Suzanne then turned her attention to Mr and Mrs Bennet, speaking of her son’s estate and her approaching marriage. The latter topic roused Mrs Bennet’s excitement at once.
“Oh, I love weddings!” she cried. “I did not have much time to plan Lizzy’s, you see, and I have long hoped Jane would marry. She is being courted by a neighbour—a Mr Bingley, who has taken Netherfield Park. Such a kind, amiable gentleman! And his sisters are so fashionable! They have quite taken to Jane and are very friendly.”
“I understand Mr Darcy is also a guest at Netherfield,” Suzanne gave Elizabeth a sidelong glance.
“He is. We thought him proud at first, but he has proved a most agreeable gentleman. Why, he dances whenever he can and speaks amiably to everyone.”
Mrs Bennet seemed ready to continue her catalogue of Netherfield’s charms, but Hill entered to request her counsel regarding dinner arrangements. The mistress of Longbourn excused herself with alacrity and left the room.
Suzanne’s gaze shifted towards Mr Bennet, her manner growing more deliberate. He returned her look with unruffled calm, and some silent understanding seemed to pass between them. Presently, she inclined her head and the tension eased.
“Elizabeth tells me you are fond of reading,” she remarked.
“Indeed I am, though I do not have the leisure I once enjoyed. The estate requires my attention, and I make time for my girls each day.”
“Then you have become an attentive father.” She raised an inquisitive brow. “I am pleased to hear it.”
Mr Bennet looked down briefly, humility tempering his smile. “Aye. I am not one to repeat my mistakes. It gives me great pleasure to see you again. You were Elizabeth’s strength when I could not be near her. I shall not forget it.”
Suzanne inclined her head. “How do you like this Mr Bingley, Miss Bennet?” she asked of Jane, who had been observing the friendly exchange with interest.
“I like him very well indeed. He is everything a gentleman ought to be, and his conversation is most pleasing.”
The talk soon turned to other subjects. Elizabeth mentioned that her mother wished to host a dinner party in Suzanne’s honour during her stay at Longbourn, and when Mrs Bennet returned from her consultation with Mrs Hill, she entered the discussion with her usual high spirits.
Later that evening, long after supper had ended, Elizabeth went to the nursery to see Elinor. Her daughter ran across the room and flung her arms about her, chattering eagerly of her new friends. Elizabeth listened with indulgent affection before bidding her choose a book for their nightly reading. Elinor selected her favourite—a small collection of nursery rhymes—and fell into peals of laughter when her mama invented foolish tunes for the rhymes.
When the story was done, Elizabeth held her daughter until she drifted into slumber. What a treasure Elinor was! All the trials of the past seemed a small price for the joy of her child. Not for the first time that day, she wondered whether she herself might ever marry a second time. She would never have expected Suzanne to return to that state, yet before January'send, the Dowager Countess of Westland would surrender her title to marry a man she professed to love dearly.
Elizabeth carefully laid her sleeping daughter in bed, kissed her brow and withdrew quietly from the room. Restless and unwilling to retire, she went to her own chamber and took her place on the window seat, gazing out into the night. Tree branches swayed in the wind, their shadows shifting against the dim sky, and she wondered whether autumn storms were brewing. Rain would put an end to her walks for a time—at least until the weather cleared.
Sighing, her head came to rest against the cold pane.Why must life be so perplexing?Why can I not enjoy the attentions of a gentleman without suspicion—without seeing villains at every turn?Her intuition had seldom misled her, yet she distrusted it now. It told her Mr Darcy was safe…but she could not quite believe it—not fully.And if I am mistaken?The question lay heavy on her heart.Would the risk be worth the cost?
If he were everything he appeared, then Mr Darcy might indeed be her perfect match. She could love him easily if only she allowed her heart to yield. Yet still, the quiet voice of caution persisted.If I am mistaken, I shall find myself once more in a torturous marriage of misery and constraint,she thought, her spirits troubled. She reproved herself inwardly. Mr Darcy had offered her no particular attentions—not openly, at least. It was folly to imagine courtship where none had been declared.
Still,she reasoned, ought I not to be prepared, should even a man other than Mr Darcy choose to pay me such addresses?The question brought her no nearer to peace.
Weary in mind, she undressed and slipped beneath the counterpane, turning on her side and tucking her hand underneath the pillow. Her eyes remained open, unseeing in the darkness, until at last, sleep claimed her.
In sleep, the past returned with cruel clarity.
Fiennes stood beside her, his hand firm on her back as he greeted Sir Walter Enwright, a baronet. “Yes, this is my wife, Mrs Elizabeth Fiennes.” Sir Walter shifted closer—beyond the bounds of propriety.
“She is a pretty creature.” His insolent gaze travelled over her. “And very young—fresh from the schoolroom, I dare say, eh Fiennes?” His laugh set her nerves on edge.
“Age has no bearing when one is in love.” Fiennes joined in the mirth, then turned to her. “Go, my dear, and fetch us some punch.”
Elizabeth obeyed at once, aware of the consequences if she did not. It was not the custom for ladies to serve refreshments at such gatherings, but she had long since learnt that her husband’s will must prevail. Before they left the house that evening, Fiennes had reminded her of his expectations: They must see my wife as the perfect example of femininity. A proper woman serves her husband in every respect—without complaint, without question.
His words echoed in memory as she moved through the crowded parlour with the punch, careful not to spill a drop. No one took notice of her; she was the youngest lady present by many years. Coming to her husband’s side, she handed the two men their glasses.
“Obedient, demure, compliant—the very pattern of a wife.” Sir Walter raised his glass. “I wish my Henrietta were so. But daughters of earls never are—they believe themselves entitled to their own way.”
Fiennes leaned in conspiratorially. “The secret to a compliant wife, Sir Walter, is to marry a country miss with no fortune. She will owe you everything…and can refuse you nothing.”
Elizabeth's stomach turned. They spoke of her as though she were an object, not a living soul—and as though she were not even present. Yet she was bound to remain beside him until dismissed. When the talk drifted toinvestments, she knew Fiennes was setting his snare to entrap the unsuspecting baronet.
A sudden gasp escaped her as she woke, heart pounding, the darkness of her chamber pressing close. “A dream,” she whispered. “Only a dream.” She sank back against her pillows, the ache in her chest remained.This is what I stand to gain if I am wrong.Her heart still racing, she cursed the memory of the man who had taught her to doubt her own worth and to forfeit all faith in the honour of men.
