Chapter 7 #2
Elizabeth privately mused that Pemberley might be the perfect place to write a novel.
But of course, there would be no occasion for her to see the grand house.
If she ever travelled to the north, she might request a tour from the housekeeper, perhaps.
“You must be very proud of your home. It sounds beautiful.”
“It is,” Georgiana agreed. With charming enthusiasm, she waxed so enthusiastic about the house and grounds that Elizabeth half-felt she could see them.
With a sudden start, Elizabeth realised that Miss Darcy was attempting to look discreetly at her hands, as though something was odd about them.
She had forgotten her gloves!
Elizabeth’s heart raced. The ink stains on her fingers were far more numerous than anyone, however clumsy, could get writing letters.
The die was cast now, for anything she might do to conceal her hands would only call more attention to them.
Of course, Miss Darcy was too well-bred to say anything, but what must the young woman be thinking?
“Where do you hail from again, Miss Bennet?” Miss Darcy was asking politely. “I cannot remember what you said when we met the other day.”
Though knowing it to be futile, Elizabeth could not stop herself from attempting to hide her hands at her sides. “My family is from Hertfordshire,” she answered.
“I have never been so fortunate as to visit Hertfordshire,” Miss Darcy answered, “but I am told that it is also a beautiful part of the country. Indeed, my brother was there only weeks ago.”
“I see,” Elizabeth replied, glancing at Mr Darcy.
He cleared his throat. “Very good grazing country,” he remarked.
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied with equal brevity. Like his sister, Mr Darcy could not have helped but notice her hands. She wished now that she had thought to wear her gloves, even though it would have seemed strange since they were not planning on going out. There was nothing for it now.
When the half-hour had come to a close, the Darcys stood and readied to depart. “I do hope you will return the call, Miss Bennet? I have so enjoyed our visit today.” Miss Darcy said, pressing her hand as they said their goodbyes.
Elizabeth hesitated, glancing at Mr Darcy.
He was obviously a proud man. If — a doubtful if — he had not known of the glaring gap in their social standing before, he certainly must now that he had visited their home in Cheapside.
Would he approve of an acquaintance between her and his sister?
“You are very kind,” Elizabeth hedged. She looked at Mr Darcy, a question in her eyes.
To her surprise, he gave her a smile that she could only interpret as encouraging. “Yes, please do. We shall be delighted to receive you both,” Mr Darcy said, turning to include Mrs Gardiner in the invitation.
Her aunt smiled at this show of approval. “Well, what do you say to that, my dear?”
Elizabeth nodded. “I would be delighted to call upon you, Miss Darcy,” she said.
She could not help but feel rather flattered by Mr Darcy’s attention and approval of her, at least as a friend for his sister.
Would he still be so amenable to the acquaintance if he were to find out about her writing?
It was doubtful. That they were far below the Darcys in social standing was obvious, but Mr Darcy had no idea of the real situation.
Elizabeth wondered briefly if she was doing wrong in exposing her new acquaintance to a risk of which she knew nothing — but no, that was surely taking caution too far.
Surely a mere exchange of visits could not hurt Miss Darcy, despite the perilous position of Elizabeth’s secret and the risk it held for her own reputation.
And when the Darcys returned to Pemberley in the spring, Elizabeth doubted they would ever have occasion to meet socially again.
“Well, she is quite the enthusiast of your books, is she not?” Mrs Gardiner said. “What a charming young lady.”
“She is a very pleasant acquaintance, yes,” Elizabeth said. “Although I am not sure if it was wise to share so much about our lives. Miss Darcy seems a clever girl. It would not do for her to guess that I myself am Mrs Laurence.”
“You were the one who gave such a detailed analysis of the book, my dear,” Mrs Gardiner pointed out. “But I doubt they will realise that you are the author from that.”
“I suppose we shall have to go and see Mr Tilney again to discuss another run of the book?” Mr Gardiner put in.
“Yes, I suppose we shall. And that is another thing. I do hope that I can trust Mr Tilney with the secret of my identity. He might easily let it slip.”
“I understand your concern, Lizzy,” Mr Gardiner said gently, “but you must keep it in due proportion. If you are discovered one day, I do not think it will be so very bad.”
“I should like to believe you,” Elizabeth replied, “but for my part, I cannot be so sanguine. It is one thing for myself, but what of my sisters? I could not bear it if any judgement that might come to bear against me were to taint their reputations.”
“Surely it is not so very bad,” Mr Gardiner persisted. “After all, no one thinks any the worse of a man for writing. It is not a disrespectable profession.”
“It is different for a woman, my dear,” Mrs Gardiner pointed out gently.
“A man may do whatever he wishes and not be judged for it. You may go into business, buy property and do any number of things that, perhaps, you take a little for granted. If it were to be discovered that your niece is a working woman, and writing exciting Gothic novels at that, it would surely ruin any chance she might have of finding a husband — of having a family someday. And indeed, I believe Lizzy is right. Likely the scandal would reflect on her sisters as well.”
Her aunt’s defence of Elizabeth’s position, well-intentioned though it was, did little to allay her fears.
“Yes, well, I shall do my best to prevent it,” she said.
Shortly after the exchange, she excused herself and went back upstairs to work on her manuscript.
However, Mary soon found her. Sensitive as her young cousin was, no doubt she had realised how much the conversation had distressed Elizabeth.
“Do not worry,” Mary said earnestly as she came to sit at the edge of Elizabeth’s bed. “If your secret does come out, I will run away to the Continent with you.”
Elizabeth could only laugh at this. “I do not think my shame will be quite so drastic as to require an escape from England. But I thank you for your generous offer.” She stood up from her writing desk and joined Mary in sitting at the edge of the bed.
Elizabeth gave a long sigh, wishing she could talk with Jane.
Her wise older sister always knew how to listen so well, to find the best in every situation.
Perhaps she only needed some time away from the hustle and bustle of London.
Perhaps the reason she could not seem to write was the ache in her heart from being separated from her family.
She missed them all so much. And while their boisterous company made it difficult to write, perhaps too much time away from their company had given her writer’s block.
“I want to be just like you when I am grown up,” Mary said. “I do not think being married could be half the adventure of being a writer.”
Elizabeth hugged her around the shoulder, and they leaned their heads together.
“You give me far too much credit. To own the truth, Mary, I am not sure what I want.” Elizabeth kissed her forehead.
“Perhaps I am a dreadful romantic, but I should not turn away from marriage — not if I found a gentleman I truly loved. Though I do not know how I could ever give up my writing.”
Long after Mary had gone, Elizabeth sat staring at a blank page, unable to move past the conversation she had with the Darcys. Miss Darcy had been glowing in her praise of The Castle of Skybree, but it was apparent that Mr Darcy had no use for her little stories.
Was all she was doing for nothing? All that she had done since her father’s death had been done with the intention of avoiding the very real danger of ending up in the gutter, along with her four sisters and mother.
Then again, if she had let go of her pride and allowed her uncle and aunt to take them in, might she have found a respectable husband by now? Might she even have found love?
It was impossible to know, and yet Elizabeth’s doubts lingered. When she reached the end of her life, would she regret the sacrifice she had made?