Yet the alternative—ignoring a desperate plea from a friend facing ruin—sat equally poorly in her conscience. Annabelle’s circumstances were dire. Her sister’s pregnancy, their grandmother’s limited means, and the approaching scandal that would destroy what little remained of their social standing. Could Elizabeth truly turn away from such suffering because acknowledging it proved inconvenient?
She had written a message of support and extended compassion where condemnation would have been easier.
And that simple expression of willingness to listen, might mean everything to Annabelle. It might provide the encouragement needed to endure another day, another week, of watching her sister’s condition progress while knowing scandal approached with inexorable certainty.
It might offer the comfort of knowing she was not alone.
Now Elizabeth needed to send it without drawing unwanted attention to the correspondence. She did not wish toexplain why she had chosen compassion over total loyalty to her husband’s dignity.
Because no one would understand. They’d be horrified and disapproving, despite her intent being to help rather than collude. Her mother and sisters would loudly emphasise the terrible choice she was making. Her father would express his dissent in a less vocal but equally impactful way. And Fitzwilliam…
She shook the thoughts out of her head. She did not wish to dwell upon it.
She had made her decision, after all, and acted according to her own moral compass rather than allowing the fear of judgment to override compassion. Now she had to follow through.
The usual method of summoning a footman and handing over the missive with casual instruction to include it in the household post would not serve. Servants talked. There was a chance that news could spread that Mrs Darcy had written to someone in Ireland. And even worse, speculation would begin about the recipient’s identity. If anyone discovered she was corresponding with Annabelle Sempill, one of the fortune hunters from the garden party…
Her hands went cold at the thought. The scandal would be immediate. Lady Catherine would seize upon it as proof of her unsuitability and use it to vindicate every criticism she had levelled. Even Lord and Lady Matlock, kind as they had been, would wonder at her judgment.
No. This required discretion. A solution that avoided explanation or scrutiny.
Elizabeth rose from the writing desk and moved to the bellpull. She tugged at it and when a maid appeared, she spoke with as much authority as she could summon.
“Please have my family’s carriage brought round. I wish to visit the village.”
The maid nodded. “Shall I inform anyone in particular of your departure, ma’am?”
“That will not be necessary. I am taking some air. I shall return well before nighttime.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
The maid curtseyed and departed, leaving her alone, still wondering about the wisdom of this course.
She could still change her mind and avoid the complication. Fitzwilliam need not know about the correspondence. But that felt like cowardice and moreover, she had promised not to ignore Annabelle’s cry for help.
She sat, letter tucked into her reticule, and instructed the coachman to take her to the village post office.
The journey would be brief. Snowhill lay close enough to the estate that she could make a quick trip and return before anyone noticed.
The countryside rolled past the window, the landscape beautiful in ways that brought a sense of peace to the observer.But Elizabeth could hardly look. Any extended action seemed like it would merely emphasise her internal turmoil.
The carriage lurched to a sudden halt, throwing her forward against the seat before she could brace herself properly.
She pressed one hand to the wall for balance, confusion giving way to concern as voices carried from outside. Her coachman was speaking with someone. This was followed by laughter that sounded distinctly familiar, the unmistakable tones of her youngest sister raised in enthusiasm.
“Lizzy! Is that you?”
Lydia’s face appeared at the window, flushed with excitement and a few stray rays of afternoon sun. She was seated in a carriage which bore the Matlock arms painted prominently on its door, and behind her, Elizabeth could see her mother, and beside her, Kitty. Across from Kitty sat Georgiana, and beside her—her heart sank further—Colonel Fitzwilliam and the Viscount.
A crowded carriage indeed, but a merry one.
Of course, they had encountered each other on the road. Because today had not already been complicated enough without her family appearing at precisely the moment she was attempting discretion.
Elizabeth managed a smile that felt strained even to her own perception. “You have returned from the horse races, I see. Did you enjoy yourselves?”
“Oh, it was magnificent! The horses, the riders, the tremendous excitement when they rounded the final turn...I have never witnessed anything half so thrilling in my entire life!”
“The races were quite spectacular,” Kitty added, leaning forward to join the conversation. “And the colonel was kind enough to explain the betting to us, which made it even more engaging.”
