17. Of Journals and Literature #2
“Modesty becomes you, my dear, but it does not convince me.” Lady Cathcart settled into her seat with an air of affronted dignity, not accustomed to contradictions from those below her sphere of influence.
“A man does not carry his wife through a storm unless his heart is thoroughly engaged. I have been married thirty years, and I know the signs.”
Miss Entwhistle followed her patroness with considerably less ceremony, animated by fascination and entirely unable to comprehend why others did not share her burgeoning curiosity.
“I have brought you The Midnight Tower,” she announced, depositing her books on the nearest table.
“Lady Renwick’s first novel. You simply must read it if you are to understand The Ruined Chapel properly.
The themes build upon one another, you see—the critique of mercenary marriage in the first prepares one for the more radical arguments about honesty and independence in the second. ”
“You are too kind,” Elizabeth said. “I confess I have not yet had the opportunity to read Lady Renwick’s work in full.”
“Oh, but you must!” Miss Entwhistle vibrated on the edge of her chair as Hannah entered with the tea tray.
“She is quite the most original voice in Gothic fiction. Her heroines are not merely decorative sufferers waiting to be rescued—they think, Mrs. Darcy. They argue philosophy with their lovers and refuse to accept protection they have not requested. In The Midnight Tower, Lady Venetia actually tells Lord Withers that she would rather starve independently than feast as his dependent. Can you imagine?”
“I can imagine Lord Withers found that rather inconvenient.”
“He found it devastating! He spent three chapters in his hunting tower reconsidering his entire understanding of matrimony.” Miss Entwhistle accepted her tea with the distracted gratitude of someone whose mind was elsewhere entirely.
“And in the newer work, there is a passage where she and her sister debate and compare conventional marriage to a gilded birdcage—all comfort and no flight. I do imagine Lady Renwick as such a maverick—racing across the moors, snubbing proposals from dukes, and taking on lovers of no rank or consequence and weaving her adventures into her novels, which I do not find scandalous in the least.”
“Miss Entwhistle.” Lady Cathcart’s voice carried the patient weariness of a woman who had heard this lecture before. “Lady Renwick is a pen name. A nom de plume. You speak of her as though she were a personal acquaintance whose views you have absorbed over afternoon calls.”
“But her views are so clearly articulated—”
“In fiction. In novels written for entertainment, not instruction.” Lady Cathcart stirred her tea with pointed deliberation.
“Lady Cecilia and Lady Venetia are characters, my dear. Inventions. The authoress—whoever she may be—is likely a perfectly conventional woman who writes radical heroines because they sell books.”
Miss Entwhistle’s cup rattled dangerously in its saucer. “Lady Cathcart, you cannot possibly believe that such passionate conviction is mere commercial calculation!”
“I believe that passion on the page and passion in the parlor are entirely different creatures.” Lady Cathcart smiled with the serenity of one who had won this argument many times.
“For all we know, Lady Renwick is a vicar’s wife in Shropshire who writes her novels between arranging flowers for the altar. ”
Or Prue Duntze, Elizabeth mused as she lowered her teacup, who had once more hinted at secret manuscripts and requested a tour of Pemberley’s library, as though Mr. Darcy preferred Gothic novels to the agricultural treatises he had so admired at Netherfield.
“She is discussed in the literary salons of London!” Miss Entwhistle had flushed to the roots of her hair, her tea now tilting at an alarming angle.
“She is considered revolutionary—dangerous, even! The Monthly Review called her philosophy ‘unsuitable for impressionable minds,’ which is practically an endorsement. A vicar’s wife in Shropshire could never—”
“A vicar’s wife in Shropshire could write whatever she pleased, provided no one knew it was she.
” Lady Cathcart turned to Elizabeth with an expression of amused forbearance.
“You must forgive Miss Entwhistle, Mrs. Darcy. She has made Lady Renwick her particular study, and the enthusiasm sometimes exceeds the evidence.”
Elizabeth, who had been watching this exchange with private amusement, suspected that Lady Renwick—whatever she was—would have enjoyed observing her own defenders and detractors sparring over tea. The authoress seemed to delight in provoking exactly this sort of disagreement.
“Perhaps Lady Renwick is poking fun at us all,” she offered. “At the aristocracy and its pretensions, at the conventions we maintain and the hypocrisies we overlook. Her heroines may be less prescriptive than satire.”
