A/N: Dear Knitting Princess, do you live in my head? Of course, you have got the title of Lizzy's story right. Your whole review of the last 4 chapters is pretty much spot-on as far as I am concerned. You and DSLeo, who got the white rose right, will have a copy of the ebook when it is published. Brava and Congrats!
Thank you for the only other entry! Good try!
Before the age of JAFF, there were only two known stories with the P&P story line. One is, of course, P&P, and the other is "First Impressions," the draft for P&P. There is no extant copy of "First Impressions" anywhere. I thought I could borrow the title with impunity.
I have changed the cover of this story again. She is...Two readers have gotten the answer correctly within 2.5 hours of the posting of this chapter.
Chapter 14
"May I come in?" Elizabeth asked when the door to the music room was opened by the Italian music teacher.
Mr. Rocco nodded and said, "My business is finished here." He slipped out of the room without another word.
Mrs. Trumbull was sitting on the sofa with her youngest daughter, Cecily. She greeted Elizabeth cheerfully, "Ah, Elizabeth, there you are. Do you think Cecily is ready for music lessons? Perhaps you could start teaching her some simple children's songs."
"Oh, I should think Mr. Rocco is much better at it than I could ever hope to be." Elizabeth smiled and walked over to the three-year-old girl sitting by her mother.
"Hello, Cecily. Are you ready to play the pianoforte? You are a lucky girl to have Mr. Rocco as your teacher. He plays beautifully," cooed Elizabeth. She rarely saw the little girl, who stayed mostly in the nursery.
"I am going to start both Helena and Cecily on music lessons since they are only one year apart. Now that we are through with mourning, I would like very much to go back to normal life as soon as possible."
"Oh, Mr. Rocco will be very busy."
"Yes, he will be. With three young budding pianists needing lessons every day, you will see a lot more of him. He stays at the gate lodge when we are in the country."
"I see. It is considerate of you, Lillian." Elizabeth thought her patroness had to be the world's best employer–perhaps in competition with Mr. Darcy for that coveted position.
"I do what makes sense. Have you made a decision on the publication of your story? Will I have to wait much longer to read your masterpiece?"
Elizabeth smilingly replied, "It will be published if you deem it worth the effort and the expense, but I just realized that I do not know the cost of printing. Is it possible to see how many subscriptions the story attracts before I decide how many copies to print? If the cost is not prohibitive, my Uncle Gardiner may allow me to borrow from the book-sale money to pay for the printing."
"You have learned something about business, I see," Mrs. Trumbull looked at Elizabeth with a self-satisfied smile.
"Oh, I think only of the practical. I know nothing about the business of selling a novel other than what you have taught me."
"The expedient way is for me to pay for the printing, and then you pay me back when you have collected the subscription fees. After all, I instigated turning you into a published authoress. Mr. Peters will arrange for the publication. I have heard rumors Lord Byron's poem is at the final stage of editing, which could mean it may be another two weeks or two years before he is completely satisfied and allows its publication. Regardless, we should try to get your story out as soon as possible. Once his poem is available to the public, it will be all but impossible to take any attention away from all the hubbub surrounding his person and his work."
"Lillian, I am so very grateful for your generous support and sound advice. I was going to ask my Uncle Gardiner, but he is already so busy with the additional care of the Bennet women. Mr. Peters is very capable. I am certain none will do better than he."
"Mr. Peters was my late husband's most trusted manager, and Mr. Trumbull's business interests were very extensive. Now that I have sold all the businesses, Mr. Peters would be more than happy to have an interesting project or two to amuse him. I must thank you for providing one because I live in fear he will retire out of boredom!"
Elizabeth could not believe how easily the business of publication was proceeding. The power of wealth astounded her anew.
If I had married… Stop! no more of this capricious thinking!
Four weeks later, right before three hundred copies of her novel were ready to go to press, Mrs. Trumbull and Elizabeth went to see Mr. Charles Burney to view Mr. Burney's book collection, which numbered over thirteen thousand volumes. Mme. d'Arblay, his sister, was staying with him until she went back to France to unite with her husband.
Elizabeth was, of course, awe-struck. Standing before her was her idol. She simply adored the older novelist's first novel, 'Evelina.'
