CHAPTER XLIII

She did not wake, because she did not sleep. Eyes stinging from tears, she examined the angry red welts she had scratched all down her left arm during the night. Annette tried to fix her hair in place, but kept dropping the pins. Lady Matlock did not mind her maid's fumbling; it kept her in her room, and so delayed the inevitable. Below stairs Mrs. Janssens was trying to stop the gossip, but the master had not tempered his volume. The household knew she was disgraced. The work now fell to making sure no one beyond its walls ever found out.

Her hair was finally done. Annette squeezed her shoulders.

"You had best go. The Earl is waiting."

She nodded and slowly rose. Every step was a conscious effort. The footman would not meet her eye as she reached the study door. Gingerly, she lifted her hand – and stalled. Arthur Thistlewood and William Davidson flashed though her mind's eye. Give me death or give me liberty. Swallowing down the bile burning her throat, she knocked.

"Enter."

With a final deep breathe, she opened the door.

Lord Matlock was sat at his desk, eyes fixed on the papers spread in front of him. Lady Matlock shut the door behind her and waited to be summoned forwards. And waited. And waited.

After what felt like an age, he put down his page and looked up at her. A chill shot through her.

"I have been reflecting that I should thank you," he began. "I have been struggling with an unpalatable truth, and you have relieved me of the guilt of it."

She forced herself to speak. "Indeed?"

"Yes. Most evenings I have not been at Whites, but at Madam Haywood's establishment, where the company has been far warmer than any I have encountered in my own house. I suspected the knowledge of that may have upset you. Now I find I do not care."

The last piece of her heart shattered. How foolish she had been. "Then you have transgressed more than I, my lord."

"My affections remained constant, madam. And I have not sullied myself with treacherous scum. I am not spoiled goods."

"That is not fair–"

"I do not recall asking for your opinion, Lady Matlock. I have sent an express to Scarcliffe. Mrs. Gallagher will be expecting you. You will spend the summer undertaking to modernise it, so it is ready for when Kirkdale needs an estate of his own. You are to involve Mr. Clarke in every decision. He will ensure I am aware and approve any work that is undertaken. The children are to go with Miss Hindmarsh to Pemberley. I've written to Miss Darcy. You may only see them with my express permission. And you will only receive that once I am convinced you pose no danger to them. You may consider yourself exceedingly lucky that I am even willing to consider that."

"You hurt me first. That is what you are forgetting."

"And how, exactly, did I do that?"

She put her hand to her stomach as a trapdoor echoed in her mind. No wife could answer that. He was watching her intently.

"How have you explained this all to Miss Darcy? I will make sure to say the same to Catherine and Jane. They will wonder why I am not at Pemberley."

"You are suffering from a bout of the vapours and need the rest. That should be easy enough to believe. You are your mother's daughter."

It was a test, to see if she would bite. "Yes, my lord."

"You will speak with Mr. Harrison too. I'm minded to lobby for a bishopric for him, in time. It would be something advantageous your family could bring. You will help him make a name for himself. Consider it something useful you can do."

"I do not think he and Kitty desire–"

"I've had enough of your thinking! You will remind yourself and your sister that Mr. Harrison's livings are mine to gift – and remove – as I please. Is that clear, Lady Matlock? And should you be tempted to hope that Matthew Wood will succeed with this gambit with the Queen, remember that her interest is in staying queen, not in some unwashed rabble's rebellion. This agitation will come to naught; I can assure of that."

"Why send us away then?"

His gaze hardened. He called the footman through and asked that Mademoiselle Mouisset be sent for. She scolded herself as they waited.

The door clicked and Annette walked in. He said something to her in French, and the maid responded in kind. Lady Matlock bit her tongue against the humiliation. He knew she could not follow what was being said.

Annette's face turned white. She looked between her master and mistress, in evident distress.

"What did you say to her?" Her mistress demanded.

"Thank you Mademoiselle Mouisset, you may leave." He waited till the maid had left, then looked back to his papers. "Mrs. Gallagher will find you a new maid. Someone more suitable."

"No! You cannot–" His eyes shot up to match hers. She stopped, concentrating all her rage instead into her thumbnail as it dug into her finger. She would not give him the satisfaction of berating her again.

When sure her voice was steady she said instead: "May I say goodbye to my children?"

"We will go together." He rose and offered her his arm. Ignoring the sourness on her tongue, she looped her arm through his. They walked in silence to the nursery. Miss Hindmarch and Jenny were making quick work of readying the children.

The enormity of it all hit her when she saw their faces. They knew something was amiss, even if they were too young to understand what. William ran to her first, followed by his brother and sister on her wobbly legs. Telling herself to be brave for their sakes, she knelt and pulled all three into her arms, making them promise to be good and kind. William, close to tears, asked why they had to leave so soon?

"Your mother is best placed to explain that," his father replied.

She stroked his cheek. "It is not safe here now, my sweet. But I need you to be gallant, and look after your sister and Aunt Darcy, and Miss Hindmarsh and Jenny too. Can you and Bennet do that? Just like Locksley."

Both boys nodded. She kissed them all and stood to leave. At the door, Lord Matlock called Miss Hindmarsh across and in a low whisper told her to consider the appropriateness of Mr. Scot's latest work, given the country's current state. "Of course, sir. The boys do enjoy it though."

That earnt a swift rebuke from her master and the silent gratitude of her mistress.

"Please do not do this," she pleaded once they returned to the hallway. "You know I would never let any harm come to them. Please, this is not who you are. I will go to Derbyshire, I will do everything you have said. But let me see them at least."

"You will inform me as soon as you arrive at Scarcliffe. I am needed at Westminster. We are done, Lady Matlock." He removed himself from her arm and walked off.

Elizabeth stood bereft. Where did she even begin? She could turn round, grab her children from the nursery and run – but there was no one to run too. No place that was safe now. She stifled a sob and with small deliberate steps made her way back to her rooms. Inside, she found Annette packing the last of her belongings. The two women looked to each other – and then ran to embrace.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Elizabeth wailed, pouring out all her heartbreak. "You have been my dearest friend these past eight years."

Annette clasped her hands tight. "If there is any good in this it is that we can part as friends."

She nodded through her tears. "Where will you go?"

"My aunt's, I think. That will not look so strange, for you. I have been gone so many years, it would be nice to return and help her in the shop."

"I will write."

"No, ma chère, you should not. Not for some time, at least. You must protect yourself Elizabeth, and you must do what you need to stay safe." Each pulled the other in for a final hug, neither wanting to let go.

The children were gone by eleven. She took some comfort in it being Jack Renner who drove them: he would keep them safe on the long road. Her own carriage was ready soon afterwards. An unfamiliar Matlock man handed her in. Only Annette and Mr. and Mrs. Janssens were there to wave her off. She wondered at the likelihood of ever seeing any of them again.

The carriage turned into Park Lane, and made its way towards Edgware, taking her past the boundary of the Parish of St. Marylebone. And an empty set of rooms on Elliott Row. Maybe Sarah Davidson would be home. She did not even know if he had proposed to her. If she ordered them to turn down Oxford Street she could be at her aunt and uncle's within the hour. But the driver would not follow her order and she could not risk it; not while he had her children. Her aunt had been right: she could not walk two paths. It only ended in heartbreak.

As they crossed the turnpike Elizabeth finally gave into the immense, body wrecking misery of it all. Obstinate, headstrong woman. What had she done?