“I already feel as though I tread on eggshells.” Elizabeth had sighed in exasperation. “My home ought to be a place of refuge, yet it grows less so every waking day.”
Suzanne had given her a look of sympathy. “Find allies. You have me. Now we must broaden your circle. Are any amongst the household inclined to kindness?”
“Perhaps a few. Mrs Heinz, the housekeeper, and Cook. I cannot trust my lady’s maid. She is far too free with my private affairs.”
Suzanne had pushed for more. “I sense a tale.”
A flush had risen to her cheeks. “He wishes for…a child,” she had confessed in a whisper. “Someone he can mould in his own image, as he says. Each month he rebukes me for not conceiving, as though I possess control over such things.”
“Does he indeed?” Suzanne had frowned. “I am torn. I scarcely know which would be worse—that you gratify him, or that you do not. A child bred to resemble such a man is seldom blessed; they may inherit the monster’s spirit. I thank Providence my husband died before he could corrupt Arthur.”
The recollection faded. Elizabeth sat motionless at the dressing table, the letter still in her hand, the weight of her existence pressing on her shoulders.
Fiennes entered without warning. “What are you doing?” She started. He never knocked; her chambers were not her own.
“Merely collecting my thoughts for the day.”
“Then write them down. That vacant look makes you appear simple.” His words cut like a blade. “Come. We shall breakfast now.”
Suppressing the sting of his insult, Elizabeth rose. The letter remained in her grasp. She would see, at last, whether Suzanne’s suspicions were justified.
As they approached the dining parlour, she turned aside towards the salver by the door. Fiennes gave her a menacing look. “I have a letter. If I place it here now, it will go out with the morning post.”
He frowned. “Very well. I must fetch my journal.” Releasing her arm, he crossed to his study off the hall. “Do not wait for me.”
She set the letter on the salver and hurried down the passage to the necessary room near the dining parlour. Through the narrow crack of the door she had left ajar, she watched.
A minute passed—then another. At length, Fiennes emerged, took up the letter, and tore it clean in two before returning to his study. When he reappeared, his hands were empty. She waited until his tread receded, thenslipped into the study. The fragments of her letter lay smouldering in the grate. Heart pounding, she hastened to the dining parlour.
“Where were you?” Fiennes demanded.
She lowered her eyes. “The necessary.” He said no more, and when breakfast was served, his attention turned to the meal.
Later that day, once her husband had departed for his office, Elizabeth donned her pelisse and warm walking boots and set out for Godfrey Place. Suzanne welcomed her warmly, as did Arthur, whose cheerful manner always touched her heart. Her affection for him had grown, and she wondered what it might be to have a son of her own.
“He is burning my letters,” Elizabeth confided once they were alone. “I saw him do it this morning.”
Suzanne’s countenance sobered. “I feared as much. It is his way of severing your ties, my dear. Isolation makes obedience far easier to enforce.”
“Oh, undoubtedly.” Elizabeth shook her head. “I wish to accept your offer—to give this direction for my letters.”
Suzanne studied her closely. “He may discover your ruse. Are you prepared to weather that storm?”
“I am. I miss my family dreadfully.”
“Then write to them now. I am sure they miss you as dearly. I shall look in on Arthur; he is meant to be studying his arithmetic, though he detests it.” She gestured to the writing desk. “You will find everything you need there.”
Elizabeth hurried over to the desk, seated herself, and drew a sheet of paper before her. Yet, when the pen hovered over the page, her thoughts faltered. How might she explain her silence without betraying the truth?Papa knows,she reminded herself.He will understand how best to share my situation to the others.
Dipping the pen with care, she began to write.
Godfrey House, London
4 January 1807
Dear Papa,
I know it has been months since my marriage. I can offer no excuse save the one you likely suspect. My husband forbids my letters to leave his house, and those directed to me seldom reach my hands. He inspects every post before I see it, and I have no doubt that yours—and my Mama’s and my sisters’ have been intercepted.
