“It is coming along,” Elizabeth said brightly, grateful for the interruption. “I believe Miss Hannah Thornton is in for a grand adventure.” Her aunt had been a supportive voice from the beginning of Elizabeth’s journey as an author. She knew now that she would never have been able to go through with this endeavour if it had not been for aunt and uncle. They had done so much for her, giving her a place to live and work. And despite Mr Gardiner’s many obligations to his own business, her uncle had spent countless hours escorting her to and from her publisher’s office, never once complaining.
Then too, there was the fact that they were all sworn to secrecy. The pressure of that alone was no inconsiderable burden. But her aunt and uncle were indomitable in their love and support for her, as for all their nieces. They had proven their worth a hundred times over as Elizabeth found her way in the new and sometimes frightening world of publishing.
“You told us that this novel is set in southern Italy, is not that right?” Mrs Gardiner asked. “Well, I am looking forward to reading it, whenever you have need of another set of eyes to check it over.”
The offer was very welcome. It had been a great relief to let at least one of her family members in on the creative process. Better still, Mrs Gardiner had an excellent sense for dramatic tension, not to mention combining clarity and elegance in writing. Her aunt’s ideas for improvement had been invaluable. “I thank you, and I am very glad of the offer. You would have made quite the author yourself, you know,” Elizabeth told her with a smile.
“Oh, no. Not me. I have not the writing genius that you do, my dear. But I do like to think I am at least a minor part of your novel’s success.” She leaned down and kissed Elizabeth on the cheek. “Now, I think you have done enough work for one afternoon, especially so soon before Christmas. Come downstairs, have some punch and a bit of fruitcake, and sing with your cousins.”
“You are right,” Elizabeth said, capitulating with a good will. She stood, replacing the lid on her inkwell and setting the quill aside. After wiping her hands on an old handkerchief to ensure no ink remained to stain her skirts, she joined her aunt in the hallway.
The drawing room was filled with the light of many candles and an ample fire burning in the hearth. The scent of cinnamon and oranges deliciously filled the room, and Elizabeth was soon surrounded by her young cousins and led over to the piano. They begged her to play some Christmas songs. As Elizabeth did so, she found that her spirits began to lift even as the gloomy weather continued. The rain still pounded on the glass windowpanes, but the love and fellowship inside the drawing room was enough to dispel her dreary thoughts.
She began with “The Holly and the Ivy,” singing out in a clear, strong voice. Her two female cousins joined her first, then her aunt and uncle joined in. The boys, being younger, sat beside the fire and listened while they continued to play with their toy soldiers and horses.
After playing several Christmas carols, Elizabeth took a break and went to sit with her aunt and uncle, sipping on a small glass of punch. “This is just what I needed,” she said. “Thank you, my dear aunt.”
“I worry about you sometimes, my dear. I believe you would forget to eat most days if I did not come and pull you out of that room. It cannot be healthy for you to spend so much time alone.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I appreciate the concern, of course. But I am not alone. Not really,” she said. To someone who was not a writer, it might have been difficult to understand. But while working on her book, Elizabeth was accompanied by a cast of dozens. Her imagination was populated by those from her past, and those who had been created from her daydreams.
“Yes, I know. You have your characters to keep you company. But I do wish you could be persuaded to come out with us more. Perhaps even your writing would benefit from you getting out more. Surely you must see something of the world in order to write about it.”
Elizabeth bit her lip. In fact, she longed to get out of the house more and see all London had to offer. Her aunt was right that she needed to experience more of life. Even apart from her own happiness, a broader range of experience could only improve her writing.
But no — she must not give in to temptation. She would go out, to be sure, but she must do so only with the utmost care. There was not only the manuscript to be finished but also the risk of her secret somehow slipping. The news of Mrs Laurences’s true identity could not be allowed to get out. Had not her mother and sisters already suffered enough?
Chapter 2
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood beside the window, his hand on his hip as he watched tiny snowflakes falling and making a thin blanket on the ground. It was a dreary day, even with all that Charles Bingley, his host and one of the best friends he had in the world, had done to cheer the party gathered in the lavish drawing room of Netherfield Park. Nonetheless, he knew it for a certainty: it was time to leave.
