“Why are you wearingthatgown, Elizabeth?” One evening, he stood at the door of her chamber, watching as she made ready for dinner. They had not yet ventured out to shop, as he had promised, and so she had donned one of her best ball gowns. It was gold and cream, trimmed with lace at the sleeves and bodice.
She looked down, attempting to hide her annoyance. “Is there something amiss?”
Fiennes shook his head, though his mouth twisted in disdain. “I suppose it will do.” With that, he held out his arm and led her into the dining parlour without another word.
To Elizabeth’s surprise, her husband left the management of the household entirely in her hands. His—their—housekeeper, Mrs Heinz was a woman of middle years, her hair streaked with grey. She had come to England from Austria twenty years ago. To her good fortune, she met and married another emigrant, Franklin Heinz, a merchant with a small establishment on Bond Street. She attended the Mayfair house by day and returned to her husband each night.
Mrs Heinz took an immediate liking to her young mistress and fussed over her with kindly indulgence. “You are too young,” she scolded in her mild accent. “We shall help you learn.” With patient good humour, she instructed Elizabeth in the duties proper to the mistress of a gentleman’s house.
The only matter from which she was excluded concerned the keeping of the household accounts. “Mr Fiennes attends to those ledgers,” the housekeeper replied when Elizabeth enquired. Elizabeth deemed that explanation sufficient, and the issue was not renewed.
Within a week, Elizabeth’s early reservations regarding her husband were confirmed. He spent long hours closeted in his study, conducting all manner of business. She was obliged to carry in tea and a light meal for himself and his associates—tasks more suited to the servants. His employees were coarse in appearance; two burly fellows and Wilkens were constant attendants, and others came and went, each looking more disreputable than the last. Elizabeth preferred ignorance of her husband’s dealings and, save for what duty demanded, she kept prudently out of his way.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Fiennes left the house for much of the day. He claimed to have an office elsewhere, to meet with his clients, though she was never told its location. In truth, she remained uncertain what sort ofbusinessoccupied him, nor did she enquire.
Fiennes kept her secluded at the Mayfair house—it bore no name, which she found odd—for the first fortnight of their marriage. She longed to take a walk, but when she had asked the first time, he refused her outright.
While dining one evening she dared ask a second time, he answered with disingenuous reproach. “Am I not enough for you?” he demanded, affecting a look of injured sensibility she knew to be insincere. “Have you already cause to repine?”
Elizabeth chose her words with care, her gaze fixed firmly on the plate before her. “I have no objection.” She knew not what else to say without provoking him. “Perhaps you would care to walk out with me. Hyde Park is just across the way, and the fashionable hour is near.”
She had meant to manipulate him. How often, as he lay beside her at night, had he spoken of his grand designs to take his place amongst the first circles? His ambitions seemed extravagant, yet she had neither protested nor contradicted him.
When she glanced up, his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “What a capital notion! I had not thought you possessed such presence of mind.” He studied her as he so often did, as though she were a riddle to be solved. “You are certainly full of surprises.”
Smiling at the half-hearted compliment, Elizabeth assumed a docile yet proud air, as though she were pleased to have earned his approval. “You are too good.” She lifted another bite of food to her mouth.
“Go and change into a walking dress.” The words carried the weight of command, not of request.
Too eager to risk his changing humour by asking to finish her meal first, Elizabeth obeyed at once. He followed her upstairs and turned aside at the door of her chamber to make his own preparations.
She chose a dark-blue walking dress and a pelisse warm enough to resist the autumn chill. With a muff and gloves in hand and clad in her walkingboots, she went below to await him. As she paced anxiously, it occurred to her that she might have made a grave error. The cold might keep many fashionable people from the park. If so, her husband would think himself misled and vent his displeasure. Already she could hear the sharpness of his rebukes.
Please, Lord, if it be possible, let us meetoneperson of consequence, she prayed fervently, starting when her husband’s hand touched her elbow. Fiennes looked handsome and every inch the gentleman in his beaver hat and heavy great coat—a pity his looks were ruined by his character.
“I am pleased that you hastened to obey. Sloan and Kane will attend us.”
Elizabeth disliked her husband’s constant guards, Silas Sloan and Thaddeus Kane, who shadowed him everywhere. They lurked about the house; their presence lent a sinister air to his affairs, and she often wondered what sort of dealings necessitated such watchful men.
The pair followed as they crossed the quiet street into the park. The day was dull and grey, but Elizabeth cared not. She took her husband’s arm willingly, for once, and took a deep breath of crisp, cold air. She made no attempt to disguise her pleasure, though she felt his eyes on her—assessing, calculating, as ever.
“We have not hired a lady’s maid for you,” Fiennes observed abruptly as they strolled through the park.
“Mrs Heinz assigned Martha Mills. She has some training.”
“But is she enough? Can she present you as an elegant lady of theton?” He seemed doubtful, and so Elizabeth merely lifted her shoulders.
Leaves rustled beneath her feet as she considered her words. “If you wish to find someone more accomplished, I have no objection. You are far better acquainted with town than I.” That, indeed, was true. Fiennes had spent nearly all his life in London.
He patted her hand. “Very good, Elizabeth. I thought you would argue with me for a moment.” He sounded…disappointed.
Elizabeth offered no response; none was required, for a gentleman approached just then and called her husband’s name.
“You old rascal! Fancy seeing you here. I had not taken you for a man who would walk through the park in this chill.” The gentleman halted before them, bowing before grasping Fiennes’s hand. He was fashionably dressed, a gold fob glinting against a patterned waistcoat, his coat and great coat open to the cold—no doubt for the sake of display. “And who is this pretty bit of muslin?” he asked, eyes raking over Elizabeth.
“Mr Archibald Corey—my wife, Mrs Elizabeth Fiennes.” A hint of warning coloured his tone, enough to make Mr Corey blanch.
“Forgive me, old fellow. I had no notion you had married.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Welcome to town, Mrs Fiennes.”