“Satire!” Miss Entwhistle looked genuinely wounded. “Mrs. Darcy, Lady Renwick is entirely sincere. Her arguments for female independence, for honesty between lovers, for marriages founded on equality rather than convenience—these are not jests. They are principles.”
“Principles which you have adopted as your own,” Lady Cathcart observed dryly.
Miss Entwhistle lifted her chin with the dignity of a woman about to make a confession. “I have, as it happens. Lady Renwick’s work gave me the courage to refuse a proposal that would have made me materially comfortable but spiritually wretched.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose. “You refused a proposal?”
“Two years hence, a gentleman of considerable property—heir to an estate, which I shall not name—offered me his hand and his fortune.” Miss Entwhistle’s expression suggested she was reliving the moment with some satisfaction.
“He was seven years my junior, Mrs. Darcy. Seven years, can you fathom that! A spoiled boy who had never been denied anything in his life, who expected a wife to manage his household and admire his consequence and never, ever contradict him.”
“That does sound rather trying.”
“It was impossible.” Miss Entwhistle set down her cup with finality.
“I had known him since he was in short coats. I had witnessed him screaming himself purple over a dead frog he had found in the garden—he wanted the gardener dismissed for permitting such an outrage to occur—and I was expected to take orders from this… this creature for the remainder of my natural life? To call him husband and defer to his judgment? I could not do it. Lady Renwick had taught me that a woman’s independence of mind is worth more than all the estates in England. ”
“And you have never regretted it?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.
“Never. His aunt has not spoken to me since.” Miss Entwhistle smiled with the apparent satisfaction of someone who considered social exile a small price for self-respect.
Lady Cathcart sighed. “And so Lady Renwick has cost you a husband, a fortune, and the goodwill of one of England’s finest families. A considerable tally for a mere novelist.”
“She has cost me nothing I valued. She has given me the courage to value myself.” Miss Entwhistle turned to Elizabeth with sudden intensity.
“You understand, Mrs. Darcy. I can see that you do. You married Mr. Darcy not for his fortune—anyone can see that—but because you recognized in him a man who would treat you as an equal rather than a dependent. That is precisely what Lady Renwick argues love should be.”
Elizabeth, who had married Mr. Darcy because her father was dying and her family required rescue, felt a small, uncomfortable twist beneath her ribs.
Yet she had discovered something beyond mere convenience in her marriage; that much was undeniable.
Whether it bore any resemblance to Lady Renwick’s philosophy, she could not say.
“I believe Mr. Darcy and I are still discovering what our marriage shall be,” she said carefully. “But I take your meaning. A partnership founded on mutual respect seems likely to weather storms that mere convenience could not survive.”
“Precisely!” Miss Entwhistle beamed as though Elizabeth had passed an examination.
“Lady Renwick would have heartily approved of your marriage, as it was based on affection. Mr. Darcy might have been secretive, and as an aristocrat, he would appear to uphold the norms of society, but I have it on great authority that he had also attended those literary salons in London where radical ideas were debated—although he regularly upheld all standards of propriety whilst his brother… Oh, but we must not speak of him here.” Miss Entwhistle clapped a hand over her mouth and took an apologetic sip of tea.
“I only suppose that he might know Lady Renwick’s true identity. ”
“I don’t see why my husband would.” Elizabeth could not imagine the staid Darcy attending the lively literary salons and rubbing shoulders with those of no rank or consequence. “And no… we must not speak of the brother.”
“The brother is charming, isn’t he? And so well-acquainted with ladies,” Miss Entwhistle took on a speculative look out the window where Georgiana and Thomas were crouched against the stone wall, no doubt fascinated by Sidney and his growing family. “The boy appears to have forgotten his mother.”
“He still cries for her at night,” Elizabeth admitted. “But he calls me Lizba and follows Aunt Gina around like a lost duckling.”
“You have truly been a blessing for Little Tom,” Lady Cathcart said, partially to divert Miss Entwhistle from another outburst of her Lady Renwick obsession.
Elizabeth inclined her head, grateful for the change of subject, though she suspected the reprieve would be short-lived. Miss Entwhistle possessed the tenacity of a scholar who could not be diverted from her studies for long.
Indeed, barely a moment passed before Miss Entwhistle’s gaze drifted from the window back to Elizabeth.