Chapter Fourteen
London
Elizabeth
Jane and Mr Bennet arrived before noon on the following day.
Many tears were shed and there were endless reassurances that she was well.
After but a moment of awkwardness, Elizabeth threw herself into her father’s arms, savouring the security of his embrace.
Suzanne remained above stairs with Arthur, granting the family the privacy they required.
When her relations had refreshed themselves, they joined her for tea. Jane’s gaze wandered about the parlour, her usually serene countenance marked by confusion and unease. “This is a pleasant room,” she observed at length, before taking a delicate sip of tea. “The creams and blues are soothing.”
Elizabeth gave her a slight smile. “I confess I had little to do with the decor. The house, I am told, was refurbished less than five years past—it has an understated elegance, and as you said, the colours are soothing.” She reached for a biscuit, broke it absently, and let the crumbs fall untouched to her plate.
“I find myself unequal to the task of trifling conversation. Let us speak candidly. My husband is gone, and from what I am told, he has many business affairs requiring settlement before I can determine my future. It will be several months before my child arrives, and I would have everything in order before that time.”
“Though I know something of your situation, your indifference seems strange,” Jane murmured. “I know I promised never to doubt your words, yet—did you feel nothing for him?”
“I felt more than you know, Jane. I am not ready to recount the last months of my life—I wish instead to relish my freedom.” Her chin lifted, and the poise she had cultivated these past months returned.
She took a fortifying sip of her tea. “Papa told you how the marriage came about, and my letters have supplied what further detail was necessary. That must suffice until I am prepared to share more. Lady Westland has been of great assistance.”
“Indeed, she has, and I am grateful. Where is the lady?” Mr Bennet enquired. “I wish to offer my thanks in person.”
“She will join us at dinner. Lady Westland is presently above stairs with her son. Lord Westland is a charming lad of eight years—I shall ask Suzanne whether you might meet him this evening.”
After their restorative tea, Elizabeth accompanied her father to meet with Wilkens.
The solicitor’s desk displayed bundles of papers and ledgers, each precisely arranged, a reflection of his orderly habits.
He explained that settling Mr Fiennes’s estate would take time, for there were many holdings; fortunately, his records were exact.
As they examined the books, Elizabeth began to comprehend the true extent of her husband’s fortune.
He owned several buildings and townhouses in London beyond the one she now occupied—all leased to merchants or families.
Netherfield Park was amongst his acquisitions, together with a textile manufactory, an import and export concern, and several mills in the north.
“How could he possibly manage all this?” She was unable to hide her astonishment.
Wilkens adjusted his spectacles. “Mr Fiennes employed stewards and managers for each enterprise. They met with him quarterly here in town to give account. During the summer, he travelled to the more distant sites—the mills in Yorkshire amongst them. He is—was—a most attentive man of business, meticulous to a fault.”
“’Tis a pity his diligence in commerce did not extend to my daughter.”
Elizabeth heard the bitterness edged in Mr Bennet’s tone. “How did he come by all of this?” she asked Wilkens.
The solicitor hesitated. “He was a moneylender, ma’am—a usurer, if you will. Most of these properties came into his possession when debtors could not meet their obligations.”
Elizabeth glanced at her father. “Netherfield Park. Morgan Fields did not sell the estate, did he?”
“No.” Wilkens shook his head.
Mr Bennet’s hands tightened on the arm of his chair. “And how much of an accomplice are you, sir? I failed Elizabeth once—I shall not do so again.”
“Peace, Mr Bennet.” Lady Westland entered the room, her chin lifted, looking every inch the countess she was.
“I have interrogated Mr Wilkens at length. He is not a threat.” The pale blue silk of her gown shimmered in the light as she approached the desk.
The diamonds she wore caught the sun and scattered rainbows across the room.
“You are not what I expected,” she continued, allowing her gaze to travel over him. “I anticipated a foolish-looking man, not one of intelligence. No matter—some of the shrewdest minds I know have been deceived by those less clever than Mr Fiennes.”
Mr. Bennet’s brows lifted, his irony gentle. “I thank you for your commendation. I can see why Elizabeth likes you.”
“I shall take that as the compliment that I am certain it was meant to be,” she parried.
