Chapter 13 #2
Elizabeth looked away, stung with guilt at the reminder that she had lied to them — was lying to them, by omission at least, at that very moment.
But there was nothing to be done about it now.
She had discussed the predicament with her aunt and how much more difficult it would be to hide her true line of work.
That task would be complicated by the work of rewriting everything she had lost in the fire, a daunting prospect.
Upon being informed of what had happened, Mr Tilney had agreed the deadline he had previously proposed was now impossible.
But while Elizabeth was relieved she need not argue with her publisher on top of all her other problems, it could not fully remove the pressure on her.
She needed to release another book soon if she was to keep her momentum going with her readers.
It would not do to lose their interest by keeping them waiting for too long.
Mr Darcy was looking at her curiously. Suddenly, Elizabeth was aware she had fallen silent.
“How beautiful your home is, Mr Darcy!” Elizabeth remarked hurriedly.
She sighed and looked about the lush gardens, feeling the truth of it.
One need not struggle for polite compliments at Pemberley.
“More than beautiful. It is like something from a fairytale.”
“I am glad you like it. I hope you and your family will be comfortable here.”
Elizabeth laughed. “You will be fortunate if you can convince us to leave when the time comes.” The words came tumbling out of her mouth unbidden. She instantly felt the heat rising in her cheeks and knew she had been too forward by jesting so with him. “I mean — that is to say —”
“You do not have to explain, Miss Bennet,” Mr Darcy said quietly. He smiled at her briefly, but with such intimacy that her heart skipped a beat.
She was surely imagining things. It was nothing more than a fantasy that his smile had seemed to say, I wish I could keep you here always…
Elizabeth swallowed hard and looked away. “Well, we are most beholden to you and Miss Darcy. No one could wish for more charming hosts.” She smiled a little too brightly and went on. “It must have been a delightful place to grow up.”
“It was,” he told her. “I loved to explore the folly on the hill when I was a boy, though I was convinced it was haunted. Perhaps we might take your cousins on an expedition there.”
“I am sure they would be delighted,” Elizabeth replied.
The offer was surprising, for it seemed to argue a fondness for children and tolerance for childish games well beyond the kindness Mr Darcy had already shown them.
Even in her gratitude for the extreme generosity of offering them a temporary home at Pemberley, Elizabeth had imagined that he would treat her cousins with a kind of tolerant and disinterested politeness.
She had not imagined him really entering into their concerns and caring for their happiness, as though they were his own family.
It was a dangerous degree of kind condescension, for it tempted her to forget the drastic difference between their lives.
He had been raised in opulence that few people could even witness, let alone experience.
And she was a woman with no prospects, separated from her family by necessity and degraded from the status of a gentlewoman by choice.
That night, Elizabeth stayed up well into the night trying to remember the opening scene of her forthcoming novel as she had written it weeks before.
It was a feat she had not expected she would ever have had to be prepared for.
And as the hours dragged on, she came to realise that it would take more than willpower to recreate her novel.
It would take a miracle.
Shortly after the clock struck two, she heard a soft knock on the door.
Elizabeth jumped, then gasped as she accidentally splattered ink on the beginnings of her rewritten manuscript.
She quickly stuffed the pages into a small cubby under the main body of the desk and hurried to answer the door.
She pinned her ear against the door and called out, “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Mary,” came the soft voice of her oldest cousin. Elizabeth unlocked the door and let her in, relocking it behind her. She felt a little silly even as she did so. Likely it was an unneeded safety measure in protecting the secret of her writing. But one could not be too careful.
“What are you doing awake this late?” Elizabeth asked. She padded over to the writing desk and pulled out the few pages she had penned.
Mary followed her, giving a mischievous smile. “Do you not mean this early?”
Elizabeth scoffed at her. “You are just as literal as your little brother,” she laughed softly. “Does your mother know you are still awake?”
“Mama went to bed hours ago. But I could not sleep. The room is so silent,” she said, hanging her head. “It is too quiet without my sister snoring in bed beside me.”
“You were so looking forward to having a room all to yourself for once,” Elizabeth said ruefully.
She knew what it was to miss a sister, though.
She and Jane had shared a room as girls until their father had passed away.
And they had also shared a room for the few short months Elizabeth had been at the cottage.
She had grown accustomed to being on her own over the last two years.
A familiar ache rested on her chest as she thought of Jane. How she missed her sister!
“I was,” Mary said. “But now…I don’t know. I suppose I am scared, just a little, to be alone.”
“It will not be forever,” Elizabeth reassured her. “But for now…would you like to stay with me tonight?”
“Could I?” Mary asked, her face brightening. “I can help you with your writing, you know. I remember all the parts of the new novel that you showed me.”
Elizabeth raised a brow. “You do?”
“Yes,” she said. She held out her hand, and Elizabeth handed over the few pages she had been able to write. Mary frowned. “You forgot the description of the castle — the part that is enchanted and comes to life at night in view of the full moon.”
Elizabeth nodded and sat down to jot a note on a fresh piece of paper. “You are right. How could I have forgotten that?”
Mary brought a chair over from the spacious sitting area near the hearth, and they talked for another hour, Elizabeth writing notes while Mary helped her remember each section of the book that she had previously completed.
However, after the clock on the mantel struck three, Mary began to yawn so prolifically that Elizabeth ordered her to climb into bed.
“Are you not coming?” Mary asked mid-yawn as she padded over to the bed. She climbed between the sheets.
“No, not yet. I just want to write one of the scenes that you helped me remember. You sleep and I’ll be along shortly.
” There would be many nights of midnight scribbling while they were at Pemberley, as she could not lock herself away without raising suspicion.
No one had occasion to write that many letters.
“Lizzy, do not tell Mama, but I am almost glad that the fire happened,” Mary said sleepily.
“How do you mean?” Elizabeth asked.
“Well, I am not glad that the fire took our home and everything in it. I suppose I mean I am glad that no one was killed or hurt and that we are all still together.” She sighed contentedly and turned over on her side.
“And I am glad that, since something terrible happened, we had this wonderful place to find refuge while Papa oversees the new house.”
She could certainly agree with her cousin to that end. “Yes, I know what you mean. It is a great blessing to have all the family alive and well.” She smiled. “Now go to sleep, Cousin.” Mary did as she was told, falling asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.
Held in the iron grasp of Inspiration, Elizabeth worked until the sun started to peek its head over the nearby hills.
It was not until the first bird began to sing its song to the sunrise that she put her quill aside.
Suddenly, Elizabeth’s eyelids seemed impossibly heavy.
She only just managed to crawl into bed beside her cousin before sleep took her.