Chapter Twelve #2
“He is growing too fast.” Suzanne watched him go, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “My mother-in-law insists he should be sent to school, but I am loath to part with him.”
“I can understand.” Elizabeth met her friend’s gaze.
Suzanne regarded her closely, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. “You seem thoughtful, Elizabeth. What has you in this strange, contemplative mood?”
Flushing, Elizabeth shared her concerns. Her fingers were laced tightly before her, a habit she had formed to keep from fidgeting. “I do not feel I am ready to be a mother. I know it will please Fiennes, but the thought of welcoming a poor, innocent babe into the life I lead is frightening.”
“You are not so very late.” Suzanne drew her brows together. “It may be nothing of consequence.”
“Martha has likely already informed him,” Elizabeth groaned. “How shall I face his wrath if nothing comes of it?”
Rather than respond to a question for which she had no ready answer, Suzanne changed the subject.
“I have a letter here for you.” She held it up, and Elizabeth’s breath caught as she recognised her father’s hand.
Handing her the letter, Suzanne rose. “I shall just ring for tea. You know where the writing desk is.”
Eagerly, Elizabeth broke the seal. Within the first sheet lay another, folded and bearing Jane’s well-known script. Setting aside her father’s letter, she read her sister’s first.
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
24 January 1807
Dearest Lizzy,
Papa has told me everything. I can scarcely breathe; my heart breaks for you so!
You were right, dearest sister, when you spoke of Mr Fiennes.
Pray forgive me for doubting you. Share with me what you can, and I promise I shall never doubt your words henceforth.
Dearest, tell me you are well. I shall not rest until I know.
Papa has told me of our new circumstances and urged me to keep the truth from Mama and our sisters.
I confess I do not think it wise to maintain secrecy for long, though I understand why he hesitates.
I am certain our mother would rest easier if she knew her future was secure. Perhaps you might persuade him of it.
You know I am not made for sadness. I beg you to tell me of the happy things in your life. Write to me as soon as you can.
With love,
Jane
She brushed away her tears, astonished at the strength of feeling a simple letter could awaken.
Though a little hurt at her sister's desire to ignore all that was wrong in Elizabeth's marriage, she shrugged it off. Folding Jane’s missive, she turned to her father’s.
Jane’s mention of new circumstances had puzzled her; perhaps this letter would explain.
It did, and she marvelled at the transformation that had taken place both in her father and at Longbourn in so short a time. Her mother and sisters were saved.
It was not soon enough to save me. If only Mr Cartwright had come a month earlier.
A bitterness of spirit rose within her. The scent of sealing wax clung to her fingers; she lifted them to her face unthinkingly, and the faint sweetness brought back Longbourn and her father’s study so vividly that she shut her eyes.
The memory pressed too near; she would not let it.
When she opened her eyes again, the room was only a room—quiet, proper, and safe.
Elizabeth folded both letters and hesitated.
They could not be taken home. Perhaps Suzanne had some discreet drawer in which they might be kept secure.
Setting them aside, she took up her pen and wrote replies to her father and sister, then brief notes for the rest of her family.
Suzanne returned just as she set down her pen. “It was good of you to step out while I wrote my letters. I cannot thank you enough.”
“I would do anything for you.” Suzanne smiled, the warmth in her eyes unmistakable. “Now, it has been an hour since your arrival. Let us have tea.”
Elizabeth’s spirits were lighter when she took her leave, and she promised she would return on Thursday.
Fiennes met her at the door, his features arranged in an expressionless mask.
Sloan and Kane stood against the wall, arms folded, their habitual scowls unmoved.
In the doorway to the study, Wilkens watched—his face composed to mirror his master’s, though she noticed a flicker of unease in his light blue eyes.
“I would have a word with you, Elizabeth,” he said. “Come.” Turning, he went into his study. Wilkens stepped aside, positioning himself by the bookcase. “You may go,” Fiennes directed. “Close the door behind you.”
Wilkens obeyed at once, leaving them alone.
Elizabeth stood before the desk, her thoughts tumbling with dread.
Perhaps he had discovered she was writing to her family—or judged the small book she had bought with her meagre pin money too frivolous.
Her heart quickened; a sheen of moisture gathered on her brow.
