Chapter 1
Late December, 1811
Though an icy wind rattled the windowpanes, and the little fire in the grate was not really adequate to the December chill, Elizabeth Bennet hardly looked up from her paper. Her quill scratched steadily, writing the words that — with luck — would preserve her family from poverty and ruin.
Everyone must have something to live on, and those who are not fortunate enough to inherit wealth must attain their living in some other way. This being so, is it not strange that a woman who finds herself forced to provide for her family must keep that work a secret, lest her position in society be considerably degraded?
The need for secrecy was only one concern among many that weighed on Elizabeth that inclement winter day. Seated at her little writing desk near the window in her bedchamber, she took a moment to stretch her extremities and gaze out at the slushy rain that dribbled down the windowpanes. The rain had brought a thick mist along with it, adding to the gloom that had overtaken Elizabeth’s spirits. As she gazed out at the twilight streets of London, her heart ached at the thought of beingseparated from her dear sisters for yet another Christmas. It was a great good fortune that she might live with the Gardiners, and she loved them with all her heart, but it could not make up for so rarely seeing the rest of her family.
Their father had died in the autumn two years ago. That terrible loss, combined with the loss of Longbourn that followed, had transformed all their lives. Perhaps thoughts of home and her beloved father had led to the melancholy that had gradually crept over her. Her father had always believed the best of her, had always doted on her and laughed with her. Now she felt the loneliness of his absence down to her bones.
She sighed, standing up from the writing desk and moving about the room. Elizabeth could hardly believe it had already been two years. It felt like only yesterday, and an eternity, all at once. So much had happened in the space of two years, and yet the grief of losing her beloved father was still fresh.
With another sigh, she looked over at the disorganised pages of her manuscript — or rather, what would eventually become the manuscript for her third Gothic novel, if she could only find her inspiration and dig in properly. With her second book already at the publishers and a release date set for just after the New Year, she hoped she might soon provide a better life for her struggling family. Since Mr Bennet’s death, she had done what she could to provide for her mother and sisters. Had they attempted to live solely on the interest of Mrs Bennet’s funds and whatever charity her uncles could afford, their situation must have been bleak indeed. Instead, she had written her first novel a year and a half ago, and it had helped to supplement the five thousand pounds that had been her mother’s dowry.The sum allowed them to live in some comfort, and Elizabeth’s earnings kept them from sliding hopelessly into ruin.
Elizabeth’s candle sputtered. Upon looking at it and finding it almost burnt out, she went to retrieve a new one. A chill ran up her spine from the draught coming through the cracks around the window. Even more grey clouds had rolled in, and she would not be surprised if the slush turned to snow within the hour.
She extinguished the dying candle, lit the next, and placed it on the stand. Thankfully, the earnings from her first novel allowed her these little luxuries, such as candles and as much paper as her heart could desire. Before her father’s passing, it would have been a dream to have all the paper and ink she wanted. Now, it was a mixed blessing that she needed such a quantity of writing supplies.
Sitting down once more, Elizabeth tried to concentrate, but the gloominess of the late afternoon made it difficult. She looked up at the hearth, where a cheery fire struggled nobly against the chill. Placed carefully on the mantel above it, as if to watch over her, was her father’s magnifying glass. He had used it so often that the bronze handle was worn to a shiny polish. Wistfully, she recalled how her father had used it almost every day to inspect his collections of curious plants and insects, all collected from the fields and woods around Longbourn.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, feeling a tug of longing squeeze her heart. She missed home. She missed her family and grieved for the days they had all been together — before her father’s untimely death had pulled them apart. When he had died, he had specifically willed the glass to her. The only other remembrance she had of her papa was a silhouette that Mary had done a few years before his sudden demise. Strange as itmay have seemed to the social elite of London, they were her most prized possessions.
“What would you say now, Papa, if you could see what I have become?” she murmured.
The question was not rhetorical. There was, after all, much to be grateful for in her situation. Elizabeth was proud that she had become a novelist to support the family. Her mother and the rest of her sisters were now living in relative comfort in a small cottage on the outskirts of Meryton. For the first few months in their new lodgings, her mother had complained about taking such a step down from Longbourn, but her complaints had a hollow sound, as though she were really grateful matters were not worse. Mrs Bennet had not been entirely hyperbolic in predicting that she and all her daughters might end in the hedgerows.
As it was, Elizabeth was simply glad that her mother and sisters had a roof over their heads. Perhaps if her next few novels did well, she could set aside a small dowry for each of her sisters. As for herself, she wished to afford a larger cottage someday, or even a house in Town near the Gardiners, where she now lived as a guest. Her mother would undoubtedly love the change that moving to London would bring. There would be so much more society, such culture. And with a larger house, she could live with her sisters again and still have the peace and quiet she needed when she had a deadline for her novels looming.
