Elizabeth gasped. “Five months? Not even five months,” she said to herself, her head spinning with the implications. “That is not a very long time to finish my next novel.”
“Yes, but you have much more experience now. You obviously know what your readers want. You may now duplicate that in your next book.”
“For me, the writing process is so much more than stringing words together, Mr Tilney,” Elizabeth argued desperately. “It takes time and a great deal of thought to make a good novel. I should not like to rush too much and thus let my readers down.”
Her publisher chose not to argue, at least not in words. He rose from his chair, seemingly unbothered. He went to one of his many shelves lining the back wall of his office and retrieved a stack of books that had been wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. “These are your copies of the new book that you requested. I am glad I had the printer set these aside, for in a matter of hours, I doubt anyone will be able to find a copy left in London.” He handed the bundle to her and smiled, leaning his backside against his desk. “I am sure you can deliver the manuscript for mid-May. From what you have told me already, I am already very pleased with how the book is shaping up.”
“Well, I shall try,” she said slowly. Surely he must be exaggerating about the book being completely sold out soquickly. All the same, she was glad she had requested the three copies be set aside for her.
Elizabeth untied the package and moved the brown paper aside to reveal a dark green cover. She ran her fingers over the title, then over her pen name. Tears welled up in her eyes. She was proud of what she had accomplished, and could not wait to write to Jane and tell her everything, as well as send along the book for her to read. More than selling out of her first run, or the rash of popularity that Mrs Laurence seemed to be experiencing, was the fact that her sisters and mother would be taken care of. They were that much closer to being able to sleep peacefully, without the thought of disaster hanging over their heads.
“Thank you, Mr Tilney,” she said. “I went to so many publishers before I came to see you. None of them believed in me. But you did.” She sniffed and tried to bring her emotions under control. “It means the world to me. Truly, I cannot thank you enough.”
Mr Tilney’s eyes softened. “No, Miss Bennet — or, shall I say, Mrs Laurence. It is I who must thank you. It has been a pleasure to see these last two novels come to life. And I look forward to seeing many more in the future.”
After bidding him farewell, Elizabeth and Mr Gardiner left the office. They climbed into the carriage. Much as she respected him, Elizabeth was relieved to be out of Mr Tilney’s presence, where she might take a moment to catch her breath. She sat in silence for a moment, covering the books with the brown paper. Nothing could be allowed to damage them. “How glad I shall be to write to Jane — and send her the novel! She will be so pleased.”
“And who are the other copies for? I assume your aunt will have one? She is dying to read the whole book in onesitting, rather than a leaflet here and a scribbled note there,” Mr Gardiner teased.
Elizabeth laughed. “You cannot rush art, Uncle,” she returned. “But yes, you are right. One copy is for my aunt, and the other I will send to Mrs Collins.” Charlotte Collins, formerly Charlotte Lucas, had been a dear friend as long as Elizabeth could remember…and she had married Mr Collins, Elizabeth’s cousin, and the man to whom Longbourn was entailed. Elizabeth’s childhood home was hers now, for after Mr Bennet’s death, they had of course moved into the estate.
For Mrs Bennet, it had not been easy to accept the loss. Still less so given that Mr Collins had proposed to Elizabeth only a few days before his betrothal to Charlotte. Mrs Bennet had been keenly upset with Elizabeth, arguing that they could all have been set up very comfortably in their family home if Elizabeth had not been so selfish.
But Elizabeth would have rather perished herself than accepted Mr Collins. Her cousin was a ridiculous man, and she had always known that she would either marry for love, or not at all. Now that her book was a success, perhaps her mother would stop haranguing her for her foolishness in not marrying Mr Collins. More than letting an opportunity slip by her for seeing one of her five daughters married, she suspected her mother was jealous that Charlotte Lucas had usurped her as the mistress of Longbourn. Mrs Bennet had so often said that she wished Charlotte were more handsome, so she could have married better. Now, Elizabeth wondered if she was changing her tune, for Charlotte had beaten all the Bennet girls to the altar, and was settled in their childhood home. Not to mention, she already had a fine, strapping baby boy to inherit the estate one day.
