Chapter 55
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Elizabeth endured the visit of her beloved aunt as civilly as she could. She was preoccupied and knew that Lady Gardiner noticed. Thankfully, her aunt accepted her excuse of being tired and did not press her for more.
When her aunt departed, Elizabeth hurried to her writing desk. One thing she knew for certain was that her wishes could not free her; only reason and rationality could fulfil the office. She must proceed with her wits about her and not allow undue emotion to colour her perceptions.
She drew out a piece of paper and began to write, making a list of all the little inconsistencies she had noted.
The largest and most condemning was, of course, the scar.
In retrospect, she thought it telling that Mr Wickham also shot Henry’s former valet, one of the few people who could have known about the scar.
Would Francis have known about it? She considered that a moment, placing her pen between her teeth.
Perhaps not. The estrangement between Henry and his brother began in the two years prior to her marriage.
Henry had confided that to her along with his wish that they might—How did he put it?
—be a part of the same regiment? It was something like that: a military allusion.
She shivered a little. She had not considered it before, but if Henry proved not to be Henry, but Francis, was she in danger? Would Francis suspect that she knew?
Putting those thoughts aside, she continued to write. The onions came to mind immediately, as well as the assertion that he was not of a mind for mathematics but preferred history and politics, which Henry wrote in his journal were Francis’s best subjects.
Other things were less condemning but still curious. His anger was more easily raised and volatile, causing him to destroy a beloved memento that “he” had painstakingly carried back from Italy. And all his lapses in memory were oddly confined to her, her family, and their courtship and marriage.
When Elizabeth had finished writing, she sat back and reviewed the list. Mr Wickham shot the wrong brother, and Francis saw in it an opportunity to take the place he had always wished was his.
Now what should I do? It did not escape her understanding that Henry had probably been wrongly put to death by the regent and his men, and they would be reluctant to admit that Francis was alive. Should I confront him with the truth or play along?
It was safest to play along. There was no harm in pretending to be his wife, save for the fact that each day she did was another day without Darcy.
Moreover, if she did continue in her disguise, or rather, as a part of his, then she could seek the assistance of the appropriate authority figures.
Surely, someone among them would see her concerns and assist her in extricating herself from this madman.
Elizabeth glanced at the clock, seeing that Henry, or the man calling himself thus, was due back shortly.
She added a few lines to what she had written, folded it quickly, sealed it, and then summoned a footman.
She tried to look calm as she instructed him.
“Deliver this note to Darcy House straightaway please—to the hands of the master and none other.”
When the messenger had gone, she took up Henry’s journals. There was information to be gained therein, she was sure of it, and she was determined to look until she found it.
Elizabeth and the man calling himself Henry were alone that night, the two of them at one end of the long table. He was in high spirits. She hoped she appeared similarly vivacious despite her mood, which was nearly violent with anger and fear.
She had, at the last moment, ordered creamed onions for dinner. Henry looked at them for a moment and then asked, “Did you wish to have onions this night, love?”
Elizabeth smiled at him. “I do like them, and it seems they do not affect you now as they once did. Perhaps you have outgrown your aversion.”
“I think so,” he replied, eating them with enthusiasm. “Gladly too, for I do enjoy them.”
“How was Mr Hanley today? In good health, I hope?”
“Excellent health and very good spirits,” Henry replied.
“He and I were looking at this little map.” Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a well-worn page that Elizabeth knew directed its bearer to the hidden, mythical fortune at Warrington Castle.
“I cannot tell you how many hours we passed with this as boys.”
Both laughed lightly, Elizabeth feeling hers tinged with wariness and vexation. She spoke lightly, “A boy’s dream come true, I think. A hidden treasure to be discovered in the walls of the castle.”
Henry chuckled. “A girl’s too, particularly a curious girl. Have you ever studied it?”
“A little. The code is rather difficult.” Elizabeth once again felt the prickly sensation on the back of her neck. “It is fun to consider it, like a parlour puzzle. I have always enjoyed those.”
“Let us look at it when we have finished our dinner. Would it not be diverting to search for this fortune when we are finally at home?”
“Vastly diverting,” Elizabeth replied. Wanting to test him, she said, “You surely do not think the fortune is real.”
“Oh, it is undoubtedly real,” he replied quickly. “It might not be as plentiful as some have imagined, but it is there.”
They spoke little as they finished their meal. Elizabeth contemplated him and wondered, increasingly, how she might induce him to admit that he was not who he professed to be.
She felt a bit foolish for having sent a note to Darcy that contained little more than her rambling suspicions.
Had she not, only the night prior, told him they must not see each other?
