Prologue

June 1811

Mr Edward Gardiner, a respectable solicitor to many of the finest names of London’s upper crust—and who also dabbled in imports and exports to many of London’s middling ones—opened his paper, skimming past the headlines and rifling through its pages. Finally, finding what he searched for, he smiled at his niece.

“Lizzy, it is published in today’s issue.”

He was pleased to see Elizabeth’s quick expression of happiness, hastily concealed, as she attempted to maintain a nonchalant air. His wife, Margaret, and his other niece, Jane, were not so circumspect. “Oh, do read it aloud!” they both exclaimed.

The Gardiner breakfast table was a purely family affair. No servant interrupted them there until called for, and thus he was free to declaim and speak openly regarding the column’s authorship. He cleared his throat, and in sonorous tones, read the following:

“Mr Pennywithers Reports.” Glancing up, he remarked, “This is what—your dozenth column? I still think you ought to have called him something more dignified. Who has ever heard of such a name?”

“That is the point!” Elizabeth cried, forgetting to maintain her air of detachment. “I could not risk there being an actual valet named Pennywithers. Look what happened to Lord Howard’s gentleman, Mr Palmer, all on the basis of his lordship having attended the Rodens’ ball just as Pennywithers’ supposed master did, and having a surname that begins with a ‘P’!”

“You mustn’t fret over that,” her uncle advised. “After all, Palmer was taken up by Lord Lange quickly enough, and for higher wages. All’s well that ends well.”

“Thanks to your intervention,” his niece muttered, but to prevent further commentary on the subject, he quickly restarted his narration.

“At the request of the esteemed publishers of the London Herald, I forthwith pen another instalment of those little performances, practises, and opinions so kindly received by the public-at-large in previous issues. However, before another word might be printed, one thing must be made abundantly clear: as a gentleman’s gentleman, a valet of some standing in my little world of service to the illustrious, I possess a Code, an adherence to which is of the greatest importance. The first rule of the Code has to do with loyalty to one’s master. Having achieved the very pinnacle of success in this field of service, I would never—repeat, never—disrespect my master nor my position, neither by word nor by deed. As previously mentioned, I have served the same master for many years, a man distinguished by his shrewdness of mind and progressiveness of thought, celebrated not only for his wealth and prestige, but for his liberality, tolerance, and good character.”

“You do not think it is lying, do you? Pretending to write as a gentleman’s gentleman?” Jane asked.

“It is a performance,” Mr Gardiner assured her. “How many authors use a nom de plume, pretending to be foreign countesses or another sex or no one at all? I daresay Lizzy’s reports disclose far more truth than most of the broadsheets and gossip pages so popular these days.” With a dismissive gesture, he continued.

Forgive me for revealing what must seem like a boast, but I cannot count the number of times he has chuckled at some or other of my little observations, saying, ‘You ought to share that one with the world, man!’ Thus, when the chance opportunity presented itself to actually impart such limited wisdom as I possess, he not only encouraged it, but insisted I proceed. Whilst my true identity remains a mystery to most (humbly, I beg, may it ever be thus), I can assure you that to my master, it is not a secret and never has been. Therefore, as an aside to Lord H, who, ’tis rumoured, dismissed a fine gentleman’s gentleman merely upon the basis of his own ludicrous suspicions of this author’s identity: not only were you in error, but your recent decision to sport a waistcoat of puce-and-yellow stripe in the morning showed the world that your former valet was in fact the sole arbiter of tastefulness in regards to your person, and a tragic loss of personal dignity and sartorial reputation is the only result of your blunder.

Mr Gardiner burst out in hearty laughter—although he read each column before submission, he still enjoyed a good joke in print. “Priceless, Lizzy! Priceless! That toady old fussbudget Lord Howard will be the laughingstock of town. Wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to rehire Palmer, after this. I doubt he would be successful, for Lange is a generous employer and was lucky to get him. But Palmer has his revenge, thanks to you!”

