Elizabeth nodded, but seemed to grow even more nervous. “I have something I wish to tell you as well, Mr Darcy. Would you allow me to go first?”
Darcy turned again to look at her, taken aback by the intensity of her words. They had a sense of something near desperation to them. At last, he nodded, and they continued walking. She seemed to need to move in order to collect her thoughts.
At length, Elizabeth spoke. “You mentioned my leaving Pemberley so suddenly at the end of the summer. And I believe you deserve an explanation.”
“I did not mean to sound as if I were angry —” he said. But she shook her head, and he let his words trail off so she could go on.
“I know.” She looked up at him, deep anguish shining in her eyes. Darcy drew in a quick breath. What could she have to tell him? The uncertainty was almost unbearable.
“Please, let me first say that I shall never forget your kindness in inviting us to stay at Pemberley. It was the most generous thing anyone has ever done for us,” she said. “And I know it could not have been easy, having your home invaded by so many of us.”
“I would do it all again. Indeed, it was no imposition at all. I confess, Pemberley has been too quiet since you left and the Gardiners returned to London.”
She hung her head, seeming to study her feet as they walked. “You are too kind,” she said. “And that makes what I must tell you even worse.”
Darcy frowned. “Worse?”
She looked to be on the verge of tears. “I have been lying to you, Mr Darcy. I know it is unforgiveable after everything you have done for me and my family. But I hope you will try to understand why I felt I had to continue with the ruse.” She took a steadying breath. “I am not who you think I am.”
Darcy looked at her in astonishment. “I cannot understand this at all. Surely you cannot mean that you are not Elizabeth Bennet.”
“I am Elizabeth Bennet, it is true. But I have a confession that I am sure will be most shocking.” She closed her eyes, and when she reopened them, tears were welling up. “I am Mrs Laurence.”
It took several seconds for her words to make any sense in his mind. He shook his head, looking at her with new eyes. “You are the author, Mrs Laurence?” he asked.
“Yes. I am so sorry, Mr Darcy. I have lied to you so many times, and I hated every one of them. I know that likely you would not have invited me into your home, had you known me to be the notorious Mrs Laurence, but I could not find a way out that would protect my secret. All the same, I shall not blame you if you never wish to speak to me again.”
His mind was already swirling with the implications of what she had just told him. Miss Bennet was a famous author? Had she written works of morality, even refined poetry, it would have been an admirable accomplishment. But low Gothic fiction was something else entirely. She had achieved admirable success, to be sure — but she had done it by taking a false name, risking her reputation and that of her sisters, and achieving something that better deserved the name of notoriety than fame.
And all this was the woman he had fallen in love with — the woman he thought he had known so well?
Elizabeth stopped and turned, motioning that they should head back toward the cottage, which was in view behind the trees that lined the quiet country lane in the distance. “I became Mrs Laurence, not out of rebellion, but out of necessity,” she explained. “When my father died, we lost everything in the entail. I had to do something to ensure my family survived. And so I wrote my first novel, and my uncle helped me submit it to no end of publishers, until it was at last accepted by Mr Tilney.”
Darcy nodded. Her confession explained everything. “I see,” he said. “And so this is why your fingers were always smudged with ink, and why you had copies of Mrs Laurence’s books when no one else could find them?”
She looked him in the eye for the first time since making her confession. “Yes. When we met in London, I had just received three of my author copies from my publisher. Your sister was so eager, I could not bear to disappoint a reader.”
“Naturally,” he replied, unable to keep a certain note of irony out of his voice in the bitterness of his shock and disillusion. “It all makes sense. You must think me a fool for having remained ignorant all this time. This is lowering indeed.I have thought myself a good judge of people, but I see now that I know nothing.”
Elizabeth turned to him, seeming about to speak, when they were hailed from down the lane. Only moments later, Lydia and Kitty Bennet were hurrying toward them.
To his relief, Darcy had not a doubt that Elizabeth was too sensible and too considerate of his feelings to continue their discussion in front of her sisters, who, of course, must know the secret of Mrs Laurence. Whatever she had intended to say next must remain a mystery. The discussion of her secret was at an end.
And perhaps it was for the best, for in his astonishment, Darcy hardly knew what he ought to say.
Chapter 27
Elizabeth did not wait to see Mr Darcy off, but hurried toward the cottage after hardly more than a word of goodbye. It would have been more than she could bear to counterfeit a normal conversation in front of her younger sisters.
Though she had hoped to escape upstairs without detection, it was not to be. Mary, Jane, and their mother all but pounced on her as soon as Elizabeth went inside.
“Well, Lizzy, what did Mr Darcy want?” her mother asked. “Come, come, tell me!” she said impatiently.
“Why, I — I do not know,” Elizabeth confessed, astonished at herself for realising only then that Mr Darcy never had a chance to ask his question. “We became distracted, for I told him I am Mrs Laurence,” she admitted. “I doubt we shall see him again. Even aside from the notoriety of Mrs Laurence and the question of whether an unmarried woman ought to write Gothic novels, surely he could not forgive me for lying to him.”
“You did what?” her mother exclaimed. “Why would you jeopardise your chances with such a worthy gentleman?”
“I will not lie to a man to get him to marry me, Mama. I want my future husband to choose me because he wants me, knowing all of me — not only the pieces I think he will tolerate.”Elizabeth closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her head. “I have a headache.”
