Pride & Prejudice Villains Revisited – Redeemed – Reimagined: A Collection of Six Pride and Prejudice Variation Short Stories
Author: McMann, Renata; Hanford, Summer
Date: 2015-12-15

Pride and Prejudice Villains

Revisited ~ Redeemed ~ Reimagined

A Collection of Six Short Stories
by

Renata McMann

&

Summer Hanford

Sign up for our mailing list and get your Thank You gifts!

From Ashes to Heiresses

In the wake of a devastating fire at Longbourn, Elizabeth and Jane are taken in by their aunt and uncle in Meryton. Concerned about their situation, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley come to Hertfordshire, but not before Mr. Wickham attempts to use Jane’s heartache to his advantage.

PLUS

Eat Like Jane Austen for a Day

Your shopping, preparation and dining guide to eat like Jane Austen for a day, without a household staff.

Sign up for Renata McMann’s New Releases emailing list and get free copies of Ashes to Heiresses: a Pride and Prejudice Short Story and Eat Like Jane Austen for a Day: a How-to Pamphlet.

Click here to get started:

http://www.renatamcmann.com/news/

Mr. Collins Deception

Preparation

The Interview

Early Days

Courtship

Marriage

Conflict

Happiness

Caroline and the Footman

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Epilogue: Sixteen Years Later

Lady Catherine Regrets

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Epilogue

Mrs. Bennet’s Triumph

Mrs. Bennet

Mary Younge

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue: Twenty Years Later

Wickham’s Journal

Wickham

Mr. Collins Deception

Mr. Collins appears in a large number of scenes in Pride and Prejudice and speaks at great length. In spite of his obnoxious behavior and stupidity, he actually does not deliberately harm anyone. It was challenging to come up with a premise that would make him a likable character. However, once we came up with the premise, Mr. Collins’ Deception was surprisingly easy to write.

Preparation

“He was a tall, heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty.” Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 13

There were three of us at the table in the corner, each with a pint of ale. It was perhaps not the best place to speak privately, but I would take whatever I could get. I let the conversation travel to my companions’ concerns; sympathized with their woes, congratulated them on their triumphs.

We’d known each other for years. I’d come up with Martin and with Ellison’s brother, with whom I was close. Still, if pressed, I would have admitted the day to day business of their lives didn’t hold much interest for me. I had to work to rein in my impatience.

I suppose my feigned interest could be called subterfuge, but we all knew why we were there. If I pretended a little more curiosity for other topics, it was an act of tact, not deceit. They were willing to exchange information for a pint or two, but would be less resentful and more forthcoming if I didn’t push them. After waving over the buxom serving girl and paying for a second round, I brought up the subject they knew I wanted to hear about.

“Tell me about the living at Hunsford and Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” I asked, looking back and forth between the two.

Ellison glanced at Martin, nodding.

“The living is a dream of a living. It’s six hundred pounds a year,” Martin said.

That was generous indeed, I thought. “The rectory?”

“Well kept up, and large enough for a family,” Ellison said. “I agree with Martin. It’s a dream of a living.”

“Why is the position vacant?” I asked, taking a sip of my ale. It was too watery for my liking, but the best I could afford to buy two rounds of.

“It shouldn’t be.” Martin’s tone was touched with bitterness.

“Lady Catherine has a special contract, drawn up by her lawyer,” Ellison said. “It allows her to expel unsatisfactory rectors within one year of their accepting the position. If you can last the year, the position becomes permanent.”

“I would have thought either of you would be more than satisfactory,” I said. This time, I wasn’t simply being polite. They were both solid, well-educated men, which was why I was worried. If Lady Catherine found fault in men like Martin and Ellison, it didn’t bode well for my chances.

“She wants the perfect rector,” Martin said. He bit out the word perfect as if it was an insult.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she’ll want you to write the sermons,” Martin said.

Ellison nodded again.

“Write the sermons?” I repeated. Most rectors used sermons from books. “Why write sermons when our best and most educated minds dedicate themselves to preparing them?”

“She wants you to write them so that she may dictate their content,” Ellison said.

“She also wants to run the rector’s household,” Martin said. “And she wants you to agree with everything she says.”

“When did she notify you that you weren’t suitable?” I addressed the question to both of them, cutting off what was, judging by their aggrieved tones, at risk of becoming a joint tirade.

“Six weeks before the end of my year,” Ellison said. He twisted in his seat, reaching for a satchel on the floor beside him. “I brought the contract. You might want to read it.” He pulled it out.

Martin stood, moving to read over my shoulder. Were I not being so politic, I would have asked him to take his onion and ale saturated breath a bit farther away. If that had been the state of his breath during his year as Lady Catherine’s rector, she may have had more cause to let him go than he realized.

“My contract was the same,” Martin said, retaking his seat. “My notification also came about six weeks before the end of the year. She gets as much from you as she can before dashing your hopes.”

“What else does Lady Catherine want?” I asked when I’d finished reading. The contract seemed both fair and reasonable, even if a trial period was a step removed from the ordinary.

“Constant flattery of the most extreme kind,” Martin said in that same bitter tone.

“She doesn’t want you to interfere in the parish. She wants to be the only one doling out charity. She wants to decide what you buy, what servants you hire, and what you plant in your garden. When my wife planted some flowers, Lady Catherine told her that was too frivolous. She drove my wife mad,” Ellison said. “Speaking of which, I should get home, because she’ll wonder.” He downed the remainder of his ale in a long gulp. Reaching for the contract, he stuffed it back in his satchel.

Martin’s ale was already gone, but I wasn’t offering to buy any more. I stood along with Ellison. After a last look at his empty mug, Martin got up as well.

“Well, Collins, thank you for the drinks. It’s always good to see you,” Ellison said, giving me a friendly slap on the shoulder. He pulled his hand back with a startled look on his face. “I thought you were getting fat, but that’s muscle. What have you been doing?”

“Working the harvest,” I said, opting for honesty. I wasn’t surprised by the shock on both men’s faces. Manual labor was not approved of for educated gentlemen. “When my uncle died, my aunt had little and I helped her some,” I said, feeling I should explain. “Until her death, I paid for her upkeep from my inheritance from my father. I managed to get ordained, but I don’t have much left in the way of funds. I’ve inquired at a dozen or more places, but I’ve only been offered one position, as a curate. The pay there is so little they can’t take anyone with a family, and I’ve a mind to have one. I had to work somewhere. I have to eat.”

I shrugged, not ashamed. Let them look down on me if they wanted. I’d benefited more from working the harvest than they ever needed to realize. Besides, these men should know better than most: If anyone is not willing to work, let him not eat.

“You might want to conceal that you’ve been working the harvest from Lady Catherine,” Ellison said. “If possible.”

I nodded. It would be easy. Since I was simply ‘William’ to the people there, no one could pass along the information. A little padding in the right places and my muscular frame would even more easily be taken as plump, especially as I couldn’t afford a decent tailor. People didn’t suppose their rector to be well put together, and would see what they expected to see.

“He might be able to get away with that,” Martin said, “But nothing else. There’s no point in trying. She has spies everywhere. You can’t trust anyone with your secrets.”

“It’s true. She isn’t happy if she doesn’t know every detail of what’s going on,” Ellison added.

“I’ll remember that,” I said. “Speaking of which, if I do get the living, do you think your brother will hold it against me if I’m aloof for a year? I think I’m going to have to pretend to be someone I’m not, and I suppose that means no visits from, or to, friends.”

“Definitely no visits,” said Ellison. “No letters, either. If you write him, Lady Catherine will find out who he is. It wouldn’t do for you to have a friend who’s related to me. I’ll explain it to him.”

I grimaced. It seemed a poor way to treat one of my oldest friends, especially after he’d put me in touch with Ellison in order to help me. “You’ll have to make my excuses, then, and give him my regards. If I get the living or not, I’ll see him in a year, one way or the other.”

“Will do,” Ellison said. “Sorry to hurry off, chaps, but I’m still making up for subjecting my wife to a year with Lady Catherine.” He gave us both a nod, shoved his cap down on his head, and departed.

Martin turned to me. I thought he’d make his farewells, but instead, he launched into a fresh tirade on Lady Catherine’s peculiarities.

“Is her advice so bad?” I interrupted after he’d been speaking for several minutes without showing sign he would stop. I gestured toward the door, indicating we should leave. The serving girl may still be flashing me an inviting smile, but the barkeep was casting angry looks our way. We weren’t ordering anything more, and were keeping other customers from using the table we stood beside.

“No,” Martin said thoughtfully as we crossed the room. “It isn’t bad. It may not be the best advice, but it usually isn’t the worst. The trouble is, she gives it on the tiniest details. You do as she says and provide constant flattery or you’re gone.”

We stepped out into the street. “What does she want me to flatter her on?” I asked.

Martin eyed me for a moment, his look almost pitying. “Everything.”

The Interview

“Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by silence; but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone, as marked her self-importance.” Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 29

Armed with the information I’d gotten out of Ellison and Martin, I journeyed to meet Lady Catherine. A curricle was sent to pick me up from the posting inn. It was of sufficient quality that I wasn’t surprised by the grandeur of Rosings, though I was still a bit daunted. Reminding myself of the importance of the interview, I endeavored to maintain my composure as I was shown inside.

While waiting for Lady Catherine, I executed the first part of my plan to curry her favor, quickly memorizing as much as I could of my surroundings. I wanted to select an item of prominence and use it to ingratiate myself. The trouble was, the dark wood, rich fabrics and gilded opulence of the room left me at a loss as to which object might be a favorite. Eventually, my eyes settled on the chimney piece. It looked costly, and new.

When Lady Catherine swept into the room, I bowed as deeply as was appropriate for royalty. With someone else, I would have worried the action would offend with its blatant sycophancy, but one look at Lady Catherine’s haughty expression assured me my friends’ assessments were correct. She took in my obsequiousness as her due.

“Mr. Collins, do sit down. Tell me about your education and experience,” she said, settling into a high-backed chair.

I sat across from her, not leaning forward or back. I didn’t want to appear either over familiar or too blasé. “First, let me say how fortunate I am that you have given me the immense courtesy of talking to me. I have heard much of your wisdom and acumen. I’m grateful for the honor of you even considering me for the position.”

I gave her a brief, but reasonably accurate, description of my education and experience. I downplayed my academic achievements because Martin had said she didn’t really approve of scholarship. Odd, for she also didn’t approve of labor. Did she not realize only a privileged few could survive without one or the other?

“What do you think constitute the duties of a rector, Mr. Collins?” she asked when I finished answering her first question.

Her questions, so far, were not only very reasonable, but also exactly what I expected. Armed with Martin’s information, I gave another prepared answer. “The rector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards everybody, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the family."

I was worried she wouldn’t care for the emphasis on tithes, but Martin had assured me she believed in them. She nodded, appearing pleased. Glad my friend had given me good information, I relaxed slightly. Maybe this would work.

“Do you have any connections?” Lady Catherine asked.

How I wished I did. Then, I wouldn’t be embarking on this mad scheme of pretending to be someone I wasn’t for an entire year. “No. I have no immediate connections. I do have a cousin I haven’t met, a Mr. Bennet, in Hertfordshire. My father and he quarreled some time ago, which is why I haven’t had the occasion to meet him.”

“I don’t approve of families quarrelling. You will remedy that, should I take you on. I assume Mr. Bennet is a gentleman?”

“Yes. He has an estate reputed to be two thousand pounds a year.” Should I volunteer more information? Probably. If she was as eager for knowledge as I’d been told, she would resent it if I didn’t tell her. “It’s entailed, and he only has daughters, so I may inherit this estate.”

“How old is Mr. Bennet?” she asked, sounding displeased.

“I believe he is about forty-five. His wife is a few years younger than he is and their youngest daughter is about fifteen,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t think to ask about the wife. I’d been told her family was in trade.

“Humph. I don’t believe in entailing estates away from the female line. Rosings will go to my daughter.”

“If reports are true, there could not be a more worthy recipient of your magnificent estate,” I said, assuring myself flattery wasn’t on level with falsehood. Now, I realized, was the perfect moment to implement my plan. “I couldn’t help but notice your magnificent chimney piece. It not only adorns the room, it goes perfectly with the furniture.” I didn’t turn to look at it until after I’d named it, so she’d know I’d noticed it before.

“It should be magnificent. It cost me eight hundred pounds.”

I stifled my shock both at the cost and at her blatant mention of it. “What wonderful taste you have,” I forced myself to say, a year already starting to seem like a longer time than I’d originally thought. “The chimney piece is a superb addition to the chamber. Although I have trouble looking at the room when I want to pay full attention to your questions and your wisdom.”

As the words left my mouth, I worried I’d gone too far, but could tell by her preening that she actually liked the last phrase. What could I do to increase her regard? The only criticisms she’d given so far were over my estrangement from my father’s family and the fact that I would one day inherit what was currently Mr. Bennet’s. I couldn’t claim I would give up my rightful inheritance and renounce the entail, for I wouldn’t, but I could suggest I was willing to extend the olive branch of peace to my unmet relatives.

“How is it that this Mr. Bennet has a different name than you?” Lady Catherine asked, before I could formulate my offer.

That one was easy. “My mother died when I was born. I was taken in by my mother’s sister, who was married to a man named Collins. They had no children, so they changed my name to Collins.”

Which I was grateful for. I’d met my father and been forced to see him on a scattering of occasions. He’d been a barely literate, miserly man. I hadn’t known my mother, but I didn’t like to think of any woman being subjected to him.

“Your father, aunt, and uncle are all deceased?”

I’d just told her I had no connections, but I answered as if I hadn’t. “Yes.” She liked longer answers, I realized, so I went on. “My father hasn’t been with us for quite some time. My uncle died two years ago. He left my aunt without much, and she died a little over a year ago.”

“How much money do you have left of your inheritance from your relatives?” Her eyes narrowed as she asked.

That was really none of her business, but I told her. I knew bankers gossiped and that I couldn’t keep it secret. I also added that everything I owned was packed and ready to be moved, because I would be accepting a curacy if Lady Catherine would not be so gracious and generous as to offer me a living. I managed to go on about that for several minutes. I expounded on what an honor it would be and how superb she was at such length and in so many circling rings of praise that I lost track of my own logic. Hopefully it didn’t matter if my sentences were fully coherent. Martin had made it seem as if she wouldn’t care if I was nonsensical, only if I flattered.

I finally fell silent. She regarded me for a long moment before ringing for a servant. When a footman arrived, I was afraid she would tell him to show me out. I could read little in her hard, arrogant expression.

“Bring my carriage,” she ordered, not even looking at the footman. “Come, Mr. Collins.”

She rose, and I stood quickly. I’d assumed she meant to have me returned to the posting inn, but instead the two of us went to the Hunsford Parsonage. I was almost too excited to take in the details of the place, knowing she wouldn’t be bothering unless she was seriously considering me. It seemed my mention of an alternative position, coupled with my flattery, had pushed her in the direction I was hoping for.

The parsonage was all that Martin and Ellison had said; sizable, well laid out and more than I’d dared to dream of for a long while. As we walked about, I tried to pay attention to Lady Catherine, knowing that what she said now would be important in securing the position. She walked me through every room, never complementing anything, but pointing out every flaw.

“So much work still needs to be done,” she said as we stood inside the last of the bedrooms. “I’m afraid some of the previous rectors were not up to the level one would expect. Do you have any proficiency with carpentry? There should be shelves in this closet here, because there isn’t room for anything but a bed in this room, so it will be used for a child or a guest who won’t need to hang up clothes. Could you do that?” Again, she looked at me through narrow, assessing eyes.

“Yes. I helped my uncle by doing minor work around the house.” Remembering some of Martin’s information, I added. “I wouldn’t presume to hire a manservant, because of the extra cost. I can do some of the heavy work around the house. It should not be beneath a clergyman’s dignity to do work in his own home, any more than it should be beneath a clergyman’s wife to work in the kitchen.”

“That brings up another subject. Mr. Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a gentlewoman for my sake; and for your own, let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.”

I stifled my chagrin. Why had I brought up a wife? Now she wanted me to marry, just like that? How could I court the sort of woman I wanted to spend the rest of my days with while pretending to be Lady Catherine’s toady? It would be impossible to find a female I could stomach who would also please this woman.

Well, with any luck, I could delay marriage for a year.

Early Days

“…nothing was beneath this great lady's attention, which could furnish her with an occasion of dictating to others.” Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 29

I was hired. While a man was sent to collect my things, I sat in Lady Catherine’s office and signed the contract her agent put in front of me, without reading it. Looking up as I placed my pen down, I saw her ladyship watching me with a frown.

“I do not approve of signing things without evaluating them, Mr. Collins,” she said.

“Nor do I, my lady,” I said, fully prepared for her reaction. “In this case, however, your reputation for honesty and fairness so far precedes you, I deemed reading the pages unnecessary.”

She favored me with a pleased smile, seeming not to notice the coughing fit that overtook her agent at my statement. A quick glance was all it took to assure me he thought I was a sycophantic fool. I considered it fortunate that I could add him to my growing list of those successfully duped by my act, and made sure my face was properly devoid of intelligence as he handed me my copy of the document.

Bowing my way out of Lady Catherine’s presence, I took myself and my newly signed papers to Hunsford, to the parsonage. As my belongings had not yet arrived, and to mollify my nerves, I immediately poured over the document I’d just signed. I was relieved it was the same as the one I’d read earlier, with only the dates and my name changed. I was just finishing reading when I heard a knock at the door. Folding the document and tucking it into my coat, I went to answer.

The knock turned out to be three women; a cook and two maids, if I was any judge. One of the maids was rather attractive, and I remembered just in time not to smile at her, turning the inclination into bemusement instead. I cast a vague look over the lot of them.

“May I be of some assistance?” I asked.

“Her ladyship said as to give you this, sir.” The one at the forefront, who gave the impression of being a cook, held out a sealed letter. “So as you can read it and decide if you’d like to take us on.”

They politely stood outside while I opened the letter and perused it, not closing the door. Even if the brief note had been less forthright, the food the cook carried would have swayed me toward saying yes. There was nothing to eat in the entire house.

As it was, I was offered little choice. Lady Catherine’s wish, according to the missive, was that I hire the three of them. She even detailed what each should be paid. I thought the amount a bit low, but as I had very little to my name, I wasn’t going to select that as a sticking point.

“Come in, of course,” I said, endeavoring for a non-threatening, bumbling sort of haughtiness. So far, Lady Catherine’s interference, as Marten and Ellison called it, seemed highhanded but exceedingly helpful. I dared to hope my year of probation would pass quickly.

Just like that, I was established as the rector, staff and all. While I waited for my possessions to arrive, which included some carpentry tools, I bent my mind toward finding more ways to fawn over my benefactress. Debating which would make her happier, asking for more detailed advice about the shelving I should install or throwing myself directly into my more spiritual role, I walked over to Rosings to thank Lady Catherine for sending the servants and to ask for suggestions for the sermon on Sunday.

She told me what to speak on and that I should give her a draft of the sermon by Friday evening. She corrected my draft and that was the sermon I gave, with a few minor modifications to improve the flow of words. As my friends had insinuated, it wasn’t the best sermon ever, but it also wasn’t the worst. While, like any reasonable person, I aspired to do well in my chosen field, I felt I could live with being a mediocre parson for one year.

Having gathered it would flatter my patroness, I visited Rosings every day that week to inquire about her and her daughter’s health. Miss Anne de Bourgh was a sickly woman with neither beauty nor presence. She must have something of a mind, because she played cards adequately and drove her low phaeton competently, but she was ignorant and appeared to have no opinions or desires. She was completely dominated by her mother and overprotected by her companion, Mrs. Jenkinson.

When I asked Lady Catherine where to get seasoned wood for the shelves, she gave me some from Rosings’ supply, as well as loaning me several tools to use until mine arrived. There was more wood than I needed for the closet, so I went into the attic to make repairs to the servants’ quarters, not wanting to waste. I’d given the cook first choice of the servants’ rooms, but it wasn’t much of an advantage because none of them were in good condition. I selected an empty room and made a platform for a bed, built into the wall, and including some storage under the bed. I wasn’t carpenter enough to make reasonable drawers, but I made a kind of tray that could be pulled out so the owner could look at her possessions. The tray had a lip at the back so nothing would fall out. It wasn’t much, but it was the best I could do. When I was done, the cook asked if she could move into that room and I gave her permission.

Two days later, a knock on my door revealed Lady Catherine. She swept into the room without waiting for the maid to announce her. “Mr. Collins, I hear you have made changes to the attic,” she said before I could even rise from my chair.

I stood, bowing. My mind scrambled for how to react to the anger in her tone. “Lady Catherine. What an unexpected privilege. Would you care for refreshments?”

“I would not care for refreshments. I would care to know what changes you’ve made to this rectory.”

“I followed your excellent suggestion of adding shelving in the smallest bedroom,” I said, hoping to distract her. I could tell she was displeased and I wondered which of my three servants had informed on me, assuming all three weren’t to blame.

“That is not what I mean. You have altered the servants’ quarters.”

Her chin jutted out and she tipped her head back, effecting to look down her nose at me, though I was much taller than she was. A quick glance at the maid, Sally, who’d trailed in behind her, showed the girl’s face was flushed. Whether from guilt, embarrassment or some other emotion, I didn’t know, but I resolved to keep a closer eye on the girl.

“Oh, yes,” I said, trying to think of how to mitigate the damage. “I did, but I didn’t realize my small modifications were within your notice, my lady. It’s certainly to my honor that you deign to care about them.”

She eyed me for a moment, and I worked to keep an expression of servile adoration firmly in place. “Well, show me what you have done, then,” she finally said.

“Of course, my lady. If you’ll follow me.” I led the way to the stairwell. As we climbed, I struggled to put an inoffensive face on what, apparently, was a grave transgression. “It’s generous of you to be concerned about my humble affairs. After your wise advice about putting in shelving, I decided that there were other places that needed what modest improvements I could offer.”

Apparently knowing every inch of the rectory was more important than her dignity, for Lady Catherine followed me all the way up to the attic and into the cook’s room, puffing loudly the entire way. When we finally came to a halt in the small space, I could see she needed a moment to catch her breath. I endeavored to look at anything that wasn’t her, so we could both pretend I hadn’t noticed her unladylike exertions. It amazed me to what lengths she would go to know every detail of what went on in my household. I counted it a lesson learned.

“I see you’ve added a bed, of sorts, and made some minor repairs,” she said. “It’s good to see someone in this rectory who treats it with the proper amount of respect. I see no shelves, though. I was specifically told the cook was given shelves. This is her room, is it not?”

“Ah, yes, my lady. There is a shelf. It pulls out from underneath the bed.”

“Well, don’t just stand there, sir,” she said. “Show me.”

Feeling decidedly awkward about it, as this wasn’t my room, I bent down and pulled out the shelf. I tried not to take too much note of what was on it, especially the smaller, more personal items. Lady Catherine had no such compunctions. She picked through the cook’s things, seeming to have no thought it wasn’t her right to go through another’s effects.

Finally, she sniffed, straightening. “You may return it to where it was.”

