Writerly Ambitions

by Timothy Underwood

  “But that is not the only matter.” Elizabeth replied, “I live by my own strength — there is a joy to create something, and to know that out of nothing but my ceaselessly working brain and hand I created money, where before there was none — I pity such gentlemen as you, who shall never know the joy of receiving real recompense for a day’s work.”

  “That has a radical tone to it.” Darcy grinned at her. She liked to say shocking things that had a strong air of truth to them. “Much as I have enjoyed your novels, they lack the bulky weight and substance of what Shelley or Walter Scott can write. Would you not prefer to use your talents more freely?”

  “I have no wish to write a gloomy, dark story about a monster given life who then brutally murders his creator’s fiancée, great as I think—”

  Darcy laughed. “I refer, of course to Percy Shelley, the husband. Much as I liked it, Frankenstein is a trifle which shall not last. It will only entertain the crowd for a short span of years, while Queen Mab shall delight readers of future centuries.”

  Mrs. Collins shook her head and tsked. “You expect the future to be quite irreligious if you think Shelley shall be beloved in it. My husband does not approve.”

  Darcy shrugged. “A great work of art, no matter the deficiencies of the author’s morals.”

  “No! It is not,” Elizabeth cried out. “For I could scarce read the half of it.”

  “I begin to wonder if Mr. Martin’s criticism of your good taste has valid warrant.” Darcy smiled back at Elizabeth in a way that showed he was teasing.

  “No, no, no.” She waved her finger in front of his face. Her lovely eyes danced in the debate. “Frankenstein is a delight — entirely different, this mixture of the strangest fantasies with the idea of the scientific scholar seeking knowledge that should remain unsought, opening gates that ought remain closed. A pleasure to read. Despite the darkness of the tale — in a hundred years’ time, when Byron, Scott and Burney are long forgotten, Percy Shelley shall yet be recalled primarily as the husband of the author of Frankenstein.”

  “Doctor Frankenstein could have treated his creation in a multitude of other ways, to avoid such behavior on its part. 'Twas like bringing a child into the world. And he had sewn him together! No reasonable man would cast off his own creation in such a way. The novel has no sense to it.”

  “‘Tis the point that he does not behave as a sensible man. Frankenstein is all sensibility, but a sort of sensibility made of vaunting ego.”

  “The behavior of Doctor Frankenstein seemed entirely sensible to me,” Mrs. Collins said.

  “We then are of three opinions,” Darcy said.

  Elizabeth laughed. “I hope you do not despise me, since you did not enjoy that recommendation of mine.”

  “On the contrary, I enjoyed it immensely — I only do not admire it.”

  The conversation continued for some time, with a great deal of laughter, until as the hour grew late the three returned to the ballroom, where Darcy danced with both of his companions, though much as he admired Mrs. Collins, his principal delight was in the dance with Elizabeth.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The entire world was filled with a soft breezy glow for Elizabeth. She was so happy!

  This emotion of love, of hope, of happiness, this glow of early love, when all the world is perfect and a life is becoming different and entirely changed as it entwines, like a vine growing around a trellis, with another life — this glow filled all of Elizabeth’s capacious soul.

  Elizabeth Bennet did what she always did when there was a strong emotion in her heart: She wrote.

  She wrote quickly and easily, the words falling from her pen. She wrote chiefly in the evenings by candlelight after she had dined or walked with Mr. Darcy, or in the mornings before she went to a dinner where she hoped to encounter her suitor.

  This novel was not as the others — it was impossible for her to leave the heroine heartbroken and dependent upon only herself when the authoress was filled with a glow of hope and love.

  Elizabeth kept the moment she had already written where Miss Honorius refused Mr. Hamilton. If Elizabeth, the protagonist of her own life, if she was her own heroine, she had suffered, and she had, out of policy and caution, refused the hero when he asked and the situation was not yet propitious.

