To counter this injustice, I have devised a safe means of correspondence. My dear friend, Lady Westland, is sympathetic to my plight and has offered her home as a depot of sorts. I entreat you to send all future letters to her direction, and she will ensure I receive them. If Mama and my sisters wish to write, they must likewise send them through her.
I am certain you have many questions. Let me assure you that I am well in body, though not always in spirit. You comprehend my circumstances, for my husband revealed his true nature to you even before our marriage. He contrives daily to remind me of my inferiority. Lady Westland counsels that I betray no outward sign of distress, and I have done my utmost to imitateJane’s serene composure. It vexes him, I believe, and for that I take a small triumph.
It has been a struggle not to allow my present condition to poison my heart. The cheerful girl I was but six months ago seems lost; if she yet lives, she hides, waiting for a safer day to re-emerge. Mama would be pleased. Fiennes succeeded where she could not—he has turned me into the perfect society lady.
Pray, tell me—how is Jane? How fare all my sisters? Is Lydia still rebelling against her history lessons? I beg you to pursue their education as assiduously as you did mine. Teach them more—teach them to discern a man who presents a pleasing exterior but conceals corruption within. Such wisdom will prove of greater worth than jewels.
Tell Mama the townhouse is furnished in the latest fashion; she will be gratified to know that I have a private sitting room overlooking the garden. I receive callers on Wednesdays and Fridays, and pay my own visits on Tuesdays and Thursdays while my husband attends to business. She will also be interested to learn that Lady Westland has introduced me to Madame Dubois—the most exclusive modiste in London, and truly French—not a pretender like some. My gowns are of the latest fashion, though less elaborate than Mama would prefer.
Jane will wish to hear of my happiness. I leave it to you, dear Papa, to inform my sister of the reality. She deserves to know, for I think she doubted my contentment even beforeI left Longbourn.
I still wrestle with forgiveness, Papa. I love you so dearly, yet resentment lingers in my heart that I became the sacrifice to save you from imprisonment. You were deceived by a master of deceit—no one knows that better than I—but it was your duty to protect your daughters, and in that you failed us. Pray, do better, Papa, and guard my sisters from a similar fate.
I must conclude, for I hear Lady Westland returning. She kindly withdrew to grant me privacy for this letter. I am deeply grateful for her friendship. I shudder to think how much worse life might be without her.
Yours, etc.
Elizabeth
She sanded and sealed the letter, writing the direction in neat script. Suzanne entered soon after, a handkerchief extended.
“You are weeping. Does the letter recall painful memories?”
Elizabeth accepted the handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “You know my story, Suzanne. My father betrayed me in the worst manner imaginable. How does one forgive such a thing?”
Suzanne moved closer and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, the gesture conveying far more than words. “I cannot tell you. My mother and I were ignorant of what awaited me in marriage. She never learnt the truth, either. As for my husband—he poisoned my spirit until forgivenessbecame the only cure. He is gone now, and I am free of him. Yet his mother remains, and she is far harder to forgive.”
Drawing a deep breath, Suzanne turned the talk. “Would you care to visit my sister? Tilda is eager to know you better. We must call upon her, however—she is in mourning. Her brother-in-law has lately died.”
Elizabeth inclined her head in sympathy, a pang of sadness stirring for the countess. They set out together and were warmly received by Lady Matlock.
“George Darcy was a good man,” Lady Matlock said with feeling. “His poor children are orphans now. Fitzwilliam will manage the estate well, I am sure, but poor Georgiana—oh, my heart aches for her. Her guardianship falls to her brother and my son. What do two bachelor gentlemen know of raising a young girl?”
At the name, Elizabeth recalled the tall, grave gentleman she had met at Lady Matlock’s ball—the one whose quiet dignity hinted at deeper feeling beneath his reserve—the one who had asked her to dance.
“I am certain your ladyship will take an interest in your niece’s welfare.” Elizabeth offered her a gentle assurance.
Lady Matlock nodded. “Indeed.” She pressed a handkerchief to her lips, then lowered it with a sigh. “Still I cannot help my vexation. George never made a decision without reflection, and he must have had his reasons.”
“That speaks well of his character.” Elizabeth’s reply came with gentle sincerity.
The conversation turned gradually to other subjects, and in time Lady Matlock, with kind tact, drew from Elizabeth the account of her marriage. Speaking of it eased rather than deepened her distress, and when she returned home later that day, her spirits were lighter than they had been in many months.
Though her hours away from her husband were spent in cheerful company, the oppressive air of the house to which she returned always seemed determined to extinguish every trace of brightness from her life. Whispers amongst the servants hinted at her husband’s dealings. Foolish gentlemen, men such as her own father, were swelling Fiennes’s fortune. The household was aware of his ambition to raise himself into the first circles. Yet those he wished to impress within that sphere seemed blind to his duplicity, and invitations continued to arrive in abundance—proof of how deftly he masked his true character beneath the veneer of affability.
Nor had his business in the meaner parts of the city ceased. Each Tuesday and Thursday, without fail, Fiennes departed punctually, and by chance Elizabeth discovered his destination. Wilkens, in careless conversation with Sloan, had let slip that their master kept an office in Cheapside, where he received clients of a humbler class.
How long her husband could continue his nefarious ways before justice intervened, she could not guess. When that reckoning came, what would become of her? She would fall with him, her reputation ruined beyond repair.Surely Suzanne would not abandon me,she thought, grasping at the only comfort within reach.
Whatever fate awaited, Elizabeth determined to meet it without fear. Such weakness had no purpose in her world; it invited cruelty, and she would not give her wicked husband the satisfaction of seeing her tremble.
Steeling her heart, Elizabeth resolved with renewed strength to endure whatever shadows awaited her there. She had found a way to communicate with her family, and for now, that would be enough.
Chapter Twelve
January 1807
Longbourn
