“Anne? Can it be? Are you the authoress of this charming story?”
Anne blushed and looked away as though she wanted to hide behind the curtains with the baby. “Yes. It is dreadfully childish. You must think me quite silly.”
“No, no! This is wonderful! Wonderfully childish! That is to say, it has all the enchantment of childhood! You have invented an entire magical world. I would love to tell this story to my children when they are old enough to hear it. May I write out a copy?”
Pride was swiftly replaced with alarm. “Oh no! No, they mustn’t leave this room! You are the only person to whom I have shown them!”
Elizabeth rose and went to place a reassuring hand on Anne’s arm. “I promise you, I will not betray your confidence. But…do you have more stories like this?”
Anne nodded. “A great many, in fact. Some poems as well, although I do not think they are very good.”
“I shall not importune you. But I cannot resist expressing my heartfelt conviction that your stories deserve to be shared with a wider world.”
Elizabeth had a great deal more to say in praise of her cousin’s writing, but Anne looked conscious and discomfited, as though she regretted her impulsive gesture in sharing her secret.
Elizabeth reluctantly dropped the subject and joined the game of peek-a-boo.
Christmas dinner brought a dozen guests. They included notable persons in the neighbourhood, Lady Catherine’s steward, and, of course, the Collinses. Elizabeth was resigned to being placed as far as possible from the persons with whom she might have enjoyed speaking, having Mr. Collins for a dinner companion instead.
She had managed to pass more than a fortnight at Rosings without being pert or impatient with Lady Catherine. Her sacrifice would soon be at an end.
Although Lady Catherine had her faults, no one could deny the magnificence of her Christmas hospitality. Rich damask table linens set with crystal glasses and gold-plated china, extravagant candelabras, and arrangements of fruit and hot house flowers decorated the long banquet table in such profusion that one could hardly see the person opposite. The dishes, in gleaming silver, were served by a parade of footmen, in wave after wave. There were venison and beef roasts and turkey and goose and ragouts and soups and all manner of hothouse vegetables, puddings, jellies, and trifles in abundance.
All of Her Ladyship’s guests made themselves as merry as possible and did justice to the meal laid before them. As for Elizabeth, she had only to listen as Mr. Collins entertained her during dinner with the minute details of his life and duties at Hunsford.
“Lady Catherine always orders her carriage for us when we return home, as you know, Mrs. Darcy, but on this occasion, on account of the snow and my dear Charlotte’s condition, the carriage was sent to convey us here! Have you ever heard of such consideration and condescension?”
“I have not, Mr. Collins, and I am particularly glad of it for Charlotte’s sake.”
“Yes, and, were it not for Charlotte’s wish that I keep her company, I would have stayed with my usual practise of walking up to Rosings. The distance is a trifle, and I have always held that daily walking is essential, not only for one’s health, but for stimulating the intellectual powers.”
“Indeed.”
“The composition of sermons, especially when one has a patron so distinguished and cultivated as Lady Catherine de Bourgh…”
Alas, the rest of what Mr. Collins had to say on that topic was lost to oblivion. Try as she might, Elizabeth could not keep her mind from wandering, confident that she need only say “indeed” and “yes” at intervals. She found herself thinking again of Anne, who was seated next to Colonel Fitzwilliam at the table and appeared to be in excellent spirits.
I have behaved in an exemplary fashion during our visit, if I do say so myself. Would it be an inexcusable act of rebellion if I encourage Anne to find her voice, to share her talent with the world? No, I cannot think that I would be doing wrong. She is like the princess in the tower, and I could help to set her free….
The incessant drone in her ear continued, and she returned her attention to Mr. Collins in time to hear him say “…in fact, Mrs. Darcy, I have made a point of going for long walks in addition to working in my garden. And every Tuesday I walk three miles to Westerham, to visit with my fellow clerics, and back again, and I seldom take my pony cart, only if it rains, or is threatening to rain, or if the weather promises to be unseasonably hot, or cold, or windy.”
“Indeed sir, you must not risk your health.”
