Chapter 17
Mr Humbleton left for Hertfordshire immediately after breakfast. He said he wanted to start the wedding preparations and announce the news of his engagement to the parish. He appeared elated at his good fortune in securing a bride, even one that did not want him. In the contract he had stipulated a short two-month engagement. But after a verbal wrestling match involving emotional blackmail, I managed to persuade him, grudgingly, to alter it to three months. Our future living arrangement did not bode well. Unfortunately for me, Mr Humbleton was a man who liked to be in control, albeit passively. So I knew I would have to remind him constantly of the terms of the contract he’d agreed to—that he had no control over me as long as I was behaving properly. It made me tired just thinking about it.
Mary changed the linens on my bed, gave the room a good airing, and, at my bidding, strung up bunches of lavender. I began moving my books, dresses, and other belongings back in; and she helped me.
‘What about these, miss?’ she asked, holding out the small pile of Mr Humbleton’s poems I had bound with string. ‘Do you want them for your hope chest?’
‘No. Please burn them,’ I replied tightly. At this point in time, the word ‘hope’ was somewhat ironic.
Mary looked shocked that I would deign to burn poetry. But she dutifully took them outside, and a short time later, I smelt smoke wafting up through the open window from the back garden. It gave me a modicum of satisfaction to know those horrid poems had been incinerated .
The next day, the weather turned nasty; and a black cloud hung over Steventon, literally and figuratively. Denied my daily walk, thanks to the relentless rain, there was nothing to do but lie on the parlour sofa and stare listlessly at the crackling fire—and think of Mr Fitzroy. (I had reverted to calling him that in my mind rather than Max, which now felt too intimate since he had rejected me.)
Every now and again, I touched his letter, which I had taken to tucking into the top of my dress. It was a silly fancy, and I knew I should not cherish it so dearly, especially as it was no indication of his tender feelings towards me—instead quite the opposite. But as I lay there, thinking of him and wondering if he was in London and, if so, what he was doing, the pain of his leaving and my newly engaged state to Mr Humbleton grew so bad that I let out a small groan. I knew I should be bold and cast his letter into the fire to cut the tie that was binding me to him. (Also, as I had read it umpteen times, the crayon was starting to smudge on the page; and some words were becoming difficult to make out.) I reached into my dress to do the deed, but alas, I could not bring myself to.
I groaned again, louder.
‘What was that, dearest?’ enquired Harriet, who was sitting in the chair opposite, embroidering another cushion with the quote ‘ She that can heroically endure adversity will bear prosperity with equal greatness of soul.’
I shook my head and could not reply to her. The pain worsened in my stomach until I became a bit worried and thought that I might actually be ill. What if I had a fast-growing cancerous growth? It would be unfortunate, but at least I would not have to marry my cousin. Instead of preparing for our wedding in three months, he would be attending my funeral. I gave a snort of laughter, causing Harriet to frown worriedly and no doubt wonder if I were delirious .
Another two days passed in a similar manner, and the pain I was experiencing did not go away. It moved to different places in my body. Most recently, it was lodged in my side, causing a sharp pinching sting and difficulty breathing whenever I shifted position in bed or on the sofa. With the dreary weather and my certainty that I was heading for an early grave, my mood was maudlin indeed.
On the morning of the third day, I sat silently at the breakfast table with Harriet and Papa, nibbling at a piece of buttered toast with a lacklustre appetite. I had dragged myself downstairs after a sleepless night, so I was there in body if not in spirit.
‘Post for you, miss,’ said Mary, handing me a couple of letters when she came to collect our plates.
‘Oooh, who are they from?’ asked Harriet, peering over curiously. With the rain keeping us cooped up inside, she was as bored as I was.