  And so Elizabeth took her heroine, for the first time, through that valley of devastated unhappiness into something else — fate tossed Miss Honorius into the path of Mr. Hamilton again when Miss Honorius took a trip through the north with her uncle and aunt, and by chance visited the estate of Mr. Hamilton’s dearest friend.

  Two years had passed.

  And he was independent once more. The woman who he had been intended to marry had… had… well he didn’t marry her or she died. Elizabeth could determine that detail later. Mr. Hamlilton loved Miss Honorius still. When they saw each other once more, there was that in their eyes, they were drawn together once more, and they both knew that it would never be enough. Never be enough to just talk, to just smile, and there would never be a better chance for them to let a seed of love blossom in the fertile ground of their hearts.

  Each had been changed by time into better versions of themselves, the versions of themselves worthy of each other.

  And so Elizabeth wrote a scene that was so beautiful, it made her cry.

  Miss Honorius proposed to him, not waiting upon the silly conventions that gave the man all the power — since after all, a woman could not rely without any reserve on a man, not even if she was choosing to bind her heart to him, she must keep some modicum of independence and capability for herself.

  And then, Elizabeth wrote her epilogue, and she found one morning, shortly after Charlotte had left, that she had written an entire book. It had taken her longer to write than Matthew Lewis took to write The Monk, but she still had completed this book far more quickly than any other novel she had ever written.

  And when she glanced over the scrawled and corrected working copy she had made, she liked what she read, and she hoped it would sell even though this book did not follow the pattern — that of the rake who nearly ruined the woman, followed by her despising him and establishing a life for herself in which she could earn her honorable daily bread and her modest clothes through difficult but independent employment.

  Instead this time, she ended married, and was delightedly happy to be so.

  The scene where the heroine and the hero determined they would marry left Elizabeth smiling happily the entire time she wrote it. And when she recopied the scene from pencil into the working copy in pen, Elizabeth’s eyes teared up at the echoed happiness.

  So one December morning Elizabeth finished the last epilogue of the book and copied it out immediately into the working copy. She considered that to be the end of the writing, as she now merely needed to copy the whole text out clean and mail it to her publisher.

  While she smiled to herself in a quiet celebration, she saw from the desk in her room Mr. Darcy ride up the drive to Longbourn to call. Her eyes followed him, his features were barely visible in the distance, but he was still handsome and tall, with a perfect carriage and seat, a fine horseman. Much superior to Mr. Bingley who rode next to him.

  Much superior in fact, in Elizabeth’s opinion, to everyone.

  He wore his coat well, and after he dismounted, he looked at her window and smiled.

  Elizabeth rose from her seat and twisted and stretched, feeling a certain stiffness from having sat for so long finishing the novel.

  She bounded down the stairs to meet their callers, soon as they entered the drawing room.

  “I finished!” she exclaimed, before Mr. Darcy could make his polite, How do you do. “The novel, my new novel, I have finished it!”

  Elizabeth had a girlish desire to jump up and down and then embrace Darcy. There was something in his eye that made Elizabeth think he wished to pick her up and swing her round and round while kissing her.

  Mrs. Bennet shuddered. “Don’t brag about su
ch strange employments.”

  “My dear friend!” Darcy exclaimed. “Congratulations. Congratulations, and congratulations!”

  Jane embraced Elizabeth, having the right to, unlike Mr. Darcy. “Oh, Lizzy, I am so proud of you — you have spent so much time these past weeks upon it. I am delighted to hear!”

  “It is so very different from my others. But excellent, I hope.”

  “You could not write anything which lacked every brilliance,” Darcy affirmed.

  Bingley shook her hand. “To my friend the great author. You know me though, no great reader — can you forgive me if I only buy a copy, but never read it?”

  Elizabeth laughed. “No, no, by no means — an author’s greatest delight is in being read, you must buy at least… three copies to gain forgiveness.”

