Chapter Nineteen
Elizabeth
The sealed letter rested in Elizabeth’s palm, bound together with red wax. She turned it over, feeling her resolve waver with each passing moment.
What was she doing, writing to the woman who had attempted to trap Fitzwilliam into unwanted marriage? Offering assistance to someone who had orchestrated a compromise?
Yet the alternative—ignoring a desperate plea from a friend facing ruin—sat equally poorly in her conscience.
Annabelle’s circumstances were dire. Her sister’s pregnancy, their grandmother’s limited means, and the approaching scandal that would destroy what little remained of their social standing.
Could Elizabeth truly turn away from such suffering because acknowledging it proved inconvenient?
She had written a message of support and extended compassion where condemnation would have been easier.
And that simple expression of willingness to listen, might mean everything to Annabelle. It might provide the encouragement needed to endure another day, another week, of watching her sister’s condition progress while knowing scandal approached with inexorable certainty.
It might offer the comfort of knowing she was not alone.
Now Elizabeth needed to send it without drawing unwanted attention to the correspondence. She did not wish to explain why she had chosen compassion over total loyalty to her husband’s dignity.
Because no one would understand. They’d be horrified and disapproving, despite her intent being to help rather than collude.
Her mother and sisters would loudly emphasise the terrible choice she was making.
Her father would express his dissent in a less vocal but equally impactful way. And Fitzwilliam…
She shook the thoughts out of her head. She did not wish to dwell upon it.
She had made her decision, after all, and acted according to her own moral compass rather than allowing the fear of judgment to override compassion. Now she had to follow through.
The usual method of summoning a footman and handing over the missive with casual instruction to include it in the household post would not serve.
Servants talked. There was a chance that news could spread that Mrs Darcy had written to someone in Ireland.
And even worse, speculation would begin about the recipient’s identity.
If anyone discovered she was corresponding with Annabelle Sempill, one of the fortune hunters from the garden party…
Her hands went cold at the thought. The scandal would be immediate. Lady Catherine would seize upon it as proof of her unsuitability and use it to vindicate every criticism she had levelled. Even Lord and Lady Matlock, kind as they had been, would wonder at her judgment.
No. This required discretion. A solution that avoided explanation or scrutiny.
Elizabeth rose from the writing desk and moved to the bellpull. She tugged at it and when a maid appeared, she spoke with as much authority as she could summon.
“Please have my family’s carriage brought round. I wish to visit the village.”
The maid nodded. “Shall I inform anyone in particular of your departure, ma’am?”
“That will not be necessary. I am taking some air. I shall return well before nighttime.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
The maid curtseyed and departed, leaving her alone, still wondering about the wisdom of this course.
She could still change her mind and avoid the complication. Fitzwilliam need not know about the correspondence. But that felt like cowardice and moreover, she had promised not to ignore Annabelle’s cry for help.
She sat, letter tucked into her reticule, and instructed the coachman to take her to the village post office.
The journey would be brief. Snowhill lay close enough to the estate that she could make a quick trip and return before anyone noticed.
The countryside rolled past the window, the landscape beautiful in ways that brought a sense of peace to the observer. But Elizabeth could hardly look. Any extended action seemed like it would merely emphasise her internal turmoil.
The carriage lurched to a sudden halt, throwing her forward against the seat before she could brace herself properly.
She pressed one hand to the wall for balance, confusion giving way to concern as voices carried from outside. Her coachman was speaking with someone. This was followed by laughter that sounded distinctly familiar, the unmistakable tones of her youngest sister raised in enthusiasm.
“Lizzy! Is that you?”
Lydia’s face appeared at the window, flushed with excitement and a few stray rays of afternoon sun.
She was seated in a carriage which bore the Matlock arms painted prominently on its door, and behind her, Elizabeth could see her mother, and beside her, Kitty.
Across from Kitty sat Georgiana, and beside her—her heart sank further—Colonel Fitzwilliam and the Viscount.
A crowded carriage indeed, but a merry one.
Of course, they had encountered each other on the road. Because today had not already been complicated enough without her family appearing at precisely the moment she was attempting discretion.
Elizabeth managed a smile that felt strained even to her own perception. “You have returned from the horse races, I see. Did you enjoy yourselves?”
“Oh, it was magnificent! The horses, the riders, the tremendous excitement when they rounded the final turn...I have never witnessed anything half so thrilling in my entire life!”
“The races were quite spectacular,” Kitty added, leaning forward to join the conversation. “And the colonel was kind enough to explain the betting to us, which made it even more engaging.”
Another strained smile. “How delightful for you.”
Mrs Bennet’s face appeared, her bonnet slightly askew from what had apparently been an energetic afternoon. “Elizabeth! What brings you out? I presumed you were resting in your bedchamber.”
“I merely wished to explore the village. The day seemed too fine to waste indoors, and I thought a brief excursion might prove refreshing.”
“The village is quite charming,” Georgiana encouraged. “The shops are modest but well-maintained, and the proprietors are most always welcoming.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam won money on a wager!” Lydia interrupted, still eager to narrate her experiences. “And he was gallant enough to place a small bet on my behalf as well, which actually succeeded. Can you imagine, Lizzy? I actual winnings from a proper race!”
As Elizabeth provided an appropriate response, she was acutely conscious of the missive hidden in her reticule and how this innocent encounter felt like exposure despite no one having any reason to suspect her true purpose.