I slid the shelf back under the bed, hoping the cook's things weren’t in too much disarray. Although I hadn’t touched the woman’s stuff, she had no way to know that and I felt almost as embarrassed as if I had. I hoped my meals wouldn’t suffer. Of course, if it turned out the cook was the one who’d run to Lady Catherine with the news, she deserved what she got.

Lady Catherine took a final glance about the room. “I’ve seen enough.”

I responded with something between a nod and a bow and gestured that she should lead the way. She swept out of the room like a queen. It was a wonder she didn’t trip with her nose so far in the air. I was sure she couldn’t see the ground before her feet.

“I wouldn’t think a servant would need that much space for her possessions,” she said as we walked down the stairs. “And she has more than I thought. Perhaps you should pay her less. You certainly didn’t need to go to the trouble of adding conveniences for her.”

“Just as when a child has a scrap of a blanket that no one else values, it doesn’t mean that the scrap isn’t valuable to the child. It costs me only a little effort to give the cook space for her meager possessions, but I hope, in my humble way, I’m making her life better.” I also hoped none of the servants heard me talking that way, and that the anger her words sparked came out as pomposity in my voice.

I ground my teeth shut over what I truly wanted to say: Look here, Lady Catherine, just because you have so much doesn’t mean you should begrudge the little that the servants have. Pay them less indeed. I was already paying them so little I was embarrassed to call it pay.

“We don’t do that at Rosings,” she said. “I wouldn’t want it to be said that being a servant at the parsonage offers something more desirable than Rosings.”

Now we’re to the heart of the matter, I thought. I could certainly never have anything that rivaled Rosings in even the smallest, most insignificant way. What could I do to fix it, though? Did she want me to tear apart what I’d made for one of my servants? Maybe it would teach them not to tell Lady Catherine everything, but I still didn’t want to do it. “I’m sure the servants at Rosings consider themselves so fortunate to have a place there that they don’t need the insignificant work I did in this humble abode.”

She didn’t respond as we continued to walk, setting my nerves on edge. We reached the ground floor. She turned to face me, clearly not happy.

“If I can help in any way, I would be happy to build something similar for your servants at Rosings,” I offered, trying to make things right.

I couldn’t believe I’d already made such a drastic mistake. Until that moment, I’d had hopes of getting through my year with ease. Who would have thought one roughly crafted shelf would spark so much angst.

In the end, I didn’t have to build new storage for every servant in Rosings. Lady Catherine had a carpenter on her estate and she sent him to work with me for a few days. He helped me build two more similar beds in the Hunsford attic, giving me solid advice on how to improve my own meager skills, and then he tackled Rosings. Not long after, I heard the servants at Rosings had gotten drawers, rather than shelves. Even though the carpenter had shown me how, I knew better than to attempt to put drawers at Hunsford.

In all, the project served me well. It drove home that I had no privacy. When my possession arrived, I went through them, reevaluating. Most seemed inoffensive enough, the typical trappings of a man my age and station. My only concern was over my books. Taking a lingering look at them, some as dear to me as old friends, I closed and locked the chest they were in. I decided to keep the key on my person, to be safe.

I wasn’t sure if any of the servants could read, though it seemed likely Lady Catherine would employ one such to more adequately spy on me, but a literate servant reporting the titles of my books wasn’t my only concern. I also wanted to keep them locked away to avoid the temptation of reading them. If the servants saw me reading, probably even if I used a suspicious amount of fuel for light, it would be reported. I had to remember what Ellison and Martin had said and assume anything I did would get back to Lady Catherine.

Knowing it was the only book acceptable to Lady Catherine, I kept out my Bible, and referred to it when I wrote my sermons. That was to be expected, and I would suffer through it for a year. There were people who were satisfied with only a Bible to read. I was not one of them.

Courtship

"My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced that it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly—which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this subject.…” Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 19

After my mistake with the carpentry, things settled into a more amiable routine. I attended tea or dinner at Rosings at least once a week. I made a point of asking Lady Catherine’s advice on at least one topic each time. I kept a log on the topics and her answers so I wouldn’t inadvertently repeat myself. The log was labeled Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s Excellent Advice, which meant I could leave it out for the servants.

As I’d resolved to follow her advice in anything that could be reported back to her, I had to look at the log regularly. As Martin had said, just as with her changes to the sermons, her advice wasn’t bad. It wasn’t brilliant, but it wasn’t bad.

The fears sparked by my initial error were starting to wane, and I’d begun to dream again of making it through the rest of the year with ease. That was, until one day while having tea at Rosings.

Putting down her cup to regard me, Lady Catherine asked, “Why haven’t you married yet?”

“I haven’t met any unmarried gentlewomen who would be suitable,” I replied, my desire for food or drink instantly quenched by worry. “It’s very gracious of you to be concerned about my humble affairs, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone in the neighborhood who satisfies the conditions your ladyship has given me.” I would have to find other words for gracious and humble, I realized. I was repeating myself too much.

“That is true,” she said, becoming thoughtful. She picked back up her teacup.

Across the table from me, I could see Anne regarding me with mild amusement. I relaxed slightly, hoping Lady Catherine didn’t mean to pursue the topic. I took a sip of my own tea, wracking my mind for something to ask her to insure a change of subject. I was about to question where a man ought to procure more writing supplies when she set her cup down again.

“What about your cousins?” she asked. “I inquired about them and they’re reputed to be attractive young women. Well, four of the five are. That isn’t the issue, though. They are poor. Their father hasn’t saved anything and they will each inherit only a thousand pounds. It’s disgraceful that a man with two thousand pounds a year hasn’t put away more. Some gentlemen have no good sense.”

I had to agree with Lady Catherine that Mr. Bennet should have saved more. I was pleased that, for once, my nod of agreement was honest. Apparently, Mr. Bennet wasn’t as miserly as my father. I’d never been told what they’d disagreed about, and wondered if it had been over money.

“If you married one of your cousins, you could atone for the entail and solve your problem of not having a wife at the same time,” Lady Catherine finished.

I recognized the look on her face. This was an issue on which she would not be put off. I had a choice, I realized. I could give up my chance of a permanent position or I could marry.

If I chose a woman Lady Catherine liked, I would be more likely to secure the permanent position. If I chose one I liked, I would probably be less likely to. Of course, if I didn’t have a permanent position, I couldn’t support any wife.

Should I gamble on it? She was eyeing me intently, waiting for my answer. I looked to Anne, but found no help there. Whatever brief interest she’d had was gone, her gaze turned abstractly toward the wall.

I sighed, realizing I wasn’t ready to give up on securing the position. People married for worse reasons than to secure a living. I just hoped Lady Catherine was telling the truth about them being pretty, at least. “As always, your advice is excellent, and more thoughtful than any idea I could have settled upon. I will write Mr. Bennet immediately.”

“Show me the letter before you send it,” she said, a satisfied look on her face. “You want to set the right tone.”

It took four drafts before my letter was approved.

Thus, I found myself traveling to Hertfordshire. Lady Catherine wanted me to marry, so I would at least try to do it, if one of my cousins was suitable. If none of them proved to be, hopefully trying would be enough. I wanted the living, but not enough to condemn myself to suffering a woman I couldn’t abide for the rest of my life.

Within two hours of my arrival, I realized several things. For one, I was pleased to note that most of my cousins were quite pretty. Unfortunately, I also learned more than half of them wouldn’t suit. The two youngest girls were still rather young and too wild. If I were being myself, I would have been able to tame them, and likely enjoyed the effort, but the man Lady Catherine knew had no hope of doing so. Plus, either was sure to offend her ladyship almost immediately.

Likewise, the middle girl would never keep her mouth shut in front of Lady Catherine, who wouldn’t want others’ opinions expressed. She was also the only one I considered plain, and seemed the least intelligent. When my year was up, I wanted to be left with a wife I could have a decent conversation with; someone who would offer novel thoughts of her own, not well worn repetition of the arguments of others.

That left the older two as possibilities. The eldest had a kindness to her that would beguile any man. I thought it would also please Lady Catherine, though the girl, Jane by name, was so saccharine, pretty and good, the lady might be forced to harbor a secret jealousy. Still, she would be a better choice than Mr. Bennet’s second daughter, Elizabeth. Though striking and obviously possessed of a keen mind, my cousin Elizabeth was just as obviously overly proud.

That afternoon and at dinner, I played the same role as I did at Rosings. I bumbled about with no social grace and complimented everything incessantly. I made sure my shoulders were continually slumped, though it hurt my spine, in order to hide any semblance of a physique. For good measure, I apologized for most everything I did or said, no matter that there was generally no reason for it.

My act worked just as well in Hertfordshire as it did in Rosings. Of course, these people were somewhat disposed toward judging me harshly, and seemed quite ready to do so. All but Jane, who was apparently too kind to label even me as anything less than good. Elizabeth looked on me with thinly veiled disdain, and the youngest two could do little but giggle. Sadly, my cousin Mary almost appeared to like me.

At first, Mrs. Bennet seemed on the verge of open hostility, until she learned my mission was to wed one of her daughters. As a woman with five girls, I couldn’t blame her for being swayed by the realization. Somewhat mollified by it, she moved to having mixed feelings about my behavior, obviously suspicious of how much of it was a compliment to her and how much of it was avarice.

It was neither, of course. I didn’t care how attractive her furnishings were, or what food she placed on the table. I just wanted to be the same person in Hertfordshire as I was in Kent. As I’d been warned and already experienced, Lady Catherine had spies everywhere. The stray word of one maid to one footman, and so forth, would surely travel to Lady Catherine’s ears before I could even return. I had terrible visions of going back with a wife, only to find I’d already been turned out, my possessions piled outside a locked door.

Mr. Bennet found me amusing and barely hid it. I wondered how amusing he would find me if he knew I was acting. I suspected, once he got over the insult, he would appreciate the joke. In fact, the more time I spent with him, the sadder it made me to act. He was nothing like my father. I would have been happy to have grown up knowing this man. I thought, perhaps, my life and his would have been better for it.

The next morning, Mrs. Bennet set me straight on my cousin Jane. She was nearly engaged. In a way, it was a relief. Jane’s goodness was almost too much of a responsibility, and I didn’t think she had the kind of practicality that would make her a good wife for a clergyman. Also, she was too beautiful. Not only did I think my fears that Jane would inspire jealousy were well founded, Lady Catherine had two unmarried nephews she’d told me visited her every Easter. It would not do to have someone too attractive, especially if her nephews had even a scrap of her attitude of privileged arrogance. Jane would be too much of a distraction, in more ways than one.

The more I got to know Elizabeth, the second daughter, the more I realized she was even more proud and quick witted than I’d first gathered. Both could prove to be too problematical, but the answer was easy. If she consented to marry me, with all of my obvious flaws, she would make the necessary sacrifices to please Lady Catherine. She was intelligent enough, and could learn to be hard working. If she refused me, she probably wouldn’t be willing to work hard enough to do what was necessary for me to get the Hunsford living.

In either eventuality, I couldn’t lose, and stood to gain an intelligent, attractive wife. It was decided. I would court Elizabeth Bennet.

I soon learned there was to be a dance, to which we were all invited. I wasted no time securing Elizabeth for the first set. She wasn’t happy about it, but she had little choice if she wanted to dance at all. As much as I wanted to procure a wife in order to please Lady Catherine, it was already looking as if Elizabeth would prove too unbending for the task. Not to mention, I didn’t fancy taking a wife who quite so openly disliked me.

When the day of the dance came, I firmly crushed my desire to wipe the haughtiness off Elizabeth’s face by impressing her. Instead, I tested her by deliberately dancing poorly and apologizing for my frequent errors. If she could accept that with good grace, she could deal with Lady Catherine. While we danced, I noticed Elizabeth’s eyes often strayed to a tall, imposing gentleman across the room.

“I don’t know anyone hereabouts,” I said, curious who he was, “And I should, for someday I may live here, when your father is gone.” She turned a frown on me. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bring up such a terrible eventuality. Not at a dance.” I stepped on her foot. “Forgive me.”

“You are forgiven, sir,” she said, though her tone wasn’t as warm as her words. She glanced at the fellow again. Tall as he was, we would have been of a height if I weren’t spending all of my time slouching.

“For instance, who is that grim faced fellow who refuses to dance?” I asked. “I daresay he’ll be someone I’ll want to know. Someone so grim must be terribly important. Lady Catherine says it’s a person’s duty to know all there is to know about everyone important enough to know about.”

“That’s Mr. Darcy,” she said, her tone frosty. “He does not live around here.”

“Mr. Darcy?” I stomped on her left big toe. “I beg your pardon, cousin. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy?”

“Apology accepted,” she said. “Yes, I believe that is his name.”

She affected a look of indifference I didn’t believe. Nor was I indifferent, for I recognized the name. He was one of Lady Catherine’s nephews. As he looked about the room, I could see he certainly had her self-importance. Maybe it was a family trait.

So, I’d been right to maintain my act. Of course, being Lady Catherine’s nephew didn’t mean the man was also her informant, though it made it more likely. I realized I would have to meet him. The sycophant I was pretending to be would never miss the chance.

I halted abruptly enough that Elizabeth nearly toppled over. A blush crept up her neck as she righted herself, and she frowned at me again. I tried to contain a certain amount of unkind delight at badgering her so successfully. With her pride and Mr. Darcy’s arrogance, they would be quite the match. Of course, going by the look of him and the knowledge he was Lady Catherine’s nephew, he would never condescend to have her.

“Mr. Darcy is one of Lady Catherine’s nephews,” I said. “I must greet him. I’m sure he wishes to hear of his aunt’s good health and continued acuity. He’s lucky, of course, to have such a woman as his relative. I but receive a small modicum of her attention, and it does me so much good.”

“Sir, we’re in the middle of a dance,” she said, giving me more of a smile than she yet had.

So, my cousin Elizabeth didn’t wish me to speak to the gentleman? “True, but, and I beg your pardon, but we’ve already stopped. I know my patroness, Lady Catherine, would want me to speak to him immediately upon seeing him. Lady Catherine is extremely knowledgeable on what should and shouldn’t be done.”

“Mr. Collins, what will everyone think if we don’t begin dancing again immediately?”

“I do beg your pardon, but are you always so set in your opinions, Cousin Elizabeth?” I said, trying to step around her. “Lady Catherine is set in her opinions, but in a great lady, it is only reasonable.”

She practically scowled at this. While I had insulted her, I despaired at her unguarded reaction. It would never do for her anger to be so easily read if she became my wife, something I was becoming quite sure was a bad idea.

Elizabeth cast a worried glance toward Mr. Darcy. It was clear she would be embarrassed by me, should I speak with the man. While I found that both amusing and a bit hurtful, I also found it interesting. If Mr. Darcy meant nothing to her, my fawning over him wouldn’t concern her. I wondered if she cared for him. What, I thought, would my dear patroness, Lady Catherine, think of that?

Elizabeth did dance with Mr. Darcy once, but it looked as if they argued. Afterward, I stayed by her side, which annoyed her. Obviously seeking a buffer from my attentions, she hurried toward a smiling woman, perhaps a few years older than myself.

The woman didn’t have a face that would inspire sonnets, but she had thoughtful, kind eyes. Not unquestioningly kind, like my cousin Jane’s, but tempered with humor and shrewdness. She also had a fine, tall figure. When her hazel eyes met mine, I felt an instant connection to the amused and slightly withdrawn look there, as if she was content to be seen and see, but knew better than to bother interact with the overly self-important people around her. Unfortunately, I was portraying one of those people.

“Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth was saying, “This is my dearest friend, Miss Charlotte Lucas. Miss Lucas, this is my cousin, Mr. Collins, who is visiting us. He has been most attentive.”

The last was probably a plea for help. I knew she was not enjoying my attentions. I bowed slightly to Miss Lucas.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Collins. How very thoughtful of you to be so attentive to Elizabeth,” Miss Lucas said.

“It is my intention to be attentive to one of my cousins,” I said, putting emphasis on ‘attentive,’ “And I have settled firmly on Miss Elizabeth. I cannot take credit for the idea, however. It was my patroness’s. Lady Catherine is very clever and always thinking of ways I can better myself. I am beyond honored to have her. I’m sorry you cannot meet her, for it would surely be to your pleasure and benefit.”

Miss Lucas exchanged a smile with Elizabeth, but the look she turned on me was kind. “I’m sure it would be, Mr. Collins. We should all be so fortunate as to have a patroness with such stature to take an interest in us. I’d be honored to meet her.”

“Miss Lucas keeps chickens,” Elizabeth said, her eyes straying across the room to rest on Mr. Darcy, who was once again not dancing, though there were many unpartnered ladies about the room. “I suppose your Lady Catherine wouldn’t approve of chickens.”

“On the contrary, and I beg your pardon for contradicting you, cousin, but Lady Catherine feels we should be more industrious and put as much of our income as possible toward savings,” I said. “She is very wise, of course.”

“Well, then,” Miss Lucas said, “She may even approve of my helping in the kitchen. I do so like to fill my days with something useful, don’t you, Mr. Collins? There is only so much time one can spend on tasks like needlework, and I’ve no great aptitude for any instrument or singing, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sure she would approve, as it befits someone of your station, of course,” I said, containing a wince at my own pomposity. “Now, of course, begging your pardon, but if it was her own daughter, the lovely Miss Anne de Bourgh, of whom we spoke, it would be a different matter.”

“Are you well acquainted with Miss de Bourgh?” Miss Lucas asked.

I answered, not paying much attention to my own words. I marveled at how Charlotte Lucas could smile at me and carry on a conversation that sounded perfectly reasonable, all the while seeming interested and, even, kind. Was the poor woman so starved for attention? Even if that was the reason, she had a way about her that charmed me, and it was a balm after Elizabeth’s condescension and a month of putting up with Lady Catherine’s arrogance. A woman like Miss Lucas would make the remaining days of my probation infinitely more bearable. I allowed myself to examine her figure again, thinking she would go a long way toward happier nights as well.

While we conversed, I had to continually remind myself of who I was pretending to be. Twice, I almost asked her to dance. I wanted to dance with her, for our hands to meet even though gloves kept them apart, and our steps to be in time. Not as who I was pretending to be, though. Not as this simpering toady. I wanted to dance with Charlotte Lucas as myself; a strong, vigorous young man who skillfully guided his partner.

As the evening went on, I couldn’t deny the attraction Miss Lucas held for me. She was tactful and kind, and I felt oddly drawn to her, even though I knew I wasn’t really the man she was being so pleasant to. Miss Lucas would be a good wife, and maybe even more than good, but only if I could satisfy Lady Catherine that I’d tried my hardest to secure one of my cousins first.

I had to propose to Elizabeth. There was no help for it, for Lady Catherine would surely hear of it if I didn’t. As I prepared, I hoped fervently that she would decline. If she said yes, I wasn’t sure I would be able to get myself to go through with it, but I would make certain she didn’t say yes.

I planned it very carefully. I would make the most insulting proposal any woman had ever had. I would speak more of Lady Catherine than of Elizabeth. I would declare I wasn’t interested in money and then mention the money she was expecting to inherit. If she refused me, I would pretend I didn’t believe she meant it, insulting her in every possible way, to insure she’d never change her mind. If by some chance she accepted, I would come up with a new plan, but I didn’t think it was likely.

It worked like a charm. She refused me. I was amazed she stayed polite. To insure I’d made a big enough scene, I pressed her until she hurried from the room.

After Elizabeth left, I could hear her arguing with her mother. Realizing Mrs. Bennet must be trying to change Elizabeth’s mind, I was too worried she might still say yes not to eavesdrop. Her mother ordering her to accept was something I hadn’t counted on. Fortunately, she stood up to her mother, only firming my resolve not to wed her. I couldn’t have that kind of woman as a wife, even if I wanted her, which I didn’t. Not after meeting Charlotte.

Then Mr. Bennet began to speak and I held my breath so I could hear, for I’d already realized Elizabeth put more stock in her father’s words. Mr. Bennet said, “An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do.”

I started breathing again, relieved. It was too bad I couldn’t be myself with Mr. Bennet. He would have been an interesting friend.

Marriage

“…Miss Lucas … accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested desire of an establishment…” Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 22

Whereas before journeying to Hertfordshire I’d been hoping to return having tried hard enough to satisfy Lady Catherine, but without a wife, I now found myself set on wedding Charlotte Lucas. I worried it would be difficult, as I was acting like an unmitigated ass and didn’t dare not to, but our next meeting showed me she had the same idea I did. When the Bennets brought me with them on a visit to Lucas Lodge, Charlotte made a point of spending time with me. A woman as forthright and kind as I felt her to be wouldn’t make the effort if she wasn’t actively seeking a proposal.

My hopes thus bolstered, I sought her out the next morning and was pleased she contrived to accidentally meet me. It showed she was smart, and I very much wished for an intelligent woman to spend my life with. As a final test of her suitability to deal with Lady Catherine, though, looking into her eyes, I was almost beyond carrying about it, I gave her one of my pompous speeches. She didn’t even waver. I wanted to kiss her.

The desire, which I didn’t dare act on, was cooled by the realization that the time had come to make my formal proposal. Not because I had cold feet, but because I couldn’t bring myself to deceive her completely. I was under no delusions. Charlotte didn’t know who I truly was. She was definitely marrying me for coldly practical reasons, and the truth was, the living she thought she was getting wasn’t yet a certain thing. I felt obliged to tell her so, though a sudden fear she would refuse me weighed down my tongue.

“I don’t hold the living at Hunsford,” I forced myself to say. “It’s contingent on Lady Catherine’s approval, more than ten months hence. I would ask you to wait for that approval if I didn’t think it would jeopardize my chances of obtaining it.”

“You mean that since Lady Catherine wants a wife, you must have a wife.”

“Yes.” It was an unusually brief answer for me. For once, for this important moment, I met her eyes without artifice, silently begging her to agree.

“I will risk it.”

I got down on a knee. “If you accept me, I will be the happiest of men. Will you marry me, Miss Lucas?”

“Yes,” she said, and, to my joy, she did.

Charlotte turned out to be the perfect wife. She allowed Lady Catherine complete control of our household and dealt with her superbly. Perhaps a touch vindictively, I pondered the notion that dealing with such a headstrong friend as Elizabeth Bennet for so many years had taught Charlotte how to handle domineering women. Vindictive or not, I was sure it was true.

Charlotte also arranged things so that she often avoided spending time with me during the day. It saddened me, and would have made me bitter, except that it also made my life easier. When I was alone, I didn’t have to pretend, other than to make sure I maintained my slump in case anyone chanced to enter the room. As to that, it was so uncomfortable, I took to hiding myself in my study, saying I was working on sermons, but in truth working my muscles through a series of exercises I’d learned at university, when I’d spent my free time boxing. It helped, but I wished I could engage in a generally more vigorous lifestyle.

It saddened me as well that, in a way, Charlotte and I saw the most of each other in the presence of my patroness, for we were both so stifled on those occasions. A bright spot was that when Lady Catherine mentioned how gardening was the equivalent of saving, Charlotte immediately spoke of the healthful exercise of gardening. I could tell, by the minute signs I was learning to read in my wife, that she truly meant it, and had a passion for the task.

I was so pleased, I almost told her how much I enjoyed the outdoors and exerting myself, but I bit the words back. I would tell her next year. For now, I would have to silently delight in my wife’s love of gardening. Even without getting to share it with her, to me, it brought us closer together.