Whatever her mother might feel, Elizabeth could not find any jealousy within herself. Sadness, perhaps, was more to the point. Charlotte had paid a heavy price for Longbourn. Her husband was a fool, and a pompous and overbearing fool at that. Even Elizabeth’s novels must be read in secret at Longbourn, for Mr Collins disapproved of all novels on principle, and particularly of female novelists.
For all that, Charlotte had remained a true friend, and had not allowed the slightest whisper of Elizabeth’s real designs in living with the Gardiners to reach her husband. Thankfully so, for if Mr Collins ever discovered her secret, the whole of the neighbourhood would know it by the next morning.
The thought left Elizabeth distinctly uneasy. Though her novel’s early success was excellent news, it meant keeping her secret would now be more difficult than ever. Devoted readers would clamour to find out more about the author of their favourite novels, wanting to find out the secret of Mrs Laurence.
Of course, if they everdidfind out, they would be bitterly disappointed. Many of her devotees had likely dreamed up a life for her that was even more adventurous and exciting than her novels. Elizabeth had once done much the same with Mrs Radcliffe. The truth, of course, was not so dramatic: Mrs Radcliffe had not lived even half as adventurously as her novels might lead one to believe. She had a quiet existence with her husband, who had been a journalist before Mrs Radcliffe’s success had allowed him to retire.
Mrs Radcliffe was fortunate, for it could not have been easy to find a gentleman who so readily accepted her writing. Many men would not welcome a wife spending so much of her time writing novels, and still less the notoriety of a wife who was a successful author.
Not, of course, that the question was likely to have much personal relevance. Elizabeth doubted very much that anyone would want to marry her. No longer was she the daughter of a gentleman and one of the Miss Bennets of Longbourn. Elizabeth was only a frightened young woman who had done what she must to save her family from ruin. Nothing more.
Thankfully, her uncle interrupted her rather gloomy thoughts. “Well, I think a treat is in order. Why do not we stop off at a teahouse and have a celebration of our own?” Mr Gardiner asked.
“Yes, I think that would be lovely,” Elizabeth replied gratefully. The distraction would be most welcome, for the meeting with her publisher had left her distinctly uneasy. She was not ready to face her cousins, or her aunt, for that matter, and all the excitement that the news from Mr Tilney would elicit. For now, she needed a quiet place to think and prepare for the next few months of diligent work that awaited her. She sighed heavily. “Five months,” she breathed.
Mr Gardiner looked at her, his eyes full of concern. “You need not agree to his deadline if you think it will be too much of a strain, Lizzy.”
“I believe it can be done,” Elizabeth replied cautiously. “I need only wrap my mind around it.” She would not have the luxury of daydreaming, as she had often had with her two previous novels.
“Do not think of the next novel just yet. Take the day to rest your mind and enjoy the success of your current debut,” he suggested.
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, you are right, of course.” She deserved at least a little time to bask in the sunlight of her new success.
They sat down at the table farthest from the door, in a more private corner. Despite the inclement weather earlier in the day, the teahouse was quite busy. They were fortunate to receive so desirable a place. Mr Gardiner spoke to the serving girl, ordering tea and a fine assortment of delicacies while Elizabeth sat quietly by, listening to the various conversations around her.
Her uncle took her hand. “You need not worry, Lizzy dear. Mr Tilney is an excitable sort of man, always moving and thinking three steps ahead of anyone else. I wonder at Mrs Tilney and how she stands to keep up with him.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I do not mind his enthusiasm for the publishing business. I am sure his connections and skill at advertisements are largely what has driven the success of the book.”
Her uncle frowned at her. “Do not sell yourself short, my dear Lizzy. Your skill as a writer has brought about the success of the book.”
“Ah, but there is more to being a successful author than simply weaving a compelling story. You need both, I believe. Perhaps you need the skill and knowledge of an advertiser even more than the story.”
