Their hostess rose to greet them. “Do come in!” she exclaimed with cheerful warmth. “I have been looking forward to your call. Pray, sit.”
Tea was brought as they arranged themselves. Elizabeth took a seat adjacent to the countess, leaving the chair nearest Lady Westland vacant; she knew instinctively that he would claim it. Fiennes at once engaged the countess in conversation while she poured and served the tea. Elizabeth sat silently, content to let him command the burden of the talk.
“I must say, I am delighted to have made your wife’s acquaintance,” Lady Westland observed, her attention now on Elizabeth. “I have so few friends in town, and she strikes me as a most agreeable companion.”
Fiennes cast Elizabeth a fleeting glance. “She is tolerable company. Elizabeth has some wit and can amuse those about her with ease. I am certain she values the connexion.”
“Do you, Mrs Fiennes?”
“I do,” Elizabeth met Lady Westland’s gaze with steady candour. “I am very new to town and am glad to have met a new friend so soon.”
Lady Westland inclined her head. Her eyes shifted to Fiennes, and Elizabeth fancied she caught in them a glimmer of wariness—perhaps even understanding. “I am looking forward to our day of shopping. Thank you, Mr Fiennes, for allowing me the pleasure.”
He drew himself up with evident pride. “The arrangement serves us all. “I shall later finish the business I set aside this morning so that we may partake of your hospitality. It was no difficulty, I assure you.”
Lady Westland’s grimace was so fleeting that only Elizabeth, watching closely, perceived it.
The conversation between Fiennes and the countess continued, leaving Elizabeth to study the finely appointed room. The walls were adorned in gentle hues of green and rose, the colours blending as delicately as a summer garden. The chairs were upholstered in coordinating shades, their floral patterns echoing the hues of the curtains and carpet, all arranged with that tasteful order which marked the home of a woman of refinement.
“Elizabeth, it is time to depart.” Fiennes’s abrupt tone broke into her thoughts. “Lady Westland, we are obliged to you for your hospitality.”
“You are very welcome. Mrs Fiennes, I shall call for you at ten o’clock. Will that suit?”
“She will be ready.”
They took their leave, and no further words passed between them as they returned home, the short drive cloaked in silence.
“Good morning, Mrs Fiennes.” Lady Westland greeted Elizabeth kindly as she stepped into the carriage. “I see your husband did not send his minder with you.”
Elizabeth coloured. “Kane and Sloan are occupied,” she murmured.
Lady Westland regarded her with an assessing eye. She looked the picture of elegance: her hat perched at a jaunty angle, her hands buried in a fine fur muff, the sleeves of her deep-green pelisse lined with the same soft fur. “I detest polite pretence when truth must be spoken.” Lady Westland smiled. “Let us be frank, you and I. I know what sort of man your husband is, and I wish to teach you how to manage him.”
Elizabeth stared. “You have met him but twice. How can you understand, after so brief an acquaintance, what I am still attempting to comprehend?”
“My husband was the same,” the lady confided. “One soon learns to recognise others of that particular cast of character. Your Mr Fiennes is a calculating, cold creature who cares only for himself. To him, people are possessions. He may speak of affection, but he feels none. His desires, his ambitions, and his comforts will always take precedence. Worst of all, only you will perceive it.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. “I tried to tell everyone, but no one listened.” She moved forward, her distress breaking through reserve, and laid a hand on Lady Westland’s arm. “But I am trapped now.”
“Tell me how it came about. I gather it was not of your choosing.”
As the carriage rolled towards Bond Street, Elizabeth recounted all she could of Mr Damian Fiennes and how she had come to be his wife. “He puzzles me exceedingly.” There was quiet weariness in the confession as the equipage drew up before the shop of a fashionable modiste. “There are times when he is kind and solicitous, and I feel guilty for my distrust and discontentment. But then he will say something that sounds like an insult—”
“—and when you protest, he declaresyouare unreasonable.” Lady Westland met her eyes with understanding. “Exactly so. Such men—and women too—wear masks before the world. Most do not see the monster beneath until it is too late. I am truly sorry for your situation. Perhaps fortune will favour you, as it did me, and make you a widow.”
“’Tis not wicked to hope?” Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed at the thought.
“It is never wicked to pray for deliverance.” Lady Westland moved towards the now-opened carriage door. “We shall speak further at tea. I dare say your husband will permit our friendship—he will think it a useful connexion. We shall turn that to our advantage, and I shall teach you how to endure and manage his mercurial humours.”
Never had Elizabeth found shopping more delightful. Her new gowns were elegant and befitting a young wife. She chose mostly dark or striking colours—they ever best suited her complexion—and, at Lady Westland’s insistence, kept the cuts modest.
“Your husband will not relish other men admiring you. We shall have a few gowns fashioned for his eyes alone; it will please him to think himself indulged, I assure you.”
By the time they quitted Bond Street for tea at Godfrey Place, Elizabeth felt both exhilarated and weary. Their conversation flowed with such ease that one might have taken them for long-time friends rather than new acquaintances.
Over tea, Lady Westland offered counsel of every kind. “Do not let him press you into dispute. He will keep his composure, and you will be made to seem an unreasonable harridan. I have learnt that anger robs me of reason.”
Elizabeth nodded in agreement. “I have noticed he seems displeased when I refuse to argue.”