It also did, indeed, save us money. There were no frivolous flowers in our garden. I’d vowed to myself that I would come out of the year at least two hundred pounds richer, even if I didn’t get the living. That way, we could have something to fall back on until I could provide for us better. As economical as I, Charlotte sold eggs and planned to sell some of our produce. She made cheese and we lived adequately without spending much. Admittedly, it helped that we now dined twice a week at Rosings.

The only truly awkward aspect of our marriage was our marital bed. While I found it hardest to maintain the character I’d assumed there, I somehow succeeded, which made things exceedingly uncomfortable for both of us. I couldn’t even allow Charlotte to see me undressed, or put her hands on my body, for she would instantly realize that my soft, slumped physique was a lie. Instead, I hardly touched her, wearing what seemed like more clothing than I donned for daytime, and only with all light extinguished.

It only made matters worse that Charlotte was perfectly willing, if totally naive. She was a twenty-seven year old virgin and I felt terrible disappointing her. There was so much I wanted to show her, so many things we could do that I was rather sure she would enjoy, but I knew the frequency and duration of our interactions was being reported. Besides, I couldn’t risk any noise. I vowed, about twenty times a night, that I would make it up to her once I secured the living. She would learn that being married to me wasn’t as disappointing in that regard as she’d come to find it.

There were days when I desperately wished I could show my true self to my wife, but I didn’t quite dare. If it went well, she would be a part of my secret, making it that much harder to keep. If telling her didn’t go well, something I didn’t like to think on but had to consider, even someone as reasonable as Charlotte could become angry, and then who could say what would transpire? I kept telling myself, it was less than a year and I would have the rest of our lives to make it up to her, along with being able to offer her the security of the living.

After we’d been allowed a suitable enough time as newlyweds, Charlotte’s sister and father came for a visit, bringing Elizabeth Bennet. I managed to act as if I wanted her to regret her refusal, another thing I would have to make up to Charlotte, but in truth, I bore my cousin no ill will. I was immeasurably relieved Elizabeth had freed me to marry Charlotte.

Charlotte was kind, cheerful and intelligent. She put up with Lady Catherine’s interference without the slightest hint of displeasure. Not only was she the perfect wife for me in that regard, doing everything possible to help me secure the Hunsford living, the love that had ignited in me when we first met had only grown. I wouldn’t be lying if I said that, each day, I fell more and more in love with my wife.

Lady Catherine’s nephews came for their annual visit and it was easy to see both Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy were attracted to Elizabeth. It was exactly the type of trouble I’d worried would follow Jane Bennet if I’d married her, although both men seemed to be upstanding. Colonel Fitzwilliam wasn’t serious in his pursuit of my cousin, merely enjoying a mild flirtation, but Mr. Darcy seemed torn. Charlotte told me she thought Mr. Darcy was interested in Elizabeth. I agreed with that from my own observations. I was glad I’d married someone so perceptive, even if it meant I had to work that much harder to hide my true nature from her.

I was sorry for Charlotte when Elizabeth left. Lady Catherine discouraged us from making friends in the community and Charlotte was largely alone. She bore it well, playing the role our patroness wanted her to play. Even when Lady Catherine’s advice was bad, Charlotte followed it. Fortunately, that was rare. As spring turned into summer, Miss de Bourgh and Charlotte grew closer, and Miss de Bourgh would often come in and stay for a half an hour. Even though I enjoyed seeing Charlotte talking and happy, I found other things to do on those occasions. The role I was playing only made it harder for them to enjoy their visits if I was in the room.

Our plan to come out ahead financially was going well. We did sell eggs, and eventually chickens. We sold some of the produce from our garden. Between my savings, Charlotte’s small dowry, and our savings from the living, I calculated we would be able to have an income that would be enough to supplement a curate’s income; enough to make that a reasonable choice. I still hoped for the Hunsford living to become permanent, but I was determined to support Charlotte no matter what the outcome.

I was starting to feel the outcome would be good, however, if I could still call gaining the living good. Things were progressing smoothly, leaving me only a few areas of concern; for one, I was increasingly afraid of losing myself. Sometimes, the role I was playing came so naturally to me, I worried I was becoming the man I pretended to be. At times, I wondered if I could go back.

Worse, would Charlotte ever forgive me for my deception? Although she acted the perfect wife, I could tell what she thought of me. On occasion, I saw her embarrassment or even contempt. It pained me, but there was no choice. Nothing was private to us. She may not fully realize that, but I did. I must maintain the part I played at all times, even to my wife.

In time, the harvest came again. To make some headway in forming relationships in the community, in a way that even Lady Catherine couldn’t frown upon, I worked a couple of days helping out on a farm where the man of the household was ill. While I enjoyed being out of doors, I couldn’t work as hard as I would have liked, knowing my actions would get back to my patroness.

In years past, the harvest had been an almost transcendent time for me. I’d blended in with the other workers, impressive for my diligence and strength, but not known as an educated man, or a clergyman. My days had been filled with the labor of the earth. My nights, I had to admit, had always been filled with the arms of willing young women who were impressed with me in an uncomplicated, physical way.

Now, I couldn’t work as I ought and everyone knew me as Mr. Collins, Lady Catherine’s toady. Though, I had to admit, even with the little I did, it occurred to me that I didn’t miss the hard labor. While I longed for more physical activity than I currently had, I realized the backbreaking work of a common laborer, while sometimes romanticized in literature and my mind, would always be a grueling way to earn a wage. Strong as I was, and intended to keep myself, I couldn’t deny a greater love for the intellectual. Of course, with Lady Catherine dictating my sermons and watching my every move, I couldn’t indulge in that, either.

As for the nights, I realized I didn’t miss the willing young women, either. Now, there was only one woman I longed for. I vowed, as soon as my year was up, I was going to show her how much.

Conflict

“But however insincere you may choose to be, you shall not find me so. My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it.” Lady Catherine speaking in Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 56

My year was almost done. My patience had worn away to almost nothing as well, but less than three weeks remained. In light of what Martin and Ellison had said, I’d held my breath around the six week mark, but no axe had dropped. As that dreaded date passed and the end grew near, it was all I could do to maintain my façade and not let loose an explosion of nerves and possibly precipitous joy.

Charlotte was mending, and I was sitting at my desk writing what Lady Catherine wanted me to read for Sunday’s sermon. It was difficult, as I’d developed the rather bad habit of letting my eyes stray to my wife, dreaming of all the things I would say to her, and do to her, in three weeks’ time. After Charlotte finished the garment she was working on, she started looking through the box where she kept her letters.

“Where is it?” she said to herself.

“Where is what?” I asked, my ears instantly picking up the extra note of worry in her tone.

“The letter my mother sent me. The one I received two days ago. She included a new recipe she tried and I wanted to look at it.”

I watched in growing concern as she went back through the entire box of letters.

“I’m certain I put it in here,” Charlotte said, looking up at me with a frown.

“Did it contain anything Lady Catherine would be interested in?” I asked in a low voice, a sudden tension chasing away the giddiness with which I’d been contemplating the end of my probation.

“You are not saying she took it? She hasn’t been here in days. Besides, she wouldn’t deign to do that.”

“Sally might,” I said softly, after glancing around to insure we were alone. Sally, who’d looked so guilty the day Lady Catherine had stormed in asking to see the modifications I’d made to the attic. I’d long since determined she could read and I suspected she was Lady Catherine’s primary spy.

Charlotte looked at me strangely. She started to say something, but closed her mouth instead. She walked to the doorway, looking to see if anyone was listening. Coming back, she crossed to where I sat. Bending low to speak into my ear, she whispered, “They’re spying on us?”

“I thought you knew,” I whispered back.

“I thought it was confined to gossip, not reading our mail.”

I shrugged. What could I say?

She stared at me for several minutes, her eyes searching mine. I didn’t know what she wanted me to give her, but I couldn’t. Not for three more weeks. Those moments she leaned over me, her face so near to mine, were the longest of my life. With my eyes, I begged her to let it go. I vowed that I would make it up to her soon. Finally, Charlotte straightened, returning to her chair.

Wordlessly, she picked up another garment to mend and I went back to writing my sermon. I hadn’t written two lines when Lady Catherine entered, unannounced. Charlotte and I both stood immediately. She cast me a quick, guilty glance.

“This is outrageous!” Lady Catherine yelled, more irate than I’d ever seen her.

I kept my face bland, but my heart was sputtering in my chest. What had been in that letter? Why hadn’t Charlotte told me? We could have recopied the bleeding recipe and burned the thing.

“Please sit down, Lady Catherine. What has upset you?” Charlotte asked. “Is there anything we can get you?”

“No, there is nothing you can get me,” Lady Catherine said, all but shouting. She waved a piece of paper at Charlotte. “This letter, your mother’s letter,” she clarified in accusatory tones. “It says Darcy is courting Elizabeth Bennet.”

“Mr. Darcy is engaged to your daughter,” I said, but my eyes were on my wife, pleading with her not to point out that Lady Catherine was holding her private correspondence. “Lady Lucas must be mistaken.” Of course, the engagement had never been announced, nor, as far as I could tell, acknowledged by Mr. Darcy.

“Yes.” Lady Catherine turned to face me. She stood for a moment, huffing and puffing while she regained her composure. My heart dared to return to a normal beat. “Yes, it is as you say. It must be a mistake. I will go there and see that the rumor is instantly contradicted. You will write to Mr. Bennet and tell him his daughter can’t issue such calumny.”

I glanced at Charlotte, who gave me a barely perceptible nod. I wrote the letter at Lady Catherine’s direction. There were one or two things in it that I knew Mr. Bennet would enjoy, but I couldn’t be proud of what I said. After she left, I sat for a long while, staring out the window at nothing. Charlotte, my perfect wife, set aside her mending and came to stand behind me, her hands on my shoulder. The next morning, Lady Catherine left Rosings, the whole community abuzz with the news she was headed to Hertfordshire. Later, I found out she tried to persuade first Elizabeth and then Mr. Darcy that the two of them should not marry.

I could do nothing while Lady Catherine was away. I couldn’t concentrate on my sermon, or, rather, her sermon. I was all nerves, and swirling thoughts. My head ached and my appetite was gone. I knew that my reassurance to her was hollow. I’d seen how Mr. Darcy looked on my cousin. It was the way I looked at Charlotte when no one was watching. It was love, and if Elizabeth returned his feelings, they were both too strong willed to let Lady Catherine come between them.

Nor did I wish them to. They were in love, well suited, and deserved the happiness that would bring them. I just wished they’d waited a little longer. It had taken them so much time to sort out their differences and make a match. What would a few more weeks have mattered?

When Lady Catherine finally returned, she didn’t come to speak with Charlotte and me. We didn’t receive any invitations to Rosings and I didn’t see any of the inhabitants for five days. With my probation almost over, I knew I’d failed. For all my hard work, someone else’s love had ruined my plans.

One evening, there were timid footsteps outside the parlor door, and Sally crept into the room where Charlotte and I sat, both of us pretending to work. I looked up from the page before me, a painful stab of hope quickly turning into an even more painful one of despair. Sally’s tear-streaked face told all.

“Mister, missus,” Sally said, coming into the room.

“What is it, Sally?” Charlotte asked, after looking to me.

I sank back in my chair, unable to speak.

“It’s her ladyship,” Sally said, her voice quavering. “She . . . she said as she wasn’t going to let mister stay on as rector. She said he’s related to that woman, as she’s calling Miss Bennet, and she won’t have vipers about her.”

“I take it Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth are engaged, then?” Charlotte asked. Her tone was neutral. I assumed she was pleased for Elizabeth. I hoped she wasn’t wishing she’d never married me.

“They are,” Sally wailed, bursting into tears.

Charlotte crossed to the girl, taking her into her arms and patting her back.

“Please, missus,” Sally babbled, “Please take me with you when you go. Don’t leave me here.”

I couldn’t hear what Charlotte murmured back, nor did I really care. I shook my head. What could I do? Where would we go? We could stay with Charlotte’s parents for a few weeks. That might be long enough for me to find a curacy. Our savings would make one livable for a while. We had succeeded in putting away more than two hundred pounds. We would be poor, but I knew Charlotte could manage.

Watching Sally, I wanted to weep as well. Six more days. If the news had come just a little later, I would have succeeded.

As I sat there, watching my wife comfort Sally when I wished she was comforting me, a strange sense of buoyancy invaded me. I sat up straight in my chair. Straighter than I had in a year. Even though our prospects were dire, and I’d just wasted a year of my life living a repugnant lie to gain something I would never have, I was free. I may have lost the living, but now I could regain myself. It felt so good to be free, I don’t think I would even have regretted the loss, were it not for the security I wished to provide Charlotte.

The next morning, Sunday morning, I met Lady Catherine at the church door. She pointedly snubbed me. When I got up to give my sermon, she preempted me, saying, before the whole congregation, “This will be your last sermon here, Mr. Collins. I will be replacing you.”

“Very well,” I said, not surprised by her declaration or her deliberately cruel timing. I looked out over the pews. “The lesson today is from Matthew 19:24. And again I say unto you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.” I paused just long enough to let that sink in, watching her ladyship’s eyes widen. “While we must take Jesus at his word, I do not believe that He meant it is impossible for a rich man or a rich woman to go to heaven, just that it will be very difficult. The rich are tempted in ways that the poor are not.”

Lady Catherine was turning red. I think she would have left if she hadn’t been so stunned, and not the type of woman to back down. Beside her, Anne de Bourgh leaned forward, her usually bland features animated with interest.

“Some people claim that it is a mistranslation,” I continued, not reading her sermon as I usually did, or even referring to notes. “The word for ‘camel’ in Greek is ‘kamelos,’ but ‘kamilos’ is the word for ‘cable,’ which might mean rope in this context. If that is accepted, then Jesus was saying it is difficult, but not impossible. Whichever meaning, I think Jesus was using hyperbole, which He sometimes did. The rich can go to Heaven. Our merciful God would not deny them simply because they are rich. If they are denied Heaven, it is because they are not worthy. However He judges them, it will be on their thoughts and actions, not their accumulation of wealth.”

I certainly had her attention.

“I have to wonder why it is difficult for the rich to—”

“Be quiet!” Lady Catherine interrupted, standing. “I will not have you here to remind me that your cousin married the man who was engaged to my daughter. I will not have your wife here, who brought her artful friend to seduce Mr. Darcy away from Anne. You are a pompous fool and your wife is a scheming hussy. She is lowborn and ugly. She is not fit—”

“You will not insult my wife,” I interrupted, anger as I’d rarely felt it shooting through me. It was one thing for Lady Catherine to screech abuse at me, since I surely deserved it in many ways, but Charlotte was blameless. “Charlotte is the most wonderful woman who has ever lived. She is kind and patient, intelligent and loving. She has put up with your meddling with the tolerance of a saint. I know I am not worthy of her, no one is, but I will not further betray her love by allowing you to degrade her. You may object to me, but she has been the perfect woman, and has shown it time and time again by putting up with you. You don’t know what a gem you have in her, and you want to throw it away.”

I turned to Charlotte, wanting her to know I meant every word I was saying. She was staring at me with wide eyes. Her expression was so shocked, I couldn’t read what other emotions might reside in her.

“I have every right to get rid of you,” Lady Catherine declared. “I should have done so the moment I learned how scheming you are, with your locked away secrets.”

“Locked away secrets?” I repeated, unsure of her meaning. Lady Catherine wasn’t one for metaphor.

“What do you keep in that locked trunk?” She asked with her chin in the air, clearly sure she’d found my most vile transgression.

I laughed. “I’ll show you.” I came down from the pulpit, intending to lead the way to the rectory.

Lady Catherine stepped in front of me. “No. Someone will fetch it. I don’t trust anyone as scheming as the two of you.” She spared a glance past me to Charlotte, reigniting my anger.

In the end, it took two strong men to carry in the chest containing my books. Knowing Lady Catherine would protest me approaching the trunk, as if I could whisk whatever was within into hiding with so many eyes on me, I handed the key to one of her neighbors. He was respected in the community, which should satisfy most, and didn’t toady to Lady Catherine, which satisfied me.

Kneeling down, the man opened it and said in a puzzled tone, “Books.”

“Books?” Lady Catherine echoed. She went to look. “This one is in Greek.”

“Aristotle,” I said.

“Is this Latin?” she asked, picking one up.

“Augustine’s Confessions,” I said, moving to take it from her. I didn’t like to see my precious books in her grasping, claw like fingers. Kneeling down, which made her step back, I took all the books out, one by one, and held them up to the crowd that gathered around me, naming each.

When I was done, Lady Catherine stepped forward again, peering into the bottom of the trunk. “That’s all? Books?” she asked. Behind her, I could see her daughter, open amusement on her face. “Why lock them away?”

“Because I couldn’t conceal them from you otherwise,” I said, beginning to carefully return them to the chest. Charlotte appeared at my side and started helping me. I tried to catch her eye, but she kept her gaze turned to the task.

“Why did you want to conceal these books from me?” Lady Catherine demanded, glaring down at me.

I stood, to my full height, towering over her. “I went to Oxford. You know that. But what you don’t know is that I actually learned something there. I knew you didn’t want an educated man, only one who would do what you asked.”

All about the church, people murmured. Lady Catherine didn’t acknowledge them, but I could see her face reddening again. She glared at me, her jaw working as if she tried to put together what she wished to say.

Beside me, Charlotte placed the last book in the chest, closed the lid and stood. Reaching down, I lifted it with ease, hoisting it to my shoulder. Since two men had carried it into the church with obvious difficulty, I knew I was showing off, and meant to. Let them see I wasn’t the man I’d pretended to be. I pitched my voice so everyone would hear what I intended to be my last remarks. “Lady Catherine wants everyone to follow her advice, including whom to hire and whom to marry, and she goes too far. We are not meant to be puppets to her, or shadows of her wishes. She needs to learn to accept people more for who they are. Her rigidity doesn’t serve her well. She could not even find a rector she could accept after three tries.”

“Mr. Collins,” Miss de Bourgh said in a voice that was louder than I’d ever heard her use. Everyone turned to look at her. “My mother confirmed to the bishop that you have the living weeks ago. It is too late for her to change that. I think if you left and didn’t return, she thought she could convince the bishop to remove you.”

Charlotte turned to Miss de Bourgh, gave her a deep curtsey and said, “Thank you!” She looked up at me. I still couldn’t read her expression, for all I’d come to know her well over the past months, but, looking down at her, I was struck by how proud I was to have her as my wife.

“I have never been so entertained in this church,” Miss de Bourgh said. “I want you to stay, but it might be a good idea for you to leave for a few weeks, until my mother’s anger dies down.”

A glance at Lady Catherine, her face the color of her prized Damask Roses and sputtering so much she couldn’t speak, confirmed Miss de Bourgh’s advice to be sound. With a bow to Miss de Bourgh, encumbered slightly by my box of books, and a smile for my wife, I strolled from the church, Charlotte at my side.

Happiness

“It is settled between us already, that we are to be the happiest couple in the world.” Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 59

Before arranging for our trip to visit Charlotte’s family, there were two exceedingly important things I had to see to. After depositing my box of books, I took Charlotte to a bench outside to see to the first; my long overdue confession. Although we were visible to anyone who passed on the road, no one could overhear us without our seeing them, not that I cared any longer.

“I know I’ve used these words too many times for them to have meaning any longer, but I wish to humbly apologize for my behavior. I deceived you as to what kind of man I am. Or, at least, what kind of man I think I am.”

“Then take this chance to put things right,” she said, smiling at me in that warm, reassuring way I’d come to cherish.

So I did. I told her everything. How I’d met with my friends, who had once sought this very position. How I’d carefully planned what sort of man could win it. About my first lesson in Lady Catherine’s spying. Looking into her eyes, I told her, because she had the right to know, about how I’d never wanted to marry Elizabeth Bennet and had deliberately sabotaged my proposal to her to insure she wouldn’t accept. I told her how, after speaking with her, Charlotte, at the dance, she was the only woman I wanted. I even included my concerns about becoming what I’d pretended to be.

Because she is the most wonderful wife there could ever be, Charlotte forgave me, and because she was willing to do that, I told her of my greatest hope; that, eventually, she would come to love me.

Seeing, at that final confession, my first glimpse of doubt in her eyes, I took her by the hand and pulled her off the bench. Leading my baffled wife inside, on a Sunday morning no less, I brought her to my bedroom. It was time to take care of that second exceedingly important thing.

Two days later, we did, as Anne de Bourgh had suggested, take a trip to visit Charlotte’s family. At first, I could tell they weren’t overjoyed to see us, or rather, me, but I took their dislike as my due and worked at being who I truly was. Soon, people began to view me as a changed man, the credit for which they gave to Charlotte. I was happy for her to take it. It may not have been given for the exact right reason, but Charlotte surely deserved every accolade a wife could be ascribed.

During our visit, I soon took to spending much of my days with Mr. Bennet. He was the only other person to whom I imparted the whole truth of my deception, for, in him, I saw a man I hoped would come to view me as the son he didn’t have. In less time than I’d dared hope, he came to see the comedy in what I’d done. I was confident that, eventually, I would gain his trust and regard.

Near the end of our visit, we, along with every other suitable member of the community, were invited to a dance. Mr. Darcy was in attendance, with his new fiancée, my cousin Elizabeth. Mr. Bingley and his fiancée, Jane Bennet were also there, as were two of my three younger cousins.

Charlotte, I could tell, was happy to be dressed in her finery and among friends. She headed straight for Elizabeth when we arrived, leaving me to trail after. My cousin Elizabeth and her fiancé, I was quite sure, had been avoiding me. I didn’t blame them, but it was with no small amount of pleasure that I strolled toward them, dressed in my own finery and standing tall and straight so I could look Mr. Darcy in the eyes. It amused me to note that he endeavored to look down at me, but couldn’t.

Charlotte’s father, Sir William Lucas, came up to them just as we reached them, turning to Mr. Darcy. “Sir, you are carrying away the brightest jewel of Hertfordshire.”

“The second brightest jewel,” I said. “The former Miss Lucas was the brightest.”

I saw a flicker of shock on Mr. Darcy’s face. I’m not certain if he reacted because I showed less than my usual respect or because of my calling Charlotte the brightest jewel. Charlotte’s hand found mind and I gave a gentle squeeze.

“Cousin Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy,” I greeted, realizing some of his shock might also have been because I was using my normal speaking voice, which I was sure neither had heard before that day.

“Mr. Collins,” Mr. Darcy replied with a nod of acknowledgment. “My cousin Anne informs me that Lady Catherine has taken exception to you.”

I wondered what else Anne had said, but would never ask. “I’m afraid so. On occasion, for all her frankness, Lady Catherine seems to have a firm dislike of the truth.” I waited to see if he felt I’d overstepped, but his only acknowledgment of my words was a slight smile.

“I’m sure Mr. Collins was only applying himself properly to his role as rector,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes, he was,” Charlotte said, her tone vehement.

I smiled down at her.

Mr. Darcy cocked his head to the side, obviously reevaluating me. “It seems the next set is about to begin, and I promised Miss Bennet I would dance with her.” He offered Elizabeth his arm. “If you’ll excuse us?”

“Cousin,” Elizabeth said, by way of farewell.

