Page 73 of Mr. Darcy's Complex Courtship

“That is excellent.” Mr. Baxter nodded. “With your agreement, I should be pleased to read your work.”

How kind of him.I hastily set my tea upon the table. “I should love to have your opinion, but I used a unique form of short-hand that would be gibberish to anyone else.” I glanced at Papa, who gave me a subtle nod. “I should be happy to read aloud from my manuscript to you both, perhaps after dinner.”

Mr. Baxter rubbed his palms together. “That is an excellent plan. I am in great anticipation of hearing your story.” He settled back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Your father has writtenof your visits to your cousin in Kent and your aunt and uncle in London. I should appreciate your recital of your travels.”

Dang, must I speak of this? No feasible excuse came to mind, and I should not be rude to him. “Yes, if you wish.” Although I began the account of my stays in Kent and London in a halting cadence, my composure made a gradual return. I made no reference to my romantic involvement with Mr. Darcy, yet I could not escape mentioning him. Mr. Baxter followed my narrative with undisguised interest.

“Although I am not acquainted with Mr. Darcy, he is well-known in town to be honourable. Notwithstanding, I have also heard him described as high in the instep. It is a testament to your charm and amiability that he not only encouraged a friendship between you and his sister but also introduced you to his titled relations.”

“You are too kind.” To my relief, Mr. Baxter gave no indication of having followed the newspaper society columns; he made no mention of Mr. Miles or my supposed romance with him. “Although he did not present himself well when we first met in Hertfordshire, upon further acquaintance, I found him to be a kind and generous man.” At the verge of my vision, I caught Papa frowning.

“And what is your opinion of your sister’s husband, Mr. Bingley?”

With this new, safer topic, my comportment relaxed further. I elucidated my new brother’s many attributes along with the tidings shared by Jane in her most recent letter.

After dinner, I removed my manuscript from my bag and ensured the pages had not fallen out of order. I returned to the parlour to find my father and Mr. Baxter imbibing nips of brandy. A chalice of claret awaited me on the table beside my chair.

My pulse raced as I met their expectant gazes. Would they approve of my story? Mr. Baxter took a notebook and pencil from the table and placed them on his lap. I coughed to combat the denseness in my throat. “My title isMeandering Hearts, but that is subject to change.” I began to read Chapter One aloud.

Thanks to my cryptic system of short-hand, the task required my full attention, distracting me from nervousness that otherwise might have plagued me. I began in a slow, tentative fashion but soon advanced to a smoother pace. Mr. Baxter jotted periodic notes throughout my recitation. At the end of the chapter, I glanced up at them. “Shall I continue?”

“By all means, I want to hear more.” Mr. Baxter raised his glass to me. Papa maintained a placid expression, which I took as a positive sign. I took a sip of wine and continued.

When I finished the second chapter, Mr. Baxter signalled with his hand to halt me. “That is enough for this evening, Miss Lizzy. I am most impressed.”

“Truly? You are not saying so just to be charitable?”

“No, indeed.” His eyebrows cambered. “It would be the height of cruelty to give false encouragement to a writer whose prose lacked talent. Do not mistake me—your work is in no way ready to be submitted to a publisher. At present it is unpolished and needs the attention of a competent editor.”

“Oh, I see.” I resisted the urge to round my shoulders. No doubt I had made a plethora of mistakes.

A chuckle shook Mr. Baxter’s chest. “Pray, do not be discouraged by my use of ‘unpolished’. For a first effort, your work is very good. Your characters are engaging and distinct from each other, with traits readers will recognise in people they know. The plot so far has familiar themes, yet you gave them fresh perspectives.”

“I appreciate that.” I turned to my father. “And what is your opinion?”

“While I am not in the habit of reading romantic prose, I enjoyed your story. It is a fine beginning.”

I grinned. “Thank you, Papa.”

Mr. Baxter sipped his brandy. “Have you made an outline of the entire manuscript?”

“I have not written one down, but the complete plot is in my head.”

“Ah, well done. I should like to hear your synopsis of the rest of the tale.”

I provided a concise recital of the full narrative. Mr. Baxter pronounced my story to be clever and entertaining. He consulted his notes and proceeded to recommend revisions for my first two chapters. I took his initial, minor suggestions in stride. But he progressed to more significant changes, and I contended with a rising sense of umbrage; after all, this wasmynovel, and I had written the chapters precisely as I meant them to be. But when he explained the reasons for his proposed alterations and the improvements they would convey, my better judgment prevailed. I should be a simpleton not to take the advice of an expert like him to heart.

Later that evening, I retired to my room full of ideas for how to implement Mr. Baxter’s suggestions and eager to put pen to paper. I did not tear myself away from my manuscript until well past two o’clock.

Saturday, 4 July

Bedford

Elizabeth

I followed my father and Mr. Baxter into the gunsmith’s shop. The proprietor, a cheery pot-bellied man, regaled us with impressive tidings: two highwaymen had been arrested by the magistrate. One of the bandits had been taken into custodyyesterday; this morning, a group of townspeople assisted in the accomplice’s apprehension and recovery of stolen property.

At my father’s enquiry, the proprietor directed him to a selection of pistols while Mr. Baxter approached a display of rifles. Before long, I lost interest in the shop’s wares and sidled next to Papa. “I should like to proceed to the haberdashery.”

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