Chapter Nine #2
Fiennes cast Elizabeth a fleeting glance. “She is tolerable company. Elizabeth has some wit and can amuse those about her with ease. I am certain she values the connexion.”
“Do you, Mrs Fiennes?”
“I do,” Elizabeth met Lady Westland’s gaze with steady candour. “I am very new to town and am glad to have met a new friend so soon.”
Lady Westland inclined her head. Her eyes shifted to Fiennes, and Elizabeth fancied she caught in them a glimmer of wariness—perhaps even understanding. “I am looking forward to our day of shopping. Thank you, Mr Fiennes, for allowing me the pleasure.”
He drew himself up with evident pride. “The arrangement serves us all. “I shall later finish the business I set aside this morning so that we may partake of your hospitality. It was no difficulty, I assure you.”
Lady Westland’s grimace was so fleeting that only Elizabeth, watching closely, perceived it.
The conversation between Fiennes and the countess continued, leaving Elizabeth to study the finely appointed room.
The walls were adorned in gentle hues of green and rose, the colours blending as delicately as a summer garden.
The chairs were upholstered in coordinating shades, their floral patterns echoing the hues of the curtains and carpet, all arranged with that tasteful order which marked the home of a woman of refinement.
“Elizabeth, it is time to depart.” Fiennes’s abrupt tone broke into her thoughts. “Lady Westland, we are obliged to you for your hospitality.”
“You are very welcome. Mrs Fiennes, I shall call for you at ten o’clock. Will that suit?”
“She will be ready.”
They took their leave, and no further words passed between them as they returned home, the short drive cloaked in silence.
“Good morning, Mrs Fiennes.” Lady Westland greeted Elizabeth kindly as she stepped into the carriage. “I see your husband did not send his minder with you.”
Elizabeth coloured. “Kane and Sloan are occupied,” she murmured.
Lady Westland regarded her with an assessing eye.
She looked the picture of elegance: her hat perched at a jaunty angle, her hands buried in a fine fur muff, the sleeves of her deep-green pelisse lined with the same soft fur.
“I detest polite pretence when truth must be spoken.” Lady Westland smiled.
“Let us be frank, you and I. I know what sort of man your husband is, and I wish to teach you how to manage him.”
Elizabeth stared. “You have met him but twice. How can you understand, after so brief an acquaintance, what I am still attempting to comprehend?”
“My husband was the same,” the lady confided.
“One soon learns to recognise others of that particular cast of character. Your Mr Fiennes is a calculating, cold creature who cares only for himself. To him, people are possessions. He may speak of affection, but he feels none. His desires, his ambitions, and his comforts will always take precedence. Worst of all, only you will perceive it.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. “I tried to tell everyone, but no one listened.” She moved forward, her distress breaking through reserve, and laid a hand on Lady Westland’s arm. “But I am trapped now.”
“Tell me how it came about. I gather it was not of your choosing.”
As the carriage rolled towards Bond Street, Elizabeth recounted all she could of Mr Damian Fiennes and how she had come to be his wife.
“He puzzles me exceedingly.” There was quiet weariness in the confession as the equipage drew up before the shop of a fashionable modiste.
“There are times when he is kind and solicitous, and I feel guilty for my distrust and discontentment. But then he will say something that sounds like an insult—”
“—and when you protest, he declares you are unreasonable.” Lady Westland met her eyes with understanding.
“Exactly so. Such men—and women too—wear masks before the world. Most do not see the monster beneath until it is too late. I am truly sorry for your situation. Perhaps fortune will favour you, as it did me, and make you a widow.”
“’Tis not wicked to hope?” Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed at the thought.
“It is never wicked to pray for deliverance.” Lady Westland moved towards the now-opened carriage door.
“We shall speak further at tea. I dare say your husband will permit our friendship—he will think it a useful connexion. We shall turn that to our advantage, and I shall teach you how to endure and manage his mercurial humours.”
Never had Elizabeth found shopping more delightful. Her new gowns were elegant and befitting a young wife. She chose mostly dark or striking colours—they ever best suited her complexion—and, at Lady Westland’s insistence, kept the cuts modest.
“Your husband will not relish other men admiring you. We shall have a few gowns fashioned for his eyes alone; it will please him to think himself indulged, I assure you.”
By the time they quitted Bond Street for tea at Godfrey Place, Elizabeth felt both exhilarated and weary. Their conversation flowed with such ease that one might have taken them for long-time friends rather than new acquaintances.
Over tea, Lady Westland offered counsel of every kind. “Do not let him press you into dispute. He will keep his composure, and you will be made to seem an unreasonable harridan. I have learnt that anger robs me of reason.”
Elizabeth nodded in agreement. “I have noticed he seems displeased when I refuse to argue.”
“He likely is. Such men thrive on contention—it feeds their sense of power. You may find he utters small barbs meant to wound; that is deliberate. Do not permit his cruelty to diminish your worth.” Lady Westland smiled.
“I can see that you are a lively, good-humoured creature. He will seek to quash that spirit.”
“How can I remain cheerful when the very air of that house is oppressive?” Elizabeth cried. “It is as though the life has been drawn out of the place.”
“You must seek your happiness elsewhere and guard it well. Speak of it to no one, for he will attempt to separate whatever—or whomever—brings you comfort. My late husband was a jealous man. Before his death, we had not a single male servant; he believed they would lure me into indiscretion. In time, my friends too drifted away, for he read my letters and curtailed my visits.”
“Fiennes already curtails my walks. It was only the promise of meeting someone of consequence that persuaded him to take me walking last week.”
“Excellent! Play upon his weaknesses—they exist, though he will try to conceal them. Your husband is ambitious; that can serve you. When he objects to your visiting me, remind him of my title. I shall make every effort to introduce you to others of rank or consequence. Your circle will widen because he will not risk his own ambitions by denying you such acquaintances.” Lady Westland’s eyes sparkled with mischief.
“You have one advantage I never did—someone who understands. When he begins to hide your letters, send word, and I shall see them dispatched from Godfrey Place.”
It was time to go. Unable to restrain her gratitude, Elizabeth embraced her new friend with unguarded affection. “Thank you, my lady.” Kindness, when freely given, felt almost dangerous; it threatened to make her believe in gentleness once more.
“Call me Suzanne, my dear. I believe we are long past the stage of observing formalities.”
“And you must call me Elizabeth—or Lizzy, if you please. Only, I beg you, never Eliza.”
“Agreed.”
They said their farewells, and as Elizabeth reached the door, she turned back. “Who is ‘the old bat’?” Her curiosity had overcome her restraint.
“Oh, Arthur.” Lady Westland broke into bright, irrepressible laughter.
“He meant the Dowager Countess of Westland—my mother-in-law. The title properly belongs to her, though society will persist in calling me the same. To distinguish between us, she is sometimes styled the senior Dowager, while most who know us simply call me Lady Westland. She and her son are very much alike.”
With the promise of another visit to Bond Street for fittings, Elizabeth returned home strengthened in spirit and resolved to follow Suzanne’s counsel—to preserve both her sanity and self-command in her husband’s house.