Charlotte watched them go with a little sigh, then started to look about for a seat. I touched her arm, leaning down to speak in her ear. “Dance with me, Charlotte.”

She cast me a distracted smile, not giving up her search. “I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble,” she said, taking a step toward two empty chairs.

I reached out and caught her hand. A gentle tug brought her back to me. “I’ve been dreaming of dancing with you since the first night we met,” I told her, using a voice I reserved for her ears alone.

She colored slightly, her eyes searching mine. “Very well.”

I lead my wife to join the other couples, and proceeded to show her that I could dance as well as, if not better than, any man there. I knew there were many eyes upon us, but I ignored them, just as I ignored propriety and danced with Charlotte again, and yet again, and on through the evening. There would be time for proper behavior at another dance. For tonight, I owned Charlotte a year’s worth, and I intended to pay her back in full.

Later that night, when we were alone in our room at Lucas Lodge, Charlotte stopped me before I could climb into bed. Silently taking my hands, she placed one on her waist, clasping the other, as if we were about to waltz. She was wearing only her night clothes, and her skin was warm under my palm. She looked up at me, seeming almost shy.

“I’ve never waltzed,” she said. “Will you waltz with me, William?”

Looking down at her, there were other things I’d rather have done at that moment, but I supposed they could wait until later. “It would be my honor,” I said.

Humming to guide our steps, I spun my beautiful wife, my Charlotte, about the small open space in the room. When she smiled up at me, her eyes glowing, and said, “I love you, William,” I knew everything I’d done, every step I’d taken and misery I’d born, had all been worth it.

When we returned to Hunsford, I stopped the spying by making it clear we would let go any servant who talked about us. Sally became fiercely loyal and was exceedingly grateful we forgave her for spying. I felt that if Charlotte could forgive me for my actions to please Lady Catherine, I could forgive Sally. She married a local farmer and Charlotte was godmother to their first child. Free of Lady Catherine’s dictates, Charlotte and I became active in helping those in our parish. Eventually, even Lady Catherine realized that Charlotte was often a better judge of who needed help than she was.

Miss de Bourgh was a true friend to Charlotte and insisted we still come to Rosings for dinner now and then. Charlotte found other women in the community to befriend, and I came to be on good terms with some of their husbands. I built some shelves in my study and put out all of my books. I kept writing my own sermons, though now they were truly mine, and invited some of my former friends to visit.

As time went on, Charlotte gave me the gift of children. All three of them are a constant joy to us and I have been able to teach my son both my love of learning and my enjoyment of physical work. I can truly say that Charlotte has made me the happiest of men.

As for Lady Catherine, for the first year she had her coachman take her to a neighboring parish to attend church and Charlotte and I never visited Rosings, though Miss de Bourgh frequently called on us. One day, Lady Catherine surprised everyone by showing up and sitting in her pew. She nodded to me when the service was over and continued attending. She sometimes spoke to me briefly, criticizing my sermon. When Lady Catherine spent money to repair a local road, I praised her in my oration. As she left the church, she told me she knew better than to listen to what I said. I replied that only Charlotte would have the kindness of heart to forgive my deception.

"If not for me, you wouldn't have married her," she told me.

I agreed with her. If not for Lady Catherine, I wouldn't have the living, a community, my wonderful children and my beautiful, perfect wife.

~ The End ~

Caroline and the Footman

Caroline and the Footman is a deliberate attempt to see if Miss Bingley can be made to be sympathetic. She is definitely a villain in Jane Austen’s work, since she is willing to hurt others for her own benefit. She undermines herself in almost every scene she has with Darcy, so it is equally hard to think of her as intelligent. In order to make her a likable heroine, she needed a complete change in character as well as hidden motivation.

Prologue

She hugged him with tears in her eyes. Her brother was separating them, although he didn’t realize it. Robert slid his arms around her, stroking her back as he held her close. She could feel the calluses on his hands snag the silk of her gown, and she resented it. Not the calluses, but the silk.

His hands, she loved. Their roughened skin spoke of a man who was strong and capable, not some frivolous dandy, good for nothing but gadding about town. Robert was a man whose hands could create and mold the world, and provide for and protect not only him, but those he loved. She hated the fine silk and lace, the kid gloves that never let her touch his face. They were a symbol of what was supposed to be important in life, but they held no value for her. To her, silk, lace and all the senseless rules of propriety that went with them were what held Robert and her apart.

“All will be well, my love,” Robert whispered into her hair.

She nodded, her face pressed against his chest, trying desperately not to cry. She didn’t want to have to invent some inane story about being stung by a bee or pricked by a thorn to explain away a face blotchy with tears.

Robert put his hands on her shoulders, holding her away from him so he could look into her eyes. “We’ll be together soon. It won’t be like this forever. Don’t cry, sweetling.” Cupping her face, he used his thumbs to smooth away the few tears that escaped her control.

“I know it won’t be much longer,” she said, and she did know. She was nearly twenty now. They had only to wait fifteen more months. Fifteen more months and they could marry and no one could stop them. “But it doesn’t make leaving you now hurt any less, and . . .” She gazed into his marvelous gray eyes, reaching up to cover his hands with her own. She didn’t want to say what was in her mind, but she and Robert never kept secrets from one another. “More and more, my brother and sister are pressing me into situations where I must fend off suitors. Worse, Louisa has made leading statements. I worry she’s suspicious I’ve placed my affections. If she were to suspect you, I can’t abide thinking on what trouble it might cause us. It’s all so worrisome.”

“Too worrisome?” he asked, his expression clouding.

“Of course not,” she said, forcing a smile through her tears, which were now flowing freely. “I would deny a thousand suitors and wait a lifetime for you. You know that.”

“I do,” he said, looking very serious.

She threw her arms about him again. She loved Robert all the more when he was serious. “I’ll manage. It’s only fifteen more months.”

They needed some way of convincing people she was trying to marry so that the press of eligible young men would stop. So much pressure was put on her. Her brother talked of sending her to some distant relatives, feeling she might find a husband in a small town, since she wasn’t finding one in London. She might have better luck evading suitors in a small town, but she didn’t want to leave Robert. She had to convince people she desperately wanted to marry someone else, someone who had no interest in her dowry or in her. She must try to attract someone and fail.

If only they didn’t need her brother’s consent to marry, they would be fine. They could live off of her dowry. It would give them a thousand pounds a year. That wasn’t wealth as she was used to, but it was comfort. She knew all about wealth and what it could, and could not, give you. She watched the people around her leading their hollow lives. She didn’t want to end up like that. She didn’t need money, only Robert.

But they both knew no one would believe that. No one would believe he really loved her. They would assume he was taking advantage of her. Robert was the son of a widowed clergyman, who had lived above his income. When Robert’s father died, the rectory went to the successor, and all their personal property was sold to cover debts. Robert went into service at fourteen. His father had educated him, but a little Latin hadn’t given him a means to live.

They’d met at her married sister’s house, where she went to live. It started off as a mild friendship. He was a frightened fourteen-year-old who wasn’t sure how his fellow servants would accept him. She was the same age and living in a world colored by sorrow. Her parents had died in the previous year.

Her friendship with Robert had started with a few exchanged words now and then. It wasn’t until the day he saved her, when she tripped, falling down a flight of stairs, that it blossomed into love. She would never forget the look on his face. The harsh shadow of his fear for her as he demanded to know if she was harmed couldn’t mask the glow of love beneath. Nor could he hide the possessiveness of the strong arms he wrapped around her. Every contour of his body betrayed the truth of his feelings for her. Far from being affronted, she immediately felt the rightness of it, that her longtime confidant and friend should be the one man she would ever truly love.

Chapter One

“Really, Charles, leasing an estate for a year and expecting me to run it without having seen it is a little thoughtless,” Caroline said as she headed for the carriage. She knew she sounded waspish, but it served him right for arranging her life in a way that wasn’t to her liking, without even a by your leave.

“Netherfield is beautiful,” Charles responded. “You’ll love it.”

“I won’t love leaving London with the season beginning,” she said. “People are just beginning to return to town.”

“And they will go back to the country when the hunting season starts,” he said, his tone affable as always. “I’ve invited Darcy to join us, and he’s accepted. You have to come with me. I need a hostess. I expect to enjoy meeting the local families. Besides, the Hursts will appreciate closing their London house for a month or two.” The unspoken thought was that the Hursts didn’t quite live above their income, but came close to it. Fortunately, they continued to pay their staff when they were away visiting.

“I would love to see Mr. Darcy,” Caroline said, her mood lightening somewhat. Mr. Darcy would be perfect. Once, she worried he fancied her, but she’d put a swift end to that. She knew precisely how to annoy him while looking as if she were chasing him.

Nose in the air, she brushed past the footman. She envied Louisa, who allowed him to help her into the carriage. Caroline couldn’t be seen even touching him, much as she longed to. Louisa was allowed to say, “Thank you, Robert,” in her offhanded and unseeing way, but Caroline couldn’t even look at him. She didn’t dare. Once glance into those warm gray eyes and she would be undone. Even years of practice wouldn’t keep her face from giving her away.

When they arrived in Netherfield, it was a suitably charming place, which didn’t do much to sooth her disquiet at being separated from Robert. Her temperament was not improved by being required to dance that very evening. Although they had several hours to rest and get ready, she felt Charles really was unreasonable in insisting they attend an event so soon, when she would have preferred to increase her understanding of the household she was expected to manage. She would also have liked one evening of relative solitude in which to try to adjust to being removed so far from Robert. The first reason was the one she relayed to Mr. Darcy. Even though she knew he liked the idea of the dance even less than she did, she wanted him to think of her as someone who complained over trivia. The second reason she kept to herself.

Blissfully unaware of the turmoil he’d caused her, Charles clearly enjoyed himself at the dance, as was his wont. It amused her to see how thoroughly Mr. Darcy didn’t. He only danced with herself and her sister. He was abominably rude. He let everyone know he felt above his company. Caroline inwardly decried his poor manors, almost embarrassed to be associated with him, although his behavior was playing into her plan with perfection. Now, when she convinced her siblings that she’d set her cap at Mr. Darcy, they would think he’d encouraged her and she had reason to hope.

Louisa, Caroline noted, approved of Mr. Darcy’s boorish behavior. Louisa had become increasingly snobbish since marrying. Caroline supposed that, when one allowed the dictates of society to determine the most important decision of one’s life, it was only natural to then cater more strongly to those dictates. Louisa wanted to forget that their father earned his fortune through trade and embrace the standards of the class she married into. Propriety and standing must be set on a high pedestal indeed, and held there, to salve a lifetime of days and nights spent with a man who hardly seemed to care if she was alive.

Caroline had spent many hours in the company of her sister and Mr. Hurst, and, while finding no true fault in either, their existence appeared tortured. When compared to the depth of affection she and Robert shared, it seemed a great sorrow to her that her sister must live in such a way. Caroline would never allow herself to succumb to that fate.

***

Thanks to Charles’ friendly manner, they were invited everywhere. Caroline did her best to keep up the illusion of courting Darcy’s interest. It wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped, for it sickened her to make even the pretense of betraying Robert. Still, the combined effects of feigned attraction to Mr. Darcy and affected aloofness toward any locals who may have thought to turn suitor, was working to unburden her of her siblings’ pressures to marry.

She hoped, also, that any suspicions Louisa may have that she’d improperly placed her affection were laid to rest. Certainly, her sister made no more remarks on the subject, a silence which made Caroline wonder if she’d misunderstood Louisa’s veiled references in weeks past. Caroline wished she needn’t be so cautious, but her sister and Mr. Hurst could easily turn Robert out without a reference, which could ruin a man in his station.

Her next opportunity to promote her subterfuge came at a large party hosted by Sir William Lucas. As if no one else were worth looking at, she watched Darcy as he enjoyed the performance of a Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Afterwards, Darcy spoke with Sir William, who accosted Miss Elizabeth when she passed them. The three held a brief conversation and then Darcy was alone. Caroline would have liked to speak with Miss Elizabeth, who seemed an interesting sort, but she knew if she were pursuing Mr. Darcy, this would be a good time to approach him, so she must.

"I can guess the subject of your reverie."

"I should imagine not."

In truth, from the look on his face as he watched Miss Elizabeth, Caroline was sure she could, but saying so would never do. "You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner—in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise—the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!" Let him think she was a snob. He was one, but he would resent it in someone else. She knew Darcy well, and to him, she was only a short step above those she criticized.

"Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."

Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Her look was carefully designed to instill in Darcy the notion that she thought he was praising her eyes. It gave her great pleasure to goad him so, knowing he wouldn’t permit himself to give her even the slightest impression he had feelings for her.

Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity: "Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet! I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favorite?—and pray, when am I to wish you joy?"

"That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy."

"Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the matter is absolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed; and, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with you."

He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure didn’t fool her into thinking the attraction wasn’t genuine, her wit flowed long. She knew this would antagonize him. He was basically a good man, but terribly proud and proper. He would not like her criticizing someone, even if he agreed with the criticism. To others, it must appear they were having an exceedingly agreeable conversation. Hopefully, Charles and Louisa were taking note.

***

It surprised Caroline when Louisa suggested they invite Miss Jane Bennet over for dinner when the men were dining with the officers. Caroline approved of the idea, since Jane Bennet was the most pleasant person in Hertfordshire, but not of her sister’s intent. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that Charles was besotted with the girl. Caroline knew her sister well enough to realize Louisa invited Miss Bennet not out of kindness, but a desire to know her enemy. Her surprise came only from how seriously Louisa was taking this perceived threat to their social standing, for Charles was as fickle in love as a warm breeze in March.

Miss Bennet rode over and arrived soaking wet. They found her dry clothes, but the damage was done. She became ill and had to stay the night. Louisa, of course, thought Miss Bennet had planned this outcome, but Caroline didn’t think Jane had a contriving bone in her body. More likely, her ridiculous mother had hatched the potentially disastrous notion.

The next morning, while they sat at breakfast, Miss Elizabeth was shown into the parlor. She was really an enchanting picture, in spite of her muddy petticoat and dirty stockings. Her hair had an attractive disarray that Caroline wished she could achieve, and her face glowed and her eyes sparkled. A sidelong glance showed Mr. Darcy’s gaze riveted on her, and Caroline had to school away a smile.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Miss Elizabeth said, “but I am concerned about my sister.”

“She is not doing well,” Caroline said. “When I checked on her before breakfast, I found she has a fever, is coughing, and has a bad headache.”

“I would like to see her.”

“Of course. I’ll take you to her at once,” Caroline said, touched by the concern apparent on Miss Elizabeth’s face.

Elizabeth ended up staying for the night, and probably would remain for several nights to come. Caroline wondered how Darcy would react. He was obviously attracted to her, but he would have to overcome his objections to her low connections before he acted on that attraction. Caroline didn’t want him to marry her immediately. She needed more time.

Still, she would like to see them wed. They seemed suited, and her own interests may be served. While the Bennet sisters were not so unacceptable as an unlanded member of a lower class, several of them were terribly improper and their mother bordered on the absurd. If Charles could see his idol, Mr. Darcy, marry so far beneath him, it may make him more willing to accept Robert.

The more Caroline saw of Miss Elizabeth, the more she thought her perfect for Mr. Darcy. She stood up to him. She was clever and witty. Caroline saw to it that Darcy had another opportunity to enjoy Miss Elizabeth’s grace by inviting her to walk back and forth in the room. Really, if she were the jealous type, she would be very jealous of Miss Elizabeth. When she walked, she flowed across the floor like a dancer. It surprised Caroline that Charles didn’t notice, but she supposed he was too taken with Miss Bennet, who was prettier in a placid way.

Caroline entertained herself by saying some rather contradictory things about accomplishments in women, allowing Miss Elizabeth to display her straight-forward common sense. A part of her found it amusing to play the snob, though the amusement was growing thin. She’d been hiding her true self for years, and it was wearing on her. How much more pleasant would it be to take Miss Elizabeth aside and speak frankly to her, to create in her a friend and confidant?

But Caroline didn’t know who she could trust. Miss Elizabeth was much more proper than her younger sisters, after all. Caroline dare not risk exposing herself, though she’d been feeling very alone since being forced to come to Netherfield. Trying to keep her mind from missing Robert, for moping about would rouse all of Louisa’s suspicions, she focused instead on the delicate task of promoting Miss Elizabeth to Mr. Darcy while making all appearance of courting him.

***

Caroline enjoyed the preparations for the dance Charles held. It gave her a chance to show her skill as a hostess. It was challenging, even with Charles’ competent staff. She wished she could find an excuse for Mr. Hurst to bring Robert to Netherfield to help. She dreamed of dancing with him, although she realized they wouldn’t be permitted to dance. Indeed, after they were married they very well may never do so.

The morning following the dance, Darcy and Charles breakfasted early. As Mr. Hurst was sleeping in, Louisa and Caroline had the breakfast table to themselves. Caroline was uninclined to converse, however, her mind filled with memories of the party the night before. She relived every moment, substituting Robert for each man she’d danced with. In her imagination, it was his strong hands guiding her about the ballroom. When she gazed up through her lashes at her partner, it was Robert’s serious, loving, gray eyes gazing back. She smiled.

“The dance went very well,” Louisa said, drawing Caroline back to the reality of the breakfast parlor. “You are to be congratulated on your triumphant debut into being a hostess. If you succeed in catching Mr. Darcy, he will have no reason to be ashamed of your skills.”

“He seemed more interested in Miss Elizabeth,” Caroline replied, before she could think better of it. She hoped Louisa would gloss over her unconcerned tone and interpret the remark as a complaint.

“I don’t think so. I was near them when they danced. I couldn’t catch more than a few words, but they seemed to be arguing. She foolishly brought up Mr. Wickham’s name. I shouldn’t worry were I you.”

Caroline had tried to warn Miss Elizabeth about Wickham, but she’d brushed off the warning. “I’m not worried,” she said, to cover for her initial lack of concern. “I don’t believe she is trying to attract Mr. Darcy.”

“She’s a stupid girl if she isn’t, but I may have to agree with you. Still, it’s seeming more and more decided that Mr. Darcy may marry you.” Louisa smiled at the thought.

Caroline returned her smile, though her own happiness sprang from the success of her plan. Louisa was convinced, and Caroline had nothing to fear. Mr. Darcy was as near to proposing to her as he was to asking a fish to be his bride.

“I am, however, concerned about Charles,” Louisa said, her look of pleasure vanishing.

“And Miss Bennet?” There was no mistaking the mutual attraction at the dance. Everyone commented on it and assumed it was only a matter of time before the couple became engaged. Caroline wasn’t as sure. That Jane cared for her brother seemed clear. It was also clear that Charles returned Miss Bennet’s affection. At least, he did right now. Caroline was familiar with how fickle her brother’s heart was. In fact, she was fond enough of Miss Bennet that she was considering warning Jane, to save her heartache.

“Yes. Her family is impossible. I would hate to be connected to that mother and those sisters.”

Caroline nodded. She didn’t find the youngest two as impossible as her sister did, but they were in sore need of guidance. Mrs. Bennet was, in truth, a terrible nuisance. It saddened Caroline to think that her sister would attempt to deny Charles’ happiness based on women who would be seldom seen, especially as she knew it actually had so little to do with her behavior. If Mrs. Bennet were as well off and titled as, say, Mr. Darcy’s aunt, Lady Catherine, Louisa would label her eccentric and welcome Jane with open arms. “They are rather a trial,” she elected to say, hoping that would satisfy her sister.

“Speaking of a trial, I had to let Robert go.”

Caroline was glad Louisa was looking at her breakfast, because she couldn’t school her expression into casual unconcern. What had happened? Where would Robert go? She managed to keep her voice calm as she asked, “Why?”

“The butler caught him reading one of Mr. Hurst’s books.”

“I gave him permission,” Caroline said.

“Why in heavens would you do that?” Louisa asked, looking up at her with a frown. “And how did he come to ask you?”

Caroline worked to keep her face from flushing, but her heart beat frantically in her breast. How much should she tell? A partial truth was best. “You remember when I first came? It was the summer after our parents died. I was lonely and upset. Robert was new and about my age, and knew what it was like to lose your family. We talked. He wasn’t disrespectful or anything. I told him I missed so many things I couldn’t have. He told me he missed reading. I gave him permission to read Mr. Hurst’s books.”

“You shouldn’t have and he should have known that,” Louisa said, eyes narrowing. “Besides, that was what, five years ago?”

“He came to me a few months later and asked if he could read another book. I said yes. As we grew older, we both realized that we couldn’t be friends, of course.” No, not friends, she thought. They could never be only friends, when both of them felt so much more. “The last time he asked permission must have been about three months ago.” Robert read much more rapidly than that, but she didn’t wish Louisa to think they spoke often.

“Well, it’s done now. I’ve no idea of where he is. Mr. Hurst wanted to cut back on the staff anyhow, because his new cook demands an outrageous salary.”

There was no need to discuss the fact that Mr. Hurst thought it worthwhile to have an extravagantly good cook, even if he often spent months in other people’s homes. But Caroline briefly hated Mr. Hurst for his desire for a good cook, just as she briefly hated Charles for not giving the permission she never dared seek. Charles was very liberal about class, but would never tolerate Caroline marrying a servant.

She glanced around the room, seeking some reason to leave the table. How would she find Robert now? Who could she ask? Maybe one of the other servants would know, but she wasn’t sure she could trust them not to tell her sister if she asked after Robert. She imagined Robert with nowhere to go and no money for food, and her heart wedged itself in her throat.

Mr. Darcy came into the breakfast room and moved to the sideboard. Caroline fixed her eyes on him, trying to bring some order to her thoughts. He took a cup of coffee, sitting down with the two of them with a polite nod.

“Did Charles make it off to London?” Louisa asked him.

“Yes, less than an hour ago. He said he was going to sleep in the carriage,” Darcy said.

“Caroline and I were discussing our concern about Charles and Miss Bennet.”

“Miss Bennet is a delightful girl, but I simply cannot like her family,” Caroline said. At that moment, she would have said anything to promote an appearance of normalcy. She didn’t like the way Louisa kept looking at her, with that thoughtful frown on her face. If her sister settled on any reason to keep her from finding Robert, she could create nearly insurmountable obstacles.

“We don’t think it right that Charles marry her,” Louisa said. “He can do so much better.”

“I’ve been concerned as well,” Darcy said. “I don’t think she loves him, although her mother might force her to accept a proposal.”

Not love him? Caroline thought that Miss Bennet was very much in love with her brother. What was this difficulty her class had with love, that they didn’t seek it and were blind to it when it shone bright before their eyes?

“Exactly,” Louisa said. “I think we should go to London and try to keep him there. If she isn’t there, he will forget about her.”

Go to London? Maybe she could find Robert. “He has fallen in love so many times,” Caroline said.

“And fallen out of love just as often,” Louisa added.

“I’ll write Miss Bennet and explain,” Caroline said. She didn’t want to let Jane keep her hope up. Caroline would do what she could to discourage her. She should have warned the poor girl off already, instead of indulging in her pleasant company.

Charles would forget Jane the moment he returned to town. He had no concept of what it was like to be constant in love. Charles was always flitting from woman to woman. Neither Charles nor Louisa had ever known true love.

