Chapter 41
Elizabeth listened without interruption.
She did not trust herself to speak.
Every word her uncle—for that is how she preferred to think of him—spoke seemed to settle somewhere deep within her, stirring thoughts she could not yet fully grasp, emotions she had not the leisure to examine.
She watched him as he spoke—watched the way his voice changed when he spoke of the mission, of the children, of the work he had taken upon himself as though it were a penance he had willingly embraced.
It was not the story she had expected.
It was not, perhaps, the story Lady Catherine had expected either.
For when he fell silent, his gaze drifting toward the fire as though he saw something there that the rest of them could not, the room held its breath.
“That is it?”
Lady Catherine’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp and disbelieving. “That is all?”
Frederick did not look at her.
“That is your justification?” she pressed, anger rising now to replace the earlier shock. “It was better for you to remain there than to return? Better to stay away than to come back for me?”
“You were married,” he said, turning to her at last.
“For only a year,” she retorted at once. “And then he died, and I was free. You could have—you might have—” Her voice faltered, the words breaking despite her evident determination to master them.
Frederick’s expression tightened, but before he could answer, someone else came to his defense.
“He could not have known,” Darcy said quietly beside Elizabeth, causing her to startle slightly. “He made the only choice that would have seemed rational at the time.”
Elizabeth felt, rather than saw, Lady Catherine’s glare turn upon her husband. It was not a look often borne without consequence, but this time there was no retort, no sharp rejoinder.
Only silence.
The fire crackled softly, the sound suddenly far louder than it ought to have been.
Elizabeth drew in a breath.
Enough of this.
They would not be drawn backward into regrets that could not be undone. Not when there was still so much left unsaid.
“So what happened next?” she asked, her voice steady.
Frederick’s gaze shifted to her.
“Obviously something did,” she continued, her tone firm but not unkind. “For you are here now.”
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the young man in the corner—silent, watchful—and then returned to Frederick.
“You came back,” she said. “Why now?”
For a moment, he did not answer. Then he exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him as though it carried years with it. “To understand that,” he said at last, “we must go back to the year ninety-five.”
He leaned forward slightly, his expression darkening as memory took hold.
“There was unrest with the Dutch,” he continued. “Matters were already unstable, and when word came of the battle at Ceylon, everything shifted. The consolidation of British forces changed the situation entirely—far more than any of us had anticipated…”
∞∞∞
India—1795
It took a few months, but soon Frederick settled into his new routine. Each day followed the same familiar pattern: trade in the mornings, accounts in the afternoon, and an evening visit to the mission.
And at the end of each week, he brought along a bag of coin with him. It was not done ostentatiously, or with any expectation of gratitude.
No, he wished to serve in secret.
On one particular, unremarkable evening, he entered as he always did: unannounced and unremarked. But this time, something was different.
Anya sat near the far wall. She had turned away from the room, her shoulders drawn in, one hand pressed hastily to her face.
She was crying.
Frederick had seen her weary.
He had seen her grave.
He had seen her smile, though usually only at the children.
But he had never seen her shed tears.
He hesitated only a moment before crossing the room.
“Miss—” he began, then faltered, realizing he had never once addressed her directly.
“Anya,” he said instead, more gently. “Are you unwell?”
She started and turned to face him. For the briefest moment, he saw the tears clearly upon her face. Then she shook her head—quickly, almost desperately—and rose.
“I am well,” she said, her voice unsteady despite her effort. “Pray excuse me.”
And before he could say more, she had gone.
Frederick stood where he was, the bag of coins still in his hand, a frown settling over his features.
He did not like it.
He did not like it at all.
He sought out Sister Mary Francis at once.
“What has happened?” he asked without preamble.
The lack of surprise in the nun’s expression told him she had expected the question.
“It is nothing that has not happened before,” she said, though her tone suggested she took little comfort in the familiarity.
“That is no answer,” Frederick replied.
She regarded him for a moment—then sighed, her composure slipping just enough to reveal her displeasure.
“There was a young soldier,” she said. “British. He had been paying her attention these past weeks.”
Frederick’s jaw tightened. “And?”
“He is to leave,” she continued. “He wished… a token to remember her by.”
Frederick understood at once. “And she refused him.”
“Quite firmly.”
