Chapter Fifteen #2
Certain businesses were sold, and the proceeds swelled Elizabeth’s fortune. Properties demanding close oversight were the first to go, yet three warehouses near Gracechurch Street were retained for their convenience to Mr Gardiner’s home and their value to the new company.
The northern mills remained untouched. Wilkens travelled thither to assess their management and found the overseers capable and steady. Quarterly meetings were to continue under his supervision, with full reports delivered to Elizabeth in town.
By the end of July, all matters connected to Mr Fiennes’s business interests were settled. Mr Bennet longed to return to Longbourn and pressed Elizabeth to decide whether she would accompany him and Jane or remain in town.
“You might lease the townhouse,” Wilkens advised. “And if you prefer not to live at Netherfield, I can readily secure a tenant for the estate.”
His suggestion left her thoughtful. She dreaded solitude.
Mr Burns had been seen twice more—he seemed aware of the Runners’ vigilance and had contrived to evade them.
With Kane or Sloan ever close, she was well guarded, but still, Elizabeth feared for her safety.
As her confinement drew near, caution governed her every movement.
There was another reason she did not wish to quit London—one she dared not share with anyone.
What would her family think if they suspected she sought the company of another man scarcely three months after her husband’s death?
Guilt gnawed at her conscience; she knew it was unbecoming.
Fiennes’s cruel words still echoed in memory, tainting her peace.
Though the grave had claimed him, she felt there was no escaping the shadow that lingered in every room.
And there were other matters she dared not confront—her father most of all. To recall the choices he had made on her behalf was to stir a pain too raw to bear at present, and so she locked the memory away, as she had done from the first.
Despite these thoughts, Elizabeth went daily to the park, hoping to see Mr Darcy.
In him she had found a friend. Their discourse rose above the commonplace, though he rarely pressed her on personal matters.
Perhaps he mistook her silence for grief; if so, she longed to correct him.
Never had she wished to confide in anyone as she did in him—to reveal the circumstances and suffering of her marriage, her relief at its end, and the guilt entwined with that relief. Instinct told her he would understand.
Seated together on a bench in the park that afternoon was no different; she guided their talk away from herself, though the usual comfort of their meetings felt shaken by an agitation on his part. She pressed his arm. “What troubles you, Mr Darcy? Will you not tell me?”
Darcy fidgeted with the head of his walking stick, his gloved hand turning it repeatedly. His features, usually calm and civil, were marred by strain.
He released a long breath. “It is a matter to do with my father’s death. A bequest from his will—soon to be fulfilled.”
She regarded him with concern. “You disapprove of it?”
A tension passed through his frame. He leaned forwards, forearms resting on his knees. She resisted the impulse to reach out and stroke his back in comfort.
“It took the solicitors some time to trace the beneficiary. My father’s godson was left the presentation to a valuable family living—and a thousand pounds.”
That was quite a generous legacy, but she suspected there was more reason behind his disapproval. “Pray, go on.”
“The man is unfit for such a charge. I shall not offend you with the particulars, but his conduct has been disreputable. He is wholly unsuited for the church.”
“He has not taken orders, then?”
Darcy straightened in his seat. “No. He wrote to me requesting an interview, indicating his desire to meet. He does not yet know the nature of my father’s gift, though I believe he anticipates something far greater than he deserves. I am afraid he will be sorely disappointed.”
Elizabeth lifted her gloved fingers to her lips in brief contemplation. “I confess myself puzzled. Your father must have felt some regard for him to make such a provision. On what grounds can the man imagine he deserves more than was bequeathed?”
Darcy rose from the bench and extended his arm. “Walk with me?” She accepted his offered arm, and together they strolled along the shaded path.
“My father’s godson was reared almost as a younger son,” he began.
“His father served as my father’s steward—a worthy man in every respect.
We were friends as boys, but it was when we were at school together, where his true nature was exposed—wild and ungovernable.
My father never saw him as I did and died believing him virtuous.
Now I must yield a family living to him should he condescend to take orders.
The benefice will not fall vacant for several years; I suppose that gives me time to consider my course. ”
“Why not offer him immediate compensation in exchange for surrendering the claim?” Elizabeth suggested.
“If he is as you describe—and I do not question your word—he will prize the ready money above all else. A thousand pounds is a fortune. Surely he would not refuse a proposal that would add to his windfall.”
He looked at her in astonishment. “You are brilliant!” he exclaimed, a broad smile revealing two dimples as it broke across his features.
Elizabeth felt she might swoon as colour rose to her cheeks at the unexpected praise.
Fiennes had never once commended her wit; on the contrary, he had taken satisfaction in belittling it.
She steadied herself inwardly before responding. “I thank you, sir.”
They parted soon afterwards, Elizabeth anxious to exchange her wretched mourning gown for a lighter muslin.
She walked in a pleasant daze, the picture of his dimples returning to her mind.
How strange that a few words, uttered so warmly, could leave her quite undone.
It was foolish, she knew; yet she could not but smile at the thought of them.
Perhaps he was only the girlish fancy she had never been allowed to indulge—the gentle folly denied by her unwanted duty and misfortune.
For the rest of the day, she applied herself to her duties with renewed diligence, though questions regarding her future—whether she would remain in town or withdraw to the country—were still left unanswered.