“Elizabeth,” he said without thought. Looping the reins about a low branch, he approached her. “Good day.”
“Good morning, sir.” She extended a hand, offering a sealed letter. He took it, noting its thickness, and regarded her in some confusion.
“Pray, do me the honour of reading that letter,” she murmured. “It will explain everything.” She did not meet his eyes.
Darcy’s heart clenched.Could it be she is refusing me?
“Eli—Mrs Fiennes—has something occurred?” He needed her to deny it, to offer some word of hope.
“Please,” she said. He heard the tremble in her voice. “It will explain. I must go.”
Before he could answer, she turned and hurried down the hill almost at a run. Darcy watched her retreating figure, a sense of disquiet rising within him. Turning to the letter in his hand, he moved to a fallen log and sat. Breaking the seal, he began to read.
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
27 November 1811
My dear sir,
The exchange we shared last night at the Netherfield ball will ever remain amongst my most cherished memories. Your declarations are dear to my heart, and I long to return your sentiments in full. Yet I cannot do so until you know the whole of my story. It is a long and unpleasant account, but it must be told so you understand me and everything I am.
I scarce know where to begin yet begin I must; and so, I shall start with the inception of my acquaintance with Mr Damian Fiennes. The gentleman purchased Netherfield Park, or so the neighbourhood believed, in the year 1805. He quickly charmed my friends and family and became a favoured guest. The mothers of unmarried ladies wished him for their daughters. ThoughJane was but seventeen, and I only fifteen, we were often in his company when he dined at Longbourn. My father counted him a friend, and they spent many hours together.
There was, however, something in his manner that ever gave me pause. No one else seemed to see it. His expressions were too practised, too polished for belief. My friends, even Jane, declared I was being missish, and that there was no cause for unease. I soon learned to keep my own counsel where Fiennes was concerned and avoided him whenever possible.
My reserve seemed only to increase his interest, and soon he sought me out in every company. My mother urged my father to permit me to come out at a tender age. I was fifteen, sir—eager for society as any young lady might be, yet full young to be granted such a privilege. Jane delighted in my companionship, and I, naturally, did not complain of my new distinction.
You may think it strange that my parents allowed such a liberty, when you observe that my younger sisters are kept more strictly, two of whom are not yet out. Their reasons will become clear as my account proceeds.
Shortly before my sixteenth birthday, I noticed a change in my father. He grew withdrawn, locking himself in his study for hours. Several pieces of artwork vanished from the house—something I recognised only after…well, I am getting ahead of the story. The reason for his distress was revealed unexpectedly.
Oneday I was summoned to the study. There stood Fiennes above my stricken father, triumph written on his countenance. He compelled Papa to confess the truth. You see, my father had borrowed ten thousand pounds from the man to invest with a friend; but the venture failed, or so it appeared, and Fiennes called in the debt when it came due. When Papa could not pay, the price was my hand.
We were left in a most desperate situation. None could force me to marry him, yet refusal would have left my family destitute. He described every consequence with relish, and I watched my dear papa shrink before him. I could do nothing but accept my fate. I sacrificed myself—and my happiness—for my family. We were married as soon as the banns were called.
My new husband carried me to town, where I endured a life I would not wish upon my worst enemy. For eight months he tormented me, making every waking moment a thing to dread. He never struck me, yet his every word seemed aimed to belittle. If I expressed an opinion, he would laugh and call it childish fancy. When I was silent, he would accuse me of coldness. Every kindness was met with censure, every attempt to please with derision, until I knew not how to act at all.
Most of the household staff showed kindness, and in their care, I found what comfort I could. It was then I met Suzanne, one fateful day in the park. She became my dearest friend. I have no doubt that, were she not a dowager countess and so well connected, my husband would have forbidden theacquaintance. Fiennes used my friendship with her to gain entry into the first circles, where he employed the same schemes he had practised upon my father to entrap other unsuspecting gentlemen.
The day I felt Elinor quicken, everything changed. My husband died suddenly, freeing me from his tyrannical control. Only then did I learn the true extent of his wickedness. He was not a good man, sir, and even after we buried him, I felt endangered by those he had defrauded. I learnt that he used the law to his own advantage, weaving snares from which honest men could not escape until he had stripped them of all. His fortune was gained legally, yet neither morally nor honourably. Netherfield Park was amongst his acquisitions and remains in trust for my daughter.
From papers and journals discovered after his demise, I learnt he came from the poorest quarters of London, and that his rise had been one long deception. His efforts to work his way into the first circles were detailed and extensive. I do not doubt the account, for the proof lay written in his own hand. I have shared this with no one else,and I beg you to keep the matter secret for my daughter’s sake.
You may recall how abruptly I quitted London. After an attack on my person by one whom Fiennes had wronged, I removed to Longbourn, where I have remained these four years. This, sir, is a faithful narrative of all my dealings with myhusband.
You assume, Mr Darcy, that I do not entertain the attentions of another gentleman because I must have deeply loved my husband. In truth, it is because I did not love him. I was a prisoner in my own home. My every action was scrutinised, my faults carefully catalogued. I was never permitted to forget my shortcomings. He strove to fashion me into his ideal of perfection. He praised humility as the highest female virtue and turned every sign of spirit into proof of wilfulness. My individuality was smothered—he insisted I think as he thought, admire what he admired, and disdained every trace of independence as unseemly in a wife.
At only sixteen, what defence had I against a man who owned me and could do as he pleased, provided he did not take my life? I learned to measure my words by the cast of his eye, to read his humour before I dared to speak. He terrorised me at every turn, and when he was gone, I buried it all, determined to recall the past only when its remembrance might afford me pleasure—of which there was little, I assure you. But I can see now how mistaken I was.
And so, I come to the consequences of my choices. Darcy, I love you. Never have I felt such affection for any man, for what I bore my husband was the complete opposite. Yet, I cannot accept you—not now, not yet. I am not whole, and I fear the harm that might ensue if I entered a life with you before I had found myself once more. The years have passed, and I have drifted with them, content to let experience fester unexamined. It was badly done, I now understand, and I must make my peace with it before I can lookforward.
Forgive me, sir, for the pain this letter must bring. I will not ask you to wait; that would be unjust, for I cannot say when—or whether—I shall be ready. Suzanne’s happiness gives me hope, for she has found in Mr Blythe the perfect gentleman—her equal in every respect. I can only hope I have not lost my own through my long silence.
I shall attempt to place this letter in your hands before the day ends. Dawn approaches, and I am too restless to sleep.
Yours forever,
Elizabeth
