morrow. There was no escape for Elizabeth now.