She took a steadying breath before returning to her scribbling. Living with her aunt and uncle in London had been vastly convenient, for it gave her proximity to her publisher and thus expedited the process of getting her books to the public. It also afforded her a quiet space in which she could write, as the cottage back in Meryton had been too close and loud forsufficient focus. Still, knowing all the reasons why she must live apart from her family, and why she was grateful for the happiness of her present situation, could not entirely take away the loneliness of being away from them at Christmas.
Yet that separation was no small part of why she had moved to London. If it had come to light that the Gothic novelist Mrs Laurence was in fact the young, unmarried Elizabeth Bennet, the scandal would have been considerable. As matters stood, it would be difficult for any of the Bennet sisters to find husbands, but if such a scandal were added to all their other predicaments, it would become quite impossible.
Upon reaching the end of a paragraph, Elizabeth set down her quill and took a moment’s repose to reread the letter from her publisher, Mr Tilney. Having arrived only yesterday, its good news was still a source of fresh delight. Mr Tilney wrote that he was pleased with her proposal for her third novel and announced that preparations for her second novel’s release were coming along nicely.
That was cause for excitement and nerves in equal measure. She had been beyond nervous when her first novel had debuted, but for some reason, this second book coming out was no different. Perhaps she would always feel the nervous butterflies swirling in her stomach each time she passed a bookshop and saw one of her novels in the window, or spotted someone reading them as they sat on a park bench. And she would always be nervous when her novels were discussed in the London gossip sheets or ladies’ magazines. Yet a thrill also accompanied her nerves, especially when the critiques were favourable. Thankfully, Elizabeth had enjoyed a fairly unrestricted rise into London’s discussion of up-and-coming talent. Shaken and heartsore as she had been in the months afterher father’s death, Elizabeth was unsure if she could have borne up under a rejection of her first novel.
On a sudden thought, Elizabeth cast the letter to the side and snatched up her quill. She scribbled away wildly, trying to pin her ideas down on the page. Elizabeth could picture it now. Despite, or perhaps because of, her unrelenting spirit, her heroine would be caught up in misunderstanding after misunderstanding, thrown into solving a mystery in the ‘haunted’ home of her Italian uncle. Elizabeth’s tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth, her thoughts travelling too fast for her quill to capture. When a cramp at last forced her to pause, fully three sheets of paper were covered with writing. Only then did she take stock of her hands.
Ink stains covered her fingers and smudged the sides of her right hand. Elizabeth smiled crookedly at them: inescapable proof that she was a working woman, no longer truly a gentlewoman.
There was no going back now. The deeper cost of providing for her family had been the sacrifice of any kind of normalcy — of a husband and family that might have come in her future. Surely no man would want a wife who had risen to fame as she had. Respectable gentlewomen might work as companions or governesses, of course. Perhaps even as authors, provided their work was suitably genteel. But a notorious author of what Elizabeth had once heard called “cheap Gothic thrills” was something else entirely.
Fiercely, Elizabeth told herself she regretted nothing. Yes, she was not likely to have love and marriage in her life — but then, given her family’s situation, there had never been much chance. It was pointless to grieve the loss of something she might never have had at all.
A knock sounded at the door. Elizabeth put down her quill. “Come in!” she called, attempting to sound more cheerful than she really felt. There was no need to make the Gardiners worry over her.
Her aunt poked her head around the door and gave an understanding smile. “We are about to sing Christmas carols, if you should like to join us in the drawing room?” Her aunt entered and joined her at the little writing desk.
“Yes, I shall be down in a moment, Aunt. Thank you.” Elizabeth continued writing for a few moments, not wanting to lose the ideas that had come to mind.
“I do hate to think of you wiling away the Christmas season all alone in this little room, my dear. Are you feeling quite well?” Mrs Gardiner asked.
“Yes, I am fine, Aunt,” Elizabeth said, not looking up from her sheet of paper. “Besides, it is not Christmas Day yet. I will have plenty of time to celebrate with you all.”
When she looked up, her aunt seemed worried, her brow knit together. “How are things coming with your next book?” She came and stood over her shoulder, looking down at the disordered mass of paper.
Elizabeth could not blame her aunt for looking rather puzzled. Indeed, it must have seemed a terrible mess to anyone but herself. No one could claim that her writing process was tidy. There were notations in the margins, arrows connecting thoughts that were several paragraphs down the page, and corrections on every page. She would go back and rewrite everything in the correct order when she was ready to turn it in to her publisher. But for now, it was more important for her flowof thoughts to go unhindered. The main point was to get all her thoughts out on paper. She could organise them later.
