17. Of Journals and Literature #3
“Speaking of blessings and maternal devotion—you know, Lady Renwick writes quite movingly on such themes. There is a chapter in The Ruined Chapel where Lady Cecilia reflects upon the children she hopes to have, and how she would raise them to value truth above propriety.” Miss Entwhistle set down her teacup with the air of someone about to impart privileged intelligence.
“But I have heard the most extraordinary rumor from my correspondent in London—a lady who moves in publishing circles and hears things before they reach print.”
“Miss Entwhistle collects rumors the way some ladies collect china figurines,” Lady Cathcart observed. “With rather less discrimination.”
“This is not mere gossip, Lady Cathcart. It is literary intelligence.” Miss Entwhistle leaned forward, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur.
“There is talk of an unfinished manuscript—a third novel that Lady Renwick is working on. My correspondent believes she has seen pages, or knows someone who has seen pages, or at the very least has spoken to someone whose cousin once glimpsed a portion of the draft.”
“That is a rather attenuated chain of evidence,” Elizabeth remarked, suppressing a wry smile.
“The content is what matters! In this new work, an unnamed heroine apparently refuses a highly advantageous match with a titled gentleman. Rather than accepting the protection of marriage, she chooses to remain independent even at the cost of scandal.” Miss Entwhistle’s eyes shone.
“She declares that she would rather be whispered about in drawing rooms than silenced in one. Can you imagine the courage?”
“I can imagine the foolishness,” Lady Cathcart said dryly. “A woman who invites scandal for the sake of principle rarely finds the principle sufficient comfort when the invitations cease arriving.”
“But that is precisely Lady Renwick’s point! That we value invitations and social standing above our own integrity.”
“Miss Entwhistle.” Lady Cathcart raised a quelling hand. “You are lecturing again.”
Miss Entwhistle subsided, though her expression suggested she was merely pausing rather than concluding. Elizabeth hid her smile behind her teacup, rather enjoying the spectacle of Miss Entwhistle’s enthusiasm colliding repeatedly with Lady Cathcart’s pragmatism.
“What became of this unfinished manuscript?” Elizabeth asked, genuinely curious despite herself. “When will it be published?”
“That is the great mystery!” Miss Entwhistle seized upon the question with evident relief at finding an interested audience.
“No one has heard. The gentleman who published her last two books believes she has destroyed them. There are those who whisper that the manuscript contains revelations so personal, so drawn from life, that it could never be published without exposing the authoress’s true identity. ”
“Or,” Lady Cathcart interjected, “the manuscript does not exist at all, and your correspondent’s cousin’s acquaintance invented the entire thing to make herself interesting at parties.”
“Lady Cathcart, you are insufferably skeptical,” Miss Entwhistle huffed.
“Appropriately so.” Lady Cathcart laid down her empty teacup, which Elizabeth promptly refilled.
“I do believe the mystery only serves to enhance the demand for Lady Renwick’s audacious works.
The speculation fills drawing rooms while lining the author’s pockets and guarding his or her privacy quite closely. ”
“I confess I find myself charmed by the notion of some elderly clergyman in Worcestershire penning these passionate declarations,” Elizabeth said, allowing her smile to sharpen.
“Imagine him thundering against the very follies he exposes—lamenting the decay of feminine modesty from the pulpit whilst Lady Mathilda deplores the very institutions upon which England is founded. The sermons would practically write themselves.”
Miss Entwhistle looked horrified. “Mrs. Darcy, you cannot be serious.”
“I am rarely serious when I ought to be. It is one of my chief failings.” Elizabeth tilted her head, warming to her theme.
“Or perhaps Lady Renwick is a pamphleteer with a wicked sense of humor, mocking aristocrats and radicals alike whilst they both claim her as their champion. She must laugh a great deal, whoever she is, watching us debate her intentions over tea.”
“You make her sound like a satirist rather than a philosopher,” Miss Entwhistle protested.
“Can one not be both? The best satire contains more truth than most sermons, and considerably better prose.”
Lady Cathcart made a sound that might have been a laugh hastily converted to a cough. “Mrs. Darcy, you are developing dangerous opinions. Miss Entwhistle will have you reading Wollstonecraft next, and then where shall we be?”
“Clutching our pearls, I suspect,” Elizabeth said innocently.
“I do not clutch my pearls.” Lady Cathcart drew herself up with affronted dignity. “I have told you before, Miss Entwhistle—I merely raise my eyebrows. The pearls remain entirely unclutched.”
The French doors opened at this juncture, admitting Georgiana with Thomas on her hip and Harley tangling himself in her skirts. The interruption was well-timed; Elizabeth suspected Lady Cathcart’s eyebrows had risen quite high enough for one afternoon.
“We found three snails and a beetle,” Georgiana announced, setting Thomas down. “The beetle is now Thomas’s favorite, named Bert. He wished to bring it inside, but I convinced him that Bert preferred gardens to drawing rooms.”
“A diplomatic triumph,” Elizabeth said. “Come, Thomas, tell Lady Cathcart about your beetle.”
Thomas, however, had spotted Harley making for Miss Entwhistle’s reticule with predatory intent, and launched himself in pursuit with a cry, “Harley, no! Mine!”
Georgiana restrained the puppy, commanding him to sit. The puppy managed it once, then immediately forgot and attempted to climb into Miss Entwhistle’s lap instead.
Miss Entwhistle giggled with delight, and Thomas cried out with the uncomplicated joy of a child who has finally found someone who shared his fascination with lolling tongues, loose skin, and muddy paws.
“Does he call you Mamma?” Lady Cathcart asked.
“Not yet, and indeed, he still cries at that word,” Elizabeth said. “I am happy to be his Lizba. He has made a claim with his usual exuberance. He is an easy child to love once you learn the language.”
“Children know,” Lady Cathcart said, with unexpected warmth. “They recognize genuine care, even when they cannot articulate it. You have given him something he needed, Mrs. Darcy. Something beyond mere competent guardianship.”
She had indeed. The giving had cost her nothing she valued, and returned more than she had ever dared hope. This small, solemn boy with his wooden soldiers and cautious affections had slipped into her heart by the back stairs. His uncle Darcy had managed much the same, if she were honest.
The conversation drifted to other topics—county news, upcoming assemblies, the latest scandals from London—and Elizabeth let it wash over her whilst Thomas settled against her skirts, with Harley draped over her feet.
Her fingers found Thomas’s dark curls, smoothing them back from his forehead in a gesture that already felt natural.
She was happy. The recognition still startled her when it surfaced, but it could not be denied. She had come to Pemberley expecting only duty, and found something far more precious.
Soon, the visitors departed—Lady Cathcart dispensing final observations about Elizabeth’s excellent management of the household, Miss Entwhistle pressing The Midnight Tower into her hands with fervent instructions.
“You must write to me with your thoughts on Lady Renwick’s philosophy,” Miss Entwhistle insisted. “I am convinced her next work shall be even more daring, though no one knows when it will appear. The booksellers are ever so secretive.”
Elizabeth, who loved a good mystery, promised to read the novel so they would have much to discuss. She watched the barouche depart down the drive. And then she drifted to her writing desk. This time, she placed her pen on the Dear Jane sheet and began to write in earnest.