***

When they returned to London, Caroline was dismayed to learn that none of the staff knew where Robert had gone. He was given only a day to gather his few belongings and leave. At first, she tried to keep her inquiries subtle, but she grew increasingly desperate as the days passed. The knocker was on the door, so he would know they were there. She hoped he would be able to get a message to her.

When Charles made to return to Netherfield, Caroline was almost taken with a fit. She simply couldn’t leave London again until she found out where Robert was. She had to know he was well. Fortunately, Louisa and Mr. Darcy, to whom Charles deferred above all others, both argued for him to stay.

Mr. Darcy argued this because he wanted Charles to be happy and Louisa because she wanted him to be rich and well connected. Caroline backed them up at every turn, desperate to remain in London. Finally, Charles agreed to remain.

Caroline wrote Miss Bennet another letter. She hoped it would make it clear to Jane that Charles wasn’t returning. She knew her brother. He would find someone else. She pitied him, because his own willingness to be persuaded was keeping him from a woman who would make him an excellent wife, but she didn’t do anything to aid him. If he couldn’t muster the wherewithal to return to Netherfield, Jane Bennet deserved to find someone more consistent. Best she be free of Charles’ lackluster affections.

Chapter Two

Each day, Caroline tried to hide her eagerness to read her mail, hoping that Robert would write her. She knew it was improper for him to do so, but she hoped he would find some way to manage it. How, she didn’t know, for Robert’s morals were fiercely strict, so subterfuge would not be his answer.

So each day, when their butler delivered the mail, she sorted her pile quickly, to find nothing of interest. She would then make a pretense of reading what she had received, though she could hardly engage herself. Every day without knowledge of Robert seemed to increase her misery tenfold.

One morning, while Louisa was sorting through invitations and Mr. Hurst was reading his mail, the latter spoke, “Robert wrote me.”

Caroline nearly jumped up from her chair, where she sat attempting to read a rambling correspondence from an old school friend. She carefully placed the pages down and hid her hands in her lap, to hide their shaking.

“Robert?” Louisa asked.

“Yes, Robert. Robert Smith. The footman you let go. I wish you hadn’t. He sometimes helped me by writing letters for me. Can’t afford a secretary, but having a footman who writes was useful.”

“I didn’t know that,” Louisa said. “I thought he was trying to act above his station by reading.”

“But we all knew his father was a clergyman,” Caroline said. She clenched her hands so hard that her nails bit into her palms.

“True, but he is only a servant,” Louisa said.

“Perhaps he could be hired back,” Caroline said.

“No. He says he appreciates the training he received here and has found another place. He’s taking care of an old man named Wilson. Some kind of merchant, he says. He reads to him and writes a few letters for him.”

“I gave him a good reference,” Louisa said.

“Well, it helped him. He said he’s paid more. He just thought we would like to know that we helped him better himself.”

Louisa reached for the letter and Mr. Hurst handed it to her. She read it, frowning.

Caroline could see the handwriting, Robert’s powerful upright script, but she couldn’t make out the words or see the address. Greatly daring, she asked, “May I read it?”

Louisa cast a calculating glance over her. “It’s really nothing,” she said, dropping the letter into the fire.

Caroline couldn’t control her reaction. A cry escaped her lips as she leaped from her chair, wanting to pull the letter from the fire, but it was too late. She ran upstairs instead. She’d been so close, so close to finding out where Robert was, to reading words penned by his hand, and now it was all smoldering ash. She couldn’t bear it. It was too cruel.

She lay down on her bed and cried, not caring that her sobs could be heard by anyone passing her door. After her reaction to the letter being burned, there was no hiding the truth. Long moments passed before someone knocked. Caroline ignored it. She knew it was Louisa, and she couldn’t face her. Louisa came into her room, uninvited.

“Did you love him?” her sister asked. Louisa made no move to offer comfort. She didn’t even come far into the room. Her voice was cold.

“Go away,” Caroline responded, hating Louisa for daring to relegate her love for Robert to the past, as if it were a set thing that Caroline would give him up. She would never give him up.

“You know it could never have been,” Louisa said. “You were foolish to ever think it.”

Caroline saw no reason to respond to her sister. Protests wouldn’t help.

“I’m thinking of your best interest,” Louisa said.

“But not of my happiness,” Caroline wailed, provoked. She sat up to glare at her sister.

“Yes, of your happiness. How long would you have been happy with Robert? Could you live off your income and respect him? Could you have so little, and give up so much, and still be happy?”

“Mr. Hurst lives off your income,” Caroline said bitterly, “and mine, and I would give up everything I have to be with Robert. Everything.”

Louisa shook her head. “Yes, we collect your income and use some of it for the household. But we’ve also put some back into your capital. We aren’t trying to cheat you.”

“I never thought you were,” Caroline admitted, abashed to have implied it.

“I want your happiness. You will only be happy if you live in society. You would be completely barred from all of your family and friends if you married Robert.”

“You would disown me?” Caroline wasn’t surprised by the sentiment, but rather that her sister so willingly admitted it, and by the amount of pain hearing it caused.

“Oh, yes. I wouldn’t want whispers whenever we were invited somewhere, that is, assuming we would be invited after you put such a stain on us.”

“Charles wouldn’t disown me,” Caroline said, “especially if he marries Miss Bennet. Miss Bennet is the most accepting and caring person I’ve ever known.”

“Charles wouldn’t approve of you marrying our footman,” Louisa responded, looking a little alarmed.

“Of course he wouldn’t. But once the marriage took place, he and Jane would accept us.” She could tell Louisa saw the truth of that statement. Caroline brushed the tears from her face, buoyed by the success of her argument.

“Charles is not going to marry Jane Bennet!”

“Yes, he is. I will tell him I only persuaded him to stay in London because of Robert, which is true. I will tell him you are more concerned about Miss Bennet’s connections than her character, which is also true. Once he’s settled with Miss Bennet, they’ll accept my marrying Robert. Why can’t you consider our happiness, Louisa? I love Robert Smith, and Charles loves Jane Bennet. We both know she is a sweet girl who would make him a wonderful wife.”

“Mr. Darcy disapproves of her. Charles will listen to him,” Louisa said. Her back was ridged and she’d gone white about the mouth.

“Mr. Darcy thinks she doesn’t love him. Even when trying to persuade Charles to come to London, I never said I thought Miss Bennet didn’t love him. Charles will believe me, not Mr. Darcy, and not you.”

“Charles will forget her.”

“Perhaps. But he hasn’t forgotten her yet.” Caroline knew that struck home. “Robert will try to get in touch with me again. He can’t know if Mr. Hurst told me anything about his letter.”

“I will not let him,” Louisa snarled. Caroline flinched back from her anger. “If he sends one more letter, or sets foot near this house, I shall claim that the letter of recommendation Robert used to get his new job was forged. You know that forging a letter of recommendation is illegal, don’t you?” Caroline knew that, and that the punishment was steep. “I will also send you to Mr. Hurst’s estate until you are twenty-one. His mother will be glad to keep you from receiving any mail.”

“You wouldn’t,” Caroline gasped, standing. She was shaking so hard she nearly fell. “You would have to go to court and perjure yourself.”

“I would do it to save you from yourself, but you are correct in thinking I would prefer not to,” Louisa said, her words clipped with anger. “I will make a deal with you. You will desist in pursuing Robert and you will continue to actively discourage Charles from marrying Jane Bennet, and I will find Robert and tell him you know he is safe and you’re sorry he’s no longer a part of your life.”

“That is not acceptable,” Caroline said, almost savagely. She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “I will help you dissuade Charles, and you will let me see Robert every week. You will also mention to Mr. Darcy, in my presence, that you gave Robert a good letter of recommendation.” They both knew that Mr. Darcy would never support a lie. Mr. Hurst wouldn’t either, but Caroline suspected he wouldn’t remember Louisa’s mention of the letter of recommendation.

It took them an hour to agree. Caroline ended up writing down the details and making Louisa sign her name to them. Louisa would find Robert. Caroline and he would meet for half an hour in a public park. They wouldn’t touch. She agreed to not even shake his hand.

After that, they would be allowed to correspond once each month. Caroline agreed not to elope. She would also keep helping her sister organize Charles’ life to Louisa’s satisfaction.

The meeting in the park was so brief it hurt more than soothed her. Caroline tried desperately not to cry. Not because of onlookers, but because she knew it would break Robert’s heart not to be able to comfort her, as he always had, since they were fourteen.

As she walked away, Caroline felt empty and bereft. The feeling didn’t wane in the oncoming months, but they had each other’s letters. They were little enough, but they allowed her to keep up hope.

Chapter Three

The following summer, Caroline, Charles, the Hursts, Mr. Darcy and his sister, Georgiana, visited some mutual friends before they went on to visit Pemberley, which was Mr. Darcy’s home. Mr. Darcy went ahead to attend to some business. Pemberley was a splendid estate, but Caroline could hardly appreciate it. As her twenty-first birthday drew near, she grew increasingly impatient to throw off the pretense of a life she was living. The grand homes, the endless dances and dinners, they all seemed so vacuous when real happiness was growing ever nearer her reach.

She also lived with a vague sense of fear. Caroline knew her sister was watching her. She knew Louisa had consented to her writing Robert with the expectation that their relationship would fail. While they never again discussed him after the morning of their agreement, Caroline was plagued by a fear that her sister would make some final attempt to stop her and Robert from marrying. To prevent that, she kept up the pretense of being a London socialite she’d maintained for so many years, and read Robert’s letters and wrote to him only in the privacy of her room.

Mr. Darcy was there to greet them when they arrived, and they were shown to their rooms. While they were getting settled, Caroline discovered from a servant that her brother, Mr. Darcy and his sister had left to visit someone. This seemed very odd, for Mr. Darcy to take one of his guests and ride off so quickly, but the reason became clear as soon as Charles returned. He told them that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was staying at the local inn. Charles’ interest in Miss Elizabeth was more than his usual interest in a casual acquaintance. Caroline was certain this was because of his former interest in Miss Jane Bennet.

That evening, Charles mooned about Pemberley, barely able to attend to a thing anyone said. He was terrible company. He was wistful and languid, and Caroline had no sympathy for him. He had his chance at happiness and didn’t take it. He should have stood firm and returned to Netherfield. She knew what it was like to stand firm.

It galled her that Charles could be handed something as wonderful and pure as Miss Bennet’s love and squander it for lack of a backbone. Yes, she’d played a role, concealing Miss Bennet’s presence in London from Charles to keep her agreement with Louisa. It had pained her to do so, for Miss Bennet had loved Charles then, and it was cruel to keep them apart. At the time, Caroline had consoled herself that she was likely doing Miss Bennet a favor. If Charles really loved her, he wouldn’t have stayed away from her. Charles was shallow and fickle. He had no concept of the sacrifices of true love.

Thinking of true love, she wondered about Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth. Here, too, was a romance that should have been quickly resolved, if the gentleman involved had any sense. She couldn’t imagine what had kept them apart for this long, as perfect as they were for one another. Well, in truth, she could imagine one thing, for she’d heard rumors concerning Miss Elizabeth and Mr. Wickham, and talk abounded of how Mr. Darcy felt about the man.

Her curiosity aroused, Caroline was pleased when Miss Elizabeth visited following day. To test the water, and possibly encourage to two to recognize their stumbling block, Caroline made an oblique reference to Mr. Wickham. Miss Elizabeth countered it smoothly enough, but there was some underlying tension between her and Mr. Darcy that Caroline couldn’t unravel.

Caroline wished to know more, but not badly enough to further alienate Miss Elizabeth. Her days of playing at being a shallow snob were nearly over, and she nurtured some hope of reconciling with Miss Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, especially if they should marry. It wasn’t until Darcy left to escort Miss Elizabeth to her carriage that Caroline found a chance to gain more information.

Crossing the room to Georgiana, Caroline said some insulting things about Miss Elizabeth, to see how Miss Darcy reacted. As she did so, she reflected that she would need to adapt new strategies for eliciting information, or she would become the terribly rude person she’d spent years portraying. Perhaps, at long last, she could attempt actual friendships, and be allowed to simply ask her confidants their true feelings.

As the time for such lack of subterfuge was not yet upon her, Caroline listened with interest to Georgiana’s reaction. It was revealing. She didn’t defend Miss Elizabeth, as was to be expected from someone as timid as Georgiana Darcy, but she obviously didn’t agree with the attacks. Since Caroline doubted Georgiana had formed any original ideas about Miss Elizabeth yet, she concluded Mr. Darcy had said good things about Elizabeth.

Caroline then repeated her depreciation of Elizabeth to Mr. Darcy and was pleased to find that Mr. Darcy still loved her. Caroline wondered if there was any way to hurry him into proposing. It had distressed her to gather, during their journey to Pemberley, that Charles still held hope of her wedding his closest friend. She didn’t want the disappointment of that heaped upon the shock of Robert, when the time came. It would be best for her, and almost certainly best for them, if Miss Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy would agree to marry each other soon.

It was a struggle to keep her thoughts from turning bitter again. Why was it that these people, who were clearly in love with each other and were free to marry wherever they chose, instead spent their time on clipped words and estranged glances? It was monstrously unfair that she should be forced to watch others constantly throwing love away while she spent all of her time striving for it.

Excusing herself, Caroline returned to her room. She was growing too weary for the pretense of enjoying company. It had been so difficult, with letters coming only once a month. One month, Robert had written that the man he cared for had died. He’d received a pound from the heir, the man’s grandson, and she’d spent a whole month wondering if he would find new work. One pound was a generous amount of money to give a servant who’d worked there for only a few months, but not enough to keep Robert in London for long.

His next letter had assuaged her fears. The man’s grandson had hired him as a clerk in his business. Robert had found housing, a place where he shared a room with others in similar circumstances. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Always just enough, for Robert to stay near, for her to hear from him. Caroline was tired of just enough. She wanted more.

***

The next day, as Caroline sat pretending to read a book, she looked out the window to see Mr. Darcy coming back from a ride. Usually, he walked his horse for the last part of a ride, but he came at a canter. Curious, Caroline went to the parlor where the guests usually met. Mr. Hurst and Charles were talking in a corner and Louisa was trying to engage Georgiana and her companion in conversation. Caroline joined them. After a few brief comments to Georgiana, the other three women held a polite discourse about almost nothing. This suited Caroline, for her interest in Mr. Darcy’s haste was rapidly being overshadowed by her growing malaise with society and she didn’t feel up to substantive conversation. Especially not with Louisa. Half an hour later, Mr. Darcy came into the room.

“Good. You are all here. Business has called me to town and I must leave immediately. Charles, you and your family are welcome to stay as long as you like. Georgiana, you are hostess. I am sure you will have no difficulty entertaining these guests. Don’t concern yourself over dinner tonight, since the additional guests we were expecting were also called away.”

They all stared at him in surprise.

“How long will you be?” Charles asked.

“I can’t say. Possibly some weeks.” He went to Georgiana, who stood up, and gave her a brief hug. Without another word to the rest of them, Mr. Darcy left. Shrugging, Caroline excused herself. She would rather reread her letters from Robert than spend the time before dinner in vacuous conversation with her sister and Georgiana’s chaperone.

***

Later, a knock on her door startled Caroline into shoving the letters under her pillow. She flipped open a book just as Louisa came into her room. Caroline didn’t bother to protest that she hadn’t asked her sister to enter. Louisa closed the door behind herself and started to pace.

“I hope this business means we won’t be seeing any more of Elizabeth Bennet,” she said. “He probably rescinded his invitation to her on some excuse and left to make that excuse good. With any luck, he can’t stand the sight of her anymore.”

“I don’t see why you care one way or the other,” Caroline said with little genuine interest.

“Charles is his friend. We will see him from time to time. I don’t want her to be his hostess. You would grace Pemberley. She would bring it down.”

“Mr. Darcy has no interest in me,” Caroline replied, wondering how she could avoid another of her sister’s endless speeches.

“Well, there are other men of wealth who would welcome your twenty-three thousand pounds.”

“Perhaps.” As always, Caroline declined to bring up Robert. They were so close now, she couldn’t risk goading her sister into doing anything further to keep them apart. She was intrigued by what Louisa let slip, for she hadn’t been informed that her dowry of twenty thousand pounds had grown into twenty-three thousand. Every penny would count when she married Robert, and Caroline was pleased her sister seemed to be handling her money well. In spite of their differences, it would hurt her to find Louisa was dishonest or cheating her, although she was sure that, if any of her money were taken, Louisa would justify it to herself.

“What is this?” Louisa demanded suddenly, striding toward her. Before Caroline realized what she was about, Louisa had swept aside her pillow, grabbing up a handful of papers.

“Those are none of your concern,” Caroline said, yanking them from her sister’s hand. She quickly gathered up the others, holding them against her chest.

“I recall that handwriting,” Louisa said, her tone hard. “It’s Robert Smith’s. You’re still thinking of that footman? I thought you’d forgotten about him.” She clamped her mouth closed over the end of the sentence, clearly angry.

“Well I haven’t. How could you really think I would?”

“And those are all his letters?” Louisa gestured at the pile of papers Caroline clutched to her chest. “How dare you keep up such a correspondence with that man?”

“I did what we agreed I’d do. We never meet and we exchange one letter a month,” Caroline said, standing. She glared at Louisa.

“Lower your voice. Someone will hear you shouting about this servant of yours.”

“Do not talk about Robert that way!”

Louisa slapped her across the face. Caroline gaped at her sister in astonishment. Her cheek stung, and her lip felt as if it might even be bleeding. She didn’t raise a hand to check, keeping them both clutched about Robert’s letters. She was too afraid that if Louisa got her hands on the precious pages, she would throw them into the fire. She and Louisa stared at each other, both breathing hard.

“You hit me,” Caroline finally said, still too stunned to think of much else.

“Because you’re clearly hysterical,” Louisa said, raising her chin. “You are being a fool. I can’t let you bring our family down. I’ll talk to Charles and he’ll send you away somewhere until you see reason.”

“You are breaking our bargain?” Caroline asked.

“I’m doing this for your own good.”

Without another word, Caroline pushed past her and ran downstairs to the parlor. She had to talk to Charles first. She found him playing billiards with Mr. Hurst. “Charles I have to speak to you,” she said.

Louisa came in behind her, somewhat breathless. “I have to talk to you first,” Louisa said. “Let’s go somewhere private.”

Before Charles could agree, Caroline said, “No. We can have it out here. Mr. Hurst has as much right to hear as Charles does.”

Charles looked hesitantly from sister to sister.

Mr. Hurst cleared his throat. “Louisa, have your say. Then Caroline may speak.”

Everyone turned to him in surprise, for he rarely intervened. Louisa nodded, giving Caroline a smug look. Turning away to hide her anger, and fear, Caroline organized her letters into a neat bundle while her sister spoke. Louisa went on for several minutes. She made Robert seem like a scheming villain who’d nearly seduced Caroline. She painted him in the blackest terms possible. She spoke about the disgrace their family would receive. By the time she was through and Caroline turned back to face them, Charles was clearly horrified.

Caroline stood tall, squaring her shoulders. It didn’t matter what Louisa said. Truth was on Caroline’s side. She told Charles how she and Robert met, how he saw her through the most difficult time in her life, and of their growing love. She spoke about the respect he showed her. She then brought up the issue of Miss Jane Bennet and explained her real reason for wanting to leave Netherfield.

“If you remember, I objected only to her family, and you must admit there are objections to be made toward them, but if they don’t bother you, it really isn’t a problem. I disagree with Mr. Darcy and Louisa. I think she loved you. What’s more, I think she still loved you when she was in London this winter.” Since Louisa refused to honor their bargain, Caroline felt no qualm about keeping her side of it.

“Jane was in London?” Charles asked, casting an angry glance at their sister.

“Oh yes,” Caroline said, inwardly pleased at the depth of his reaction to the news. “Louisa and I concealed it from you. Mr. Darcy knew. I never exactly lied to her, but I misled her by making her think you knew she was in town. She really loved you. I thought you didn’t deserve her, since you never made any effort to return to her. She is a sweet woman,” she added, feeling anew her guilt over misleading Jane.

“You’re right, I don’t deserve her,” Charles said. “I should never have abandoned her.” He indulged in a pained expression before his face turned dreamy, his gaze far away.

Caroline bit back the barrage of replies that sprang to her lips, not wanting to jeopardize her cause. Still, she wished she had the nerve to slap Charles the way Louisa had slapped her. Of course he shouldn’t have abandoned Jane. What was more, he shouldn’t be worrying about himself right now. She had just confessed a love which spanned years, all of her adult life, and her happiness teetered on his opinion. Yet all her idiot brother could think about was himself. She took back any regret she felt for keeping him from Jane. She really had been doing Miss Bennet a favor. Closing her eyes for a moment, Caroline composed herself.

“I don’t know what she thinks of you now. If it were anyone but Miss Bennet, I would say she resents your deserting her and wouldn’t deign to even speak to you, should you dare present yourself.” She enjoyed seeing Charles wince at her words, the pleasure of it almost immediately overshadowed by fresh guilt. Caroline sighed. “But, as Miss Bennet is so generous of heart, and as I believe her love for you was of the truest kind, she may well welcome you back.”

“I should go see her,” Charles said, looking about the room as if he might dash off.

“After so many months?” Louisa asked, stepping between their brother and the doorway. “What will you say to her? I’m sorry I left you thinking we would get married, and never came back to make good on that, but now that my sister has gone crazy I’ve changed my mind and decided to return to you?”

“Obviously not,” Charles said, glaring at Louisa.

“I think all three of you forget there is something we must do first,” Mr. Hurst said, his tone mild. Caroline had all but forgotten he was there. From the looks on Charles’ and Louisa’s faces, they had as well. “We can’t leave Miss Darcy so precipitously. We will stay a few more days, at least. Then I think Charles should go to London and meet Robert.”

“He’s met him dozens of times,” Louisa said. “He was our servant.”

“Yes, the footman, you said?” Charles said, looking confused.

Not anymore, Caroline thought, but she held her tongue. She would let Charles decide what to think of him. She knew how it would be. Charles liked everyone.

Chapter Four

Caroline insisted on accompanying her brother to see Robert. Louisa tried to protest, but, surprising Caroline again, Mr. Hurst brushed her protests aside, saying that there was obviously no one more appropriate to introduce Charles to Robert than Caroline. Caroline was relieved to have Mr. Hurst’s support, but it wouldn’t have mattered. She hadn’t seen Robert since the day in the park, and nothing short of bodily restraint could have kept her from him.

Still, she was so nervous as they rode in Charles’ carriage that she had to clench her hands together to keep them from shaking. As they’d decided the rooming house Robert stayed in was an inappropriate place to meet him, they were on their way to his place of business. Caroline wished she’d the chance to see the establishment alone first, or to warn Robert they were coming. What if the place seemed unsuitable? It wouldn’t be Robert’s fault, of course. He had to find work where he could, but it would be counted against him.

The carriage pulled up to a building which made Caroline happier than she had been, though it didn’t stop her shaking. It wasn’t a big building, but it was well kept. They were met at the door and Charles asked to see Mr. Robert Smith, whereupon the clerk told them that Robert was out and would return shortly.

Though she knew it was unreasonable, Caroline wanted to cry at the news. She hadn’t seen Robert in so long, why did minutes more seem such an imposition? Taking a deep breath, she somehow managed to maintain her composure.