He had not outstayed his welcome, for that was impossible — Bingley was too generous, good-natured, and fond of company to ever wish for a friend to leave his roof. However, he had outstayed his own patience for being a guest. He had come to see the new house he had let in the early autumn and had stayed for the shooting. Pleasant as the visit had been, he found himself growing restless.
“Comes away from the window, Mr Darcy. You will catch your death,” Miss Caroline Bingley urged. “The draught is terrible near the windows.”
“There is no draught. I had the windows properly sealed when we first arrived at the beginning of the autumn,” Bingley argued cheerfully. “No one need fear for their lives while they are a guest in my house.” He smiled broadly and invited Darcy to join him at the hearth, which was ablaze with a pleasant fire.Darcy did as he was bidden, but knew that his dissatisfaction was not due to the cold, or the snow, nor even the company that he was keeping at Netherfield Park.
Far from it; it was the lack of company he was keeping. He missed his little sister dreadfully.
Thankfully, that would soon be mended, for Georgiana was in Town, and he would join her before the week was out. His aunt in London had insisted that she be allowed to come to her and spend the holidays. And he could not but agree. Indeed, he was simply glad that his sister had agreed to leave Pemberley and keep any society beside himself.
For all its charms, the visit to Netherfield had left him missing Georgiana and worrying over her in equal measure. After her difficulties the previous summer, he did not like being away from her for any length of time. And since he had left her at Pemberley earlier in the autumn, the urgency to return to her and assure himself that she was well had grown with every passing day.
He longed for the company of his own family, small as it was. It was only the two of them, now that their parents were gone. His mother had passed only a few short hours after Georgiana had been born, nearly seventeen years before, but Darcy still missed her. Her absence was all the more painful during the holidays. She had tried to make the Christmas season special for them all, and it was only at her urging that his late father would put away his work and enjoy himself for a little while. After his mother had passed, he and Georgiana saw him rather less, even though he tried to be present for important occasions. But it was never the same. Darcy assumed that seeing Georgiana was simply too painful for their father, especially as she grew into adolescence and began to resemble theirmother more and more. For himself, he found the resemblance comforting, but perhaps it had only reminded their father of everything he had lost.
Now their father had been gone these five years, and Georgiana was all the family he had.
“You could change that,” Georgiana had once shyly pointed out. “If you were to take a wife, she could help you run the estate, and I would have more company to enjoy when you are on your long trips to London.”
Darcy had no objection, but not even for the sake of giving Georgiana company would he compromise on what he wanted in a wife. She must have good connections, of course; he owed that much to his family. Nor had he any intention of marrying any of the young ladies who were sometimes a little too ambitious in their pursuit of him through the drawing rooms of London. His future wife must be as insightful as she was elegant, as kind as she was well-read and accomplished, and must love him as fervently and entirely as he loved her. If that made him fastidious, then so be it; he would marry for no less.
He joined Bingley at the fire, and in watching the rest of the company. While Mr Hurst, the husband of Bingley’s elder sister, dozed on a sofa, Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley played at cards.
Darcy took care not to look too closely, not wishing to give Miss Bingley any notice that could be mistaken for encouragement, and could only lead to disappointment. Caroline Bingley had made no secret of her interest in becoming Mrs Darcy, but while she was a very pretty woman, Darcy had not the least intention of gratifying her. It was only too evident that Miss Bingley was interested in him firstly for his estate, secondly for his family’s name, and a distant third — if even that— for his character and person. He could not begrudge her wish to make an advantageous marriage, but neither could he respect her indifference to any more substantial qualities. Worse still, Miss Bingley had a deplorable tendency towards schemes and wiles.
Perhaps she was not entirely to blame. Mrs Hurst, the eldest of the Bingley offspring, was just as vicious a gossip as her younger sister. Indeed, no doubt Caroline Bingley had learned the deplorable habit from her elder sister as they were growing into womanhood.
The Hurst family was not a happy one. Louisa Bingley had not married for love, but for her husband’s social standing. And he, to his detriment, had married her for her dowry, with little thought of lasting compatibility or esteem. They seemed to have settled into a peaceful sort of mutual contempt. Mrs Hurst made frequent strictures against her husband, while he seemed content to doze, play cards, and drink rather more than was good for him.
