But whatever sadness there might be in seeing a beloved little sister grow up, it could be nothing to the joy of seeing Georgiana recover her spirits. It was good indeed to see that she was coming out of the gloom that had nearly consumed her after Ramsgate. He would do whatever it took to see that her smile was never wiped away again.
Chapter 3
Christmas was cosy and quiet at the little house on Gracechurch Street. They remained at home, spending the day nestled about the hearth, singing carols, reading the Nativity story, and enjoying good food and each other’s company.
Elizabeth thought she ought to find it delightful, and for the most part, she did. Only the presence of her mother and dear sisters was missing, a constant small sorrow. Though she had sent small presents to her family in Meryton, this could not really make up for sharing the joy of Christmas with them in person.
Christmas having fled, and the last days of 1811 with it, the new year began, bringing with it many other beginnings. Chief among them for Elizabeth was the release of her second novel. Her publisher had assured her it would be in bookstores the week after the New Year celebrations. It was foolish to be nervous about going out of the house and seeing it, now real, properly printed, and available for sale to all London, and yet Elizabeth could not deny her feelings. It had been jolting when her first book had come out, to see it among the shelves in the windows of the bookshops. One never knew how a new work would be received. Elizabeth hardly knew what left her moreagitated — the hope that it might sell well and become popular, or the fear that it would prove anything but.
Only a week after Elizabeth’s novel had been released, Mrs Gardiner returned home after morning calls to find Elizabeth with her cousins in the drawing room. She rushed to them in such a state that Elizabeth stood up in alarm, waiting to hear what on earth had happened.
“My dear Lizzy!” Mrs Gardiner exclaimed. “It is all anyone can talk about. Mrs Laurence, this! And Mrs Laurence, that! You should hear the hubbub your new novel has caused.”
“Truly?” Elizabeth breathed, disbelieving. Her first novel had done well enough that Mr Tilney had not hesitated to order a second, but it certainly had not caused a stir. If this work was cause for so much discussion, and at such an early stage in its release, it could only mean…
“Yes, of course, my dear. How wonderful! Your novel is a sensation!”
“Congratulations, Lizzy,” Mary, her eldest cousin, smiled. Though only eight, she was already quite the avid reader. Elizabeth’s books were hard going for such a young child, but, clever girl that she was, Mary was eager to make the attempt. “I cannot wait to get a copy!”
Elizabeth stood and smoothed down her skirts, though it was more of a nervous habit than any reasonable way to improve their condition. “I have three copies waiting for me at the publisher. Perhaps you would like to accompany me there, and we can pick them up?”
“Why did you not say so before, my dear? Well, I cannot leave, as I have promised a good friend that I should be here today. But I am sure your uncle would be very happy to takeyou to see Mr Tilney.” Her aunt went to retrieve Mr Gardiner, so he might accompany Elizabeth to her publisher’s office. In the meantime, Elizabeth went to change into something more appropriate for making business calls. She soon joined her uncle in the foyer.
“Well, my dear, your aunt says the book is a success? Congratulations,” Mr Gardiner beamed.
“Thank you, Uncle Gardiner.”
As they left the house, her uncle coughed and waved his hand to rid himself of the smoke that was billowing out of the neighbour’s chimney. “They ought to clean that. It is dangerous to let a chimney get so choked with soot and smoke,” he complained. Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hand. When they had cleared the smoke and come to the street where the carriage awaited them, Mr Gardiner scowled at the neighbouring house, as if the owners could feel his displeasure from inside. “Very irresponsible, if you ask me.”
Elizabeth climbed into the carriage, and they were soon bumping down the London streets, slushy from the rain and snow that had frozen from the frosty night and then melted as the morning progressed. When they arrived at her publisher’s office, Mr Gardiner helped her out of the carriage, then offered her his arm. “It is quite a distinction to escort a famous author into her publisher’s office. I am most honoured,” Mr Gardiner jested pleasantly.
Elizabeth laughed at her uncle. “I am not famous, Uncle. It is only talk from Aunt’s friends. I doubt very much I shall ever be famous.” And even if her novels did attain some measure of notoriety, Elizabeth herself would not be the one to receive any of the glory. Indeed, she had worked hard not to let the secret of her identity get out.
Her publisher, Mr Tilney, welcomed them into his spacious office. He smiled at her with delight. “Did I not tell you, Miss Bennet? I told you we had another excellent piece of fiction on our hands, and I was right.” He sat down after she and Mr Gardiner had settled themselves before his desk. “I feel that we should have something to celebrate, champagne perhaps?”
“Not at this hour, I thank you, sir,” Mr Gardiner said courteously.
“Oh, forgive me, of course. It is only that I am so very pleased — not to mention most proud of Miss Bennet.” He sat down, folding his hands atop his desk. Mr Tilney was a tall, lanky man. With his hooked nose and slightly sunken eyes, his appearance would have been more suited to a career in undertaking, rather than publishing. But Elizabeth had no intention of complaining. Mr Tilney had been the last in a long string of potential publishers. After so many painful rejections, he had given her a chance, and she could never be grateful enough. “Yes, very proud indeed, Miss Bennet. My wife has asked me to pass along her compliments on the book: she thinks it is one of the finest novels she has ever read. Of course, not knowing your true identity, she asked that I send her praise to Mrs Laurence, but that is just the same.”
“Please thank her for me, Mr Tilney. Though to be sure, she is much too kind. I cannot deserve such a compliment,” Elizabeth said, a little embarrassed at such extravagant praise.
“Not at all, not at all, Miss Bennet. Indeed, you must forgive me, I am in such a tizzy. At the rate the bookstores are asking me for more, we shall have to discuss a second printing, and of twice the copies. Your book is nearly sold out around London!”
“Is it really?” Elizabeth asked, dumbfounded. That would be a success beyond anything she could have imagined.
Mr Tilney gave her a satisfied grin. “Did I not tell you it would be so? True, I did not realise it would happen so soon after the release, but I was sure that it would sell out.” He leaned forward. “The papers are calling you the new Mrs Radcliffe.”
Elizabeth’s brows shot up in surprise. “Me?” Mrs Radcliffe was the byword for the Gothic genre, as brilliant and successful as any novelist could well be — if also somewhat notorious. “I cannot believe it, Mr Tilney.”
He straightened and rummaged through several newspapers and leaflets until he found the article he was looking for. “See for yourself,” he beamed.
Elizabeth took the paper in her gloved hand, careful not to smudge the ink onto the white fabric. “Mrs Laurence is the new Mrs Radcliffee, with her expertly woven plots, excellent, well-rounded characters, and mystery to keep us on our toes. It is this critic’s opinion that Mrs Laurence, whoever she may be, will soon rival any female novelist in the country.” Elizabeth looked up at her uncle as she finished reading, hardly able to believe it.
“Your aunt told me she said it was all anyone was talking about during her morning calls. It must be true,” Mr Gardiner said.
Elizabeth handed the newspaper back to her publisher. “Well, I suppose I shall have to work hard to get the next novel finished by September, so we can release it after the New Year once again?” she asked.
“Oh, my dear Miss Bennet, we should make haste, strike while the iron is hot. Your readers will soon be clamouringfor another novel. And we should give it to them as soon as possible.” Mr Tilney moved his pile of newspapers aside until several of them went over the edge of the desk and floated to the floor. “I should like to have the next novel ready to publish and send to the printers by mid-May, if at all possible. We can have them in people’s hands by as soon as July, I should think.”