What she did not expect was that Mme. d'Arblay appeared to be quite awe-struck as well by Elizabeth.
"Forgive me, Miss Bennet, for staring at you so indecorously. When I first laid eyes on you, I thought I was dreaming. You look so much like Princess Amelia. The same color hair, the same shape of the face, very similar physical build, and especially the self-assured air about you all reminded me of our dear departed princess. On a closer look, the resemblance is not so pronounced, especially when compared to the princess in the last few years of her life, when her health was very poor. That was why I stared at you for so long.
"You may not know I was the queen's Keeper of the Robes for six years, and all the princesses, and Her Majesty in particular, condescended to treat me as a friend. Princess Amelia was the youngest, and only a little girl then. However, since I left Her Majesty's service, I have returned regularly to visit the Royal household. I am proud to claim Princess Amelia as a friend. I saw her not long before her tragic death two years ago. You cannot imagine how devastating it was for Their Majesties, especially the King, to lose their favorite daughter. Her Royal Highness was only seven-and-twenty at her death."
"I do remember reading about the princess's passing in the newspaper. Their Majesties must have been grief stricken. I understand that They are doting parents." Elizabeth paused and thought of her own family's desolation in losing Lydia, not to death, but to the unknown.
She then tried to direct the conversation back to more light-hearted topics.
"Madam, will you give me some hope a new novel is in the offing? I adore all your novels, especially 'Evelina.'"
The renowned authoress smiled indulgently at Elizabeth and admitted, "I am planning something, but all I have presently is a vague notion of a plot. If you are waiting to read a new novel, perhaps Mrs. Trumbull's will satisfy your wishes sooner. Many are eagerly anticipating that happy event. You are the bosom friend of Mrs. Trumbull. Do you know when it will be published? I hope it will be before I return to France."
"Mrs. Trumbull's? It is by A Scribbler! How have people even heard about the novel? It will not be ready for a few more weeks," exclaimed Elizabeth, and, sensing she may have said too much, blushed deeply.
"Ah, I have been wondering what made Mrs. Trumbull change her mind about putting her creative energy into novel format. Perhaps she did not?"
Madame d'Arblay looked at Elizabeth pointedly and observed, "You see, Miss Bennet, I have known Mrs. Trumbull since she and her husband began their soirees years ago. She is, without a doubt, one of the finest traditional bluestockings. I am very glad we have someone like her to keep the blue flames burning. Interestingly, not many of us blues have ventured into novel writing, myself being one of the few exceptions, but I am also by far one of the least learned. Even then, I concealed the fact I had written a novel, until it was discovered by my own father.
"Where was I? Oh, I have digressed. Mrs. Trumbull once asked me to read a few pages of a draft about her life in fiction form. I gave her my honest opinions. Soon after that, she told me she had given up on the novel genre altogether. Her style was quite distinctive—concise and scholarly. I should be able to tell whether she has, as everyone assumes, written the novel. If you were curious, I have already purchased a subscription."
Madame d'Arblay continued to scrutinize Elizabeth, and with a twinkle in her eye, quipped, "If, as I suspect, she is not the authoress, I do have an excellent idea who may be."
Elizabeth was shocked when she heard Mme. d'Arblay's insinuation. She could not refute the older lady's keen perception, but did not know how to respond. Instead, she remained tongue-tied and looked like a thief caught in the act.
"Miss Bennet, when people found out I was the authoress of 'Evelina,' nothing really happened. I cannot account for my fear at that time of being discovered to have written a novel. However, I shall not say a word to anyone else. I am eagerly awaiting the arrival of this novel so many have been talking about."
Mr. Burney and Mrs. Trumbull came over and joined the two authoresses, one renowned and the other anonymous. Mrs. Trumbull directed the conversation to the situation on the Continent, where General d'Arblay remained to serve the exiled French emperor.
On the way back to the Trumbull residence at St. James Square, Elizabeth looked troubled, but she did not volunteer what was worrying her. However, soon Elizabeth could not contain her anxiety anymore and blurted out, "Lillian, I should call off the publication. Madame d'Arblay figured out I am the authoress without having read a word of my story. I shan't bear it!"