“May I see Mr. Wilson, then?” Charles asked.

The clerk disappeared, but reappeared shortly. They were shown into an office where a man not much older than Robert was sitting behind a desk. Greetings and introductions were exchanged, and an offer of refreshments refused. Caroline felt her composure being tested as they were seated. She wanted to demand to know where Robert was and how he was, and if, after so many months, he would still look at her with those serious, loving gray eyes.

Glancing at her before turning to their host, Charles said, “I am not certain how to go about this, but my sister has been secretly engaged to one of your employees. I wanted to meet him and find out what kind of man he is. She will be of age in a few months and can marry where she pleases. It would give me a great deal of pleasure if I approve of her choice. I hope you don’t mind my interrupting your workplace, but you are probably the best source of information.”

“You’re Robert’s fiancée?” Mr. Wilson said. “He said you were beautiful and far above him, but I didn’t expect a lady.”

“You didn’t recognize the name?” Charles asked.

“He wouldn’t give your name. He wouldn’t give any details, saying it might get back to you and he didn’t want you to be compromised. He thought you might change your mind. He was always happy when he received your letters.”

Caroline smiled at that, feeling much of her nervousness leave her. Her letters made him happy? His letters made her happy, too. He sounded like her Robert. Respectful, thoughtful, and ready to protect her.

“How did he come to work here?” Charles asked, glancing at her again.

For once, Caroline couldn’t read her brother’s expression, but his tone was reasonable.

“Robert cared for my grandfather before he died. We needed someone who could do the heavy work of lifting him but could also read to him and write letters for him. Robert did the job so well, I hired him. He is the youngest man in the office, so he runs errands now and then, but he pulls his weight here. If I could expand, I would give him more responsibility.”

At that point, she heard an outer door open and close. Robert came into the office, the stunned look on his face rapidly turning to warmth as he smiled at her. Leaping to her feet, Caroline ignored all the propriety she ever had and ran to his arms.

Charles spent the next several weeks getting to know Robert and Mr. Wilson. To let Robert take time off from work, Charles invested a hundred pounds in Mr. Wilson’s business. The monetary investment more than compensated for Robert’s time off. The investment in time gave Charles and Robert a chance to come to know each other, their relationship rapidly growing into mutual respect.

Charles also insisted that Caroline spend time with Robert. Charles told her that she should get to know Robert better before she married him, so she could be sure of her choice. She smiled at her brother, and nodded, for he was very serious when he took her aside to speak to her about it, but she knew it wasn’t necessary. She already knew Robert. She had for years. Her heart, and his, were unfaltering. Still, it was kind of Charles to be so concerned, and Caroline would never decline to spend time with Robert. Not when they were growing up, not now, and not in the future.

Epilogue: Sixteen Years Later

Slowly, as the evening wound down, the guests left, all smiling and all looking pleased. Mr. Wilson and his wife lingered a few minutes later than the rest to congratulate Caroline on her ability to hold an elegant dinner to impress their business associates. Robert, now a full partner with Mr. Wilson, thanks to his investment of most of Caroline’s dowry, beamed with pride at their praise for her. Caroline, in turn, felt pride that she could be the perfect wife for Robert, for he was always the perfect husband for her.

When she was finally alone with him, she snuggled against Robert and said, “He seems to think you married me for my ability to hold a dinner party.”

“On the contrary, he thinks I married you for your dowry.”

After a lingering kiss, she said, “That’s silly, when we both know you married me for access to Mr. Hurst’s library.” She kissed him again, before pulling away so she could look into his serious gray eyes. “Or was it because I trapped you, pursuing you across London and compromising your honor by sending you an indecent number of inappropriate letters?”

He pulled her against him, murmuring into her hair, “I fell in love with you at fourteen, before I knew enough to realize what I was asking of you, just how far out of my reach you were. Sometimes, I hate that I brought you down.”

“Brought me down? I live better than Charles does.”

“We have more money than your brother, true. Now, at least.” He didn’t need to remind Caroline of the lean years before his investments paid off. “But you aren’t accepted by the ton. I’ve made you less respectable than your sister, something I find it hard to forgive myself for.”

“We are accepted by the people who matter to me, to us. Charles and Jane accept us. Mr. Hurst always did. Even Louisa finally came around.”

“Only after the birth of our first child,” Robert said. “It helped that we named her Louisa.”

“Speaking of which, she wrote from school that she would like to visit a classmate over the holidays. The young woman’s name is Jane Darcy.”

“Of the Pemberley Darcys? Do they know her family is in trade?”

“Oh yes. If you remember, the girls first met a few years ago when we were visiting Charles. Mrs. Darcy would remember.” Caroline smiled, recalling the pleasant visit. She and Elizabeth got on well, after Caroline made her apology. “I’m glad she forgave me all the times I slighted her before she married Mr. Darcy.”

“Just as I forgave you for all the times you treated me like furniture when I worked for the Hursts.” She didn’t protest his unfair comment because it was a joke they’d long shared. “Of course, I know how you made that up to me. I can’t imagine how you managed to mend things with Mrs. Darcy. I can’t think it was at all the same way.”

“Robert!” she exclaimed, her eyes going wide. She looked up to find his gray eyes gazing down at her in perfect innocence.

“Actually, I don’t know that you’ve made it up to me yet,” he said. His look was serious, almost contemplative, but, after sixteen years, she knew her husband well.

“In that case, it’s my wifely duty to continue to try.” She smiled at him, took his hand, and led him upstairs.

~ The End ~

Lady Catherine Regrets

Because Anne de Bourgh speaks so little, it is easy to make her into anything, but we wondered what she is really like. We know a great deal about Lady Catherine de Bourgh, but the only good thing to say about her is that she loves her daughter Anne. We tried to build on that to make her sympathetic in Lady Catherine Regrets.

Chapter One

Dear Darcy.

I paused, my pen poised over the page, eying those two words. No, I thought. He isn’t dear anything. He isn’t My dear nephew. He isn’t Dear Fitzwilliam. Not dear anything at all. Not anymore.

Well, it would have to do. I wanted to write the letter, not spend time pondering a form of address that would convey my displeasure. The meat of the thing would do that.

I am shocked that you are planning to marry Elizabeth Bennet even though I warned you about her. She used her arts and allurements to draw you in. I know the engagement is already public, but I’m sure she can be bought off. Think before you take the final step. You are engaged to Anne. Your mother and I arranged it when you were children. Such a long standing engagement cannot be ignored.

Elizabeth Bennet isn’t worthy of you. She isn’t accomplished. She barely plays and sings. Her mother’s family comes from trade. Trade! How could you align yourself with them?

She has neither style nor connections. Her younger sisters are wild. It’s common knowledge that the youngest had a patched up marriage at her family’s expense. She ran off with an officer without family or connections. The whole family is tainted by the youngest sister’s behavior. They will never be accepted in society. The oldest sister will marry someone whose fortune came from trade. The mother is a stupid harpy who will make your life miserable. Their father has no control over the family and lets them do as they please.

Elizabeth Bennet is too strong minded to be a lady. She has her own opinions and doesn’t hesitate to express them. She took long walks by herself at Rosings. She is as wild as her sister and is certain to get into trouble. You should have heard her pert answers when I asked about her background. She is not ladylike. She isn’t even pretty.

Think of your responsibilities. Think of Anne, who would make you a wonderful, obedient wife. Anne, whose lineage is impeccable. Anne who knows how to behave and will never give you any trouble. How can you disappoint everyone? Anne, the Earl of Matlock, his Countess, and your cousins all expected yours and Anne’s marriage. I’m sure your sister was expecting to welcome her cousin as Mistress of Pemberley. You cannot ignore your duty.

Your fiancée is guilty of gross ingratitude. I entertained her at Rosings and was repaid by the perfidy of her highhanded seduction of you. I will never receive Elizabeth Bennet. I won’t recognize her. I will do everything I can to make others realize what a terrible mistake you make in marrying her. I will let them know how low she is and how unsuitable she is for the demands of being your wife.

I make no formal adieu in this letter. You know the extent of my titles, and the influence that accompanies them.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh

There. It was done. I sealed it and sent it. For good measure, I wrote my brother, the Earl of Matlock. If anyone could make Darcy see reason, it was the head of the family. Perhaps I could stop this marriage. Perhaps Darcy would return to his senses and wed Anne.

When my brother’s reply arrived, it wasn’t helpful. He said:

Darcy’s choice of a wife is neither my business nor yours. The so-called engagement between Darcy and your daughter was idle speculation between two mothers of babies. It did not bind either party. Give it up. Find a husband for Anne and forget about Darcy.

Well, I would not accept that. I wrote to my nephew Richard. I wrote to my sister-in-law. I hired someone to find me a reason Miss Bennet wasn’t legally permitted to marry. I even sullied myself by writing to the girl’s worthless father. I offered him ten thousand pounds to stop the wedding. I thought that, at last, would work, but he never replied. I could only assume my letter went missing. If I’d realized it in time, I would have sent another. The one thing I did not do was write to Miss Bennet. I refused to have anything to do with her.

Each day, when the paper arrived, I ignored the news and went straight to the announcements of marriages before looking at anything else. Eventually, as was to be expected in view of my lack of success, the day came when the dreaded announcement was there.

I sank back in my chair, letting the paper fall. It was over. There was nothing I could do. When had I become so powerless?

There was no use putting it off. I had to tell Anne.

I knew I must do it gently. Anne was so fragile that she needed special handling. I also knew it must be done soon, before she found out some other way.

Anne was better early in the day, so I prepared immediately. I debated whether I should keep or exclude Anne’s companion Mrs. Jenkinson, and decided to keep her. She was so good with Anne.

Calling a servant, I had a glass of wine poured so it was available immediately if Anne needed it. I arranged for her to be seated on a sofa in case she fainted. Mrs. Jenkinson would sit at her side, as usual. Once all the preparations were made, I sent for Anne.

She looked so fragile when she entered the room. I didn’t know if I had the strength to tell her. I realized I must, or she would hear it from someone else.

“You sent for me, Mama?” Anne asked.

“Anne, I am sorry to say that I have bad news. Please, be seated.”

She sat, looking worried. Damn Elizabeth Bennet to the devil for making my Anne look worried, and for stealing Darcy from her.

“What is it, Mama?” Anne prompted.

There was no point in delaying it further, but I still had trouble saying it. “Darcy married Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

There was no reaction. Didn’t Anne understand the import of what I’d just said? “He won’t marry you. He ignored your engagement. He married that friend of Mrs. Collins. The woman who visited last Easter. The one who barely deserves the designation of being a lady. The one who was so unladylike and impertinent.” As I spoke, my anger was renewed. How could Darcy do this to Anne?

“He couldn’t keep his eyes off of her,” Anne said, shrugging.

“What!” Anne had noticed that? Why hadn’t she said anything?

“I’m surprised they weren’t married sooner,” Anne continued. “I don’t think she was interested in him then, but he would be hard to resist.”

“Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You saw what I saw,” Anne said with maddening composure.

“Don’t you want some wine?”

“No thank you. It makes me sleepy and I left orders for my phaeton to be brought around.” Anne made no move to get up but sat upright on the sofa, waiting for my dismissal.

It took me almost a minute to respond. I was prepared for hysterics. I was prepared for fainting. I wasn’t prepared for calm acceptance. I finally said, “Enjoy your drive. Be sure to dress warmly.”

“Thank you, Mama.” She stood. “Perhaps you should have the wine,” she added and slipped from the room, Mrs. Jenkinson trailing after.

I waved the servant with the wine over. While I sipped it, I contemplated Anne’s future. She didn’t seem to realize the precarious position Darcy had thrust her into.

My brother had written that I should find Anne a husband. I hadn’t needed to worry about it before, since I was certain Darcy would eventually do his duty. How could I ever find Anne a husband with all of the fortune hunters that abounded in polite society?

Even if a gentleman wasn’t a fortune hunter, Anne’s dowry was fifty thousand pounds and she would inherit Rosings. That was enough to tempt any man into taking her with little or no feeling for her. Any man, apparently, but Darcy. Instead, he’d been tempted by that conniving woman.

I fumed for days and Anne behaved as if nothing had happened. I was baffled by her calm acceptance of her change in status. Mr. Collins and his wife returned to the parsonage and he returned to giving sermons. I invited them over for dinner and they both behaved as if nothing had changed as well. No one seemed to see how horribly Darcy had wronged my Anne. Not even her.

As she didn’t seem to realize her circumstances had changed, Anne made no effort to move herself toward a married state. On rare occasion, we did have eligible male visitors, but she didn’t interact with them. She was nearly mute in the presence of anyone she didn’t know well, but spoke well enough with Mrs. Jenkinson and with me.

It wasn’t until Christmas came and went that I realized it was up to me to do something. Anne would dwindle into an old maid and when both Anne and I were dead, Rosings would go to the next named person in my husband’s will, a cousin of Anne’s on the de Bourgh side. I refused to allow that eventuality to take place.

I realized that Anne needed to get accustomed to company. Most of the time, I only invited the parson and his wife to Rosings, he being possessed of uncommonly good manners. Although Anne liked Mrs. Collins and even spoke to her a bit, it wasn’t enough. I sent out invitations to three local families. To my astonishment, two of them declined.

When the one family which had accepted arrived, I realized my error in inviting them. They had an unmarried son of about twenty-five. All through dinner the young man tried to attach himself to Anne. That would never do. It wasn’t my intention to have Anne wed the son of a minor country gentleman with little fortune. The audacious young man even had the nerve to call the following day, with flowers. Needless to say, I made it clear to his family that he was not welcome back.

The floodgates had been opened, however. It was as if the world suddenly realized Anne and her fortune were obtainable. Invitations began coming our way. Young men started showing up from all over England. Some were cousins or friends who “just happened” to be visiting. Of course, I knew why they were there and I was ready to keep the unworthy at bay.

My first rule was that Anne could not be driven in a carriage alone with a man. That worked well for a while, until Mrs. Jenkinson came to me one afternoon and informed me that one of the more creative men had asked Anne to drive him. Since her low phaeton only held two, I was horrified to learn she’d accepted. After worrying me for two hours, they returned. I was relieved when I saw one of Rosings’ grooms riding a respectful distance behind them.

The young man escorted Anne into the house and stayed for only a few minutes. After he left, I turned to Anne. “What were you thinking, allowing yourself to be alone with a gentleman in your phaeton? I’m just glad Mrs. Jenkinson had the presence of mind to send a groom after you.”

Mrs. Jenkinson looked up from where she sat stitching and shook her head.

“I ordered the groom to come, Mama,” Anne said. “I gave him a shilling.”

“Why? It’s his job to do what you ask.” I didn’t know which was more surprising, that Anne had thought to have herself followed, or that she didn’t realize she could order the grooms about as she pleased.

“I paid him so that he’ll look forward to these rides at least somewhat for my sake, not want to use them to cooperate with someone who wants me compromised,” she said.

How did Anne get so cynical? I hadn’t realized she was aware that a gentleman would stoop to compromising a lady. I would have to ask Mrs. Jenkinson for a fresh list of whatever Anne had been reading. Some of it may not be appropriate. “That’s a good idea. Perhaps we should send two grooms and have them each given a shilling.”

“If you wish, Mama,” Anne said. She settled herself on a sofa near Mrs. Jenkinson and began to read.

I took a calming breath. It hadn’t been as bad as I’d first thought, nor was Anne as vulnerable as I’d worried. “Who was he?”

“Mr. Owens.” She said it without looking up from her book.

“Mr. Owens? He’s a worthy gentleman.” No, nowhere near as bad as I’d thought. Mr. Owens would be an acceptable match. “Did you enjoy driving him?”

Anne shrugged, raising her book higher. I could tell she didn’t wish to discuss it. Could she truly be as indifferent as she seemed?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I wasn’t sure what to make of Anne driving a gentleman around. Had she agreed because she found that particular gentleman more pleasing than the others? It had become a normal thing for Anne to have constant callers, but it was difficult to tell if she cared for any of them. She was as silent with them as she was in any company. It was just as well of course. All of them were fortune hunters.

The following day when I received a letter from Mr. Owens, I realized I needed to speak to Anne about him. Again, I decided I had to set the scene. This time I didn’t include Mrs. Jenkinson. Usually I ignored the servants, but I noticed Anne didn’t always do so, so I sent them away as well. Once she was seated in a chair across from me, well lit so that I could carefully observe her, I began.

“I received a request to court you from Mr. Owens. This was after you drove him in your phaeton yesterday. He said the two of you got along very well. Did you?”

“He talked. I listened,” Anne replied.

That was what Anne usually did. “Do you wish me to give him permission to court you? It is rather old fashioned for him to ask, but it shows an appropriate respect.”

“No. He proposed. I refused.”

That did not show the appropriate respect at all. How dare he write to me asking to court Anne when he’s already asked for her hand without consulting me? Still, he was worth a considerable sum. It didn’t do to turn away that amount of fortune lightly. “If you got to know him better, do you think you would want to marry him?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Mr. Owens proposed to you?” Anne just sat there with upright posture as she had been taught. “Anne, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

That wasn’t helpful. A sudden thought occurred to me. “Who else has proposed to you?”

“Mr. Greenwood, Mr. Hitchens, Mr. Lutton, and Mr. Bray,” Anne replied.

She said it with so little expression that I was shocked. Five proposals in less than a month? I’d been an heiress as well when I made my come out and had felt I had considerable choice when I selected a husband. I’d enjoyed two seasons and had numerous chances to meet people. Yet, I’d only received four proposals in those two years. Of course, the difference must be that I’d made it clear to several men that I wasn’t interested. All Anne did was sit and listen. “What do you want in a husband? Some of those men were worth accepting.”

“I don’t know,” was her infuriating reply.

“Would you like to go to London?”

“We go twice a year.” That was a true statement, but it expressed no preference.

“Would you like to visit any of your cousins?”

“We see all of them every year.”

“We won’t be seeing Darcy this spring,” I said bitterly.

“Won’t he visit as usual?” Anne asked.

“Of course not!”

“Why not?”

“Because he married That Woman,” I replied angrily.

“She visited here before. She seemed to like it well enough. Won’t she return?”

Could Anne be so stupid? Didn’t she understand the enormity of what Elizabeth Darcy had done to her? “She’ll never return here!”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

For once I was at a loss for words. Anne just sat there, her back as straight as a poker and her face expressionless. Didn’t Anne understand the situation? Darcy had slighted her for That Woman. In no way should she be recognized. She certainly shouldn’t be honored by an invitation to Rosings.

One thing I’d long since learned was that I could not outwait my daughter in silence. Anne would sit for hours without saying anything. I could change the subject or leave. For once Anne’s silence flummoxed me. Without realizing what I was saying, I gave her the truth. “Because I wrote Darcy an angry letter when he became engaged. They will never come here.”

“We could go there. I would like to see Pemberley again.”

“You can’t want to watch That Woman preside over the home that should have been yours.”

“I enjoyed watching Miss Bennet when she was here,” Anne said placidly. “I would like to see how she does as Mrs. Darcy. She has written you. I saw you tear up her letter. Besides, I like Darcy and I haven’t seen Pemberley since old Mr. Darcy died.”

“But we would have to accept the marriage. I’ve always intended to cut her if I ever saw her.”

Anne gave a little sigh. “Whatever you wish, Mama,” she said. She reached for one of her ever-present books and flipped it open.

If Anne had argued, I might not have given in, but days went by and she never revisited the subject. Anne never asked for anything. By the end of the week, I realized I was going to have to eat my pride and write to Mrs. Darcy. Anne wanted it.

***

After two weeks at Pemberley, I was well and thoroughly put out. As we left for London, it was all I could do to contain my disgust until Anne and I were alone in our carriage. To myself, I could admit I was disappointed that the things I’d found to criticize about That Woman’s management of Pemberley were only minor, but to the world at large I would proclaim them great.

As we rolled down the drive, I allowed myself to give vent to my feelings. “Anne, did you see how That Woman treated Darcy’s housekeeper?” I shook my head, dismayed. “She was much too friendly with Mrs. Reynolds and showed too much respect for her. Of course, That Woman’s inclination to ingratiate herself is understandable. We all know it’s Mrs. Reynolds who is responsible for Pemberley being well run, but servants should be kept in their place. Acting as if they are equal to her is reprehensible, even in one who comes from such low beginnings as Mrs. Darcy.”

Anne looked out the window.

“Not to mention the ruin That Woman is making of sweet little Georgiana,” I continued. “Why, when I criticized Mrs. Darcy for changing a custom that Lady Anne had instituted, That Woman didn’t defend herself but Georgiana did, who’s never before uttered an impertinent syllable in her life. My own niece stood before me and proclaimed that the custom had been changed two years before Darcy was married. It’s likely a lie, too. All of my hopes for seeing Georgiana well married in spite of Darcy’s disastrous choice are turning to ash.”

I scowled across the carriage, but Anne remained silent. Hoping to get a response, I moved to a slightly more delicate subject. “It was also indecent how much time That Woman and Darcy spent together. They should entertain their guests separately. Surely you observed how, after dinner each evening, Darcy would go and sit next to her rather than, more appropriately, with us? And what a poor table she sets! There were not enough elaborate dishes at each meal. True, when I commented on it, Mrs. Darcy asked what I would like and at the very next meal there was a ragout, but I shouldn’t have had to ask. That Woman is ruining Pemberley.”

Anne didn’t so much as nod.

Finally, frustrated at the lack of response, I asked, “What did you think of Mrs. Darcy?”

“She was nice to me,” Anne replied, finally looking at me.

“She should be. She was your hostess.” When Anne turned back to the window, I asked, “How was she nice to you?”

“She had a phaeton and ponies for me.”

“They weren’t for you. They got them for her aunt, the one in trade.”

“She let me drive. She came with me several times.”

“She was your hostess,” I repeated. “It was her duty.” Really, Anne should not be praising Mrs. Darcy for something so ordinary. “Did she do anything out of the ordinary for you? I think not. Your praise isn’t warranted.”

“She listened to me. No one else does,” Anne said in almost a whisper.

“What! I listen to you. I hired Mrs. Jenkinson to listen to you. How can you praise her for that? It is completely unreasonable for you to praise her for such a common trait. Why, everyone listens to you, always. You’re an heiress. They have to listen. If you want them to show it more, you must learn to speak up, Anne. Honestly, there are times I don’t know what to do with you.”

Anne hardly said anything for the rest of the trip to London. I was furious that Mrs. Darcy had somehow turned Anne into a near mute. After complaining to Anne about it for some time, I finally got tired of talking to someone who wouldn’t talk back, except an occasional, “Yes, Mama.” I sat in the carriage, fuming about it for several hours. I brought it up repeatedly, but Anne did not give me the satisfaction of answering my complaints. In spite of all of my efforts to make her see the truth, Anne never quite agreed that there was anything wrong with Mrs. Darcy’s behavior.

Chapter Two

We arrived at my house in London with an appropriate amount of pomp. The footmen who came out to help us correctly ignored the second carriage that contained Anne’s companion, Mrs. Jenkinson and Anne’s and our maids, as well as most of the baggage. It wasn’t Rosings, but I knew I would be comfortable there.