“Martha says your courses are late.”
A breath escaped her. “Aye,” she managed, almost in relief. “Yes, they are.”
He frowned. “And you meant to keep it from me? This momentous news?”
Shaking her head, she searched her mind for an explanation that would appease him. “It is only five days. I cannot be certain until the quickening, and that is still some weeks away. I did not wish to disappoint you.”
Pray be satisfied, she begged silently. She could see he found amusement in her discomfort.
“Ah.” He came around the front of his desk and took her hands.
“Is that all? Then I shall accept your explanation, darling wife, and celebrate with you rather than chastise you further.” He lifted her hands and pressed a kiss to each—this smile thin, his eyes seemed alight with cold triumph. “You have pleased me, my dear.”
Have I? Elizabeth lowered her head, uncertain what pleasing him might entail.
“The moment you feel the quickening, I am to know. Meanwhile, we will curtail our activities. Nothing must endanger my child.”
“Curtail?” The word slipped out before she could restrain it. Fear flashed through her—fear for her weekly visits with Suzanne. Am I to lose what little freedom remains to me?
“We shall attend evening engagements but once a week. And I shall engage a physician and a midwife to look in on you regularly.”
Elizabeth murmured her assent, withholding any mention of her weekly arrangements with Lady Westland.
It seemed as though he always took everything away from her that she loved, and if he understood what those calls meant to her, he would forbid them without hesitation.
He had forbidden her use of the library, even going so far as to confiscate her personal collection of books.
She was never allowed to dance when they went out. Oh, how she missed the activity!
Fortunately, he said nothing regarding those outings, but led her upstairs instead. On her bed lay an expensive cashmere shawl and a small jewellery case.
“For you.” His satisfaction was plain as he draped the shawl across her shoulders. Inside the case rested one of the orange stones—a citrine—from the gaudy necklace he had once presented to her. It had been reset in a silver pendant suspended from a lighter braided chain.
“It is lovely.” Her finger brushed the gem lightly, and for once her words were sincere.
“Does it please you?” Fiennes lifted the necklace from its velvet bed and fastened it round her throat.
Together they turned towards the looking glass at her dressing table.
He stood behind her; in the reflection he appeared every inch the devoted husband.
Only she knew the pretence. Yet, a faint glimmer of hope stirred within her.
This is the way, she thought. This is how I must keep his cold nature at bay.
“It does,” she said, summoning a smile that might pass for genuine. Her hand rose to the pendant. “I thank you.” Each smile she offered cost her something, yet she gave them still—the price of harmony in a household governed by a most designing man.
He bent to kiss her cheek. “I must be off—business at the club. I shall see you at dinner, my dear.”
Another brief kiss, and he was gone. As the door closed, she stood listening, half-amazed to hear him humming as he went.
March 1807
London
Elizabeth
She recognised it the instant it began—the faint flutter within her could not be mistaken. At last, she felt the quickening. Her hand came to her slightly rounded form, and she sighed. Fiennes will be pleased.
The past months had borne little resemblance to the first three of her marriage.
Fiennes had grown attentive, even tender—seeing to her every comfort and presenting her with gifts almost daily.
When Elizabeth confided her cautious hopes to Suzanne that he might be changing, her friend had only looked at her with pity.
“Do not trust it,” she warned. “Remember what you felt at the beginning. Instinct does not lie.”
Elizabeth had no ready reply. Resentment at Suzanne’s sombre view mingled with reluctant respect for her reasoning. In the end, she resolved to enjoy the positive attention Fiennes gave her while keeping her guard intact.
Fiennes was out—an uncommon occurrence for a Wednesday, but Elizabeth made no enquiry as to his whereabouts. She would be ready when he returned. It was her day for callers, and that afternoon she expected Lady Matlock, who was now out of mourning and making calls once more.
Elizabeth was exceedingly fond of Suzanne’s sister, brief though the acquaintance was.
The countess played the part of a motherly guardian to both her younger sister and to Elizabeth herself.
Because of her rank, Fiennes raised no objection to Lady Matlock’s visits.
Only those of consequence were admitted in his house; ordinary people with no connexion to the first circles were refused.
Her London relations were thus excluded, and she corresponded with them in secret as she did her family in Hertfordshire.