Chapter Eleven
London
Elizabeth
Elizabeth held in her hand the unfinished letter she had begun on Christmas Eve.
In the haste of changing her attire, it had slid beneath the jewel box that sat on her dressing table.
She regarded it thoughtfully; the bustle of the season had left her little leisure to attend to correspondence, yet the lack of letters from her family had not gone unnoticed.
It was early—far earlier than Fiennes was wont to rise.
Elizabeth kept to her chambers until he summoned her breakfast. She would join him then in the small dining parlour as he ordered.
Only once had she attempted to request a tray, and he had forbidden her to do so again. He had been firm when he scolded her.
“You will take your meals with me. If you hunger or thirst before the appointed hour, you will restrain yourself. It would not do for you to expand beyond the wardrobe you have just acquired.”
The memory made her chafe. How she despised his control.
Yet a woman belonged first to her father, and then to her husband.
There was no escape from his dictates. Each act of defiance brought punishment, and so she had to remind herself several times a day that resistance was not worth the cost. Still, her discontent and anxiety grew with every passing hour.
The one light in her world was Lady Westland.
Suzanne’s calming reassurance and her tender care were all that sustained her.
She alone was permitted correspondence, the only friend she might visit freely.
Suzanne’s own experience with a tyrannical husband lent her authority, and she did not hesitate to share her counsel.
Elizabeth’s mind drifted to their tea together a week earlier.
“Choose your battles carefully, my dear,” Suzanne had advised.
“Only matters of true consequence deserve contention. Men of his temper delight in strife; if you engage him at every provocation, your life will become a series of storms. Should he fail to obtain what he seeks from you, he will turn elsewhere to find it.”
“Will he leave me in peace?”
Suzanne’s laughter had rung out, touched with irony. “Oh, heavens no! Even when his interest in provoking you wanes, he will strike when least expected. It is his nature. You must learn to remain ever on your guard.”
“I already feel as though I tread on eggshells.” Elizabeth had sighed in exasperation. “My home ought to be a place of refuge, yet it grows less so every waking day.”
Suzanne had given her a look of sympathy. “Find allies. You have me. Now we must broaden your circle. Are any amongst the household inclined to kindness?”
“Perhaps a few. Mrs Heinz, the housekeeper, and Cook. I cannot trust my lady’s maid. She is far too free with my private affairs.”
Suzanne had pushed for more. “I sense a tale.”
A flush had risen to her cheeks. “He wishes for…a child,” she had confessed in a whisper. “Someone he can mould in his own image, as he says. Each month he rebukes me for not conceiving, as though I possess control over such things.”
“Does he indeed?” Suzanne had frowned. “I am torn. I scarcely know which would be worse—that you gratify him, or that you do not. A child bred to resemble such a man is seldom blessed; they may inherit the monster’s spirit. I thank Providence my husband died before he could corrupt Arthur.”
The recollection faded. Elizabeth sat motionless at the dressing table, the letter still in her hand, the weight of her existence pressing on her shoulders.
Fiennes entered without warning. “What are you doing?” She started. He never knocked; her chambers were not her own.
“Merely collecting my thoughts for the day.”
“Then write them down. That vacant look makes you appear simple.” His words cut like a blade. “Come. We shall breakfast now.”
Suppressing the sting of his insult, Elizabeth rose. The letter remained in her grasp. She would see, at last, whether Suzanne’s suspicions were justified.
As they approached the dining parlour, she turned aside towards the salver by the door. Fiennes gave her a menacing look. “I have a letter. If I place it here now, it will go out with the morning post.”
He frowned. “Very well. I must fetch my journal.” Releasing her arm, he crossed to his study off the hall. “Do not wait for me.”
She set the letter on the salver and hurried down the passage to the necessary room near the dining parlour. Through the narrow crack of the door she had left ajar, she watched.
A minute passed—then another. At length, Fiennes emerged, took up the letter, and tore it clean in two before returning to his study.