We were in London partly to replenish both of our wardrobes. It was absurd to think a country seamstress could rival a London modiste and I wanted the best for us. We spent the first day picking fabrics at the best warehouse and the next day going to the best modiste. That evening we went to the theater. The play was mildly entertaining, but I was annoyed that I saw no one I was on more than nodding terms with. I realized I would have to spend more time in London if I wanted to know people.

The next day I took Anne to call on my brother and his wife. We were shown in immediately to see my brother, as was only correct. I was pleased to find his servants properly deferential. It somewhat made up for his wife’s dismal taste in decorating.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to content yourself with me,” my brother said as he received us. “Hello Anne.”

“Hello Uncle,” Anne said. She dipped a curtsy and slipped into a chair set off to the side of the desk, where her gaze focused immediately on the wall across from her.

I sat in the seat positioned directly across from my brother. I wasn’t unhappy that the countess wasn’t home. My brother’s wife was polite to me, but we were never close. “You’ll do nicely. I hope the countess isn’t indisposed?”

“Indisposed? No, she’s escorting two of our granddaughters to some event or another. They’re cousins, you know, and we all agreed they should come out together. That way, my wife and their mothers can take turns chaperoning them. Young ladies must attend a ridiculous number of events.”

“Will the girls do well?”

“Belinda Moore is a taking thing and will probably do very well in spite of her small dowry,” the earl informed me. “The other shall have to exist on hope.”

“The Moore’s never had all that much money, but they were good neighbors,” I replied.

“They still are,” my brother said. “I was sorry when Mrs. Moore died. Our families have remained close.”

“That’s good to know,” I said. There was no point in bringing up the obvious. My brother’s oldest daughter was married to Mr. Moore’s older son. That made the Moore’s a connection of mine at least and family at best. It had been many years since I’d seen Mr. Moore. In spite of the passing of time, I could never think of him with complete indifference. We’d been close as children, as my father’s lands neighbored the Moore’s.

Anne leaned forward in her chair. I’d all but forgotten she was there until she moved.

“What is this?” she asked. She was holding a piece of paper.

My brother was faster than I and took the paper from Anne. He glanced at it, his expression clouding. I reached for it, but he held it away from me. He moved toward the fire.

“I’ve already read it.” Anne’s quiet voice halted him.

“I demand to see that paper,” I said, standing. A look of resignation on his face, my brother handed it to me.

Anne de Bourgh’s choices

John Thorpe—Take him off the list. His only virtue is he is a young, unmarried male

James Moreland—Recently had a broken engagement

Captain Tilney—Heir to Northanger Abbey but a shocking flirt

Thomas Bertram—Heir to Mansfield Park, but has been ill recently

Colonel Fitzwilliam—Nice enough, but her cousin

William Elliot—A widower who is presumed heir of a barony, but of questionable morals

Older widowers

General Tilney—Wealthy, but unkind to people who aren’t useful to him

Mr. Woodhouse—Wealthy, but a hypochondriac

Walter Elliot—A baron and good looking but that is all he cares about

Mr. Churchill—His wife died too recently and he is involved with his son’s upcoming marriage

Mr. Moore—Almost a relative

“What is the meaning of this?” I demanded, waving the paper at him. “How dare you!”

“I have no idea where that came from, Catherine,” the earl said, his tone even.

“It’s fine, Mama,” Anne said quietly.

I shoved the paper toward the earl, still incensed. A glance at Anne told me she wasn’t perturbed, which made me feel somewhat better.

“I’ll get to the bottom of it,” my brother said, taking the page back.

He turned the conversation to other things and I allowed him to do so. The more I took in Anne’s lack of concern, the more I realized it didn’t matter who’d written it. By the time we departed, I’d all but forgotten about the silly list.

Yet, late that night, several thoughts crossed my mind. The first was that, whatever the purpose of that paper, it was insulting to Anne, and thus to me. The second was about the last name on the list. Mr. Moore was on the list as an older widower. I knew he was a widower now, but I had not thought of him remarrying. He was the first man ever to propose to me.

Instead of receiving a call from my brother the next morning, Mr. Moore called with his granddaughter, Belinda. I had them shown in. Belinda curtsied, much deeper than required by my status.

“I am very sorry about you finding that paper,” she said, looking between Anne and me. “I saw you both at the play two nights ago and my friends and I were wondering about Miss de Bourgh now that Mr. Darcy is married. We were joking around about it. We thought each of us would name a man for Miss de Bourgh to marry, and explain why she shouldn’t marry him. We were just having fun. We didn’t intend to upset her. Miss Fitzwilliam took notes and must have left them there.”

I was annoyed that Belinda had seen us at the play but hadn’t paid her respects. I frowned at her.

“Belinda Augusta Moore,” Mr. Moore said in stern tones. “You have apologized for being caught while blaming someone else for it. You have not apologized for your actions.”

“But it was innocent fun,” Belinda protested.

“Obviously not,” Mr. Moore said. “You have insulted your cousin.”

“I am not insulted,” Anne said.

I glanced at her, surprised she spoke. “But Anne, they implied you couldn’t get a husband on your own,” I said. “Aren’t you stung by the injustice of it? You’ve had five proposals in the last month.”

“They wanted Rosings, not me,” Anne said.

“Of course they wanted you. You’re beautiful. Fit to be a duchess.”

“Mama, I have a mirror.”

But she was beautiful. I knew she was beautiful. I glanced at Belinda and Mr. Moore. Belinda smirked. Though Mr. Moore’s face was kind, I saw compassion there, not agreement. I looked at Anne again. She didn’t have the height of a beautiful woman, but that wasn’t important. She didn’t have the curves society demanded, but that also wasn’t important. I knew my daughter was beautiful.

I saw an unusually stubborn look on Anne’s face. She didn’t believe she was beautiful. I tried to see Anne as others saw her and tried to look at her as if I’d just met her. It didn’t work. “You are beautiful,” I insisted.

“Why doesn’t she join me for a ride in an open carriage in the park?” Belinda said. There was malice in her voice.

“She will,” I said, raising my chin. Was that resignation in Anne’s expression? Well, I didn’t care. This would prove to Anne that she was beautiful. We would show them. Anne would be in an open carriage and the men would flock to her.

The ride was arranged for the next day. Belinda came with the carriage and I saw them off, expecting them to be gone an hour or maybe two, but four hours later Anne hadn’t returned. Worried, I sent a message to Mr. Moore. An hour after that he brought Anne home.

“What happened?” I asked Anne.

“After about ten minutes in the park, Miss Moore said she didn’t want me with her, because I was keeping men away. She asked me to get out and I did. I waited until Mr. Moore came.” Anne didn’t come into the parlor. She headed for the stairs.

“Are you all right? Did you get too cold?”

“I am fine. I dressed warmly.” She went upstairs.

I stood there, open mouthed.

Mr. Moore turned to me, clearly worried. “Catherine, what have you done to Anne?”

I stared at him, shocked that he’d call me by my name without my title. Of course, he used to call me Catherine. When we were very young, he’d even called me Cat. A lifetime ago. Then I realized what he’d said. I was outraged. “What have I done to her? What has Belinda done to her! And what are you going to do to Belinda?”

“Belinda will be sent to my sister’s house in the country for the rest of the season. That is my problem. Your problem is Anne. I can’t really blame her for getting out of the carriage, although she shouldn’t have. She should have insisted on being driven home. I blame her for just sitting there. She made no attempt to get home and it was less than a mile away.”

“I doubt she knew the way.”

“Possibly not. I asked her and she was carrying money. A cab would have taken her. She did nothing. She made no attempt to help herself. She can’t make any decisions.”

I didn’t know what to say. I was too stunned by his directness and his claims. After a long searching look, he left.

Regaining my senses, I sent a maid for Mrs. Jenkinson. When she came, I asked, “Does Anne make decisions?”

“Decisions?”

The woman looked confused. “What choices does Anne make?” I clarified.

“None.”

“Surely, she decides what to wear,” I protested.

“Either I or her maid decide that.”

“What to eat?” I suggested.

“She makes a few choices, but doesn’t appear to have any preferences. You often recommend something to her. She will take some of that.” Her face creased with thought. “She decides when to stop eating,” she finally offered.

Anne was too thin. I always tried to make her eat more. “We bought clothes only days ago. She decided on hers,” I said, glad that I could come up with something.

“No. She waited until you or I told her what to buy.”

I thought it over. It was difficult to fathom, but Mrs. Jenkinson was right. “She decides when to take out her phaeton.” I had to come up with some decisions Anne made.

Mrs. Jenkinson shook her head. “The stableman will send her a message when the weather is nice and her horses need exercise. If nothing else is planned, she will go.”

“She guides the horses.”

“The horses know the routes she takes. There are four of them. She does them in order.”

“Is there anything she decides?”

“She decides when she is sick. She then stays in her room, in bed. I don’t think she sleeps. Sometimes she is sick, but sometimes I think she just doesn’t want to get up.”

Horrified at what I was hearing, I sent for Anne’s maid, but she only confirmed everything. Was Mr. Moore correct? Had I done something to Anne? That was impossible. I loved her.

I sent the maid and Mrs. Jenkinson away and went to my office. Above the mantle, there was a painting of Sir Lewis and me. Anne was in the painting as a child of ten. I looked to the painting, wishing my deceased husband could give me some advice. I dropped my eyes back to Anne. I knew she was a pretty child. Beautiful even.

I conjured up an image of Anne as I’d last seen her, her shoulders hunched as she hurried up the stairs. I imagined her as she’d been at dinner the night before.

She wasn’t beautiful.

She wasn’t even pretty.

I had been deluding myself.

The only good thing was that apparently I hadn’t deluded Anne.

Anne behaved as usual at dinner. She seemed totally unaffected by her time on the bench in the park. Didn’t she realize that she’d been in danger? Why hadn’t she done anything? “Anne, why didn’t you come home from the park?”

She glanced at me. “I knew someone would come for me.”

Someone had. Maybe Anne’s decision was reasonable? No, to wait for four hours without doing anything was not reasonable.

I spent a nearly sleepless night. Mr. Moore had asked me what I had done to Anne. I realized I’d tried to live Anne’s life for her. I thought I’d found her a husband who was both wealthy and of impeccable lineage, and who would care for her. I did not teach Anne to care for herself. I’d made every decision for Anne since . . . well, since Sir Lewis had died. He’d taught her to drive her phaeton and the horses were the ones he’d obtained for her. He’d probably taught her the routes.

Mrs. Jenkinson cared for her. A flare of resentment went through me. Why couldn’t she have taught Anne better?

No, I couldn’t shift this to her shoulders that easily. Mrs. Jenkinson had only ever done what I told her to do. She took care of Anne. I remembered telling her that Anne was often ill and needed help.

I also remembered when Mrs. Darcy visited Rosings. She was Miss Elizabeth Bennet then. She was so very different from Anne. No one would have to make her decisions for her. She made her own. Right or wrong, she ran her own life. If Darcy had married Anne, he would have cared for her, but apparently that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted a woman like Elizabeth. Had Anne ever had a chance to be like that? Had I taken it from her?

What could I do for Anne now? Her health was bad, but remembering what Mrs. Jenkinson had said about it, I wondered if perhaps it wasn’t as bad as I thought. Anne would almost certainly outlive me. I was thirty-four when she was born and she was now twenty eight. All those miscarriages and infants who’d died within weeks of entering the world still haunted me. I had almost given up. Anne was early, as were the others, but somehow she’d lived. She must have been stronger than the others. I hoped she retained some of that strength.

I could easily find her a husband. I suspected she would let me bully her into marrying my choice. Rosings was a sufficient prize for anyone, but according to Sir Lewis’ will, if Anne had no children, her husband would only have life interest in it. It would go to a descendent of Sir Lewis’ sister after that.

As much as I might wish Anne to be more assertive, the truth was that it was too late. She wouldn’t make any choices. I would have to keep making them for her. I would have to choose someone who would sustain her. When I died, the current servants would care for her, but eventually, without my supervision, rot would set in. Either replacement servants or those who realized how easy it was to take advantage of Anne would make her life horrible.

I regretted what I’d done to her. I regretted that, in settling on Darcy, I’d made a choice that hadn’t come to fruition after letting Anne accept it. I routinely gave many people very sound advice, but I’d botched the decisions about the one person I loved most.

Chapter Three

The next morning, I gave Mrs. Jenkinson orders to have Anne buy herself a shawl for one of her new dresses. I told her to make Anne pick. I didn’t dare go with them, because I couldn’t trust myself not to make the decision for her.

While they were out, I took our other carriage to visit Mr. Moore. I was escorted into a surprisingly pleasant sitting room. He offered to have refreshments brought, but I declined.

“Belinda has left for my sister’s,” he told me once we were both seated. “She won’t have another season until her younger sister is ready to come out in two years. Belinda will be eighteen then and much better for it. Her parents think I’m being too harsh but my son and his wife are living at Moore Park at my expense and they will follow my wishes. I thought she was too young as it was.”

“Thank you. That is severe, but coming out at eighteen isn’t all that horrible.” I agreed with his earlier statement. Sixteen was too young.

“Somehow I don’t think hearing about Belinda is the reason for your visit,” he said, his eyes going to my hands. “What can I do for you, Lady Catherine?”

I realized I was fidgeting with the lace at my cuff. I never fidgeted. Not since I was a girl. I looked up into his kind eyes and started to speak. I’d meant to make him clarify his comment about Anne being ruined, but those weren’t the words that came out. Instead, I told him all of my thoughts and fears for Anne.

Forty-six years fell away and I felt the comfort of an old friend. He’d proposed to me when I was sixteen, but I’d been mad for a season and for wealth and a title. John Moore was just a neighbor a year older than me. He had a small estate next to ours. He was barely a gentleman and if I’d married him I would have brought all the prestige to the family.

It had hurt at the time, to refuse him. A part of me had wanted to accept. We’d been good friends since childhood, but he was a common man with a common name. I’d thought I was too good for him to be my husband, even if he’d been good enough to be my friend. Objectively, his lineage was little better than the woman Darcy had married.

Mr. Moore had married at twenty-one and his older son had been born a year later. I’d married Sir Lewis at seventeen. John Moore’s son had married my brother’s daughter. I was fond of Sir Lewis, but I didn’t love him. Not the way a young girl dreams of love. It had taken me years to realize that I mildly resented my niece for marrying for love, while I had married for position. The family that hadn’t been good enough for me was good enough for her. Somehow, that didn’t seem right.

Yet here I was coming to John Moore for advice.

“What do you want for her?” Mr. Moore asked me after I’d laid out my thoughts.

“Security. Happiness. Ideally, marriage to someone who will care for her. I won’t live long enough to do so."

“Rank, Catherine?”

Again, he’d said my name without my title. “I never expected that.” After all, Darcy didn’t have a rank.

“Prestige?”

“Yesterday I would have thought so. I now know she isn’t beautiful.”

“She is still beautiful to you,” he said.

“Yes, but I’m her mother.”

“All children should be beautiful to their mothers.”

“What good does it do her?” I asked bitterly.

“It’s always good to have someone love you,” he said gently.

Anne only had me. When I died, she would have no one. “What should I do?”

“Marry her off. Soon. While you can still pick someone, so you can know it’s the right someone.”

“Should I look at Belinda’s list?” I asked bitterly.

“I have a suggestion, which seems self-serving.”

Another time, or with different phrasing on his part, I would have declined to even hear the name. The very fact that he admitted it would sound self-serving made me ask, though I suspected I already knew the answer. “Who?”

“My youngest, Sidney.”

I forced myself not to say no out of hand. I’d come for advice, after all. Was a Moore good enough for Anne? If he was anything like his father, I could already know he was a good man, of course, but was his family prestigious enough for my daughter? “Tell me about him.”

“Sidney is twenty-seven,” he said.

That made him far younger than his brother and sister, and near to Anne’s age.

“He is an attorney.”

I nodded, but inside I cringed. An attorney for Anne? She was an heiress!

“He’s working for the son of the man he once worked for, who took over when his father died. Sidney used to enjoy his work. He respected his employer and was deep in his confidence. The man even left Sydney a thousand pounds when he died.” Mr. Moore shook his head. “All of that has only made thing worse now. The man’s son is petty. He resents that Sydney is a much better attorney than he is, and that his father cared enough to leave Sydney so much. The fact that Sidney does most of the work for the practice is irrelevant to the son.”

“So he is a proficient attorney,” I said, looking for some complement I could give. “That must please you.” John Moore’s slight smile made me worry he could read my thought, that there was little good to say about a son who had to work for a living.

“Sidney helps me with all of my legal matters, for the estate as well as other things. He should have been an older son, but I have only one estate to leave. My daughter married very well and my older son will make a good manager, but Sidney learns faster and works harder.”

“Why isn’t he married?” I asked, looking for the flaw. The other flaw, that was, aside from practicing a trade.

“He is a widower. His wife died in childbirth about a year ago, along with the child. He cared for her very well during her last weeks. He is a caring person.”

“Presumably, you think you can convince him to wed Anne for Rosings? I would be turning her over to a man who accepts her only for her wealth and cares for her not at all. That’s the last thing I wish to do.”

“I think we should consider having them get to know each other, that’s all. Yes, I will tell him of our plan, but if Anne or you object, the marriage won’t take place.”

“He can leave his practice?”

“He thinks he should leave. This is probably a good time. His mentor only died a few weeks ago.”

“I’ll consider your plan,” I finally said, though I didn’t know how I could. I stood.

“It won’t hurt to let them meet,” he said, also standing.

I nodded. “Good bye, Mr. Moore.”

“Good day, Lady Catherine.”

That evening, after considerable thought, I told Anne about the plan. As Mr. Moore had pointed out, allowing them to meet could do little harm. A part of me hoped that she would protest, rallying against being introduced to so low a suitor.

She didn’t react at all. Exasperated, I wrote to Mr. Moore the following day, inviting him and his son to visit Rosings. I then ordered our things packed. I found I was tired of London.

Two weeks later, both John and Sidney Moore visited Rosings. As had many suitors before him, Sidney Moore invited Anne to drive him. John Moore kept me company while we waited for their return. I was surprised to see Anne come back looking pleased.

Later, when we were alone, I asked her, “How was your ride? Did you care for Mr. Moore’s company in any way?”

“Somewhat,” she said, her look guarded.

“What about it was pleasing?”

“He suggested we go a different way. The horses weren’t happy, but he said I was in charge. I managed the horses.” That brought a smile to her face, a rare thing.

Over the next few days, I watched Sydney Moore with my daughter. He steered her into making many tiny choices. I had a difficult time not intervening, but John helped me. It also helped that Anne smiled more.

They hadn’t yet been visiting for a week when Anne developed a cold. She spent two days in bed. Usually, she would spend a week, but on the third day she got up and went driving with Sidney. She carried several handkerchiefs and came back with her hair windblown. I was concerned for her health, but she recovered as fast as she usually did.

The more time Anne spent with Sydney Moore, the more she changed. It wasn’t in pronounced ways. She ate a little differently. She walked in the garden more. She made different choices for her clothes. She asked me for a new pair of horses for her phaeton, because the ones she had should be put to pasture. For a few seconds I was going to say no, because they were the ones her father had picked for her, but she was right. They were getting old.

An outsider would not have seen a difference. Anne was still a slight woman who rarely said anything in company and who lived the same life every day. I knew better, though. I heard her and Sidney talking quietly to each other whenever they were together. I could never hear what they said, but sometimes they laughed. She laughed, my Anne. I realized it was a sound I hadn’t heard in years. No one was surprised when they asked for the banns to be read.

Two days before the service, Sidney and Anne went driving. Anne told me they were taking a picnic lunch and would try going somewhere they’d never visited before. I wished them well without fear. They were taking a footman with them and would be fine, even if the carriage broke down. After they left, I realized my ease was odd. How had I gotten to the point where I trusted Anne to be away from my sight?

I told John how happy I was that this was working out. I didn’t know if Sidney loved Anne, but he was clearly fond of her. I think she loved him.

“I am thankful for your help in this,” I told him, feeling oddly shy about expressing the sentiment. I didn’t make it a habit of thanking people, and why should I? I hadn’t needed anyone’s help since Sir Lewis had died. Darcy and Fitzwilliam came and checked over everything, but all they did was confirm that my steward was honest.

“It was certainly in my own best interest,” he said, smiling.

“I couldn’t have found your son or someone like him,” I said.

“Perhaps not, but it is in my own best interest in other ways. Forty-six years ago I proposed to you. You refused me.”

“Yes.” I was surprised he’d brought it up.

“Would you do so again?”

“Do what?” I asked, confused.

“Refuse me. Catherine, I can’t say that I never stopped loving you because we’ve been apart for a lifetime. I realize you’ve become a great lady. I’m an old man now and no prize, but what little time I have left, I would like to spend with you. We could live at Moore Park and let Anne and Sidney make Rosings their own. We could visit Rosings for a few months every year and you could decide if you wanted to keep your mouth shut or to criticize them for their changes. You could annoy my older son by making over Moore Park to your tastes. We could spend time in London and shock the younger generation by being seen together everywhere. What do you say, Cat, will you marry me?”

Epilogue

The year after Anne was married, John and I visited Rosings to attend to the birth of our granddaughter, my first and someone I’d thought might never be in my life. I was happy to see Anne making many decisions about her daughter, little Catherine. I’d left Rosings with some misgivings. It had been my home for so many years, but now Moore Park was home. I would never have thought I could be happy in so small a place, but there was room enough, and room for improvement.

Belinda’s mother and I argued about everything, but she had no authority and it was my money. At first, she objected to me spending money on the servants’ quarters, saying it was wasted, but good servants were hard to keep if their quarters were poor. When I said that the kitchen had to be unusable for three days because I was having a closed stove installed, she was furious. Later, I found out she’d bragged to the neighbors about her modern kitchen.

Belinda was angry that I’d become the mistress of her home and criticized the new carpets, drapes, sofa in the parlor and any other change I made. I got my revenge by redecorating every bedroom in the house to the tastes of each room’s owner. Every bedroom, that was, save hers. I left that room exactly as it was.

Before her projected season in London, Belinda married the local rector. A few months after her marriage, Anne received a humble letter of apology from her. Anne was so pleased with it that I gave the money I would have spent on Belinda’s bedroom to her and her new husband as a wedding present. Surprisingly, Belinda and I eventually came to be on good terms. I credit her husband with her change in character.

John and I took to spending more and more time in my London house, which is my personal property, not part of Anne’s inheritance. Anne and Sidney became too busy, first with their daughter and later with their son, to wish to spend much time in London, although they visit us twice a year. At first John and I attended the theater, concerts, and parties together. Tongues wagged at our being together so much, just as he’d promised. Now, we spend most of our time at home. He needs a cane to get around. Old friends visit us, but I have difficulty now hearing people in a noisy crowd and avoid large parties. I suppose soon, we won’t go out at all anymore.

Yet, for all the troubles that age brings to us, I have never been happier.

~ The End ~

Mrs. Bennet’s Triumph

Mrs. Bennet’s Triumph was our first attempt to write a story about a Pride and Prejudice villain. It actually started as a variation of the story of Elizabeth and Darcy, but somehow the early scenes seemed better from Mrs. Bennet’s point of view. Once they were rewritten, the story took off in another direction.

