Chapter 3
Christmas was cosy and quiet at the little house on Gracechurch Street. They remained at home, spending the day nestled about the hearth, singing carols, reading the Nativity story, and enjoying good food and each other’s company.
Elizabeth thought she ought to find it delightful, and for the most part, she did.
Only the presence of her mother and dear sisters was missing, a constant small sorrow.
Though she had sent small presents to her family in Meryton, this could not really make up for sharing the joy of Christmas with them in person.
Only a week after Elizabeth’s novel had been released, Mrs Gardiner returned home after morning calls to find Elizabeth with her cousins in the drawing room. She rushed to them in such a state that Elizabeth stood up in alarm, waiting to hear what on earth had happened.
“My dear Lizzy!” Mrs Gardiner exclaimed. “It is all anyone can talk about. Mrs Laurence, this! And Mrs Laurence, that! You should hear the hubbub your new novel has caused.”
“Truly?” Elizabeth breathed, disbelieving. Her first novel had done well enough that Mr Tilney had not hesitated to order a second, but it certainly had not caused a stir. If this work was cause for so much discussion, and at such an early stage in its release, it could only mean…
“Yes, of course, my dear. How wonderful! Your novel is a sensation!”
“Congratulations, Lizzy,” Mary, her eldest cousin, smiled. Though only eight, she was already quite the avid reader. Elizabeth’s books were hard going for such a young child, but, clever girl that she was, Mary was eager to make the attempt. “I cannot wait to get a copy!”
Elizabeth stood and smoothed down her skirts, though it was more of a nervous habit than any reasonable way to improve their condition. “I have three copies waiting for me at the publisher. Perhaps you would like to accompany me there, and we can pick them up?”
“Why did you not say so before, my dear? Well, I cannot leave, as I have promised a good friend that I should be here today. But I am sure your uncle would be very happy to take you to see Mr Tilney.” Her aunt went to retrieve Mr Gardiner, so he might accompany Elizabeth to her publisher’s office.
In the meantime, Elizabeth went to change into something more appropriate for making business calls. She soon joined her uncle in the foyer.
“Well, my dear, your aunt says the book is a success? Congratulations,” Mr Gardiner beamed.
“Thank you, Uncle Gardiner.”
As they left the house, her uncle coughed and waved his hand to rid himself of the smoke that was billowing out of the neighbour’s chimney.
“They ought to clean that. It is dangerous to let a chimney get so choked with soot and smoke,” he complained.
Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hand.
When they had cleared the smoke and come to the street where the carriage awaited them, Mr Gardiner scowled at the neighbouring house, as if the owners could feel his displeasure from inside. “Very irresponsible, if you ask me.”
Elizabeth climbed into the carriage, and they were soon bumping down the London streets, slushy from the rain and snow that had frozen from the frosty night and then melted as the morning progressed.
When they arrived at her publisher’s office, Mr Gardiner helped her out of the carriage, then offered her his arm.
“It is quite a distinction to escort a famous author into her publisher’s office.
I am most honoured,” Mr Gardiner jested pleasantly.
Elizabeth laughed at her uncle. “I am not famous, Uncle. It is only talk from Aunt’s friends.
I doubt very much I shall ever be famous.
” And even if her novels did attain some measure of notoriety, Elizabeth herself would not be the one to receive any of the glory.
Indeed, she had worked hard not to let the secret of her identity get out.
Her publisher, Mr Tilney, welcomed them into his spacious office.
He smiled at her with delight. “Did I not tell you, Miss Bennet? I told you we had another excellent piece of fiction on our hands, and I was right.” He sat down after she and Mr Gardiner had settled themselves before his desk.
“I feel that we should have something to celebrate, champagne perhaps?”
“Not at this hour, I thank you, sir,” Mr Gardiner said courteously.
“Oh, forgive me, of course. It is only that I am so very pleased — not to mention most proud of Miss Bennet.” He sat down, folding his hands atop his desk.
Mr Tilney was a tall, lanky man. With his hooked nose and slightly sunken eyes, his appearance would have been more suited to a career in undertaking, rather than publishing.
But Elizabeth had no intention of complaining.
Mr Tilney had been the last in a long string of potential publishers.