“It is indeed true that we’ve had the most marvellous afternoon,” Mrs Bennet said. “The crowds were quite substantial, but not vulgar. I could tell by their dress and manner that the better sort of people attend such events. And the refreshments were pleasant. We were quite comfortable throughout.”
“Indeed, your mother and sisters were the picture of propriety,” Colonel Fitzwilliam called from within the Matlock carriage, amusement evident in his tone. “I must admit Miss Lydia’s enthusiasm for the proceedings rivalled even the most dedicated racing enthusiasts I have encountered.”
Lydia defended herself with cheerful shamelessness. “I merely appreciate excitement when I encounter it. Life at Longbourn offers so little in the way of true adventure that one must seize opportunities when they present themselves.”
The viscount’s voice joined the conversation, pleasant and curious. “And what of your own afternoon, Mrs Darcy? You mentioned exploring Snowhill. Are you doing so alone, without a maid for company?”
“I have the coachman,” Elizabeth replied, aware of how inadequate this sounded.
“And I am hardly venturing far. Just to the village and back. I wished for some solitude, some time to clear my mind without the hovering presence of others. Surely you understand the occasional desire for privacy, my lord?”
“Certainly.” The viscount’s tone remained affable, with a hint of mild concern. “We all require such moments. I worry slightly about ladies travelling the countryside unattended. Not that these roads are dangerous, precisely, but one never knows what circumstances might arise.”
“I shall be perfectly safe, I assure you. The village lies close, the road is well-travelled, and I shall return well before dinner. There is truly no cause for concern.”
“Lizzy has always been independent,” Mrs Bennet announced. “Even as a girl, she would walk miles across the countryside without regard for mud or fatigue. Mr Bennet indulged her dreadfully, I always said so, but I suppose it has made her quite capable of managing herself.”
“I look forward to seeing you at dinner,” Georgiana said. “The cook has prepared something special, I am told, and I should hate for you to miss it.”
“Of course. Please, do not let me detain you further. I am certain you are all eager to rest after such an exciting afternoon.”
The carriages separated, the Matlock vehicle continuing towards the house. She exhaled slowly, pressing one hand to her racing heart.
That had been closer than comfortable. Another moment and someone might have asked her specific purpose. Or offered to accompany her, making the mission at hand impossible.
The village appeared ahead, modest buildings clustered around greenery. The post office occupied a narrow structure near the market square, its sign announcing postal services and sundry goods. The lettering on the sign was slightly faded but still legible.
Elizabeth entered, grateful to find the interior empty save for the postmaster himself. He was an elderly man who barely glanced in her direction before accepting the letter and the necessary coin.
He squinted at the address. “Ireland, ma’am? That’ll go out with tomorrow’s post, barring weather or other delays.”
“Thank you.” She departed before he could engage in further conversation.
Relief loosened the tension in her shoulders as she climbed back into the carriage. It was done. The letter was sent and her promise to Annabelle fulfilled.
Now she need only return to Matlock, endure whatever remained of the day, and find the courage to tell Fitzwilliam what she had done.
To explain why she had written to one of the women who had schemed against him and hope he would understand the motivations that felt increasingly tangled even to her own understanding.
That last thought sent fresh anxiety spiralling through her, her throat closing up until breathing required conscious effort.
The return journey passed too quickly, the familiar landmarks appearing with speed that suggested the universe itself was conspiring against her desire for more time to prepare. There was hardly any more distance before having to face the consequences of her choices.
Matlock appeared on the horizon far sooner than she wished, its imposing facade a reminder of all she stood to lose if this correspondence became known and was interpreted wrongly.
Fitzwilliam’s trust and confidence in her judgment. The partnership they had only just begun to build. All of that could be damaged and undermined by the discovery that she had been corresponding with Annabelle Sempill.
As she descended from her carriage and entered the Matlock home, she hoped to reach her chambers without encountering anyone who might demand further explanation of her absence or question her solitary excursion.
The corridor mercifully stretched before her, afternoon shadows lengthening across polished floors.
“There you are!”
She startled at Jane’s voice. Her sister approached from the drawing room, concern evident on her face. “Mama said you had gone to Snowhill alone. Are you quite well, Lizzy? You seemed perfectly content this morning, but to venture out so suddenly…is something troubling you?”
“I am well. I merely required some air and solitude to clear my thoughts.”
Jane’s gaze held scepticism that her kind nature prevented her from voicing directly. She knew Elizabeth was concealing something, but she was not the sort to press unless convinced her sister needed rescuing from some danger.
Elizabeth manufactured excuses about fatigue and the day being overwhelming. She pleaded a headache, the universal refuge of women seeking escape from unwanted social obligations, and retreated to her bedchamber before Jane could ask questions that would require either honesty or more little lies.
The excuse served its purpose. Dinner proceeded without her, the family gathering in the dining room whilst she remained sequestered in bed. She had chosen this solitude, manufacturing illness to avoid facing Fitzwilliam and their respective families as guilt gnawed at her conscience.
She was keeping secrets and making choices without consultation. She was deceiving everyone around her but it was for compassionate reasons, was it not?
Or was she justifying actions she knew others would condemn?
She did not know. She only knew that the missive was sent, that Annabelle would receive the encouragement and support she desperately needed, and that the cost of providing that kindness might be higher than Elizabeth had fully anticipated when she first dipped pen in ink.