Chapter 1 #2
Abigail had feared him. Eliza had seen it in her friend’s eyes during those last few months, the way she flinched whenever he entered a room, the bruises she hid under her sleeves, the tremor in her voice when she spoke his name.
Eliza knew it with every fiber of her being, given the mysterious deaths of not one, but two previous wives.
He killed her.
“Eliza,” her mother said sharply. “Don’t just stand there. Come sit.”
Slowly, Eliza forced herself into the room. She perched on the edge of a settee, as far from Whitfield as she could manage. Her hands twisted in her lap.
“Lord Whitfield was just telling us about his estate in Derbyshire,” her father said, still with manic brightness. “Quite impressive, isn’t it?”
“Most impressive,” Lady Ramersby agreed, her smile fixed, as if carved from cold stone.
“It’s a beautiful property. Abigail loved it there.” Whitfield inclined his head, his voice perfectly modulated, tinged with just the right amount of wistfulness.
Eliza’s nails dug into her palms.
Liar.
Abigail had confided in her once that she hated the house in Derbyshire, hated how isolated it was, and that Whitfield must have known that.
Her father cleared his throat, phlegm jostling awkwardly. “Well, Eliza, Lord Whitfield has… Well, you see… that is, he has something he wishes to discuss with you,” he stuttered, then downed the amber in his glass.
“Discuss,” she repeated carefully, her eyes darting between her father and Abigail’s killer. “With me?”
Whitfield straightened his back, all the feigned nostalgia in his eyes now vanished, and the corner of his mouth tilted upwards.
“Yes, my dear,” her father replied, “He has done us the great honor of—of offering for your hand in marriage. And we have given him our blessing.”
“What?” The word came out barely audible from Eliza’s chapped lips.
The room tilted. The walls seemed to close in. Eliza’s stomach turned to ice.
Lord Ramersby’s smile was nervous now, wavering. “You are to be married in three days’ time, my dear,” her father continued, speaking faster. “Lord Whitfield has secured a special license. It will be a quiet ceremony, given the… well, the circumstances.”
Eliza looked from her father to her mother to Whitfield, waiting for someone to laugh, to tell her this was some cruel joke. No one did.
“Say something, Eliza,” her mother prompted, her stony smile tight.
Whitfield set down his brandy and leaned forward, his expression somber, sympathetic.
“I know this must come as a shock, Lady Eliza. I have suffered a terrible tragedy, as you well know. But I am not getting any younger, and…” He paused, wincing, as though the words pained him.
“You were the only person who loved my dear wife as much as I did. We shared that love, and we share it still. I believe that together, we might find companionship in our shared grief. A partnership built on the memory of someone we both cherished.”
Bile rose in Eliza’s throat. The pretty words, the careful performance, it was all too obscene. Abigail wasn’t even cold in her grave, and this man sat in her parents’ drawing room, spinning tales of shared grief and companionship.
Eliza stood abruptly. “No.”
Her father blinked. Her mother inhaled sharply.
“I beg your pardon?” Lord Whitfield asked.
“I refuse.” Her voice was shaking but growing stronger. “I will not marry him.”
Lady Ramersby laughed then, a sharp, brittle sound that Eliza felt in her spine. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t be silly. You’re overwhelmed, that’s all. Sit back down. Be reasonable.” Her mother reached for her arm, but Eliza jerked away.
“I will never marry a monster like you,” Eliza said, looking directly at Whitfield and pointing a finger at him. “Never.”
Then, she turned and marched right out of the room, unable to tolerate being in the same room as that vile man.
Her mother’s voice followed her up the stairs as she yelled, “Eliza! Eliza, come back this instant!”
But Eliza didn’t stop until she reached her room. She slammed the door and leaned against it, gasping for breath as her lungs began to fail her.
Before long, footsteps thundered up the stairs. The door shuddered as someone pounded on it.
“Eliza! Open this door at once!” Lady Ramersby roared.
Before Eliza could manage to turn the key, the door flew open, and her mother nearly fell as she stumbled in.
