Chapter 2 1729-1746
Faith Barrington paced nervously around her chamber, clothed in her wedding gown made of smooth silk and trimmed at the hem with seed pearls so tiny they shimmered like frost in candlelight.
Her maid had spent the better part of an hour smoothing the fabric and arranging the lace sleeves, but Faith had barely noticed.
She kept walking—five paces forward, five paces back—her slippered feet whispering across the Turkish rug like a prayer not meant to be heard.
Outside the window, bells rang.
Eight.
No longer early morning, then. And she would not be a maid by evening.
The gown was elegant, modest, and carefully chosen—not by her, of course, but by her mother and the Countess of Matlock, who had debated sleeve length and neckline as though the outcome of the marriage depended upon it.
Her hair had been pinned in place by no fewer than three women, and the tiara—borrowed from the Fitzwilliam family vault—rested atop her head like a crown she had not asked to wear.
She had met her bridegroom only four times. Twice in drawing rooms. Once at the opera. Once at a garden party where he had kissed her hand, praised her gown, and wandered off in pursuit of a duke’s daughter who had arrived in canary-yellow silk.
He was good-looking, though. And he had a laugh that made people turn to look at him. That had to count for something.
Did it not?
Faith clasped her hands in front of her and stared at the clock above the hearth.
Five minutes until they called her down.
She took a deep breath and turned toward the small silver crucifix hidden inside her wardrobe, tucked behind a bolt of muslin. The housemaids knew it was there, of course, but they knew better than to say a word.
So did she.
Her father had made it clear: she was not to speak of the faith. Not to claim it, not to hint at it, not to pass a bead or touch a missal in the presence of her new family.
“The Fitzwilliams are Protestants,” he had said, “but they are not puritans. You will keep your head, if you keep your mouth.”
That was meant to be comforting.
Her father had secured the match himself.
The Fitzwilliams were noble, landed, and ambitious.
Gibbs Fitzwilliam was the eldest son of the fourth Earl of Matlock.
She was the goddaughter of the Duke of Norfolk—one of the very few Catholic peers still holding power in England. It was not a match for love.
It was a bargain.
And she, the currency.
Faith closed her eyes, whispered a silent Ave Maria, and placed her hand over her abdomen.
If she were to have children—when she had them—they would know the truth.
Perhaps not in words, not openly, but in the quiet gestures passed down like relics.
A cross of ash on the forehead. A whispered Latin prayer.
They would learn in secret, just as she had from her own mother.
She opened her eyes. Her reflection stared back from the tall mirror near the fireplace.
Eighteen years old. Ivory silk. Pearls at her wrist. Her lips painted the softest rose, her cheeks pinched for color, her hair a golden-brown halo around her head.
And not a soul in the world who knew her.
The door opened.
“Miss Barrington,” the housekeeper said gently, “they are ready for you.”
She walked down the grand staircase as though floating in a dream.
The chapel had been cleared of all Catholic ornamentation generations ago. No icons. No saints. No candles. Just whitewashed stone and royal license and the hum of polite anticipation.
Gibbs Fitzwilliam stood waiting for her.
He was tall. Handsome. Perfectly bored.
He smiled as she approached—just enough for the crowd, not quite enough for her.
She curtsied. He bowed. The vows were said. The documents signed. The witnesses beamed.
And it was done.
The wedding breakfast that followed was a lavish affair.
There were twenty-six courses and too many guests.
Faith sat beside her new husband, her gloves damp with nerves, her stomach too tight to eat.
She looked sideways at him as he conversed easily with the lady to his right—a widow with bright eyes and a neckline far too low for the hour.
He had not spoken to her since the ceremony.
Not more than a passing, “Are you comfortable?”
She had smiled and said yes. He had not noticed when she shook her head a minute later.
By the time the toasts were over, her heart ached—not with passion, but with the sudden, aching emptiness of hope being quietly extinguished.
Later that night, in the grand bedchamber of the Fitzwilliam London house, he came to her with all the warmth of a stranger passing in a hallway.
He did not hurt her.
He did not touch her cruelly.
He simply did not care.
Not for her nerves. Not for her shyness. Not for her tears, which she wiped away quickly before they could be seen. He performed the duty expected of him. Then he rose, buttoned his shirt, and went to the other chamber.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Faith lay in silence, her hands trembling at her sides, the candle sputtering low beside the bed.
The crucifix was hidden in her dressing case.
She could not reach it now.
But she prayed.
