Chapter 1 #2
There was no going back now. The deeper cost of providing for her family had been the sacrifice of any kind of normalcy — of a husband and family that might have come in her future.
Surely no man would want a wife who had risen to fame as she had.
Respectable gentlewomen might work as companions or governesses, of course.
Perhaps even as authors, provided their work was suitably genteel.
But a notorious author of what Elizabeth had once heard called “cheap Gothic thrills” was something else entirely.
Fiercely, Elizabeth told herself she regretted nothing. Yes, she was not likely to have love and marriage in her life — but then, given her family’s situation, there had never been much chance. It was pointless to grieve the loss of something she might never have had at all.
A knock sounded at the door. Elizabeth put down her quill. “Come in!” she called, attempting to sound more cheerful than she really felt. There was no need to make the Gardiners worry over her.
Her aunt poked her head around the door and gave an understanding smile. “We are about to sing Christmas carols, if you should like to join us in the drawing room?” Her aunt entered and joined her at the little writing desk.
“Yes, I shall be down in a moment, Aunt. Thank you.” Elizabeth continued writing for a few moments, not wanting to lose the ideas that had come to mind.
“I do hate to think of you wiling away the Christmas season all alone in this little room, my dear. Are you feeling quite well?” Mrs Gardiner asked.
“Yes, I am fine, Aunt,” Elizabeth said, not looking up from her sheet of paper. “Besides, it is not Christmas Day yet. I will have plenty of time to celebrate with you all.”
When she looked up, her aunt seemed worried, her brow knit together. “How are things coming with your next book?” She came and stood over her shoulder, looking down at the disordered mass of paper.
Elizabeth could not blame her aunt for looking rather puzzled.
Indeed, it must have seemed a terrible mess to anyone but herself.
No one could claim that her writing process was tidy.
There were notations in the margins, arrows connecting thoughts that were several paragraphs down the page, and corrections on every page.
She would go back and rewrite everything in the correct order when she was ready to turn it in to her publisher.
But for now, it was more important for her flow of thoughts to go unhindered.
The main point was to get all her thoughts out on paper. She could organise them later.
“It is coming along,” Elizabeth said brightly, grateful for the interruption.
“I believe Miss Hannah Thornton is in for a grand adventure.” Her aunt had been a supportive voice from the beginning of Elizabeth’s journey as an author.
She knew now that she would never have been able to go through with this endeavour if it had not been for aunt and uncle.
They had done so much for her, giving her a place to live and work.
And despite Mr Gardiner’s many obligations to his own business, her uncle had spent countless hours escorting her to and from her publisher’s office, never once complaining.
Then too, there was the fact that they were all sworn to secrecy.
The pressure of that alone was no inconsiderable burden.
But her aunt and uncle were indomitable in their love and support for her, as for all their nieces.
They had proven their worth a hundred times over as Elizabeth found her way in the new and sometimes frightening world of publishing.
“You told us that this novel is set in southern Italy, is not that right?” Mrs Gardiner asked. “Well, I am looking forward to reading it, whenever you have need of another set of eyes to check it over.”
The offer was very welcome. It had been a great relief to let at least one of her family members in on the creative process.
Better still, Mrs Gardiner had an excellent sense for dramatic tension, not to mention combining clarity and elegance in writing.
Her aunt’s ideas for improvement had been invaluable.
“I thank you, and I am very glad of the offer. You would have made quite the author yourself, you know,” Elizabeth told her with a smile.
“Oh, no. Not me. I have not the writing genius that you do, my dear. But I do like to think I am at least a minor part of your novel’s success.
” She leaned down and kissed Elizabeth on the cheek.
“Now, I think you have done enough work for one afternoon, especially so soon before Christmas. Come downstairs, have some punch and a bit of fruitcake, and sing with your cousins.”
“You are right,” Elizabeth said, capitulating with a good will. She stood, replacing the lid on her inkwell and setting the quill aside. After wiping her hands on an old handkerchief to ensure no ink remained to stain her skirts, she joined her aunt in the hallway.
The drawing room was filled with the light of many candles and an ample fire burning in the hearth.
The scent of cinnamon and oranges deliciously filled the room, and Elizabeth was soon surrounded by her young cousins and led over to the piano.
They begged her to play some Christmas songs.
As Elizabeth did so, she found that her spirits began to lift even as the gloomy weather continued.
The rain still pounded on the glass windowpanes, but the love and fellowship inside the drawing room was enough to dispel her dreary thoughts.
She began with “The Holly and the Ivy,” singing out in a clear, strong voice. Her two female cousins joined her first, then her aunt and uncle joined in. The boys, being younger, sat beside the fire and listened while they continued to play with their toy soldiers and horses.
After playing several Christmas carols, Elizabeth took a break and went to sit with her aunt and uncle, sipping on a small glass of punch. “This is just what I needed,” she said. “Thank you, my dear aunt.”
“I worry about you sometimes, my dear. I believe you would forget to eat most days if I did not come and pull you out of that room. It cannot be healthy for you to spend so much time alone.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I appreciate the concern, of course. But I am not alone. Not really,” she said.
To someone who was not a writer, it might have been difficult to understand.
But while working on her book, Elizabeth was accompanied by a cast of dozens.
Her imagination was populated by those from her past, and those who had been created from her daydreams.
“Yes, I know. You have your characters to keep you company. But I do wish you could be persuaded to come out with us more. Perhaps even your writing would benefit from you getting out more. Surely you must see something of the world in order to write about it.”
Elizabeth bit her lip. In fact, she longed to get out of the house more and see all London had to offer. Her aunt was right that she needed to experience more of life. Even apart from her own happiness, a broader range of experience could only improve her writing.
But no — she must not give in to temptation.
She would go out, to be sure, but she must do so only with the utmost care.
There was not only the manuscript to be finished but also the risk of her secret somehow slipping.
The news of Mrs Laurences’s true identity could not be allowed to get out.
Had not her mother and sisters already suffered enough?