“How dare you,” Lady Ramersby hissed, advancing on her, her face contorted with rage. “How dare you embarrass us like that! You will go downstairs right now and apologize to Lord Whitfield. This instant!”
“He killed her, Mother!” Eliza cried. “Can’t you see that? He killed Abigail, and you want to sell me off to him like chattel!”
“Stop being hysterical! The late Lady Whitfield fell. It was an accident. Accidents are tragic, but they happen.”
“She was terrified of him! She told me—”
“Enough!” Her mother’s voice cracked like a whip, and Eliza flinched. “You will be a good daughter for once in your life. You will do your duty to this family.”
“My duty? My duty is not to be murdered in my bed by that monster!”
“You speak as though you have choices. Well, let me bring you back to reality: you do not. Not when your father’s affairs stand as they do.”
Eliza stared. “What affairs?”
“A gentleman does not press for repayment without cause.”
A beat. Then her mother’s voice fell to a whisper, “We owe him, Eliza. A significant amount.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. Eliza stared at her mother.
“What?”
Lady Ramersby’s jaw tightened.
“Your father was persuaded into certain… speculative ventures. They did not prosper. Lord Whitfield is owed a very considerable amount.” She paused only a fraction. “He has, however, expressed himself willing to discharge the obligation… upon your marriage to him.”
Eliza felt as though the floor had opened beneath her.
“You’re selling me. To pay Father’s gambling debts.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. This is how the world works, Eliza. Marriage isn’t about romance. It’s about alliances, security, practicality. It’s time you grew up and faced reality.”
“Reality?” Eliza’s voice broke. “The reality is that he killed Abigail, and now you’re handing me over to him! And his two other wives!”
“That is mindless gossip! Everyone knows that accidents and terrible things happen. Poor Lord Whitfield has suffered enough with such losses!”
“You truly don’t care, do you? You don’t care that I’ll end up just like her… you don’t care if I live or die… do you, mother?”
“That’s enough.” Lady Ramersby’s voice was cold now, final.
She pulled something from her pocket that caught the light of a nearby candle, the key to Eliza’s room.
“You will stay here until your wedding day. No more arguments. No more hysterics and ridiculous accusations. And when you walk down that aisle in three days, you will smile, and you will behave like the lady you were raised to be.”
“Mother, please…”
The door slammed. The lock turned with a hard click. Eliza stood frozen, staring at the closed door. Then her legs gave out, and she crumpled to the floor, the garish pink gown pooling around her like a puddle of fresh blood.
Later that night, the lock clicked softly. Eliza didn’t look up from where she sat on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, staring at dust motes as they floated in the stray moonlight that peaked out from behind the curtains.
“Lady Eliza?” Margaret’s voice was gentle. “I have something for you.”
She carried a tray, warm soup, crusty bread, and mint tea. She set it carefully on the bedside table.
“I’m not hungry,” Eliza said, her voice hollow.
“You’ve barely eaten all week. You need to keep your strength up.”
“What’s the point?” Eliza looked up at her, hazel eyes red-rimmed. “I’m to be married to a murderer in three days. I might as well get it over with and starve.”
Margaret was quiet for a moment. Then she knelt beside Eliza, her expression serious.
“I believe you,” she said softly.
Eliza blinked. “What?”
“About Lord Whitfield. I believe you, my lady.” Margaret’s voice dropped to barely a whisper.
“I’ve known Lady Whitfield for as long as you’ve been friends, before she married.
She was kind. Happy. And after the wedding, when she came to visit you…
she wasn’t the same person. I saw the fear in her eyes.
How she made sure her sleeves were always long. She was hiding something.”
Tears spilled down Eliza’s cheeks.
“Then you understand. I can’t marry him. I can’t.”
“No,” Margaret agreed quietly. “You can’t.”
They sat in silence for a long moment. Then Eliza’s mind began to work, turning over possibilities, however desperate.
“I could run away,” she said slowly.
The words felt foreign, impossible, but also necessary.
Margaret didn’t look shocked. “Where would you go?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere far from London at least. Somewhere they won’t find me.” Eliza’s heart was beating faster now, a spark of hope igniting in her chest. “I could find work. Change my name. Anything is better than this.”