A flicker of approval stirred—quickly replaced by something darker. “And so he sought to persuade her otherwise?”
Sister Mary Francis’s lips pressed thin.
“He laughed at her,” she said. “Told her no one would ever marry her. That she belonged nowhere—that she was neither English nor Indian—and that the best she might hope for was to find a protector, not a husband.”
“Did he—” Frederick swallowed hard. “—force her?”
She shook her head. “No, praise God. His speech, however, was still quite vile.”
Frederick’s jaw clenched. “Where is he?” he growled.
The nun’s gaze sharpened. “I would not tell you, even if I knew.”
“He insulted her,” Frederick said, his voice low with barely restrained anger. “He attempted to take what was not his—and when refused, he chose to wound her further. I will not—”
“You will not make this worse,” she interrupted, with quiet authority. “If you challenge him, if you draw attention—what then? You will be arrested? The Company will inquire? And where will that leave her—or the rest of us?”
Frederick froze. Blast.
He knew she was right.
That did not make it easier to bear.
“I am tired of it,” he said at last, his voice rough. “Tired of standing by. Tired of being unable to protect the women I lo—”
He broke off.
The word lingered, unspoken. Sister Mary Francis narrowed her eyes and regarded him shrewdly.
“—the women I care for.” He faltered, then shook his head in frustration. “I can do nothing for them.”
“Well, there is one thing you could do.”
Frederick looked at her sharply. “What?”
“Marry her.”
For a moment, he simply stared.
“I—” He gave a short, disbelieving breath. “That is not—she would not—”
“She would,” the nun said calmly. “It is plain enough to anyone who cares to observe it.”
He shook his head. “You do not understand. I am not—” He stopped, searching for words that did not come easily. “I am not fit to offer her what she deserves. I am… not whole.”
Sister Mary Francis said nothing.
So he continued.
“I have already given my heart once,” he said more quietly. “I was married—in the eyes of God, if not those of the law. And though the world did not recognize it, I did. I do still.”
The nun’s expression softened, though she did not interrupt.
“She was taken from me,” he finished simply. “Forced into another life. I have no right to—”
“No right to begin again?” she asked gently.
Frederick did not answer.
“I cannot speak for God’s will,” she continued after a moment. “Nor tell you what is required of you. But I know this—His ways are not ours. And He has seen fit to bring you here, to this place, at this time.”
Her gaze flicked briefly toward the doorway through which Anya had fled.
“Sometimes,” she said quietly, “we are given the means to answer the very prayers we did not know we had.”
Sister Mary Francis’s words echoed in Frederick’s mind in the days that followed. They would not leave him be.
And so, at last, he sought out Anya.
He found her in the courtyard, where the evening light had softened and the noise of the day had faded.
She started when he approached.
“Mr. Bennet—”
“I owe you an apology,” he said at once.
She blinked.
“For speaking before without having properly addressed you. For not—” He stopped, then began again. “May I speak plainly?”
She nodded, though uncertainty lingered in her expression.
And so he told her.
Everything.
Not with elegance, nor with careful phrasing—but with honesty.
Of England.
Of Cathy.
Of the child he had left behind.
Of the life he had lost.
“And now,” he finished, “I find myself in a position I did not expect. I would not presume—nor place you under any obligation—but if you would consent…”
He drew a breath.
“I should like to marry you.”
She stared at him.
“You must not feel bound,” he added quickly. “If you prefer—if you would rather—”
“Yes.”
The word came soft—but certain.
He stopped. “You… what?”
She lowered her gaze briefly, then lifted it again. “You are kind,” she said. “And you do not see me as… less.”
Frederick swallowed. “No,” he said quietly. “Never that.”
She smiled at him, with the same tender expression she wore each time she soothed a crying orphan. In that moment, Frederick felt, with sudden certainty, that he had been offered something far greater than he deserved.
And so they married.
It was not done in haste, nor in secrecy; it was properly done, under the rites of the Anglican church, with every legality observed. Frederick would not have any other way.
He would not place her in a position where she might be abandoned.
As her mother had been.
As Cathy had been.
No, he would not be that kind of man. He had seen too much—had known too well what came of promises made lightly and discarded with equal ease. If he gave his word, it would be one she might rely upon for the rest of her life.