He was rewarded for his praises by Elizabeth’s flush of pleasure at his words, and continued reading about who wore which magnificent costume to Lord Blakeney’s affair, the opinions of who was to be soon engaged to whom, sorrow at the death of a well-known politician, and the outcome of some spurious bets in the betting book at White’s, along with a witty moral tale regarding the advisability of wagering against the laws of physics when in one’s cups. All told, it was entertaining, informative, touching, and clever, as he and his appreciative audience were quick to inform, in compliment to its author.

But after Jane and Elizabeth had departed the breakfast room, Mrs Gardiner looked at him with deep concern in her eyes.

“Did we do right, in giving her permission to write these columns? I cannot help but wonder what her father would have said, were he alive to know of it.”

Gardiner shrugged, sighing. “Would you rather she remained teaching French at that young ladies’ seminary? I could shake my sister for the guilt she has heaped on poor Lizzy. The girl chafes at having to ask us for anything, though at least she no longer tries to eat as little as possible at meals.” When she had come to them over a year ago, their niece was broken in spirit, grieving, insisting upon trying to pay her own way and yet feeling as if she were a burden regardless; the very memory of it brought back his own feelings of fury and helplessness.

“She earns a bit more than she did giving French lessons, and it brings her happiness to use the talents God gave her,” he added. It was a means to an end for Elizabeth, he knew, but he could not resist encouraging her renewed vigour.

“But what if her identity is discovered?”

He regarded his wife sadly. “What if it is? She is no longer Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, and it will not hurt the future she wants for herself.”

“Edward! We must do all in our power to discourage her ideas! It is out of the question!”

“I am trying, Margaret. Nevertheless, her opportunities for a life such as her father wanted for her are gone—they died with him.” He patted her hand, hoping to soothe away the anxious expression on his wife’s countenance. “My sister will keep quiet about her identity. I have threatened her within an inch of her life—Matilda understands Lizzy’s reputation and welfare are at risk, if she reveals what she knows.”

Matilda Philips was the reason for the column’s existence. An old chum of hers had married Robert Bowen, publisher of the London Herald. Gregarious and fond of entertaining, Gardiner’s elder sister had nurtured the acquaintance; upon one visit a few months prior, Mr Bowen had boasted of the income he earned from publishing his society gossip columns filled with amusing and salacious content provided to him by members of the ton who anonymously created their own notoriety. A tremendous admirer of the art of rumourmongering—and probably having overindulged at the punch bowl—Matilda had promptly criticised his paper’s offerings as stuffy and dull, claiming that she could write a better column herself. Sceptical, but always keen for a larger profit, Bowen had challenged her to do it over a bet of the considerable sum of twenty pounds.

Philips, her long-suffering husband, was not of a nature to approve of either wagering or payment of said wagers, and Matilda had hoped afterwards that the incident would be forgotten altogether. However, the arrival of a large packet of clippings, poorly penned narratives, and rambling recitals from Bowen, complete with a curt invitation to display her talent for authorship, put paid to those hopes. Desperate, she appeared upon his doorstep one morning, begging her niece to rescue her from her recklessness, and Mr Pennywithers Reports was born.

It was supposed to be a one-time tale of a savvy valet, living quietly, expertly, in the midst of society, not a part of it and yet understanding it fully. Mr Pennywithers’s observations were witty, tasteful, sometimes forlorn, sometimes humorous and always relatable. He did not simply gossip, he told stories—stories people wanted to hear, and hear more of. When Bowen reappeared in Meryton with twenty pounds and a large measure of enthusiasm for the column’s continuance each week, Matilda had offered it all to Lizzy.

When his niece had sought his advice on the matter, Mr Gardiner saw the sparkle of interest in her eyes for the first time since her father’s death and he had been unable to resist encouraging the endeavour. Bowen now sent all communication and payment directly to Edward Gardiner, supposedly as Matilda’s solicitor, but truth to tell, the publisher asked no questions; as long as a finished column appeared regularly in his private mail, he could not have cared less who its author was.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth was saving for a future her uncle could not like and must, somehow, discourage. Notwithstanding his worry, he assisted her in the investment of her small nest egg. He knew her great ambition, which was a life of independence, of relying on no one and needing nothing from anyone.

He had a goal as well, which might be the same, although doubtful, or which might be quite different, or so he hoped: her happiness.