“My cousin runs an inn,” Margaret said quietly. “In Sussex. It’s small, out of the way. She’s always looking for help. You could stay there for a while, until you find somewhere safe.”
Eliza stared at her. “You would help me?”
“Of course I would.” Margaret’s smile was sad but genuine. “No one should be forced into a marriage like this. Especially not to a man like him.”
“I do not want you to risk your own safety to help me. What if my parents find out?”
“It is a risk I am willing to take. You have been nothing but kind to me, my lady. I… consider you… my friend.”
Eliza took her hand and squeezed it tightly. “I do as well. Thank you, Margaret.”
And so, they began to plan.
“I’ll leave your door unlocked tomorrow night,” Margaret said quietly. “And I’ll make sure the other servants are occupied.”
Eliza nodded, her mind already racing ahead. “I’ll need money. Father keeps some in his study. I know where.”
“And clothes,” Margaret added. “Plain ones. Nothing that will draw attention.”
“I will be glad to not wear clothes my mother has purchased for me.”
Margaret’s expression turned worried, her voice dropping even lower. “Are you certain about this? Once you leave, there’s no coming back, my lady. Your parents will not be pleased with how it will reflect their reputation.”
Eliza thought of Abigail. Of her friend’s laughter, silenced forever.
Of the terror in her eyes those last few months.
Of her body, broken and still on the garden stones.
Now Eliza was to suffer the same fate, only a tool for her parents to secure connections, to marry her off without a second thought to a monster.
“I’m certain,” she said.
The house was silent. Eliza waited until she heard the clock in the hall chime twice, then slipped from her bed.
She had changed into the plainest dress she could find, a simple brown day dress that Margaret had left for her, along with a dark cloak and bonnet.
Her hands shook as she tied the bonnet under her chin.
This is real. I am really doing this.
The hallway was dark, illuminated only by a single candle Margaret had left burning near the servants’ stairs. Eliza moved on stockinged feet, her shoes clutched in one hand, every creak of the floorboards making her heart leap.
Her father’s study was on the ground floor. She eased the door open, wincing as the hinges groaned softly against her will. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting everything in shades of silver and shadow.
The desk. Third drawer on the right. Behind the ledgers.
She pulled open the drawer, felt past the papers and books until her fingers found the small metal box. Inside, she found banknotes and coins. Enough to get her far from here.
I’m sorry, Father, she thought, though the apology felt hollow.
He had sold her to save himself. The fallout would be his problem, and his alone.
She tucked the money into the pocket sewn inside her cloak and crept back into the hallway. The kitchen door was unlocked, just as Margaret had promised.
Outside, the night air was cool and fresh, carrying the scent of grass and horses, of an unknown freedom.
The stable was a dark shape against the sky. Clyde, the stable boy, was waiting with a horse already saddled. Eliza breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it was Rosie, the gentlest mare. He looked nervous but determined.
“Don’t worry, my lady. Miss Margaret told me,” he whispered. “Well… Godspeed, Lady Eliza. And… I’m sorry about your friend.”
Eliza’s throat tightened at the boy’s sweet words.
She had received no such condolences from her parents.
Overwhelmed by emotion, she nodded, unable to speak.
She mounted the horse quickly, adjusting her skirts, heart pounding so hard she was certain it could be heard across the courtyard. Thomas handed her the reins.
This is it.
“Follow the road south,” he murmured. “Stay off the main routes until you’re well clear of London.”
“Thank you,” Eliza whispered. “Thank you both. I won’t forget this. One day, I will repay you for this kindness.”
“Think nothing of it, my lady. Good luck to you…”
Then she urged Rosie forward, out of the stable yard, down the gravel drive. The house grew smaller behind her, its windows dark and unseeing.
She didn’t look back.
The road stretched before her, silver in the glistening moonlight. Somewhere ahead lay Sussex, and safety, and a chance at a life that was hers alone. Behind her lay everything she had ever known, her family, her home, her name.
And Abigail, cold in the ground, whose fate Eliza refused to share.
Eliza tightened her grip on the reins and rode into the night.