  “Ah, excellent — Darcy, I’ll give one to you as a gift. I am certain, you shall read it. And Mrs. Hawdry, would you like a copy of your sister’s novel?”

  “No, no, by no means. You cannot give Mr. Darcy a copy, as I consider him a sure sale—”

  “I am,” he replied smiling brilliantly at Elizabeth, in that way of his that made everything seem lighter and made her feel as safe as a child in her father’s arms.

  “Then I expect you to buy a copy of your own, no matter how many you are given.”

  Darcy laughed. “A demanding literary friend. It seems almost as though you write as much for the money as for the joy of the thing, and eternal fame and glory — I hesitate to mention this, but Miss Bennet, you ought be made aware, it is considered in many places not quite the thing to ever admit you care about money. Not good form.”

  “Lizzy, don’t run on so,” Mrs. Bennet begged again. “You can see you offend Mr. Darcy.”

  Elizabeth laughed, and resisted the strong desire to stick her tongue out at Mr. Darcy — which she would have if they were on a walk, just the two of them — but from the way she smirked and met his eyes, he understood. He winked back at her, and it made her stomach leap again.

  She was quite a different creature in the presence of Mr. Darcy.

  And she liked that.

  The group of them soon made an agreement that the day was not nearly cold enough to keep them inside — Elizabeth thought she and Mr. Darcy would make such an agreement if the pond had frozen through solid. They were both determined walkers.

  “What is the plan of this new book?” Mr. Darcy asked as the two of them briskly went ahead of Jane and Bingley. “Will it be worth my time to read?”

  “Oh, are you so very busy?”

  “Very — as you know, I must speak endlessly to women such as yourself, demanding women who wish intellectual conversation, in the countryside — but really, I ask for my sister. She will want to know.”

  “You both must wait for my publisher to prepare the manuscript, and then print it, and then ship it to your bookseller, and only then can you read it — I dare say, I shall read it with you, for by then I will have forgotten all the principal elements of the plot.”

  Darcy looked her with such a disappointed voice and eyes that it made Elizabeth laugh and want to hug him. “But… so long? How long shall this take?”

  “Oh, the best part of a year, or maybe more if they become particularly busy, or someone dies at the publisher. Such things happen — I put out my own money with theirs for much of the price of printing, so they will do the job eventually.”

  “That… that is a long time.”

  “You are desperate to read another of my novels?” Elizabeth smiled at him.

  “I confess I am — you are, without any exception, by far my favorite authoress — or writer of any sex.”

  Elizabeth smiled at him. “Truly? And have you no personal bias?”

  “I have. And my sister — I told her you have been at work with great dedication upon your next novel. She will be disappointed for how long it shall take — what makes the process run to such a long duration?”

  Elizabeth laughed. “My dear, Mr. Darcy.”

  “No truly, why does this take so long?”

  “I have to first prepare a fair copy of the manuscript.”

  Darcy looked quite quizzically at her, clearly unfamiliar with the term.

  “When I write my book, I copy it onto many pages writing cross lines, and pinning notes and changed words everywhere, having notes that specify that I insert a new paragraph written on a different page, placing things in all sorts of arrangements that are quite difficult to use. For my publisher I must send a clean text, in my prettiest handwriting, and with as few corrections as can be managed. That will take two weeks at least to prepare, and—”

  “Aha! We can hire someone to make the copy from your manuscript. And then they can work ceaselessly and it will be done quicker.”

  Elizabeth laughed.

  “In truth—” Darcy grinned at her. “Not as the petulant infant who is desperate for the next book. I shall ask my sister to play that part when you meet. For while she does have patience, it will come natural to her to beg, and beg for you to read the story out to her from whatever copy you keep for yourself. And you will when she is done with you.”

  “You think so little of my firmness?”

  “I think so highly of your desire to please those who you like.”

  “So then you are certain I shall like your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  Elizabeth blushed.