‘One is from Jane,’ I replied, recognising her elegant cursive immediately. She was probably wondering why I had not replied to her letter from last week. Little did she know I was now engaged to Mr Humbleton. I was sure she would be shocked and pity me (and probably add it as a plot point to her story). So understandably, I was reluctant to inform her of my change in circumstance. I set it aside and took up the other one. As soon as I saw the handwriting, my heart gave a quiver. But this time, he had penned it in black ink, not red crayon.
Hardly daring to breathe, I opened the flaps and found myself staring at a banknote for ￡10. There was a brief accompanying message, stating ,
Dear Miss Blackburn,
As promised, I have sent you funds to cover any expenses incurred from my recent visit. Again, I implore your utmost discretion in this matter, for my sake as well as yours.
Yours,
M. Fitzroy
Oh! I did not want his money even if the amount was hugely generous! I wanted him to speak words of affection, for his eyes to turn heated when he looked at me and for his hands to roam again over my backside as he kissed me—I had been able to think of nothing else since it had occurred!
‘Please excuse me. I need to go to my room,’ I muttered and left the table, taking both letters before Harriet could ask me any further questions.
Upstairs, I flung his letter and banknote into my dresser drawer and slammed it shut. It made me feel dirty, as if he was paying me off to keep my mouth shut about his behaviour. Did he not trust me to keep quiet otherwise?
I paced around the room, wringing my hands, anger clawing at me, and thinking bad thoughts about him and what I would say to him if I ever saw him again.
But would I ever see him again? It appeared unlikely since he was now in London and apparently had no plans to return to Steventon. And I would be going to Hertfordshire in three months’ time.
Finally, feeling drained, I sat on my bed and opened Jane’s letter. Hopefully, she had some cheerful news to raise my spirits.
I had just broken the seal with my fingertip when there was the sound of running footsteps in the hallway, and Harriet burst in without knocking. ‘Jane’s here!’ she exclaimed excitedly.
Hot on Harriet’s heels, hair damp and cheeks flushed from the cold air, Jane entered the room, albeit more calmly, pulling off her gloves. My nerves were in tatters, and I was so relieved to see her that I immediately burst into tears, which caused no end of commotion and fuss from them both.
I was firmly embraced by Jane, who sat on the bed and kindly let me cry on her shoulder without asking questions.
‘Can you fetch a handkerchief?’ I heard her murmur above my head as I shook and shuddered, and the front of her dress became sodden. A clean white handkerchief was produced by Harriet, and I snuffled into it while she rubbed my back and made sympathetic noises. Finally, my tears abated.
‘I ... I was just about t-to r-read your l-letter,’ I said, hiccupping.
‘Never mind that,’ said Jane. ‘It’s just an enquiry about your health and wondering why you did not reply. It isn’t like you, so I decided to come over. Has something happened?’
I shook my head and could not speak.
Harriet supplied the sad news on my behalf. ‘She is to be married. To Mr Humbleton.’
‘What?’ cried Jane, sounding horrified. ‘When?’
‘T-three m-months’ t-time!’ I wailed.
‘She signed a contract to marry him,’ stated Harriet matter-of-factly. ‘We will go to Hertfordshire for Fliss’s wedding. Then we will live there with him. Papa has given me leave to be with my sister since I will be unmarried also. There may be more chance of my meeting an eligible gentleman there than here ...’ Harriet bit her lip and looked away.
‘I cannot make sense of this. Fliss, why on earth would you sign your life over to him?’ Jane grasped my shoulder and shook it.
‘Our cousin is desperate for a wife, and there are circumstances that make it ... difficult for her to refuse him.’ Harriet replied diplomatically. ‘She was backed into a corner. I was there, and it was horrible. She had no choice in the matter.’
Jane made noise of disgust and released me. She got up and strode around the room, wringing her hands, like I had been doing before she arrived.
‘No, no,’ she muttered, almost as if to herself. ‘This won’t do at all. This is not what is meant to happen ...’
Harriet and I looked at each other. But I knew what Jane may have been referring to: her story, where she was obviously planning a happy ending for Elizabeth and Mr Darcy. Well, I hoped she continued writing it. It would be nice to read about other people being happy , I thought wistfully.
