Chapter 19
Elizabeth sat at her writing desk, trying to concentrate on the words that ought to flow next from her quill.
They seemed oddly stuck at a blockade between her mind and hand.
No matter what she did, her hero had turned strangely recalcitrant.
Despite her best efforts to make her imagination behave and continue in the description she had first set down of the heroic colonel, his golden hair would turn dark, and his light-hearted jokes would become a sly wit.
And before she knew it, there she had him — the very portrait of Mr Darcy.
Perhaps it was not entirely surprising. Mr Darcy was far superior to the man she had dreamed up in her mind.
But while she could not deny that she was falling more deeply in love with him with each passing day, it would not do to leave any evidence of her foolish infatuation for other eyes to see.
There was little chance of his reading her book.
After all, he had refused Miss Darcy’s entreaties several times.
Even so, Miss Darcy would surely read her third novel.
Clever as she was, she might well see the similarities between Mrs Laurence’s hero and her own brother, all the more easily putting the pieces of Elizabeth’s secret together.
Elizabeth ran a great scratch of ink down the few paragraphs that she had written and went back to reread her words, to see if there was anything she might salvage.
Looking through the stack of notes she had taken, she gave a huff of frustration.
The page she was seeking seemed to have vanished.
Ever since the day of the picnic, it had been missing.
Had she thrown it away by accident? It might be so.
She burned the papers she no longer needed in the hearth to avoid any risk of the servants finding them in her room while they cleaned.
After several minutes, she decided that there was nothing to be done.
She would have to start over with the section she had been writing.
Crumpling the page, Elizabeth let it fall to the floor, pulling out a new sheet.
She glanced at the manuscript beside her, laid face down so she might keep the pages in order.
Not that there was much of an order yet.
Mr Tilney would be horrified if he were to see how her manuscript was shaping up.
Elizabeth had already missed the original deadline handily, thanks to the fire.
Of course, Mr Tilney knew that losing everything she owned, including the manuscript itself, could not help but delay her.
He had merely said gently that the sooner she could complete the book and submit it to her editors, the better.
But she still felt rushed, knowing that he would want to start marketing the new book as soon as possible, and getting his contracts ready with the distributors.
Elizabeth let out a sigh of frustration. These worries were not helping the ideas to flow. She despaired of ever finishing the manuscript at this rate. “Come on, Elizabeth,” she whispered. “You must focus.”
She propped her head in her hands and looked at the blank page.
She started to scribble away, but once again, Mr Darcy rose before her in her mind’s eye.
From his dry wit to the kindness that seemed as much a part of him as the colour of his eyes, he was unlike any man she had ever met.
Surely her readers would love him just as much as she was beginning to.
Perhaps she should not resist the temptation to make him a part of her book.
Even if Miss Darcy recognised certain aspects that reminded her of her brother, surely she would not make the connection between Elizabeth and Mrs Laurence?
But therein lay the rub. It could not help but add to the risk of her secret being discovered.
Any risk was unacceptable. Elizabeth did not think she could bear the look of betrayal she would surely see on her young friend’s face if she found out Elizabeth had lied to her, nor the disappointment in Mr Darcy’s face.
Suddenly, someone burst into her room without even knocking. Elizabeth jumped a little in her surprise. She turned in her seat, thinking it was her little cousins. “Boys! My goodness, you frightened me —”
Elizabeth halted upon seeing Caroline Bingley standing in her doorway.
She stood hurriedly, nearly upending the edge of the little writing desk.
“Miss Bingley. I was just finishing a letter to one of my sisters. If you would be so good as to wait, I will be with you directly.” She tried to step in front of her manuscript, which was out for all to see.
She silently berated herself now for not locking the door.
But how was she to know Miss Bingley would come bursting through it without knocking?
“There is no need,” Miss Bingley said, with a thin, icy smile.
She closed the door, then turned and strolled across the room, smiling at her in a way that made Elizabeth feel like nothing so much as a sparrow watching an approaching cat.
