Chapter Thirty-Three
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Elizabeth remained wakeful long after the household slept. The carriage ride home had passed in near-silence. Fatigue excused the quiet; no one remarked on her abstraction when she had turned her gaze to the darkened fields beyond the window.
The ball was a blur; she could remember little of import.
Her thoughts were fixed on Mr Darcy and his proposal.
She found herself feeling broken, so lost—broken in a way she had never admitted.
Had she not always buried thoughts of her past in a vain attempt to preserve her peace?
It had served her for a time, that wilful blindness, yet peace so founded could never last. What hope had she of accepting the love of a good man while she still fled from her own memories?
Now, seated before her dressing table with a single candle burning beside her, a disquieting truth began to unfold before her.
She had, to some extent, considered the damage that could occur when one refused to acknowledge what had been, but had never faced it.
I have never confronted my past, she thought.
Since her husband’s death, she had allowed her memories to surface only in dreams or unguarded moments, then forced them back into the recesses of her mind.
It had seemed easier to bury them. Now, she recognised how foolish that was.
Such suppression, understandable in one so young, had nonetheless been unwise.
In seeking to escape the past, she had endangered the future.
She could not accept Mr Darcy—not when she was wounded and unhealed.
But how am I to tell him? She had no wish to give pain to the gentleman who loved her.
Her own heart seemed to shatter as she considered the way forward.
He deserved her whole affection, not the bruised and trembling heart that still beat within her.
The truth, she resolved. I shall begin with the truth.
She reached for her writing desk and placed it before the candle’s glow. For a moment she sat motionless, then pulled a piece of paper towards her and began to write.
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
27 november 1811
My dear sir…
She sanded and sealed the missive. Each word lay heavy on her heart, yet the quiet peace that followed assured her she had done rightly.
She needed space to think—away from Longbourn, from her family.
She and Elinor would accompany Suzanne to London.
It is best to face one’s demons where they dwell.
The pain connected with her home in Hertfordshire had long since faded; the spectres that lingered in London must at last be banished.
Whether Mr Darcy would still be waiting for her when they were, she could not know.
Darcy
He had barely slept. As the first light touched the sky, Darcy left his chamber and ordered his horse saddled.
A good ride would clear his thoughts. He had, in essentials, proposed to Elizabeth at the ball.
Though her wish for time to consider the matter had disappointed him, hope yet lived within, for she had not rejected him outright.
’Tis progress. Perhaps her heart may one day open to another.
Thor waited for him, a great grey he had owned since its coltish days. Darcy mounted, accepted the reins from the groom, and with a light flick of his crop, set off at a canter. When he reached the open fields, he urged the horse into a gallop and turned towards Oakham Mount.
He felt certain Elizabeth would be there. She was not a slug-abed, even after a late evening. Anticipation quickened his pulse as he neared the rise, and it was with pleasure he discerned a solitary figure at the summit. Drawing closer, he slowed his horse and dismounted.
“Elizabeth,” he said without thought. Looping the reins about a low branch, he approached her. “Good day.”
“Good morning, sir.” She extended a hand, offering a sealed letter. He took it, noting its thickness, and regarded her in some confusion.
“Pray, do me the honour of reading that letter,” she murmured. “It will explain everything.” She did not meet his eyes.
Darcy’s heart clenched. Could it be she is refusing me?
“Eli—Mrs Fiennes—has something occurred?” He needed her to deny it, to offer some word of hope.
“Please,” she said. He heard the tremble in her voice. “It will explain. I must go.”
Before he could answer, she turned and hurried down the hill almost at a run. Darcy watched her retreating figure, a sense of disquiet rising within him. Turning to the letter in his hand, he moved to a fallen log and sat. Breaking the seal, he began to read.
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
27 November 1811
My dear sir,
The exchange we shared last night at the Netherfield ball will ever remain amongst my most cherished memories.
Your declarations are dear to my heart, and I long to return your sentiments in full.
Yet I cannot do so until you know the whole of my story.
It is a long and unpleasant account, but it must be told so you understand me and everything I am.
I scarce know where to begin yet begin I must; and so, I shall start with the inception of my acquaintance with Mr Damian Fiennes.
The gentleman purchased Netherfield Park, or so the neighbourhood believed, in the year 1805.
He quickly charmed my friends and family and became a favoured guest. The mothers of unmarried ladies wished him for their daughters.
Though Jane was but seventeen, and I only fifteen, we were often in his company when he dined at Longbourn.
My father counted him a friend, and they spent many hours together.
There was, however, something in his manner that ever gave me pause.
No one else seemed to see it. His expressions were too practised, too polished for belief.
My friends, even Jane, declared I was being missish, and that there was no cause for unease.
I soon learned to keep my own counsel where Fiennes was concerned and avoided him whenever possible.
My reserve seemed only to increase his interest, and soon he sought me out in every company.
My mother urged my father to permit me to come out at a tender age.
I was fifteen, sir—eager for society as any young lady might be, yet full young to be granted such a privilege.
Jane delighted in my companionship, and I, naturally, did not complain of my new distinction.
You may think it strange that my parents allowed such a liberty, when you observe that my younger sisters are kept more strictly, two of whom are not yet out. Their reasons will become clear as my account proceeds.
Shortly before my sixteenth birthday, I noticed a change in my father.
He grew withdrawn, locking himself in his study for hours.
Several pieces of artwork vanished from the house—something I recognised only after…
well, I am getting ahead of the story. The reason for his distress was revealed unexpectedly.
One day I was summoned to the study. There stood Fiennes above my stricken father, triumph written on his countenance.
He compelled Papa to confess the truth. You see, my father had borrowed ten thousand pounds from the man to invest with a friend; but the venture failed, or so it appeared, and Fiennes called in the debt when it came due.
When Papa could not pay, the price was my hand.
We were left in a most desperate situation.
None could force me to marry him, yet refusal would have left my family destitute.
He described every consequence with relish, and I watched my dear papa shrink before him.
I could do nothing but accept my fate. I sacrificed myself—and my happiness—for my family.
We were married as soon as the banns were called.
My new husband carried me to town, where I endured a life I would not wish upon my worst enemy.
For eight months he tormented me, making every waking moment a thing to dread.
He never struck me, yet his every word seemed aimed to belittle.
If I expressed an opinion, he would laugh and call it childish fancy.
When I was silent, he would accuse me of coldness.
Every kindness was met with censure, every attempt to please with derision, until I knew not how to act at all.
Most of the household staff showed kindness, and in their care, I found what comfort I could.
It was then I met Suzanne, one fateful day in the park.
She became my dearest friend. I have no doubt that, were she not a dowager countess and so well connected, my husband would have forbidden the acquaintance.
Fiennes used my friendship with her to gain entry into the first circles, where he employed the same schemes he had practised upon my father to entrap other unsuspecting gentlemen.
The day I felt Elinor quicken, everything changed.
My husband died suddenly, freeing me from his tyrannical control.
Only then did I learn the true extent of his wickedness.
He was not a good man, sir, and even after we buried him, I felt endangered by those he had defrauded.
I learnt that he used the law to his own advantage, weaving snares from which honest men could not escape until he had stripped them of all.
His fortune was gained legally, yet neither morally nor honourably.
Netherfield Park was amongst his acquisitions and remains in trust for my daughter.
From papers and journals discovered after his demise, I learnt he came from the poorest quarters of London, and that his rise had been one long deception.
His efforts to work his way into the first circles were detailed and extensive.
I do not doubt the account, for the proof lay written in his own hand.
I have shared this with no one else, and I beg you to keep the matter secret for my daughter’s sake.