Bennet, still shaken, recounted the whole in brief. “My own folly led to this. I had faith in you, as well I might, but the delay—the letter must have gone astray. Had I but known!”
“Is Elizabeth very badly used by this Fiennes fellow?” Cartwright asked, his manner grave. “The name sounds devilishly familiar. I shall make discreet inquiries when I return to town.”
“Whether she is ill-used or not is beside the point. She belongs to him now, and I can do nothing.” Bennet dropped his head in his hands.
Cartwright fell silent for a moment. Then, with gentler tones, he said, “If I may, Bennet, I should like to offer a word of sense.”
Bennet looked up, his composure near breaking. “Go on.”
“You have four daughters still under your roof. You say you have failed Elizabeth—that her fate lies upon your conscience. Then prove yourself a better man. I know you, Thomas. You have been shut in this room since her marriage, I dare swear. Enough of that. At your disposal lies a fortune most men could never dream of. Invest wisely, set aside dowries for your girls, and find means to break that cursed entail. Why do you not approach your cousin and offer compensation for the disentailment? It would be, as they say, a practical remedy.”
A flicker of resolve stirred within Bennet’s breast. “Yes.” He paused, weighing his answer before continuing. “Collins is a fool—illiterate, self-important, and cruel. I know he was in difficulties two years past and sought assistance I could not give.” Perhaps ten thousand pounds might persuade him to sign a deed of disentailment.
“Excellent. Write to him and request a meeting—somewhere away from Longbourn, perhaps in town. Take a solicitor, have the documents prepared, and give him no time to contemplate.” Cartwright grinned. “Most men will sign anything that promises ready coin without thought to the future.”
How well I know it, Bennet thought inwardly.
Encouraged, Bennet drew the sheaf of papers towards him and began to look through each page. Cartwright continued his counsel, suggesting means by which his friend might atone. Bennet listened, committing every word to memory. He had failed Elizabeth, but he would not fail his other daughters. Things would change at Longbourn.
18 November 1806
London
Elizabeth
Fiennes regarded Elizabeth’s attire with a critical eye. He said nothing at first, merely adjusted a fold of lace here and there until her gown fell to his satisfaction. “Very well.” He sighed in resignation. “It must serve for now.”
The sting of his words pricked Elizabeth’s pride, but she remained silent. A moment earlier she had felt almost elegant; now doubt clouded her thoughts. Was the gown too plain, too dated, too dull for an afternoon with a countess? Steeling herself against the hurt of her husband’s criticisms, she reached for her pelisse and gloves.
The countess’s residence stood but one street away—a distance easily walked in a few minutes. Yet the carriage was ordered, and Fiennes led her from the house with the hauteur of a lord. She offered no remark as he mounted the steps and left her to follow unassisted. A footman extended his hand; she accepted it with a grateful smile before taking her seat opposite her husband on the rear-facing bench. She turned her gaze to look through the window.
For several moments, they rode in silence. Then Fiennes spoke abruptly. “Your maid informs me your courses came last week.”
Elizabeth turned towards him, colour rising to her cheeks. “That is hardly proper conversation for the present moment.” She expressed more heat in her speech than she had wished.
“We are alone—when better to speak of it. I desire children, Elizabeth, and I expect you to provide them without delay.” Fiennes’s gaze rested on her with cold scrutiny. “You are young—your mother bore five in eight years; doubtless you must be equally fruitful.”
“I have no control over when…” She faltered, her throat tight with embarrassment. The realities of marriage still unsettled her; she did not know how to answer him.
“I am aware of the process, Elizabeth. I shall do all in my power to ensure a prompt fulfilment of my hopes.”
She nodded, then turned back to the window, praying her mortification would fade before they reached their destination.
The carriage stopped, and the door was opened. Fiennes stepped down first and paused, offering his hand with a measured air. As they neared the door, his hand closed hard about her elbow. “Pray, do nothing to shame me. This is precisely the connexion we need to prosper here.”
Bristling at the implication thathermanners needed correcting, Elizabeth schooled her countenance and held her tongue.
Fiennes knocked, and the door was opened by a solemn-looking butler.
“Your names, sir?”
“Mr Damian Fiennes and Mrs Elizabeth Fiennes,” her husband answered with importance. “We are expected.”
“Indeed, sir. If you will follow me.” He stepped aside for them to enter. Elizabeth removed her pelisse and gloves; Fiennes handed his hat and coat to a waiting footman. Without another word, the butler led them along a wide passage lined with polished wood and portraits in gilt frames. At the far end, he opened a door adorned with painted flowers and announced them.
“Thank you, Grimes.” Lady Westland’s manners were gracious. “Pray send word that we are ready for tea.”
The butler nodded and withdrew.
