“That does sound rather trying.”
“It was impossible.” Miss Entwhistle set down her cup with finality. “I had known him since he was in short coats. I had witnessed him screaming himself purple over a dead frog he had found in the garden—he wanted the gardener dismissed for permitting such an outrage to occur—and I was expected to take orders from this… this creature for the remainder of my natural life? To call him husband and defer to his judgment? I could not do it. Lady Renwick had taught me that a woman’s independence of mind is worth more than all the estates in England.”
“And you have never regretted it?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.
“Never. His aunt has not spoken to me since.” Miss Entwhistle smiled with the apparent satisfaction of someone who considered social exile a small price for self-respect.
Lady Cathcart sighed. “And so Lady Renwick has cost you a husband, a fortune, and the goodwill of one of England’s finest families. A considerable tally for a mere novelist.”
“She has cost me nothing I valued. She has given me the courage to value myself.” Miss Entwhistle turned to Elizabeth with sudden intensity. “You understand, Mrs. Darcy. I can see that you do. You married Mr. Darcy not for his fortune—anyone can see that—but because you recognized in him a man whowould treat you as an equal rather than a dependent. That is precisely what Lady Renwick argues love should be.”
Elizabeth, who had married Mr. Darcy because her father was dying and her family required rescue, felt a small, uncomfortable twist beneath her ribs. Yet she had discovered something beyond mere convenience in her marriage; that much was undeniable. Whether it bore any resemblance to Lady Renwick’s philosophy, she could not say.
“I believe Mr. Darcy and I are still discovering what our marriage shall be,” she said carefully. “But I take your meaning. A partnership founded on mutual respect seems likely to weather storms that mere convenience could not survive.”
“Precisely!” Miss Entwhistle beamed as though Elizabeth had passed an examination. “Lady Renwick would have heartily approved of your marriage, as it was based on affection. Mr. Darcy might have been secretive, and as an aristocrat, he would appear to uphold the norms of society, but I have it on great authority that he had also attended those literary salons in London where radical ideas were debated—although he regularly upheld all standards of propriety whilst his brother… Oh, but we must not speak of him here.” Miss Entwhistle clapped a hand over her mouth and took an apologetic sip of tea. “I only suppose that he might know Lady Renwick’s true identity.”
“I don’t see why my husband would.” Elizabeth could not imagine the staid Darcy attending the lively literary salons and rubbing shoulders with those of no rank or consequence. “And no… we must not speak of the brother.”
“The brother is charming, isn’t he? And so well-acquainted with ladies,” Miss Entwhistle took on a speculative look out the window where Georgiana and Thomas were crouched against the stone wall, no doubt fascinated by Sidney and his growing family. “The boy appears to have forgotten his mother.”
“He still cries for her at night,” Elizabeth admitted. “But he calls me Lizba and follows Aunt Gina around like a lost duckling.”
“You have truly been a blessing for Little Tom,” Lady Cathcart said, partially to divert Miss Entwhistle from another outburst of her Lady Renwick obsession.
Elizabeth inclined her head, grateful for the change of subject, though she suspected the reprieve would be short-lived. Miss Entwhistle possessed the tenacity of a scholar who could not be diverted from her studies for long.
Indeed, barely a moment passed before Miss Entwhistle’s gaze drifted from the window back to Elizabeth.
“Speaking of blessings and maternal devotion—you know, Lady Renwick writes quite movingly on such themes. There is a chapter inThe Ruined Chapelwhere Lady Cecilia reflects upon the children she hopes to have, and how she would raise them to value truth above propriety.” Miss Entwhistle set down her teacup with the air of someone about to impart privileged intelligence. “But I have heard the most extraordinary rumor from my correspondent in London—a lady who moves in publishing circles and hears things before they reach print.”
“Miss Entwhistle collects rumors the way some ladies collect china figurines,” Lady Cathcart observed. “With rather less discrimination.”
“This is not mere gossip, Lady Cathcart. It is literary intelligence.” Miss Entwhistle leaned forward, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “There is talk of an unfinished manuscript—a third novel that Lady Renwick is working on. My correspondent believes she has seen pages, or knows someone who has seen pages, or at the very least has spoken to someone whose cousin once glimpsed a portion of the draft.”
“That is a rather attenuated chain of evidence,” Elizabeth remarked, suppressing a wry smile.
“The content is what matters! In this new work, an unnamed heroine apparently refuses a highly advantageous match with a titled gentleman. Rather than accepting the protection of marriage, she chooses to remain independent even at the cost of scandal.” Miss Entwhistle’s eyes shone. “She declares that she would rather be whispered about in drawing rooms than silenced in one. Can you imagine the courage?”
“I can imagine the foolishness,” Lady Cathcart said dryly. “A woman who invites scandal for the sake of principle rarely finds the principle sufficient comfort when the invitations cease arriving.”
“But that is precisely Lady Renwick’s point! That we value invitations and social standing above our own integrity.”
“Miss Entwhistle.” Lady Cathcart raised a quelling hand. “You are lecturing again.”
Miss Entwhistle subsided, though her expression suggested she was merely pausing rather than concluding. Elizabeth hid her smile behind her teacup, rather enjoying the spectacle of Miss Entwhistle’s enthusiasm colliding repeatedly with Lady Cathcart’s pragmatism.
“What became of this unfinished manuscript?” Elizabeth asked, genuinely curious despite herself. “When will it be published?”
“That is the great mystery!” Miss Entwhistle seized upon the question with evident relief at finding an interested audience. “No one has heard. The gentleman who published her last two books believes she has destroyed them. There are those who whisper that the manuscript contains revelations so personal, so drawn from life, that it could never be published without exposing the authoress’s true identity.”
“Or,” Lady Cathcart interjected, “the manuscript does not exist at all, and your correspondent’s cousin’s acquaintance invented the entire thing to make herself interesting at parties.”
“Lady Cathcart, you are insufferably skeptical,” Miss Entwhistle huffed.
“Appropriately so.” Lady Cathcart laid down her empty teacup, which Elizabeth promptly refilled. “I do believe the mystery only serves to enhance the demand for Lady Renwick’s audacious works. The speculation fills drawing rooms while lining the author’s pockets and guarding his or her privacy quite closely.”
“I confess I find myself charmed by the notion of some elderly clergyman in Worcestershire penning these passionate declarations,” Elizabeth said, allowing her smile to sharpen. “Imagine him thundering against the very follies he exposes—lamenting the decay of feminine modesty from the pulpit whilst Lady Mathilda deplores the very institutions upon which England is founded. The sermons would practically write themselves.”
