Chapter Six
1 October 1806
Longbourn
Fiennes
Fiennesdidnotwhistleas he tied his cravat, despite his cheerful humour. No, such conduct would be vulgar. Instead, he allowed a self-satisfied smirk to form as he studied his reflection, rehearsing what he might say to Bennet.Thatgentleman had grown exceedingly agitated of late; Wilkens reported he awaited the post each day, then shut himself in his study when no letter arrived. Having his man strike up a friendship with Sally, Longbourn’s maid of all work, had been a stroke of genius.
After a year of patient waiting, it was finally time to claim what was his. He had endeavoured—though in vain—to make Elizabeth grow attached to him. It mattered little. He would have her either way. Yet there was singular amusement in witnessing the bewilderment and betrayal that dawned when affection gave way to hurt. Elizabeth’s eyes had never flashed with anger, however. He wondered whether such a sight might prove even more gratifying.
He fastened his finest cravat pin, then adjusted the matching sleeve buttons with meticulous care. Having no valet to brush his coat, he performed the task himself, muttering that he must soon engage a man forthe purpose, particularly if he were to marry Elizabeth and convey her to London. Distance, he thought, would serve him well; far from Longbourn, she could not run to her family each time she took offence. Yes, space was essential if he were to shape her into the wife he required. And when she conceived, he would mould the child in his own image. It was only prudent, for who better to inherit his fortune than a reflection of himself?
“The carriage is ready, sir.” Wilkens appeared in his master’s chamber doorway, his face impassive. The man was skilled at concealing his sentiments—more than Fiennes himself, which was saying much. He had yet to discern whether Wilkens approved or disapproved of his dealings.
“Very good.” Fiennes tugged on his waistcoat one last time. His attire was rather too fine for a morning call, but that was the very point. It announced his wealth and position—tools he meant to wield when dealing with Bennet. The man stood no chance. Their contract was binding; he lacked the means to contest it, and the law was firmly on Fiennes’s side.
Satisfied with his appearance, he took up his hat, gloves, and walking stick, and stepped past Wilkens, who followed him into the hall. He handed his master the sheaf of papers containing the agreement, which Fiennes tucked neatly beneath his arm. In high spirits and full command of himself, he placed his hat on his head and descended the stairs. His stride was brisk, almost buoyant, so eager was he to be gone. At the front door he paused, surveying with pride the elegant carriage and matched pair of bays he had purchased only last month—yet another ornament to complete his guise of a gentleman.
The horses pawed at the gravel and fretted at the bit, their restlessness setting the carriage rocking until the driver steadied them. Fiennes was content to oblige their impatience; he hastened down the stone steps and entered the coach without further delay. Wilkens followed, closing the door behind them and taking the seat opposite.
“What is my role?” he asked in his quiet, measured way.
Fiennes considered before answering. “I shall lead. I have Bennet precisely where I wish him and intend that nothing go awry. You will intervene only if need arises.” Wilkens nodded and said no more.
Fiennes opened the sheaf of papers and read the contract one last time. Wilkens had assured him there existed no lawful means of escape. Bennet must either discharge the debt or submit to the demands of the man who had made himself his adversary. Satisfied that all was in order, he set the papers aside and sank into contemplation as the carriage rolled along the lane.
Elizabeth would be his bride within three weeks—he would not wait a moment beyond. Once wed, they would depart for London, to his house in Mayfair. There, he would engage a lady of refinement to instruct his wife in the manners of the ton. His associates amongst the gentlemen of society had already pledged their assistance in his advancement—they could scarcely refuse, given how much he knew of their more questionable dealings. Once securely placed within the higher circles of society, with the daughter of a gentleman on his arm, he would turn his mind to fresh conquests. How many heirs might he relieve of their prodigal allowances? How many barons stood in need of ready funds to prop up their failing estates? The upper orders were a rich field, ripe for cultivation.
The carriage slowed as it turned into Longbourn’s drive. The trees lining the approach were bare; their leaves had long since fallen to the earth. Though the season of autumn had but begun, to Fiennes it seemed a time of renewal. Having achieved so many of his former ambitions, he was prepared to commence anew—with a wife and still greater wealth in prospect.
His footman opened the carriage door, and Fiennes stepped down without so much as a glance of acknowledgement. He could not recall thefellow’s name, for servants were interchangeable to him. Wilkens followed, and together they walked to Longbourn’s door. Wilkens knocked, and they waited.
Mr Hill opened the door with the air of a man performing an unwelcome duty. “The master is not at home.”
“Nonsense, Hill. Mr Bennet and I have an appointment, long arranged. Come now, I shall not be turned away.” Fiennes flashed his most affable smile and brushed past the old butler as though entering his own domain. Hill looked momentarily perplexed but offered no protest. Fiennes handed the servant his hat, gloves, and walking stick, gesturing to Wilkens with the packet of papers. “We know the way,” he said to Hill in parting, and made directly for Bennet’s study.
Fiennes did not trouble to knock. He turned the handle and entered. The room was in disorder: books strewn across his desk and tables, several lying open on the floor. The rug had been rolled back to reveal a small iron safe, its door gaping and its interior bare. A portrait on the wall hung askew, another recess behind it—this too open, this too empty.
Fiennes stifled a laugh. The spectacle was familiar. “Looking for something?” A curl of amusement touched his lips. At his nod, Wilkens stepped forward and closed the door. It was heavy oak. No sound would escape that room.
Bennet sat at his desk, head in hands, fingers tangled in his greying hair. A small pile of coin, jewellery, and other semi-precious articles lay before him—hardly ten thousand pounds, with interest, if Fiennes were to hazard a guess. “I told Hill I was not at home,” the man muttered without looking up.
“Yet, here we are. We have business, Bennet. Where is my money?” Fiennes advanced and came to stand before the desk. He did not sit; standing over a broken man always made him feel powerful.
“You know very well I have not got it.” Bennet sighed and at last raised his eyes. “Please give me another two months.”
“I think not. You have had a year; that time suffices for a voyage to India and back. If you cannot pay, there will be consequences.” Fiennes smiled; it was spare and cold, his eyes dead—an accomplished money-lender’s face. He watched the colour drain from Bennet’s face.
“You planned this?” he asked, incredulous.
“Congratulations, sir. You are at last exercising your wits.” Fiennes sniggered. “It is not difficult to divine the likeliest candidate for my…services.”
Bennet blinked, then frowned. “You are a gentleman!” he protested. “How can you behave so dishonourably?”
“There is no room for honour when there is money to be made.” Fiennes held up the papers, then dropped them on the desk. “Ten thousand pounds, with interest at three per cent, due this day. As you have yourself avowed, you possess it not. I demand recompense.”
“You cannot take Longbourn,” Bennet retorted, desperate. “It is entailed. And though my cousin owns little sense, he will not consent to a mortgage.” A glimmer of triumph creased his face; Fiennes intended to extinguish that spark.
