You may recall a certain investment which occasioned your generous—albeit greedy and most dishonourable—loan. I thought it proper you should hear the result. Mr Cartwright’s venture, aided by my small investment, has surpassed all expectation. He returned safely to port bearing tidings—and a modest chest of gems—attesting to the extraordinary success of the mine. My share alone exceeds two hundred thousand pounds, and more is expected in years to come. You may therefore rest assured that your confidence, though disingenuous and not freely given, was not misplaced.
I confess only one regret—that this success did not come sooner. It might have spared my dearest Lizzy from the unhappy necessity of becoming your wife. Yet Providence, which directs even the designs of men such as ourselves, seems at last to have balanced its accounts. I find myself solvent in purse, if not in peace of mind, and content to leave the reckoning of other mattersto Heaven.
Pray do not trouble yourself to reply; I would not wish to interrupt your labours of self-improvement.
T. Bennet
Fiennes read to the end, his lips tightening as though the paper itself had turned bitter. Two hundred thousand pounds. The figure struck like a blow. That idle Hertfordshire fool, prosperous beyond measure, while he himself was bound to a wife he could barely tolerate. The thought coiled in his mind:I shall see her pay for every dull demand of propriety.
He crumpled the letter and tossed it on the desk, the words still burning behind his eyes. The pain in his temples deepened; the candlelight swam. Rising too abruptly, he meant to reach for the bell, but the motion brought a rush of darkness, and he fell back into his chair. A sharp constriction seized his head and chest, stopping both breath and thought. His hand fell on the desk, scattering the letters he had so carefully arranged.
When at last he stilled, the crumpled letter lay beneath his hand.
Chapter Thirteen
March 1807
London
Elizabeth
Ascreampiercedtheair, rousing Elizabeth from her sleep. She blinked, disoriented, uncertain what calamity had occurred. Morning light streamed through the drapes—indeed, judging by its brightness, the hour was late.
“Mistress!” Martha burst into the room, breathless. “You must come—now! Oh, ’tis dreadful!”
Elizabeth drew back the counterpane and reached for her dressing gown and slippers. Her hand came instinctively to her abdomen, as though to shield the babe from whatever horror awaited her. Endeavouring to remain calm, with quick strides she crossed the room and passed through the open door.
The master’s chamber appeared as it ever did—orderly, precise, every object in its place. Only its occupant was changed. Fiennes sat at his writing desk, slumped over the papers he had been working on the previous night. Martha stood beside him, sobbing, her hands shaking his arm.
Elizabeth approached with caution. One touch told her what her heart had already guessed. His skin was cold as marble. One hand lay on thedesk, the other pressed across his chest, as though pain had struck him mid-breath. His eyes were fixed in vacancy—open and unseeing. She reached forwards and gently closed the lids.
“Send for the burial master, Martha.” The maid nodded, half-sobbing still, and hurried from the room.
Left alone, she remained motionless, staring at her husband’s lifeless form. A strange sensation stole over her—a lightness, an almost dizzy relief. She waited for sorrow to come, for the unexpected swell of tears or terror—but there was only stillness, deep and hollow, as though her heart could not decide whether to mourn or rejoice. Her lips curved before she could stop them, then without warning, laughter burst from her chest. It rose unchecked, wild and shaking, until tears blurred her sight. One hand braced itself against the desk, the other clasped her rounded form.
“The mistress has gone mad!” Martha's voice scarcely pierced the strange fog surrounding Elizabeth. Someone’s arm came round her shoulders and guided her from the room. Her laughter broke into sobs, and she soon wept, trembling and exhausted, against Mrs Heinz’s ample bosom.
“There there, now, dearie—let it all out.” Her lilting accent softened each word. “I saw it all, you know. I understand.”
Time passed as Elizabeth remained within her housekeeper’s embrace until at last her tears were spent. Mrs Heinz said nothing more for the moment, merely offering handkerchief after handkerchief.
“Mr Wilkens spoke with the burial master.” She spoke in hushed tones, fearful of disturbing the fragile quiet. “Mr Fiennes has been laid out in his chambers. They have questions—”
“I cannot!” Elizabeth gasped, fresh tears forming. “Pray send for Suzanne—Lady Westland.”
Mrs Heinz inclined her head. Lady Westland’s weekly visits were well-known amongst the staff. “I shall send a footman at once.”
Elizabeth knew not how much time had passed before her friend arrived. When Suzanne’s arms went about her, she wept anew, her tears falling fast and soaking the fine muslin at her shoulder.
“What is to become of me?” Her voice broke between words. “I do not know—and the baby! Oh, what am I to do?”
Suzanne smoothed a hand through Elizabeth’s hair, still plaited from before she was so suddenly awakened. “Do not think on that for now, her tone calm and resolute. We shall write to your family. If we send it express, they might arrive early on the morrow. Your father will help us settle your husband’s affairs.” Suzanne drew back, holding Elizabeth by the shoulders. “My dear, you are free—after less than a year, you may choose your own course for yourself and your child.”
It was as though a great weight lifted from Elizabeth’s shoulders. Her thoughts cleared, and a quiet stillness came over her heart. Damian Fiennes was dead—he could no longer harm her or the unborn life she carried. The notion seemed unreal; she had not dared imagine release from him for many years to come. Now she was a widow at sixteen, and in delicate health besides.
“I am very tired,” she whispered, leaning once more against Suzanne.
“Rest.” Suzanne’s hand moved to her back in a gentle, steadying motion. “I have your letters at my house and can find your father’s direction from them.”