‘What are your present thoughts and feelings towards Mr Fitzroy?’ she asked suddenly.
I gulped and could not stop a blush from rising in my cheeks.
‘I ... I may have feelings towards him, and he may have indirectly proposed ...’ Harriet and Jane gasped. ‘But it was a proposal that was made in jest,’ I continued hastily. ‘I cannot say exactly what happened, but I believe he has no wish to honour the engagement.’
Jane frowned, the smooth skin on her forehead wrinkling delicately. ‘I did not think him the kind of man to behave so. Did he propose under some kind of delirium? ’
I nodded. ‘You could say that.’
She pursed her lips and looked troubled .
‘What is it? Have you heard something?’ I asked, a sense of dread creeping over me. Did someone see us in the field that night? Had word been spreading around the village about Mr Fitzroy and me behaving improperly?
‘It is more gossip than anything, I fear,’ said Jane in a reluctant tone. ‘I was not going to say anything, but now I think I should.’
I took a deep breath and steeled myself. But what came next was not what I expected. It was worse.
‘Cassie went to the post shop yesterday and overheard a maid from Ashbury Manor tell Mrs Sutton that Mr Fitzroy had taken the spare carriage and left in great haste the other morning for London looking most unlike himself. He had barely paused to eat breakfast. She believed—and this was only her opinion, mind you—that he intended to propose to Rosalind Whiteley. Mrs Sutton asked why she thought that, and the maid said he had been moping and drinking heavily since Lady Whiteley had left with Mr Pringle and that he had seemed heartsick in her absence.’
My blood went cold upon hearing this news, and I slumped against the headboard.
‘What?’ I whispered, my heart wrenching in extreme pain .
Jane shook her head. ‘It is utter rubbish, I am sure of it. Mr Fitzroy pining over Lady Whiteley? It hardly seems possible. She is such a cold fish.’
‘A cold fish that has nabbed him nonetheless,’ I replied despondently as realisation set in. He had been practising his proposal to her—on me!
What a mess. Mr Fitzroy had obviously remembered enough about our interactions the next morning to be horrified at making such a mistake.
Indeed, the thought of my inferior connections and condition in life had appalled him so much that he had raced off to London to propose to Rosalind forthwith—and paid me handsomely to keep quiet.
‘I suppose it does not matter what Mr Fitzroy does or whom he marries. My fate is now linked to Mr Humbleton’s,’ I said glumly. ‘As Harriet said, we will live in Hertfordshire with him until Papa passes, and then we will return to Steventon or sell the house. It is all decided.’
‘But three months is a reasonable amount of time. Something may happen to break the engagement?’ suggested Jane, sounding hopeful.
‘I cannot think what. I signed a contract. The only way he may break it off is if I behave so badly with another man that he is forced to. But then that would ruin my reputation and Harriet’s. No one would consider marrying her, least of all ...’ I did not dare say his name for fear of jinxing it. ‘An amiable gentleman,’ I finished, glancing at her, and Harriet let out a shuddering sigh. She was being tortured as much as I was!
‘Oh, how I wish we had never set eyes on those two gentlemen and that they had stayed in London and never let Ashbury Manor!’ she burst out.
Jane started pulling on her gloves determinedly.
‘This is all quite awful, but do not give up, either of you. There will be a way to fix it to both your advantages. I do not quite know how yet, but hold on to hope. This is just a small setback, I assure you.’
I wanted to believe her, but she was writing a romantic story that demanded a joyful resolution. Surely, she was deluded in thinking that such things happened in real life? In real life, there was no guarantee a woman would marry the man she loved. And even if she did, she might then die from having his child. I was living proof of that!
No, being married to Mr Humbleton, along with financial security and personal freedom, could also provide me with something else—emotional safety—a condition that was looking more appealing than heartbreak.