“My dear Charlotte says the same, but she encourages me to pause from my labours. ‘You mustn’t overtax yourself and spend the day in your study,’ she always says. She makes a point of walking out every morning, and I go every afternoon. We are so alike in our thinking, you see. And what is more—”
“Which reminds me, Mr. Collins, I want to tell you that Mr. Darcy and I very enjoyed your sermon this morning, as Lady Catherine did not think it wise to venture out in this weather.”
“And when you consider the benevolence of my patroness, Mrs. Darcy, you will understand why my topic for this Christmas was that we must always count our blessings.”
Elizabeth glanced down the table where her husband was cordially making conversation with his aunt’s guests. Two more nights, and they would bid farewell to Rosings! There was a blessing, indeed!
“Oh yes, Mr. Collins, indeed, a lovely sentiment for Christmas. We must count our blessings. I shall, whenever I think of you.”
The day after Boxing Day, the servants set about packing Elizabeth and Darcy’s trunks for the journey which would take them back to London and finally home to Pemberley.
Elizabeth was in her bedchamber locking up her jewellery case. She wondered if she dared to plead with Anne one more time to allow her to have a copy of her manuscripts when there came a soft tap at the door…and there stood Anne with a small satchel.
“Elizabeth... I… I was wondering if…that is...”
“Yes, my dear, what is it? Come in—may I do anything for you?”
“I have been thinking about what you said and, if you do not think it is too silly of me, I should like it if you would take a copy of my stories with you when you go, and perhaps find someone who might like to publish them.”
Anne held out the satchel, which Elizabeth took more reverently than the jewels she had just locked away.
“I feel very foolish—please, if no one wants to publish my stories, I shall not be at all surprised or put out. But you were so kind as to say—”
“I do say it, Anne. Your stories are delightful. I longed to urge you to do this, but I did not wish to be overbearing. Heaven knows, you have enough people in your life telling you what you ought to do!”
“This is my own decision, Elizabeth. I was thinking about it almost all night.” Anne’s voice had now dropped so low that Elizabeth had to strain to hear her. “I do not expect to marry, or to live a long life. Sometimes I think I do not mind it. Especially on a peaceful, snowy day like this, I could imagine that I might fall asleep and never wake up and be laid to rest in the family tomb next to father.”
Before Elizabeth could protest, Anne went on:
“But if my stories could speak for me, then—that would be something of me that would last. It does not matter to me if I am known as the author. The opposite, in fact. I would like to send them into the world on their own merits without the name of ‘de Bourgh’ attached to them. I very much like to imagine that one day some mother or father will read my stories to their children. I shall be there, do you see? I shall be a part of those special memories between a parent and a child, those memories that last for a lifetime. How could I ask for anything more wonderful?”
There was a moment’s silence, while Elizabeth wiped the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.
“Anne, I shall be proud to do this for you. I promise, I shall write to you and let you know of my success.”
Anne sighed, then shook her head. “Mothe
r insists that I read my letters aloud to her.”
Elizabeth acknowledged the difficulty, then ventured to say, “May I bring Mrs. Collins into our little confederacy? What if I were to correspond with her and tell her of my progress in getting your stories into print? And suppose I only told her of ‘our mutual friend, the writer’? I will mention no names.”
Anne flushed. “‘The writer!’ To think of myself as such! How presumptuous—yet how thrilling.”
“I do believe we could contrive to do this. Charlotte could share the information with you, for I know you visit her. But do you never go to the parsonage without Mrs. Jenkinson?”
“Mrs. Jenkinson never gets out of the carriage. She is very rheumatic, you know. Half of the medicine in my bedchamber is hers! She does not want my mother to know how poorly she is for fear of losing her position.”
“Oh, the poor dear. Our scheme ought to work, then.”
Anne looked doubtful. “Is it wrong for me to involve other persons in my deceit?”
“Alas, we cannot consult Mr. Collins on this grave moral question, now can we?” Elizabeth laughed.
“Would Mrs. Collins object to keeping the secret from her husband?”