“I know you are not writing letters.” When she reached the desk, Miss Bingley pulled out a folded piece of paper and tossed it on the stack of pages that made up the manuscript.
Elizabeth snatched it up and unfolded it.
It was the missing page she had been searching for!
“You stole this from my room?” she asked. Now it made sense why she could not find her notes on the manuscript. It was a frightening revelation, but at least she was not going mad. “Why?”
“I knew there was something not quite right about you. And now I know why,” Miss Bingley sneered. She ran her fingers over the stack of papers, now nearly an inch tall. “You have been a busy little bee, haven’t you? I wonder, does Mr Darcy know of your secret identity, Mrs Laurence?”
Miss Bingley smiled gleefully at having caught her. Elizabeth sighed and tried to keep a calm exterior. All the while, her heart beat furiously. “It would hardly be a secret if everyone knew.”
Her rival laughed. It was a cold, hard laugh, devoid of any life or humour.
“Ah, but to keep such a secret from people who have gone so far out of their way to help you? And Miss Darcy, the poor fool, such a fan of your work?” She clicked her tongue to reprimand her, as if she were nothing more than a naughty schoolgirl.
“What will she think of your lies when she finds out?”
Elizabeth straightened, raising her chin.
“I assume you want something in return for your silence? What is your price, then?” She put her hands behind her back, feeling the need to hide the marks on her fingers that must have given her away.
Elizabeth should have known that someone would discover her scandalous secret at one point or another.
Oh, how she wished she had listened to her instincts and stayed in London rather than risk her secret being exposed!
She hardly knew what Miss Bingley would ask for. Surely not money, for even as Mrs Laurence, Elizabeth did not command any sum that Miss Bingley could covet. Not when she had so affluent and good-natured a brother. But if not money, then what?
Miss Bingley leaned one hand against the desk, giving a mockingly demure smile. “I want you to leave Pemberley.”
For a moment, Elizabeth could not breathe. The thought of leaving this house — of leaving the people she had come to love — was a physical pain. She would have preferred Miss Bingley to strike her. “Leave? Why?”
She narrowed her eyes at Elizabeth. “I think you know.” She turned her hand and studied her nails. “I plan to be mistress of this house one day. For whatever reason,” she paused and looked Elizabeth up and down, giving a short, bitter laugh, “Mr Darcy is distracted by you.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. How odd, to feel at once profound relief to hear it said aloud, and by someone with no wish to believe it true, all at the same moment her heart was breaking. Of course, Miss Bingley wanted her to leave. How could she have thought she would ask for anything else?
“I see,” Elizabeth said at last. She could not bear to make a denial, and though she thought desperately of some bargain she might make, something to offer Miss Bingley instead, she could think of nothing. There was nothing else she had that Caroline Bingley would want.
Miss Bingley gave a contented nod. “I believe I have made myself clear. I will give you three days. If you remain here at Pemberley after this time has elapsed, I will reveal your true identity.” With a brief, mocking bow that only underscored her contempt, Miss Bingley turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Elizabeth sank into the chair in front of her writing desk, staring at her manuscript.
A choked sob wrenched out of her throat, too raw to be entirely suppressed.
How could she bear to leave everyone? They had become like family to her.
Miss Darcy was so dear, the kindest friend she could wish, and the only friend she had who loved novels as much as Elizabeth herself did. And Mr Darcy —
Elizabeth covered her mouth, her fingers shaking.
Could what Miss Bingley said be true? Surely she was only acting out of jealousy, seeing something that was not really there?
In the end, it did not matter. If she wanted to keep her secret safe, she had no other choice but to leave Pemberley.
She could not bear the thought of Miss Darcy’s justified anger at her lies.
And Mr Darcy’s reaction would surely be even worse.
After several minutes that felt like hours, she made the only decision she could. To preserve her secret, she would go. But oh, how it would tear the heart from her chest.
The door opened again, and Elizabeth stiffened, half expecting Miss Bingley to be standing there. However, it was not her nemesis, but her cousin, Mary. “Are you coming to tea?” she asked. “Mama says the cook has made a special sweet.”