After so many painful rejections, he had given her a chance, and she could never be grateful enough.
“Yes, very proud indeed, Miss Bennet. My wife has asked me to pass along her compliments on the book: she thinks it is one of the finest novels she has ever read. Of course, not knowing your true identity, she asked that I send her praise to Mrs Laurence, but that is just the same.”
“Please thank her for me, Mr Tilney. Though to be sure, she is much too kind. I cannot deserve such a compliment,” Elizabeth said, a little embarrassed at such extravagant praise.
“Not at all, not at all, Miss Bennet. Indeed, you must forgive me, I am in such a tizzy. At the rate the bookstores are asking me for more, we shall have to discuss a second printing, and of twice the copies. Your book is nearly sold out around London!”
“Is it really?” Elizabeth asked, dumbfounded. That would be a success beyond anything she could have imagined.
Mr Tilney gave her a satisfied grin. “Did I not tell you it would be so? True, I did not realise it would happen so soon after the release, but I was sure that it would sell out.” He leaned forward. “The papers are calling you the new Mrs Radcliffe.”
Elizabeth’s brows shot up in surprise. “Me?” Mrs Radcliffe was the byword for the Gothic genre, as brilliant and successful as any novelist could well be — if also somewhat notorious. “I cannot believe it, Mr Tilney.”
He straightened and rummaged through several newspapers and leaflets until he found the article he was looking for. “See for yourself,” he beamed.
Elizabeth took the paper in her gloved hand, careful not to smudge the ink onto the white fabric.
“Mrs Laurence is the new Mrs Radcliffee, with her expertly woven plots, excellent, well-rounded characters, and mystery to keep us on our toes. It is this critic’s opinion that Mrs Laurence, whoever she may be, will soon rival any female novelist in the country.
” Elizabeth looked up at her uncle as she finished reading, hardly able to believe it.
“Your aunt told me she said it was all anyone was talking about during her morning calls. It must be true,” Mr Gardiner said.
Elizabeth handed the newspaper back to her publisher. “Well, I suppose I shall have to work hard to get the next novel finished by September, so we can release it after the New Year once again?” she asked.
“Oh, my dear Miss Bennet, we should make haste, strike while the iron is hot. Your readers will soon be clamouring for another novel. And we should give it to them as soon as possible.” Mr Tilney moved his pile of newspapers aside until several of them went over the edge of the desk and floated to the floor.
“I should like to have the next novel ready to publish and send to the printers by mid-May, if at all possible. We can have them in people’s hands by as soon as July, I should think. ”
Elizabeth gasped. “Five months? Not even five months,” she said to herself, her head spinning with the implications. “That is not a very long time to finish my next novel.”
“Yes, but you have much more experience now. You obviously know what your readers want. You may now duplicate that in your next book.”
“For me, the writing process is so much more than stringing words together, Mr Tilney,” Elizabeth argued desperately. “It takes time and a great deal of thought to make a good novel. I should not like to rush too much and thus let my readers down.”
Her publisher chose not to argue, at least not in words.
He rose from his chair, seemingly unbothered.
He went to one of his many shelves lining the back wall of his office and retrieved a stack of books that had been wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.
“These are your copies of the new book that you requested. I am glad I had the printer set these aside, for in a matter of hours, I doubt anyone will be able to find a copy left in London.” He handed the bundle to her and smiled, leaning his backside against his desk.
“I am sure you can deliver the manuscript for mid-May. From what you have told me already, I am already very pleased with how the book is shaping up.”
“Well, I shall try,” she said slowly. Surely he must be exaggerating about the book being completely sold out so quickly. All the same, she was glad she had requested the three copies be set aside for her.
Elizabeth untied the package and moved the brown paper aside to reveal a dark green cover.
She ran her fingers over the title, then over her pen name.
Tears welled up in her eyes. She was proud of what she had accomplished, and could not wait to write to Jane and tell her everything, as well as send along the book for her to read.
More than selling out of her first run, or the rash of popularity that Mrs Laurence seemed to be experiencing, was the fact that her sisters and mother would be taken care of.
They were that much closer to being able to sleep peacefully, without the thought of disaster hanging over their heads.