I was not quite certain this was correct—certainly Matlock existed as it ever had and seemed always would. But perhaps change was in the air. And he believed it enough for both of us.
“Lord Cavendish will hold an inquest,” I said, making it a statement rather than a question.
“I suppose he must,” he replied. “In the matter of Miss Bingley, certainly, but perhaps for Anne, as well.”
“You fear that everyone will learn how Anne died?” I asked, trying to understand.
“Hardly,” he said, making a disgusted noise. “I fear all will learn how she lived.”
I still could not comprehend it; I could not care less if the world learnt of her iniquities.
“Is…is Lord Cavendish a good man? Is he a friend?”
“A very good man. Has known me all of my life.” He turned and looked at me directly for the first time in a while. “I went to fetch him, you know. When I left you so abruptly and went to London. I wished him to-to vouch for my integrity when you learned of Hopewell’s opinion of it. But he was not in London, he was at some house party or another. And before he returned, you wrote to me and so I returned home.”
This astonished me—that he had felt the need to bring in a witness to his character. To me, his own wife. That he had travelled all the way to London to seek out one of Derbyshire’s most respected residents, hoping the man would assure me of his worthiness—as if he required a reference. As if believing his own word would not be good enough for me. What a humiliation that would have been for him! I could hardly credit it.
“I am glad he was not in London, then,” I said. “I do not believe it is possible to hide one’s true self, not without creating a good deal of real distance. At least not for long. And I trust my own judgment of your honour.”
His expression remained solemn. “I could not bear for you to be afraid of me, not for one minute. I only thought to bring you reassurance.”
I should not have been so surprised; such actions were the essence of who he was. As we approached the house, I was overwhelmed by memories—some that had not crossed my mind in almost a decade, but now which I could never forget.
I pictured the ball at Netherfield, so many years ago, as if it were yesterday; the grandeur, the elegance, even the dress worn by Miss Bingley, a fashionable ensemble I had deeply envied, though I hoped I did not show it. It was also the peak of my stupid infatuation with Wickham, and I had believed my evening spoilt by his absence. I blamed Mr Darcy for it, resented having to dance with him—might even have taken the ruinous step of refusal but for Charlotte’s reproof when she saw what was in my face; she warned me not to be a simpleton. I spent the entirety of the set subtly castigating him, taunting him about Wickham, and accusing him of aloofness, prejudice, and inconsideration.
“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.”
“May I ask to what these questions tend?”
“Merely to the illustration of your character,” said I. “I am trying to make it out.”
Of course, I had judged wrongly then, as had most of the county. As did most of the countryside now. It was no wonder he should expect a similar mistake. A wave of sadness surged through me, that such an ill performance should have been the only dance we had ever shared. The carriage drew to a halt, and as he moved to exit, I caught his hand.
“I could never fear you, and never will. In the future, I only ask that you talk to me first, before you decide upon any action either taking you from me, or taking me from you. Please.”
He did not answer me, only squeezing my hand in what was meant, I suppose, as reassurance. It frightened me, almost; the next time, he might destroy our marriage, if he truly thought it best for me. Well, I would not let him, I vowed. Whatever power I held with him, I would use it to keep him.