When he reappeared, his hands were empty.
She waited until his tread receded, then slipped into the study.
The fragments of her letter lay smouldering in the grate.
Heart pounding, she hastened to the dining parlour.
“Where were you?” Fiennes demanded.
She lowered her eyes. “The necessary.” He said no more, and when breakfast was served, his attention turned to the meal.
Later that day, once her husband had departed for his office, Elizabeth donned her pelisse and warm walking boots and set out for Godfrey Place.
Suzanne welcomed her warmly, as did Arthur, whose cheerful manner always touched her heart.
Her affection for him had grown, and she wondered what it might be to have a son of her own.
“He is burning my letters,” Elizabeth confided once they were alone. “I saw him do it this morning.”
Suzanne’s countenance sobered. “I feared as much. It is his way of severing your ties, my dear. Isolation makes obedience far easier to enforce.”
“Oh, undoubtedly.” Elizabeth shook her head. “I wish to accept your offer—to give this direction for my letters.”
Suzanne studied her closely. “He may discover your ruse. Are you prepared to weather that storm?”
“I am. I miss my family dreadfully.”
“Then write to them now. I am sure they miss you as dearly. I shall look in on Arthur; he is meant to be studying his arithmetic, though he detests it.” She gestured to the writing desk. “You will find everything you need there.”
Elizabeth hurried over to the desk, seated herself, and drew a sheet of paper before her.
Yet, when the pen hovered over the page, her thoughts faltered.
How might she explain her silence without betraying the truth?
Papa knows, she reminded herself. He will understand how best to share my situation to the others.
Dipping the pen with care, she began to write.
Godfrey House, London
4 January 1807
Dear Papa,
I know it has been months since my marriage.
I can offer no excuse save the one you likely suspect.
My husband forbids my letters to leave his house, and those directed to me seldom reach my hands.
He inspects every post before I see it, and I have no doubt that yours—and my Mama’s and my sisters’ have been intercepted.
To counter this injustice, I have devised a safe means of correspondence.
My dear friend, Lady Westland, is sympathetic to my plight and has offered her home as a depot of sorts.
I entreat you to send all future letters to her direction, and she will ensure I receive them.
If Mama and my sisters wish to write, they must likewise send them through her.
I am certain you have many questions. Let me assure you that I am well in body, though not always in spirit.
You comprehend my circumstances, for my husband revealed his true nature to you even before our marriage.
He contrives daily to remind me of my inferiority.
Lady Westland counsels that I betray no outward sign of distress, and I have done my utmost to imitate Jane’s serene composure.
It vexes him, I believe, and for that I take a small triumph.
It has been a struggle not to allow my present condition to poison my heart.
The cheerful girl I was but six months ago seems lost; if she yet lives, she hides, waiting for a safer day to re-emerge.
Mama would be pleased. Fiennes succeeded where she could not—he has turned me into the perfect society lady.
Pray, tell me—how is Jane? How fare all my sisters?
Is Lydia still rebelling against her history lessons?
I beg you to pursue their education as assiduously as you did mine.
Teach them more—teach them to discern a man who presents a pleasing exterior but conceals corruption within.
Such wisdom will prove of greater worth than jewels.
Tell Mama the townhouse is furnished in the latest fashion; she will be gratified to know that I have a private sitting room overlooking the garden.
I receive callers on Wednesdays and Fridays, and pay my own visits on Tuesdays and Thursdays while my husband attends to business.
She will also be interested to learn that Lady Westland has introduced me to Madame Dubois—the most exclusive modiste in London, and truly French—not a pretender like some.
My gowns are of the latest fashion, though less elaborate than Mama would prefer.
Jane will wish to hear of my happiness. I leave it to you, dear Papa, to inform my sister of the reality. She deserves to know, for I think she doubted my contentment even before I left Longbourn.
I still wrestle with forgiveness, Papa. I love you so dearly, yet resentment lingers in my heart that I became the sacrifice to save you from imprisonment.