“Trust me, Anne. Mrs. Collins does not confide her every thought to her husband.”
“And Fitzwilliam! Elizabeth, would you mind dreadfully, if… I should feel so foolish if no one wishes to publish my stories, or worse, what if they are published and no one buys them? Would you mind keeping our secret for the time being?”
“Of course, I will, if you wish it. But you have nothing to fear, particularly not from Darcy. I confidently predict that next Christmas, I will give Darcy a copy of your book, and it will say, “by a Lady” on the title page, and I will tell him who wrote it, and he will be tremendously proud of you! In the meantime, it is a delicious secret to hug to ourselves.”
The resolve taken, not another word on the matter was exchanged. The ladies resumed speaking of indifferent subjects, but Elizabeth thought she detected a faint glow in the lady’s pale cheeks when the Collinses arrived for a last dinner together before she, Darcy, and the children left for London on the morrow.
When she first became a bride, Elizabeth Darcy would have protested against the idea that a wife should ever keep anything remotely secret from her husband. As a married woman, however, and as the bearer of someone else’s secret, she had to acknowledge that there were times, places, and circumstances which allowed of certain exceptions.
Therefore, when she left their London townhome in early January to make some morning calls, Elizabeth did not mention to her husband that she planned to call at the establishment of James Montgomery, publisher of children’s books. Mr. Montgomery’s establishment, in the days after Christmas, was quiet; the proprietor was in and fortunately at liberty to wait upon Mrs. Darcy.
Mr. Montgomery recognized his visitor instantly and ushered her into his office. Seeing his affable expression, Elizabeth felt confident that she was applying to the right person. At the mention, however, of “manuscript” and “fairy tales” and “by a lady,” Mr. Montgomery sat back in his chair and assumed an expression of polite interest mixed with resignation.
“If you have no objection, Mrs. Darcy,” he said, “I shall briefly inspect the manuscript now rather than undertaking to read the entire work. I should not like to raise expectations which I may later be compelled to disappoint.”
“By all means, Mr. Montgomery,” said Elizabeth evenly, unlatching the satchel and pulling out one of Anne’s little booklets to hand to him. He took it with ceremonious politeness, and “begged her pardon, but he would read it now,” while she waited, and “would she care for some tea?”
Elizabeth surmised that publishers were besieged by hopeful authors day and night and were forced to read through reams of execrable poetry and lurid melodramas. She was almost as anxious as though it was her own writing being judged, musing ruefully that Anne was fortunate in being miles away at Hunsford!
After Mr. Montgomery turned the first page, Elizabeth thought she saw a gleam of interest in his eye. She watched, scarcely daring to breathe, as he read two, three, four pages with unbroken concentration, not lifting his eye from the manuscript.
No, she was not mistaken! The story was pulling him in, just as it had captured her.
Three quarters of an hour went by, then James Montgomery suddenly looked up and said, “Mrs. Darcy, you have brought me something exceptional!”
“I knew it!” Elizabeth smiled. “My pleasure for my friend is seconded only by my delight in your confirmation of my good judgement.”
“This is extraordinary, Mrs. Darcy,” said Mr. Montgomery. “The tale is written for children, that is, it is a fairy tale—but there is a vividness of detail, a talent for delineating character, and a simplicity and beauty of dialogue that I have never encountered in a children’s book before. I shall be only too pleased to publish it, and I have no doubt of its being an enormous success. You say that the authoress wishes to remain anonymous?”
“Oh yes, most definitely.”
“But—I should very much like to meet her. Do I, in fact, have the honour of speaking with her at present?
Elizabeth laughed. “No, I am not your secret authoress. Let us call her ‘Miss DB’ for the present. For you see, she does not wish her closest relations to know that she intends to publish. I may as well tell you that she is very retired from the world and lives with her mother, a lady with the most strict and unbending views. She would be horrified if she knew what we were about.”
“We must have some way of communicating, even if through a third party,” explained Mr. Montgomery. “We must sign a contract, she and I. Then, once I have set up the book, there are galley proofs to be corrected—and I think we must find an illustrator to add at least a frontispiece.”
