Chapter Thirteen
London
Elizabeth
A scream pierced the air, rousing Elizabeth from her sleep. She blinked, disoriented, uncertain what calamity had occurred. Morning light streamed through the drapes—indeed, judging by its brightness, the hour was late.
“Mistress!” Martha burst into the room, breathless. “You must come—now! Oh, ’tis dreadful!”
Elizabeth drew back the counterpane and reached for her dressing gown and slippers. Her hand came instinctively to her abdomen, as though to shield the babe from whatever horror awaited her. Endeavouring to remain calm, with quick strides she crossed the room and passed through the open door.
The master’s chamber appeared as it ever did—orderly, precise, every object in its place. Only its occupant was changed. Fiennes sat at his writing desk, slumped over the papers he had been working on the previous night. Martha stood beside him, sobbing, her hands shaking his arm.
Elizabeth approached with caution. One touch told her what her heart had already guessed.
His skin was cold as marble. One hand lay on the desk, the other pressed across his chest, as though pain had struck him mid-breath.
His eyes were fixed in vacancy—open and unseeing.
She reached forwards and gently closed the lids.
“Send for the burial master, Martha.” The maid nodded, half-sobbing still, and hurried from the room.
Left alone, she remained motionless, staring at her husband’s lifeless form.
A strange sensation stole over her—a lightness, an almost dizzy relief.
She waited for sorrow to come, for the unexpected swell of tears or terror—but there was only stillness, deep and hollow, as though her heart could not decide whether to mourn or rejoice.
Her lips curved before she could stop them, then without warning, laughter burst from her chest. It rose unchecked, wild and shaking, until tears blurred her sight.
One hand braced itself against the desk, the other clasped her rounded form.
“The mistress has gone mad!” Martha's voice scarcely pierced the strange fog surrounding Elizabeth. Someone’s arm came round her shoulders and guided her from the room. Her laughter broke into sobs, and she soon wept, trembling and exhausted, against Mrs Heinz’s ample bosom.
“There there, now, dearie—let it all out.” Her lilting accent softened each word. “I saw it all, you know. I understand.”
Time passed as Elizabeth remained within her housekeeper’s embrace until at last her tears were spent. Mrs Heinz said nothing more for the moment, merely offering handkerchief after handkerchief.
“Mr Wilkens spoke with the burial master.” She spoke in hushed tones, fearful of disturbing the fragile quiet. “Mr Fiennes has been laid out in his chambers. They have questions—”
“I cannot!” Elizabeth gasped, fresh tears forming. “Pray send for Suzanne—Lady Westland.”
Mrs Heinz inclined her head. Lady Westland’s weekly visits were well-known amongst the staff. “I shall send a footman at once.”
Elizabeth knew not how much time had passed before her friend arrived. When Suzanne’s arms went about her, she wept anew, her tears falling fast and soaking the fine muslin at her shoulder.
“What is to become of me?” Her voice broke between words. “I do not know—and the baby! Oh, what am I to do?”
Suzanne smoothed a hand through Elizabeth’s hair, still plaited from before she was so suddenly awakened.
“Do not think on that for now, her tone calm and resolute. We shall write to your family. If we send it express, they might arrive early on the morrow. Your father will help us settle your husband’s affairs.
” Suzanne drew back, holding Elizabeth by the shoulders.
“My dear, you are free—after less than a year, you may choose your own course for yourself and your child.”
It was as though a great weight lifted from Elizabeth’s shoulders.
Her thoughts cleared, and a quiet stillness came over her heart.
Damian Fiennes was dead—he could no longer harm her or the unborn life she carried.
The notion seemed unreal; she had not dared imagine release from him for many years to come.
Now she was a widow at sixteen, and in delicate health besides.
“I am very tired,” she whispered, leaning once more against Suzanne.
“Rest.” Suzanne’s hand moved to her back in a gentle, steadying motion. “I have your letters at my house and can find your father’s direction from them.”
Elizabeth raised her head. “What of the burial master? He is waiting below.”
“I shall attend to all.” Suzanne’s tone brooked no argument. “Fiennes can be interred in the parish cemetery. The remainder can wait until your father arrives.” She helped Elizabeth to her bed and drew the curtains. “Rest now, and we shall speak when you wake.”