  Darcy then asked, “Why do you not employ someone to make the copy from your manuscript? It seems you would have a greater span of time to begin your own next book.” He smiled rather satisfiedly. “Would that not be a profitable idea?”

  “Now you wish to help me in the pursuit of filthy lucre? Very much the great gentleman, to concern himself with the profits of an author of modest means.”

  Darcy inclined his head.

  “No, no. I would make no more if I did that. In the first place, it is not so cheap to hire a man who can make a good copy. That would be at least some four or five pounds, I would guess, for the service. But that is not the real objection which I have. I like making a final copy. It allows me to ensure that I have done a decent go of the whole thing. I find more felicitous selections of words, more euphonious fragments of text. The whole becomes better for this final copy. So do not take that from me.”

  “I will not — but I have another question.”

  “Another? You speak quite like you mean to interview me for some position of importance.”

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Darcy said, with a meaningful look into her eyes, “perhaps I do.”

  Elizabeth took in a deep breath. She could not look away from his face and his eyes.

  He smiled at her, and then they walked further. She saw the footprints of a family of doves in the snow, and there those of a fox.

  “However,” Darcy added, “were we at present in the course of an appointment where I sought to know your character to decide on whether to make you a significant offer” — Elizabeth almost jumped at the emphasis he placed on that word — “any question I asked at present would merely be pro forma, for my decision would be entirely made already, and the only decision of importance left would be yours.”

  “You mean to say, you would make this… offer to me? — and it would be for me to refuse. But, would you do so upon an impulse to be repented from, or as a matter of considered decision?”

  “I am at present quite considered, and in my full good mind. Do I not appear so?”

  He grinned at her, his white teeth flashing. A fringe of hair fell over his brow. He wore a tall black beaver hat. Mr. Darcy was so perfectly handsome. He was framed by two of the bare trees, and the perfect white field of the fallen snow. Tall, lean, with a powerful jaw, and the kindest eyes. He smiled with those eyes at her, with just a hint of nervousness, but mostly the happiness that had infused them both for the past weeks.

  “Maybe…” Elizabeth drawled out. “Maybe you look far too handsome to also be determined.”

  “I assure you, when I
am determined, I determine.”

  “What does that even mean?” Elizabeth laughed. “Nay, do not answer — what other question did you have about my writing?”

  Darcy blinked and laughed himself. “I have quite forgotten. Quite entirely.”

  Elizabeth huffed with mock annoyance. “Well now I must talk upon my own brilliance.”

  “No, no — never fear that fate. I shall always be entirely at your service when you need a bard to sing your praise.”

  “But I am the storyteller, the one who ought sing my own praise. You are the great aristocrat who wishes to hire a bard to while away the boredom of late nights in your cold drafty castle, as you await the attack of the besieging peasants outside.”

  “I would have you know that my peasants are well treated.”

  “The peasants of these late days, I am given to understand, prefer not to be called ‘peasants’.”

  “My tenant farmers, and their laboring hands, all good and solid English stock — they will rally to my side, when a horde of… Vikings come to besiege our walls. I believe the Norsemen reached Derbyshire. And, I wish you there, in my hilly halls, to sing tales that will make the night warm and filled with brightness — no matter that the halls be drafty, no matter that they lack every modern convenience of stove and tight construction.”

  “I’d willingly be your bard — though I confess, my pen works with greater skill than my tongue.”

  “Ah! I must dispute — for I have experienced both your tongue and your pen, and they are equally sharp and cutting. Like a sword — do you have a sword?”

  “A sword?” Elizabeth laughed. “Do you? Besides a fencing sword?”

  “There is an excellent heirloom. When you come to Pemberley I’ll show you — That would be a new facet of your character, if you had a sword — would you kill the villainous rogues you meet upon highway and byway with it? Or would you join them upon the high toby, belaying the travelers as the prettiest highwaywoman ever to haunt the pike roads of England — and the crowds would weep mighty tears when they hung you — except…”