Chapter Twelve #3
After a long morning of visits, Elizabeth reclined on a chaise in her private sitting room. Fatigue often seized her in the afternoons. Suzanne had assured her it would pass, but thus far it had not abated. Bathed in sunlight and cooled by a soft breeze from the open window, she drifted into sleep.
A tickling at her nose roused her. She brushed at it, but the sensation returned. Opening her eyes, she gave a startled cry. Fiennes crouched beside her, his face but inches away, a feather poised in his hand. Devilishly, he waved the feather.
“Good afternoon, wife.” His smile was pleasant, though edged with a sharpness she had not seen in some time; her pulse quickened. “I had not expected to find you sleeping the day away. Have you nothing better to do?”
The words stung; it had been weeks since he had spoken to her so cuttingly. Elizabeth’s hand moved instinctively to her unborn child. “I felt it—the babe,” she murmured sweetly, hoping to quiet the storm before it broke.
The effect on Fiennes was immediate. His countenance broke into a grin. “Truly?” he asked.
She nodded and then gasped as he gave a wild, joyous cry, sweeping her into his arms. He spun her once about before setting her down.
“A celebration is in order! I am to be a father!” He faced her, that grin still fixed in place, and in an instant the glint of malice returned to his eyes.
“You are not proving to be as worthless as I thought.”
With that, he strode from the room, calling for wine and spirits to be carried to his chamber.
Fiennes had ordered a tray in his room, declaring that he required a private celebration. “I have much to plan for,” he announced. “And it cannot be delayed.”
His parting words echoed in her mind, but after such cruelty, she could no longer summon feeling enough to care. Dining alone, she withdrew to the privacy of her chamber, seeking to quiet her wounded spirits in solitude.
Fiennes
Fiennes removed his coat and cast it across the back of an armchair before seating himself at his writing desk in his chamber. There was no time like the present, and he had plans to make.
My child, he thought with satisfaction. Be it boy or girl, I shall mould it into the perfect image of myself. This new being would have everything he had been denied—refinement, consequence, and the ease of the first circles. What he had achieved by effort, his heir would inherit by right.
To create so flawless a tribute, the future must be shaped with care: the proper tutors, the proper schools, discipline, ambition—every advantage that might ensure the continuation of his design.
Yet now and then the question returned—why? Why this relentless pursuit? He had asked himself often enough and never found a reason that did not please him.
There was delight in deception. To fool those who deemed themselves his betters was an art he had perfected.
How mortified they would be to learn that the man they courted for patronage had risen from the meanest beginnings.
He, who had once known hunger, now possessed wealth enough to humble them all.
They flattered, they deferred, never suspecting how completely they amused him. Their respect was his invention, and he cherished it as others might cherish affection. Let them call me friend, while I purchase their regard with every coin they lent me in scorn.
His child would continue the performance.
Children were, after all, extensions of their parents, and the world must see in the next generation the same mastery, the same polish.
Perfection was not a virtue—it was a duty.
He smiled faintly. Truth, in his estimation, was a vulgar thing—best left to lesser men.
Fiennes drew his coat tighter and settled before his desk.
The candles had burned low, their light wavering across an orderly stack of correspondence.
A pulse throbbed faintly at his temple—an ache born of too many hours bent over his accounts and too little rest. Yet satisfaction kept him wakeful.
He would shape his possessions—his business, his household, his estate, his wife—and, in time, his child: his creation in flesh and fortune alike.
All should bear the stamp of Damian Fiennes.
He reached for the letters. Most were dull—bills, circulars, a note from his tailor.
He placed each aside into a separate pile, until one—its paper thick but plainly folded and its seal impressed with the letter B—caught his eye.
The hand was familiar. With a flick of his penknife, he broke it open.
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
14 March 1807
Fiennes,
You may recall a certain investment which occasioned your generous—albeit greedy and most dishonourable—loan.
I thought it proper you should hear the result.
Mr Cartwright’s venture, aided by my small investment, has surpassed all expectation.
He returned safely to port bearing tidings—and a modest chest of gems—attesting to the extraordinary success of the mine.
My share alone exceeds two hundred thousand pounds, and more is expected in years to come.
You may therefore rest assured that your confidence, though disingenuous and not freely given, was not misplaced.
I confess only one regret—that this success did not come sooner.
It might have spared my dearest Lizzy from the unhappy necessity of becoming your wife.
Yet Providence, which directs even the designs of men such as ourselves, seems at last to have balanced its accounts.
I find myself solvent in purse, if not in peace of mind, and content to leave the reckoning of other matters to Heaven.
Pray do not trouble yourself to reply; I would not wish to interrupt your labours of self-improvement.
T. Bennet
Fiennes read to the end, his lips tightening as though the paper itself had turned bitter.
Two hundred thousand pounds. The figure struck like a blow.
That idle Hertfordshire fool, prosperous beyond measure, while he himself was bound to a wife he could barely tolerate.
The thought coiled in his mind: I shall see her pay for every dull demand of propriety.
He crumpled the letter and tossed it on the desk, the words still burning behind his eyes.
The pain in his temples deepened; the candlelight swam.
Rising too abruptly, he meant to reach for the bell, but the motion brought a rush of darkness, and he fell back into his chair.
A sharp constriction seized his head and chest, stopping both breath and thought.
His hand fell on the desk, scattering the letters he had so carefully arranged.
When at last he stilled, the crumpled letter lay beneath his hand.