And somewhere deep in her soul, a vow began to take shape—not of obedience, not of silence, but of endurance.
If she was to be property… she would be the kind that left an inheritance.
∞∞∞
March 1735 — Meryton
The scent of dried lavender and beeswax filled the tiny mercer’s shop, but Maria Bennet hardly noticed.
She shifted from one foot to the other, frowning at the bolts of muslin before her.
Nothing would do. Not for the christening gown.
Not for the future heir of Longbourn. Not when she was as large as a harvest moon and felt twice as tired.
“Mrs. Bennet,” said Jacob Lucas from behind the counter, “if you’re searching for something light and soft, I’ve just had a delivery of fine linen from Leeds.”
Maria tried to smile, but the movement pulled at her stretched skin. “Thank you, Mr. Lucas, but I think I have what I need.”
Truthfully, she wanted only to return home. Her back ached. Her ankles were swollen. Her bodice barely fastened. And though she was but eight months by her reckoning, her belly had grown to such a size that the midwife insisted she must have miscounted.
Maria knew better. Her courses had always been regular, and she had marked them carefully—first as a young woman watching for them with dread, then as a wife longing for them to vanish. No, she was not early.
But she was too big.
Too tired.
Too afraid.
She turned to make her way out of the shop—and stopped.
A sudden warmth spread down her legs.
She gasped, her hand flying to her belly just as a deep, pulling pain clenched her from within.
“Oh—oh dear.”
Jacob Lucas looked up sharply. He was at her side in an instant, taking her elbow with surprising gentleness. “Ah. I see. It’s time, then.”
“I—it cannot be,” Maria whispered. “It’s too soon.”
The shopkeeper only chuckled, his voice rough with good humor. “My Jenny came two weeks early, and she’s been early for everything since. You’ll be fine, Mrs. Bennet. Here, take my arm, and I can help you to your carriage.”
She looked down at the mess on the floor, her cheeks crimson in her horror. “Oh no. I—I am so sorry, Mr. Lucas, I—how embarrassing…”
Jacob Lucas merely laughed, waving off her panic as he reached for her elbow. “Nonsense, Mrs. Bennet. Only you upper-class ladies fret over what every woman endures. I have six children of my own, and I have seen far worse. Now, let’s get you home where you belong.”
Mortified, Maria could only nod. She tried not to cry as the pains came faster, sharper. Lucas guided her to the door and called out for his daughter.
“Sally! Come ride with Mrs. Bennet to Longbourn. Just in case.”
A few minutes later, with Sally beside her and the horses urged into a quick trot, Maria clutched the edge of the seat with white-knuckled fingers. She tried not to moan. She tried to breathe, as the midwife had taught her. She tried not to scream when the next wave struck.
She failed at all three.
By the time they reached Longbourn, Jenny Hill—the housekeeper and her dearest companion—was at the door, calling orders like a general.
“Boil water! Bring linen! Fetch the midwife!” Jenny shouted, waving Sally off as she helped Maria inside. “There, there, lamb. We’ve got you.”
Maria was barely aware of being undressed and eased into bed. The pain had her now—gripping, tearing. Jenny mopped her brow with a cool cloth, whispered soothing words, and held her hand through each crushing contraction.
The midwife arrived not long after, smelling of rosemary and pipe smoke. She huffed a bit about being pulled from her dinner, but her hands were sure, her voice firm.
“It’s coming fast,” she said. “That’s good. First ones usually take longer.”
Maria wanted to believe her. She wanted to think the worst would be over soon.
It was not.
Hours passed in a haze of agony. Then, at last, the midwife sat up straight. “One more push, madam. One more. I see him!”
Maria pushed with everything she had—and then, the sharpness broke. A cry rose. A baby’s cry.
“A boy!” the midwife announced. “A fine, strong lad.”
An heir. Maria felt nothing but relief course through her. Her husband’s grandfather had seen fit to entail the estate away from females, and Maria felt the internal pressure in providing a son for her husband.
“Theodore,” she whispered, tears blurring her vision. “His name is Theodore.”
Jenny opened the door, and Timothy entered, face pale but lit with wonder. He came to her side, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and stared in awe at the red-faced infant now squalling indignantly.
But before Maria could even enjoy the relief, a new pain twisted through her. Her breath caught.
The midwife blinked. “Oh. Oh, saints preserve us—there’s another!”
Timothy looked startled. “Another what?”
“Another babe!” the midwife barked. “We have twins!”