“I offered to act as her agent but, as it happens, I shall be leaving London shortly. I had not thought of contracts and corrections and illustrations and so forth. But you may contact her, care of a mutual friend.”
Mr. Montgomery nodded and then looked down again at the manuscript in his hands. “I should very much like to meet her,” he repeated. “I stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago, but Miss DB might make me a believer yet again.”
Elizabeth returned home in silent triumph, glowing with pleasure. All thoughts of morning calls were abandoned—empty conversation would not do—nor could Elizabeth call upon her Aunt Gardiner or her sister Jane for fear that she would succumb and share the delicious news. She found some vent for her feelings in writing and dispatching a letter to Mrs. C. Collins, the Parsonage, Hunsford.
She passed the rest of the afternoon with the children in the nursery, which is where Darcy, returning home, found her.
He paused at the doorway, silently appreciating the scene. Elizabeth was seated on a loveseat by the window with both children on her lap looking at the picture book. Catherine cooed and tried to grab the pages while William repeated, “H! Is for horse. H! Is for horse,” with the serious mien of a child who realizes he is on the verge of sharing one of the world’s great secrets.
Feelings of pride, love, and protectiveness, all welled up in Darcy. He wanted to stay there in the doorway and watch. He wanted the moment to last forever. He also wanted to take his wife in his arms.
He wanted to tell her he knew she had been hiding something from him—he had observed some furtive final whispers as she parted from Anne—the old leather satchel in the luggage—her unusual eagerness to summon the carriage, the driver and the groomsmen to make a social call that morning.
Whatever it was, he trusted her. He trusted her absolutely.
At last, she noticed him, and looked up and smiled. “Welcome home, Mr. Darcy.”
You are looking exceedingly pleased with yourself, Elizabeth I think you no longer have any guilty secrets weighing on your conscience.”
“Guilty secrets?” Elizabeth looked startled.
“Did you not
say how much you regretted your secret disapprobation of cousin Anne? And did you not befriend her?”
“Oh! Oh, yes, that. There is nothing like knowing one has done the right thing.”
Darcy smiled. “I always trust you, Elizabeth, to do the right thing. And perhaps one day you might enjoy telling me about it.”
“Yes, I will, my dearest.”
* * *
LONA MANNING is the author of the novels A Contrary Wind and A Marriage of Attachment, both based on Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park. She has also written numerous true crime articles, which are available at www.crimemagazine.com. She has worked as a non-profit administrator, a vocational instructor, a market researcher, and a speechwriter for politicians. She currently teaches English as a second language and spent four years teaching in China. You can follow Lona at lonamanning.ca where she writes about China and Jane Austen.
Homespun For The Holidays
J. Marie Croft
We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him. —Jane Austen
Part 1: What the Dickens?
Tension building in neck and shoulders, F. William Darcy switched the controls to snow mode as the temperature dropped sub-zero and intermittent rain turned to snow. Brilliant! As if adjusting to driving on the right side—wrong side!—of the road wasn’t bad enough.
He decelerated, begrudging the loss of precious time.
The past week had been nothing short of abysmal. Sorting out the Wickham cock-up, socialising at the office party, being dragged around by Bingley, forced to socialise with underlings, and having to dance with Caroline.
Shuddering, he turned up the heat. Gripping the leather steering wheel, he ran through his agenda once again.
Leave boutique by four, jumper in hand. Head to airport, drop off rental. Board and sleep en route. Land—white-knuckled—and locate James and the Bentley. Arrive in London, knackered. Rush up to penthouse, don gay apparel (charcoal suit, red tie, fake smile), and—“dashing through the”…fog—make my way to Mayfair. Spend what little will be left of Christmas Day with dear Georgiana…plus four spoiled kids, three insufferable cousins, two meddling aunts, one barmy uncle, and a taxidermic partridge in a blooming pear tree from Matlock’s bloody orangery. Bah, humbug!
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