And now to send him some incomprehensible missive—it could only be perceived as odd.
She might have felt mortified except that she was increasingly desperate for something to be done about her situation.
She feared a delay would have undesirable consequences; this morning’s interlude reminded her of one possibility.
As they strolled to the drawing room after dinner, Elizabeth impulsively tested her husband again. “My brother wrote to me today. He wishes to come and see us in Lancashire.”
“Bingley?”
“No, my brother, um, Thomas.”
Henry looked surprised for a moment but covered it smoothly. “I should be glad to see him. When will he come?”
“You remember him. I feared you would not.”
“No, I remember him well! I was quite fond of him. Tell him to write me directly when his plans are fixed.”
Elizabeth murmured some vague reply to this instruction.
He does not know I have no brother. The entailment, the situation of my father and mother’s marriage—these are subjects on which we have spoken long. Rather—not we, but Henry and I—and this man does not know.
They entered the drawing room, and as was her custom, Nurse Jenny came in with their son before he went to his bed.
Henry was in his usual high spirits. “Come, my dear,” Elizabeth said. Kiss your fa—Come kiss us good night.”
If her slip was noticed, it was not remarked upon. She could not, would not, refer to this man as her son’s father. She knew in her heart that this man could not be Henry and recognised that her pretence would be thusly hindered.
Little Henry scampered over and climbed up on his mother’s lap for his evening’s cuddling and cosseting.
Henry next went to the man who called himself her husband, and to his credit, he gave her son every bit of affection that his true father might have.
Elizabeth had to resist the temptation to snatch the boy away from him.
When little Henry had gone, her companion spoke. “Will you sing for me, darling? I long for some music tonight.”
She smiled, relieved to have something to take up the time while permitting her to continue fretting. As she rose to go to the instrument, she was dismayed to see that Henry…Francis…whomever, intended to go with her.
“Oh, do you not wish to sit here? It is so much more comfortable by the fire.” Elizabeth smiled, hoping she did not appear nervous.
“There is no place more comfortable for me than close to you, my love.”
“You are full of pretty words this night,” she remarked lightly, leading him over to the bench. They sat together, his touch making Elizabeth’s skin crawl. “What do you wish to hear? My fingers await your preference.”
“Something soft,” he murmured. “Something that speaks of love and romance.” Gently, he traced his fingers down her arm.
Her heart pounded, and her throat felt suddenly dry. “Very well.” She selected a piece she knew well and began to play, but her fingers would not cooperate, fumbling and slurring along. She did her best, but by the end of the piece, she knew it was not well done.
“Forgive me, I am at ends tonight.” She tried to give him a loving smile.
He slid even closer, his thigh pressed against hers, and his arm went around her shoulders. “Dare I hope you are as affected by me as I am by you, sweet Eliza?”
Henry never called me ‘Eliza’.
“Yes, your effect on me is profound,” Elizabeth dissembled. That is the truth though not in the manner you might wish it to be.
“Play another,” he ordered and began pressing moist kisses on her neck.
She attempted to play while her mind frantically sought a way to escape. She had been fortunate earlier in the day when Mr Hanley performed the part of unwitting deliverer, but she could not hope for a similar result now.
He was leaving her in no doubt of his intention to seduce her, and her fear was soon replaced by rage, her hands shaking with it.
Have I no choice in the matter? Is it for him to take what he wants?
I am tired of being an object, tossed to and fro as I am needed.
I am tired of being a marker in a game I despise playing.
The man—as she had come to think of him—grew more passionate, his fingers tracing a path down her neck and into her dress. His hand dropped to her skirts, raising them up over her knees and allowing his fingers to creep up her legs.
She abruptly ceased playing, turning her head towards him. “He-Henry, the servants might—”
He rapidly caught her in a deep kiss, plundering her mouth and stealing her speech before pulling back and whispering in her ear, “Wait right here.”
No! No, no, no! She knew it, she could just feel it, staring into eyes that were so like Henry’s and, yet, so very different. She could not do this—but how could she stop it?
He went to the drawing room door, locking it and ensuring it was bolted. As he returned to her, he took off his coat, tossing it to the side. His waistcoat followed and he sank onto the rug before the fire, motioning her to come to him.
“Did you think Henry looked pale? I hope he is not getting ill. I admit I was not pleased yesterday when I learnt he had been—”
“Elizabeth.” His voice was low as he patted the floor next to him. “Come.”
“Perhaps we should retire? We could go upstairs and—”
He shook his head, his voice silky and seductive. “I cannot wait that long, my love. Come here. The rug is soft and the fire is warm.”