You were deceived by a master of deceit—no one knows that better than I—but it was your duty to protect your daughters, and in that you failed us.
Pray, do better, Papa, and guard my sisters from a similar fate.
I must conclude, for I hear Lady Westland returning. She kindly withdrew to grant me privacy for this letter. I am deeply grateful for her friendship. I shudder to think how much worse life might be without her.
Yours, etc.
Elizabeth
She sanded and sealed the letter, writing the direction in neat script. Suzanne entered soon after, a handkerchief extended.
“You are weeping. Does the letter recall painful memories?”
Elizabeth accepted the handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “You know my story, Suzanne. My father betrayed me in the worst manner imaginable. How does one forgive such a thing?”
Suzanne moved closer and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, the gesture conveying far more than words.
“I cannot tell you. My mother and I were ignorant of what awaited me in marriage. She never learnt the truth, either. As for my husband—he poisoned my spirit until forgiveness became the only cure. He is gone now, and I am free of him. Yet his mother remains, and she is far harder to forgive.”
Drawing a deep breath, Suzanne turned the talk. “Would you care to visit my sister? Tilda is eager to know you better. We must call upon her, however—she is in mourning. Her brother-in-law has lately died.”
Elizabeth inclined her head in sympathy, a pang of sadness stirring for the countess. They set out together and were warmly received by Lady Matlock.
“George Darcy was a good man,” Lady Matlock said with feeling.
“His poor children are orphans now. Fitzwilliam will manage the estate well, I am sure, but poor Georgiana—oh, my heart aches for her. Her guardianship falls to her brother and my son. What do two bachelor gentlemen know of raising a young girl?”
At the name, Elizabeth recalled the tall, grave gentleman she had met at Lady Matlock’s ball—the one whose quiet dignity hinted at deeper feeling beneath his reserve—the one who had asked her to dance.
“I am certain your ladyship will take an interest in your niece’s welfare.” Elizabeth offered her a gentle assurance.
Lady Matlock nodded. “Indeed.” She pressed a handkerchief to her lips, then lowered it with a sigh. “Still I cannot help my vexation. George never made a decision without reflection, and he must have had his reasons.”
“That speaks well of his character.” Elizabeth’s reply came with gentle sincerity.
The conversation turned gradually to other subjects, and in time Lady Matlock, with kind tact, drew from Elizabeth the account of her marriage.
Speaking of it eased rather than deepened her distress, and when she returned home later that day, her spirits were lighter than they had been in many months.
Though her hours away from her husband were spent in cheerful company, the oppressive air of the house to which she returned always seemed determined to extinguish every trace of brightness from her life.
Whispers amongst the servants hinted at her husband’s dealings.
Foolish gentlemen, men such as her own father, were swelling Fiennes’s fortune.
The household was aware of his ambition to raise himself into the first circles.
Yet those he wished to impress within that sphere seemed blind to his duplicity, and invitations continued to arrive in abundance—proof of how deftly he masked his true character beneath the veneer of affability.
Nor had his business in the meaner parts of the city ceased.
Each Tuesday and Thursday, without fail, Fiennes departed punctually, and by chance Elizabeth discovered his destination.
Wilkens, in careless conversation with Sloan, had let slip that their master kept an office in Cheapside, where he received clients of a humbler class.
How long her husband could continue his nefarious ways before justice intervened, she could not guess.
When that reckoning came, what would become of her?
She would fall with him, her reputation ruined beyond repair.
Surely Suzanne would not abandon me, she thought, grasping at the only comfort within reach.
Whatever fate awaited, Elizabeth determined to meet it without fear. Such weakness had no purpose in her world; it invited cruelty, and she would not give her wicked husband the satisfaction of seeing her tremble.
Steeling her heart, Elizabeth resolved with renewed strength to endure whatever shadows awaited her there. She had found a way to communicate with her family, and for now, that would be enough.