“As it happens, I have already questioned Mr Wilkens’s loyalty.
” Suzanne outlined that conversation, watching Mr. Bennet relax.
“The gentleman affirms that he now acts with your daughter’s best interests at heart.
” She cast a measured glance of warning towards Wilkens before gesturing to the ledgers spread before them.
It was agreed that Wilkens would catalogue every business holding and record the income from each.
All funds in banks, stocks, and the four per cents would likewise be listed, and arrangements made for Elizabeth to have access.
On the birth of her child, half the assets would be placed in trust for her issue until such time as the heir attained one-and-twenty or married.
Suzanne and her son returned home the following morning, promising to call again soon. A notice of her husband’s death appeared in the papers, and Elizabeth acquired one ready-made black gown to wear should she have callers.
For the next fortnight, she endured endless visits—each acquaintance eager to speak of her husband’s supposed virtues and offer their condolences on his passing. At length, the calls ceased, and she and her family drew a collective breath of relief.
“I did not realise how difficult it would be for me to pretend that I care,” Elizabeth admitted to Jane. Her sister lay beside her on the great bed, and they talked together as they once had at Longbourn.
“Does it grow easier?” Jane turned to face her on the pillow, speaking low.
“You have faced each day with such strength. I could not have done it. Elizabeth, I find myself in uncharted waters. I have learnt that not everyone is good. How can I live in a world where I must always be wary of everyone? And how will you live now that you have seen the truth?”
Elizabeth sighed, leaning back against her pillows. One hand fell to her middle, her thumb drawing slow circles over the taut fabric; the babe gave a gentle kick, and she smiled at his movement.
“Not everyone is untrustworthy, Jane,” she finally replied. “Indeed, some are kind and genuine. I hope you will meet Lady Matlock before you leave town—she is as wonderful as her sister, Lady Westland.”
Jane rolled onto her side, tucking one arm beneath her head. “You will remain in town, then?” The neat plait of pale hair fell over her shoulder, and Elizabeth’s thoughts turned briefly to her husband’s preference for fair-haired women.
“I have not yet decided. I think I should like my child to be born in the country, yet I do not know whether to return to our father’s house or to Netherfield.
It is far too large for one woman and a babe.
” Elizabeth twirled the end of a curl around her finger.
“Mama will insist I take up residence there.”
“She is changed,” Jane searched her thoughts. “Still excitable, but less…strident, perhaps.”
“Has Papa informed her of his altered circumstances?”
Jane shook her head, awkward in her reclining posture. “No, he fears she will be unmanageable. It has not been long since he began making changes at Longbourn.”
“Then he doubts his own resolve?”
“Aye.” Jane looked a little sad. “He does not trust himself now. Papa is more attentive to his daughters, yet also more withdrawn.” She released a weary sigh. “I am not making sense, I know. You will understand when you see him with our sisters once more.”
Elizabeth made no reply. They both fell silent then, each lost in her own thoughts.
The stillness of the room wrapped around her like a balm.
So much had changed, yet within that quiet, she sensed the stirring of her former self—wounded, certainly, but not destroyed.
She would rebuild her life, and she would do so on her own terms. Whatever lay before her, she would never again be mastered by another’s will.
She forced Fiennes’s memory from her thoughts; even in death he seemed to linger, his presence a chill she could not quite dispel.
Turning her face to the pillow, she willed herself to rest.
Elizabeth felt restless the next morning and resolved to walk in Hyde Park.
As a new widow, she did not require a chaperone; nevertheless, she requested Mrs Heinz choose a maid to attend her.
Sarah, an upstairs maid, was selected, and eagerly tied a modest bonnet over her cap to accompany her mistress.
The heat was oppressive for mourning attire, but Elizabeth wore her black gown regardless. It would not do to invite gossip. Memories of her husband pressed in, unbidden—his civility, his schemes, the ease with which he had deceived so many. She wished her mind would grant her peace.
Her head bent in thought, she walked straight into the back of a gentleman who had paused to looked out over the Serpentine. He turned, steadying her with a firm hand.
“Mr Darcy! I beg your pardon, sir!”
His brow furrowed, though his mouth held the ghost of a smile. “You will forgive me—I recognize you, though I am afraid I do not recall your name.”