Mrs. Trumbull was half surprised and half amused to hear this almost childish cry from one so sensible, and, after ensuring Elizabeth was quite finished, she counseled, "Elizabeth, you happened to talk to the only person who had the misfortune of having read my disastrous attempt at novel-writing. There is nothing you need fear about Madame d'Arblay. Her discretion is legendary. It is well known the Queen and the royal princesses favor her because she has never leaked a word about her years serving the Queen."
Elizabeth calmed down substantially, and her short-lived decision to not publish was reversed when Mrs. Trumbull disclosed, "Did Madame d'Arblay tell you the proceeds from the sale of 'Camilla' allowed her to build a cottage for her family? General d'Arblay was an impoverished émigré from France during the Terror. He, like many of his fellow countrymen, escaped with only the clothes on his back. Her family would have been homeless if not for the large number of subscriptions to the novel, which Madame d'Arblay wrote specifically to provide a home for her family."
Well, if the celebrated Madame d'Arblay could write novels for the financial means to build a cottage, then it is not wrong for me to do so to find Lydia. If Mr. Darcy does not like the way I tell the world about his private business, I hope he will someday understand I meant no disrespect.
Somehow, Elizabeth felt no relief after again rationalizing her decision to publish the novel.
In early 1813, the novel, "First Impressions," by A Scribbler debuted and was available for purchase through subscription. The three ladies sponsoring the subscriptions were Mrs. Trumbull, Lady Nottingham, and Mrs. Mulvaney, all well-known bluestockings. Because of their reputations, no one mistook the novel for a gothic thriller aimed for the younger set.
That Mrs. Trumbull herself was the authoress was not a mere rumor, it was well accepted as truth. Many gentlemen bought subscriptions, hoping to have suitable conversation topics when they attended the wealthy heiress's soirees. The first printing of three hundred copies, quite an ambitious number for a new author, sold out in one month. At a guinea per copy, the author earned over two hundred pounds after printing costs.
During the twice-per-week at home receptions, which were quite a crush, Mrs. Trumbull seated Elizabeth away from herself to spread out the crowd. It worked to a certain extent. The younger (and some not so young), unmarried gentlemen could not be persuaded to leave the heiress alone, but their mothers, sisters and the older gentlemen found Mrs. Trumbull's pretty friend an engaging, amusing sort of diversion.
Elizabeth could not help eavesdropping on the conversations occurring in her patroness's group. Much of what the gentlemen talked about centered on whether the heiress was authoress to the newest well-received novel. They piled accolade upon accolade on the superiority of the writing, the humor, and the depth of the writer's understanding of human nature. Elizabeth's own group also talked a fair amount about her novel, trying to entice Elizabeth into confirming Mrs. Trumbull was indeed the authoress. In addition, ladies, both young and old, gushed about Mr. Keynes, saying he was the most delectable gentleman who had ever appeared in literature—more appealing even than Romeo. The rest of literature's heroes should not be mentioned in the same breath as Mr. Keynes.
Elizabeth did not know what to make of this onslaught of praise. Were her guests trying to use her as the messenger to convey their flattery to Mrs. Trumbull? Or were they in earnest?
Even with so much attention focused on the authorship of the novel, conversation did move to the important events of the day: the war on the Continent, Bonaparte's retreat from Russia and potential ramifications for England, likely election winner for presidency of the Royal Society, the state of the King's health, and many other equally fascinating topics.
Elizabeth never expected to be so exhilarated to be among the erudite, intellectually sophisticated people of the world. She found she enjoyed their company very much.
Meanwhile, the letters from Rambler Cottage were also encouraging. Her mother had settled into a more amiable state. Mrs. Bennet seemed to have accepted she could not change Lydia's fate by being anxious. Helping Mary to get her wardrobe renewed had become her new mission in life. She had also stopped grumbling about her daughters, especially Jane, doing housework. They would likely need domestic skills in their futures if they were lucky enough to marry.
Jane's letters told of a somewhat puzzling occurrence. The winter was dreary, but unaccountably, Mr. Lytle came to visit every week, even though he was supposed to be back in India! Jane assumed he had put off his journey till the weather had turned more favorable for the voyage. His visits added interest to their otherwise uneventful life.