Sudden panic seized Elizabeth. She caught Suzanne’s hand. “You will not leave?” It had never felt like a home; if left alone now, it would seem even more desolate. Most of the servants were trustworthy, yet their presence could not ease the solitude that threatened to close in about her.
“If you do not mind, I shall send for Arthur and a trunk. I promise I shall not leave you to face this alone.”
Reassured, Elizabeth leaned back into her pillows and allowed sleep to claim her.
Lady Westland
She made quick work of the burial master’s questions.
The body would be removed on the morrow and interred without ceremony.
Suzanne almost spat at the sight of the corpse itself, such was the revulsion that coursed through her.
Her own bondage to a similar monster had long since taught her the depth of such tyranny.
She was glad he was dead—glad her dear friend would no longer live beneath his dominion.
Elizabeth was fortunate. In the short time Suzanne had known her, she had seen how the girl’s natural charm had faded, smothered by a dictatorial husband.
Her vivacity and delight in life had dimmed, replaced by a polite reserve and a melancholy submission.
Yet those shadows lifted when they were alone.
From experience, Lady Westland knew too well that prolonged exposure to a man like Fiennes destroyed more than cheerfulness—it undermined the self entirely.
Elizabeth would escape the worst of the ruin. Perhaps she might recover more swiftly than Suzanne herself had after her husband’s death. Still, there would always be scars; acquaintance with a manipulative and calculating mind always left them.
“Mr Wilkens, a word, if you please.”
The solicitor came at once, his blue eyes anxious. She led him to the study, pausing on the threshold to take in the unnaturally ordered room. Once he had entered, she closed the door behind them.
“Your keys,” she said crisply, extending her hand.
He blinked, taken aback. “Madam?”
“I will not have a thing altered or concealed by you before Mrs Fiennes has seen it. You worked closely with her husband—surely you knew what he was. I cannot trust that you will not act against her interests.”
Wilkens’s shoulders sagged. “I confess I behaved ill, at least at first. Yet months have passed since I realised the error of my ways. It began in Hertfordshire, when the master contrived to ruin Mr Bennet and marry his favourite daughter.”
“And yet you did nothing?” Suzanne walked about the room slowly, pausing to examine the polished desk and matching bookcase.
“What could I have done?” Wilkens’s voice rose with desperate sincerity. “He was my employer. I earned more under him than I might have done in ten years at the dismal office where he found me.”
She pulled a ledger from the shelf and opened it. Neat columns of figures met her eye—tidy, efficient, heartless. Elizabeth will have no difficulty here, she thought, replacing it with care.
“I suppose you may be excused as far as that goes,” she replied, turning to face the man.
His expression of regret appeared genuine, and she relented a little.
“You knew Mr Fiennes’s affairs better than any other living man.
Should Mrs Fiennes retain your services, you will be expected to speak plainly of every matter—and I do mean every.
The least prevarication will not be borne.
Moreover, she requires steadiness—someone of sense to guide her through the coming months.
Her babe is due in October. All must be arranged and settled before that time. ”
He nodded his agreement. “I give you my word, your ladyship.” He hesitated, then folded his hands before him.
“She will not like what there is to find. Everything Mr Fiennes did was within the law, yet he had no conscience. He pursued his ends by means most callous, though never unlawful. His fortune is immense; he gained estates and businesses through others’ debts.
His estate in Hertfordshire was one such prize. ”
“You mean her estate.” Suzanne crossed her arms, her gaze steady. “Everything he possessed will be divided between Elizabeth and the child.”
“Aye, precisely. Mr Fiennes had no will until he married. I always thought it peculiar—he was so exact in every other aspect of his business save that one.”
Suzanne gave a short laugh. “Men of his ilk have a firm belief in their own infallibility. He likely neglected the matter because he could not conceive of dying.”
Wilkens adjusted his spectacles, blinking behind the lenses. “Be that as it may, his worldly goods now fall to his wife and unborn child under the rules of intestacy. As far as I am aware, he had no other family who might contest the inheritance.”
“Very good. You may withdraw for the day. Have you lodgings elsewhere, or did you reside here?”
“I have a room in the house. Mr Fiennes preferred me at hand at any hour.”
Suzanne inclined her head. “And the two hulking brutes he employed? Where do their loyalties lie?”
“Kane and Sloan are loyal to whoever pays them.” He gave a helpless shrug. “Mr Fiennes engaged them after one client took exception to his conduct and attacked him.”