“He likely is. Such men thrive on contention—it feeds their sense of power. You may find he utters small barbs meant to wound; that is deliberate. Do not permit his cruelty to diminish your worth.” Lady Westland smiled. “I can see that you are a lively, good-humoured creature. He will seek to quash that spirit.”
“How can I remain cheerful when the very air of that house is oppressive?” Elizabeth cried. “It is as though the life has been drawn out of the place.”
“You must seek your happiness elsewhere and guard it well. Speak of it to no one, for he will attempt to separate whatever—or whomever—brings you comfort. My late husband was a jealous man. Before his death, we had not a single male servant; he believed they would lure me into indiscretion. In time, my friends too drifted away, for he read my letters and curtailed my visits.”
“Fiennes already curtails my walks. It was only the promise of meeting someone of consequence that persuaded him to take me walking last week.”
“Excellent! Play upon his weaknesses—they exist, though he will try to conceal them. Your husband is ambitious; that can serve you. When he objects to your visiting me, remind him of my title. I shall make every effort to introduce you to others of rank or consequence. Your circle will widen because he will not risk his own ambitions by denying you such acquaintances.” Lady Westland’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You haveone advantage I never did—someone who understands. When he begins to hide your letters, send word, and I shall see them dispatched from Godfrey Place.”
It was time to go. Unable to restrain her gratitude, Elizabeth embraced her new friend with unguarded affection. “Thank you, my lady.” Kindness, when freely given, felt almost dangerous; it threatened to make her believe in gentleness once more.
“Call me Suzanne, my dear. I believe we are long past the stage of observing formalities.”
“And you must call me Elizabeth—or Lizzy, if you please. Only, I beg you, never Eliza.”
“Agreed.”
They said their farewells, and as Elizabeth reached the door, she turned back. “Who is ‘the old bat’?” Her curiosity had overcome her restraint.
“Oh, Arthur.” Lady Westland broke into bright, irrepressible laughter. “He meant the Dowager Countess of Westland—my mother-in-law. The title properly belongs to her, though society will persist in calling me the same. To distinguish between us, she is sometimes styledthe senior Dowager, while most who know us simply call meLady Westland. She and her son are very much alike.”
With the promise of another visit to Bond Street for fittings, Elizabeth returned home strengthened in spirit and resolved to follow Suzanne’s counsel—to preserve both her sanity and self-command in her husband’s house.
Chapter Ten
24 December 1806
London
Elizabeth
Thehourwaslate,and the faint winter light had already withdrawn from the square, leaving her chamber in a hush broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. Elizabeth sat before her small writing desk, the chill of the season creeping at her back despite the coals her maid had renewed. Three months had passed with no word from Longbourn; all her letters had gone unanswered—even from Jane. She unstoppered her ink, took up her quill, and began to write.
London
24 December 1806
Dear Papa,
It has been nearly three months since I heard from you. I am left wondering why I am thus abandoned after having acted the part of a sacrificial lamb. You are safe from debtors’ prison—why will you not respond to my letters?
To console myself, I shall write to you of a new friend Mr Fiennes and I met recently. Suzanne Godfrey, Lady Westland, has been a light amidst all the gloom. She is a vibrant young widow. Her son, Arthur, is an earl. Residing only a street away from us, I have been to tea at her home several times. Her advice has been invaluable as I learn to navigate life as a married woman. My husband does not mind my friendship with her either, which is a point in my favour.
Pray, tell me, how is Mama? How are all my sisters? Is Jane to come to town in the spring? If so, I will invite her and my Aunt Gardiner to tea…
Elizabeth paused, pen poised above the paper. Suzanne’s words had echoed in her thoughts for some time, though she had been unable to confirm their veracity. Was her husband removing her letters from the salver? Lady Westland’s missives arrived without trouble, as did invitations to events and gatherings.
In truth, this letter was to be a test of sorts. She intended to carry it down to the salver that night before they departed for an evening party. Lady Westland had secured them an invitation to Lord and Lady Matlock’s annual Christmastide ball. Elizabeth had never met the countess, but Suzanne assured her that Lady Matilda Fitzwilliam, Countess of Matlock, was a kind, considerate woman.
“She is my elder sister by many years,” Suzanne had confessed one afternoon. “My father took another bride long after his first wife’s death. Tilda was already married and had two children! It was much talked of amongstthe ton—old Mr Markham, master of great wealth, marrying the lowly daughter of an insignificant country squire. I am the result of that union. Unfortunately, my father died soon after I was born. My mother raised me at the family estate.”
“What happened when your mother died?” Elizabeth asked.
“My mama passed away nine years ago, soon after I married. I miss her keenly. Tilda and my mother each received half of Papa’s fortune upon his death. What my mother inherited became mine, in addition to my dowry when she died. My husband was pleased.” Suzanne laughed without mirth. “Thankfully, the former earl was not a spendthrift. My fortune remained intact.”
Suzanne spoke of her trials with such equanimity. Elizabeth longed to be equally sanguine about her own life, but even she—one not disposed to melancholy—struggled at times to find cheer in her existence. Well did she remember the day the bills for the modiste arrived. Fiennes’s barely contained fury had made her quake with fear. Sometimes she wished he would raise his voice and berate her rather than deliver those cruel barbs and belittling half-compliments.
“Elizabeth,” he had said, holding up the bill. “Did it really cost this much to outfit you appropriately?”