Mrs. Bennet

Mrs. Bennet knew life was unfair to her. No one considered her poor nerves. Most of it was Elizabeth’s fault. If only she’d married Mr. Collins, Mrs. Bennet wouldn’t have to be sharing a bed with Mary. It was most unjust. All five girls could sleep in the two beds in the larger spare room. She was willing to give up the largest bed. But no, everyone was against her. Even Jane said that three in one bed was unreasonable. Elizabeth, Kitty, and Mary were all very thin. Elizabeth should sleep in the center, since she’d refused Mr. Collins’ bed. Surely, the three of them wouldn’t mind letting their mother have a bed to herself.

To make matters worse, when this total disregard for her nerves required she take just a little more time for sleep, she found she missed breakfast. Someone should have brought her breakfast. She was still recovering from the terrible carriage accident that killed Mr. Bennet and Lady Lucas. It had occurred in May, shortly after Jane returned from London and Elizabeth returned from Kent. Now it was early August. Three months was not enough time to recover. Sir William was barely out of bed, no one hurrying his convalescence or period of mourning, but that viper Charlotte Collins threw her and her girls out of their home.

She would not miss breakfast again. When she arrived, everyone was crowded around the table, but there was still food left. Mr. Phillips said, “Excuse me,” stood up and left. How impolite. She’d only just sat down.

“I have to go help Uncle Phillips,” Elizabeth said. She left, too. She had no shame. She didn’t realize the whole thing was her fault. And what was Mr. Phillips doing to her, anyway? He was making her a clerk. She was copying legal documents and letters for him. Mr. Morris should be doing it. He was Mr. Phillips’ clerk. But no, Mr. Morris had more important things to do, according to Mr. Phillips. Elizabeth came back yesterday with ink stains on her hands. How could she find a husband with ink stains?

Jane brought her mending to the table and stayed with Mrs. Bennet until the meal was finished. Jane sewed beautifully, and sewing was acceptable. But she was mending Mr. Phillips’ undergarments, and that should be done by a servant. Lydia and Kitty were doing laundry. Who knew if they would get the clothes clean without damaging them? And what would it do to their hands? Mary was helping in the kitchen. Well, Mary was plain enough so it was unlikely she would find a husband, so it was probably best she make herself useful.

The morning passed slowly. There was nothing to do, no meals to plan, no servants to organize. She couldn’t even visit without having the humiliation of going in someone else’s carriage, because Mr. Phillips decreed that a carriage was too expensive. She was sure he was making money off their staying. He wouldn’t let them stay unless he handled the money. Then, he gave everyone a paltry allowance.

She’d wanted to stay with her brother in London, but it was decided they would stay in Meryton. Her brother had a larger house with more room. All four of her brother’s children could stay in one room, giving the Bennets plenty of space. But her brother was so unreasonable. He said he would add to their income, but London was more expensive than Meryton. She complained to her sister, Mrs. Phillips, but even she didn’t sympathize with Mrs. Bennet anymore. No one did, and her nerves, her poor nerves, could hardly bear it.

Finally, with the day half done, people behaved in a more civilized manner. Well, Jane was still mending, but at least it wasn’t undergarments. Lydia and Kitty finished the laundry and Mary changed out of her flour-covered gown into something nicer. They had callers, Mr. and Mrs. Collins. How dare they call! She couldn’t stand the sight of them.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Collins. Are you enjoying Longbourn?” Mrs. Bennet asked, hardly caring if her tone was civil.

Elizabeth slipped in, with ink stained hands, and greeted the guests, as if she had been there all along.

“Yes, Mrs. Bennet. Now that we are in full possession, my wife has agreed with me that I should resign my living in Kent. My noble patroness was unhappy, but I finally persuaded my wife that we do not need her anymore, but that is not what I have come to discuss.” He looked around the room at them, like a lord about to confer a favor. It set her teeth on edge. “When I visited you at Longbourn, my intention was to help you by marrying one of your daughters. By a heavenly act, I found my beloved wife. We seemed to be designed for each other. I cannot regret that I didn’t marry one of your daughters, but I can take one of them off your hands.”

There, Mrs. Bennet thought. He’s made his decree. He probably wanted to take her darling Lydia away, but she wouldn’t let her sweet girl go to that vipers’ den.

“Mrs. Collins said that she would love to have Miss Elizabeth come live with us,” Mr. Collins continued, shocking Mrs. Bennet. “We can give her a small allowance, so she will not be a burden on you in any way. It is entirely appropriate, since she is my cousin and my wife’s friend. After her stay with us in Hunsford, I know she will fit nicely into our household.”

They would give Elizabeth an allowance? Mrs. Bennet was stunned, but she’d already made up her mind, before he finished speaking. She wanted nothing from that man and his wife. She opened her mouth to protest. “I don’t think…”

Of all the daughters they could choose from, they picked Elizabeth? She was not half as pretty as Jane or as good natured as Lydia. But that was their choice, and they offered an allowance. Mrs. Bennet calculated that her personal allowance would be increased if Elizabeth left. Better yet, Mary would sleep with Jane and she would get a bed to herself. She realized people were looking at her for her to finish her sentence.

She cleared her throat. “I mean, I think that is very generous of you.” There. It even made sense. No one could know she resented Elizabeth. She was glad to get rid of that ungrateful girl. She looked over at Elizabeth, who was always of such a contrary nature, she was sure to find fault with the offer.

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said. “I agree with my mother. That is very generous. I am humbly honored at your request and accept with pleasure. I enjoy Charlotte’s company.”

Mrs. Bennet let go of her fear that Elizabeth would refuse. Finally, the girl showed some sense.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Collins said, peering down his nose at her, “Perhaps now you have seen me in marriage, you recognize that your friend has been more fortunate than you…but on this point it will be as well to be silent.”

Mrs. Bennet agreed with that, but worried his provocations would change Elizabeth’s mind, dashing her hopes of a bed to herself and a larger allowance.

“Mr. Collins, I am delighted that my loss was both your and Charlotte’s gain. Please believe me when I say that my actions, which you are too generous to resent, made three people happy,” was all Elizabeth said.

***

Mary took over copying documents. That girl would never marry, so it didn’t really matter. Lydia and Kitty stopped doing laundry and spent their time wandering the streets of Meryton and visiting people within walking distance. Mary and Jane worked harder than ever. Jane did the laundry and the mending and Mary divided her time between the kitchen and Mr. Phillips office. When Mrs. Bennet complained, they pointed out that the agreement was that their allowances would be decreased if the Phillips had to hire more servants, which, of course, was monstrously unfair of Mr. Phillips.

When next Mr. Phillips distributed their weekly allowances, he took it upon himself to give Lydia and Kitty only half the usual amount. “I’m putting the rest aside for the whole family,” he said. “It will increase your income a bit. I cannot, in fairness, distribute the same amount of money to you two as I do to your two older sisters, who have worked very hard to see we don’t need more servants.”

Kitty and Lydia protested, but he was adamant. When they turned beseeching eyes on her, Mrs. Bennet considered objecting on their behalf, but it occurred to her that no one was asking her to do any work, yet she got her full allowance, as was her right. She knew that reprieve was because she grieved for Mr. Bennet and because of her injuries, but those were nearly healed. For the first time in her life, she didn’t want to call attention to herself, not wanting anyone else to realize the double standard. Mr. Philips didn’t appear to notice her, which, for once, she was grateful for.

***

About a month after Elizabeth left to live at Longbourn, Sir William Lucas called. He was walking with a cane. Mrs. Bennet wanted to blame him, but seeing his gaunt face, etched with deep lines of pain, she couldn’t. She’d lost her husband, and he’d lost his wife. “Mrs. Bennet, I’ve been too unwell to pay my condolences. I’m so sorry about your losing your husband, and if you feel half as sad as I do, you are indeed miserable.”

“Thank you, Sir William. If only the carriage wheel hadn’t come off where it did,” she said, feeling the need to hold back tears. She’d grown accustomed to ignoring the loss of Mr. Bennet, but could not do so when people spoke of it.

“I blame myself and I blame my coachman. It was his job to see the carriage was maintained, but mine to employ a worthy man.”

Some of what Jane said about the accident came back to Mrs. Bennet’s mind. “But he paid for it with his life. There’s no purpose in assigning blame.”

“That is generous of you.”

His tone warmed so when he said it, his eyes glinting with gratitude, that Mrs. Bennet felt a surge of satisfaction. Was this why Jane was so pleasant to everyone? To secure such regard? Well, Mrs. Bennet thought to herself, I can pretend to be as nice as she is. “There is no point in bitterness,” Mrs. Bennet said. “I don’t want to live the rest of my life angry.”

She didn’t mean it before she said it, but when she said it, it made sense. A plan popped into her head. She knew she didn’t have the beauty she once had, but she was still a good looking woman. They were both in mourning, which meant nothing could be done for some time, but the groundwork could be laid.

She spent his visit being pleasant to Sir William and even asked him a question which allowed him to repeat the story of his presentation at St. James. Though she’d heard it many times before, she found the familiar story soothing. In spite of her changed circumstances, it was nice to know there were some constants.

Another, less pleasant, constant was Elizabeth’s continued disappointment as a daughter. She visited once a week, but they didn’t see much of her. Mrs. Bennet didn’t mind not having to speak to Elizabeth, but she felt the girl should make more of an effort toward her family. The Collins gave Elizabeth Mary’s old room. Mrs. Bennet was torn between the insult of giving her daughter the smallest room and pleasure that Elizabeth didn’t benefit too much from her friendship with the wife of the man she should have been smart enough to marry.

***

Another source of pleasure was an accidental discovery Mrs. Bennet made one morning. If she sat on the floor in the corner of her room, she could hear what transpired in the front parlor. She found this out when she leaned over to pick up her comb, after dropping it. Now, she closed her door and sat there when there were visitors. Once, she overheard Elizabeth and Jane talking. She was pleased that Elizabeth wasn’t too happy at Longbourn. She enjoyed Charlotte’s company, but found Mr. Collins difficult to bear. Mrs. Bennet didn’t like that Elizabeth enjoyed Charlotte’s company. Charlotte expelled them from Longbourn. She was glad Elizabeth was having difficulty with Mr. Collins, though. She should suffer, because she was responsible for their situation.

About five months after Mr. Bennet’s death, Mrs. Bennet finally overheard something interesting. It was Mary talking, but who was she talking to?

“Don’t worry, she’s desperate to marry us off.”

“But she wants you to marry a gentleman,” said a male voice.

“It doesn’t matter. I love you and Mama will come around.”

“I can’t offer you much,” he said.

“You’ll take over my uncle’s practice soon. You’re already doing half the work.”

A clerk? Mary wanted to marry a clerk. What was his name? Mr. Morris. Mrs. Bennet had met him a few times but was unimpressed. He was an average fellow, not bad looking, no family worth mentioning. He had no money. But if one more daughter could be settled, that was one less worry. A plan came into her head. She might turn this marriage to her family’s advantage, after all.

She stood up, careful to do it silently. She spent a couple of minutes seeing to her appearance. It was so hard to do without a maid and with only a small mirror. She casually went downstairs into the parlor. “Hello, Mr. Morris, how nice to see you.”

They would agree to what she wanted since she would agree to the marriage.

Dear Mr. Bingley,

I hope this letter finds you well. My daughter, Miss Mary Bennet, is marrying Mr. Phillips’ clerk, Mr. Henry Morris, on November 26. When the happy couple set the date, I realized it was one year since we last saw you at the delightful ball you had at Netherfield. Since we enjoyed ourselves so much then, I thought I would invite you and your sisters to attend the wedding. Of course, Mr. Hurst and Mr. Darcy are both welcome to attend as well. Please extend this invitation to them, since I don’t have their addresses.

She may as well invite everyone. She didn’t care if Mr. Darcy and Mr. Hurst came and she didn’t like Mr. Bingley’s sisters, but she didn’t want it to seem she was trying to bring Mr. Bingley there for Jane.

The wedding breakfast will be held at the Phillips house, since Mr. Bennet’s untimely death last May forced us to move out of Longbourn.

We are all as well as can be expected, considering our reduced circumstances. My eldest daughter, Miss Bennet, is pining more than the rest of us, but she seemed unhappy before Mr. Bennet’s death. I hope time will allow her to recover.

She finished the letter properly and signed it. She sent it to Netherfield. It was a gamble, of course, since she didn’t know if it would be forwarded. She smiled at the puzzlement of Mary and Mr. Morris about her insistence on that date.

***

When Sir William called, as he now did once a week, she explained the scheme to him. He laughed at her and said, “You will never change.”

She knew she had changed. She was poor now and spent a little time humbly helping her sister, even though her arm and shoulder still ached. But she could use that arm. Sir William still needed his cane to walk. Lydia and Kitty were changing, too. After weeks without money, they grudgingly started working around the house, restoring part of their allowances.

As the days passed, she worried about whether the letter was forwarded or not. A week passed, and there was no reply. A second week. Nothing. At least he would write and refuse. As long as he didn’t, she had hope.

Before the third week was over, a carriage pulled up. It wasn’t Mr. Bingley’s carriage. Mr. Darcy got out. What was Mr. Darcy doing there? She’d invited him, but who needed his dour presence? Well, he was a friend of Mr. Bingley’s, so she should be nice to him. Mr. Bingley got out, too, brightening her spirits considerably. She hastily withdrew from the window and ran to the stairs. “Jane,” she called, “Come down here at once.”

Looking puzzled, Jane came down. Mrs. Bennet wished she had time to make her daughter more presentable, but there was nothing for it now. Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy were already at the door. Mrs. Bennet’s sister greeted them, looking quite surprised, and they entered. Mrs. Bennet allowed her sister the privilege, as hostess. She found she no longer resented it. She was grateful they took her in. It was bitter that she was a poor relative, but embracing her bitterness only made her unhappy, so she was learning to let it go.

She followed Mr. Bingley’s gaze to Jane. Her hands were red from doing laundry and her clothing was wearing out, in spite of careful mending. Jane and Mary retained their full allowances, but Mrs. Bennet had to give Lydia and Kitty some of hers, since the poor girls had nothing to wear. As it was, they each could only buy one new dress of half-mourning. What a waste, to buy a grey dress, but unrelieved black was so depressing.

The meeting went as well as could be expected. Both men were polite and stayed a half an hour. Mr. Darcy asked after Elizabeth, which surprised Mrs. Bennet. He usually wasn’t that polite. When the correct half hour was over, Mr. Darcy, of all people, suggested they should drive Jane over to Longbourn so she could visit Elizabeth, because he knew how close the two of them were. Surprised at his unusual curtesy, she encouraged the trip.

The next several days were confusing to Mrs. Bennet. She learned that Mr. Darcy visited the Collins several times. She had no idea what they had in common. Mr. Bingley came and visited, which made much more sense. Everyone conspired to allow him time alone with Jane. Mrs. Bennet listened from her post in her room and heard him commiserate with Jane on her reddened hands. Being Jane, she made light of it. Why couldn’t she complain so he could rescue her?

Mary’s wedding was fast approaching and still none of her schemes had come to fruition. She complained to Sir William on one of his many visits. “When the wedding is over, Mr. Bingley will probably go back to London. Why can’t he propose now?”

“He may think it’s too soon after her father’s death,” Sir William replied.

“Mr. Bennet and Lady Lucas died seven months ago. Jane isn’t growing younger and her hands and clothing will only get worse. He must propose soon, before she loses her grace. We all have to go on living, after all.”

“Yes, we do.”

***

Mary was married, the wedding breakfast eaten and the happy couple gone to his lodgings. Mrs. Bennet wondered if Mr. Bingley would go back to London. Was her letter all for nothing? Sir William came over and she indulged herself in a discourse about how vexing it was that Mr. Bingley wasn’t behaving as she’d hoped when she sent the letter. After she finished, she said, “I tried to do what was best for Jane. I may not have succeeded, but I had to try. With all her beauty, I hate to see her marry someone like Mary’s husband. I know he’s a good man and Mr. Phillips told me he will be a good lawyer, but I wanted better for Jane.”

“Of course you did. We all want better for our children.”

“And for ourselves,” she said. “I’ve been selfish. I wanted comfort. Thank you for listening. You’re too kind to me, Sir William.” She looked away, acting as if she were musing, but saying words she’d carefully planned. “I now know my relatives won’t let me starve, but I’ll never be mistress of Longbourn again. I miss it. But I have to live with what I’ve got. Lydia and Kitty are learning that, too. Mr. Phillips gave them their full allowances last week.” She looked at her old friend. “Here I am complaining, and you’ve lost your wife and you walk with a limp. You have as much to complain about as I do.” Make it work, she thought. It has to work.

A scant half hour later, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley came for a visit. Elizabeth and Jane were with them. From the look on Jane’s face, Mrs. Bennet could tell that Mr. Bingley had proposed. Oddly enough, Elizabeth had a similar look of happiness. Mrs. Bennet could tell that Jane wanted to wait until Sir William left, but she couldn’t. She burst out her good news. After the warm congratulations, Elizabeth announced she had accepted a proposal from Mr. Darcy. Mrs. Bennet was stunned. She’d had no inkling he was interested in Elizabeth.

It took her a couple of minutes to understand, but when she did, she gave her consent and congratulations. “My dearest, sweetest Elizabeth! What wonderful news. How clever of you.”

She wanted to go on in that vein, but Elizabeth stood up and came over to kiss her cheek. Mrs. Bennet hoped Elizabeth knew she should be grateful. If Mrs. Bennet hadn’t planned the whole thing by inviting Mr. Darcy to the wedding, this would never have happened.

She gazed up at Elizabeth, noticing how very pretty she was today. In fact, Elizabeth was, in many ways, prettier even than Jane or Lydia. When she was being clever about important things, Elizabeth was Mrs. Bennet’s favorite daughter. She was pleased she’d worked so hard to see Elizabeth was happy.

Sir William suggested they get out the wine and toast the happy couples. When they’d toasted Jane and Mr. Bingley, and then Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, Sir William said, looking at Mrs. Bennet, “And now, I would like to toast the next Lady Lucas.”

Mrs. Bennet smiled. When they married in five months, she would have something her daughters would never have: a title.

~ The End ~

Mary Younge

Almost nothing is known about Mrs. Younge, so we could invent almost anything. If she was a co-conspirator of Wickham, how could she trust him to give her a share? If Wickham duped her, how could someone so stupid have been hired by Darcy? How was a woman who was fired in disgrace ever able to run a lodging house afterward? It was not a high position, but someone must have trusted her. Our solution is here.

Chapter One

I felt rather awkward about asking to see a forger.

I peered up at the four story brick structure, combatting my trepidation with surprise. Alder House was a better lodging house than I’d expected. I hadn’t realized a forger would live so comfortably. The street was moderately respectable, and the steps I ascended clean and well-maintained. I knocked on the door, the muffled thump a testament to its stoutness.

After a moment, the door swung inward to reveal a woman in her thirties. “May I help you?” she asked.

She didn’t look like a maid, but I didn’t know if I should expect one. “Hello,” I said. “I’m here to see . . . that is . . .” I looked about, unsure how to continue. I’d been given a location, not a name.

The woman smiled with understanding and backed inside, pulling the door open to admit me. “You’re here to see Mr. Thompson, then.”

Stepping inside, I nodded, although I wasn’t entirely sure that was true. I felt rather awkward about asking to see a forger, though. It wasn’t a thing you came right out and stated.

“I’ll show you the way,” she said as she closed the door behind me.

She turned and walked the short distance to a set of double doors, which were thrown wide to reveal the large room occupying the front corner of the lodging house. The room, set up as an office, was dominated by a desk, on top of which stood three bottles of ink and a variety of writing implements. The man sitting behind the desk was younger than I thought he’d be, perhaps my age or a few years my senior.

That estimate would make him around thirty, but it was difficult to tell. Though he would once have been called handsome, his face was marred by a jagged scar running down his brow until it hit his eye, which was covered by a patch. The scar reemerged from under the patch no less livid, and continued downward, stopping near the corner of his mouth. It seemed a shame that a face which would once have been so comely should be thus transfigured. The scar and eyepatch combined to give him a nefarious look, so at odds with his properly-appointed surroundings.

The woman beside me gave a knowing smile, as if accustomed to people’s initial reaction to him. “I’ll be right in here,” she said, turning away to enter the parlor behind me, where several children played. I craned my neck to follow her movement, slightly nervous to enter the scarred man’s office. With another smile for me, she took her place on the sofa and picked up her knitting, turning her attention to it.

I stood in the doorway to the office, impressed with the setup. The noise of the children would give us privacy, while the open doors and the woman seated across the hall would chaperone me. I also hadn’t expected a forger to be so sensible of propriety. That he was, reassured me somewhat.

I turned back to find the one-eyed man regarding me from behind his desk. “Good morning, madam,” he said.

His slightly amused expression seemed to speak of someone who knew the thoughts tumbling through my brain. I didn’t know if I should be embarrassed, or smile in return. What had I expected? The man wouldn’t be able to stay in business if he didn’t treat his clients well.

“May I help you?” he asked.

I realized I was still standing in the hall, gawking at him. “I hope you can, sir,” I said, reluctant to commit to the course of action I’d decided on. “I’ve been told you’re the best.”

“Please, come in and have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. “I assure you, it will be easier to converse that way than if you stay in the hall. What are you in need of today?”

I stepped into his office, feeling like I was stepping into a story, one which I didn’t know the ending to. The office threshold was a line, and now I’d crossed it. I took a deep breath, a bit surprised I wasn’t shaking.

He stood as I entered, gesturing to an unupholstered chair. “Please, sit down, Mrs. . . . ?” He paused for me to supply a name.

“Younge,” I said. “Mrs. Younge.” I gave him my true name. He’d need it for this job, so there was no point in hiding it.

“I’m Mr. Thompson,” he supplied as we both sat. “Now, Mrs. Younge, what brings you here?”

“I need you to write a letter for me, and I need it to look real,” I said, my anxiety doubling.

“What sort of letter do you need? I can put down the words you tell me, or I can correct your grammar and put down what an educated person wants to hear. I can even compose the content of the letter for you, if you give me a general idea what you wish to say. Will you be able to sign it legibly, or will you need me to write your name and provide a place for you to make your mark?”

“I have a different requirement,” I said nervously. If I’d been misinformed and he wasn’t a forger, he could cause me difficulties just for asking for what I required. “I want the letter to be from someone else, not me.”

“I don’t do wills and using forged letters of recommendation is illegal,” Mr. Thompson said. I thought his look was merely meant to be stern, but his scarred face transformed it into a glower.

“I’m aware of that,” I said, pressing on. The wood of the chair was unyielding against my spine. “But I have a gap in my history. I have two good letters of recommendation, but there is a period of almost a year that I cannot explain. I need something to cover that gap. It need not be a wonderful letter, just a positive one,” I added, desperation starting to creep in.

I needed to gain a well-regarded position in order to secure a future for myself; one where I could save up enough money so that I wouldn’t be subject to the whims of others. I’d managed to obtain an interview for a position which would provide more than enough status, and the opportunity for long term security. The scrutiny required by such a position would expose the year missing from my history, though. It was the way of the world that to regain my respectability, I must prove I’d always been respectable.

He eyed me for a long moment, perhaps fearing a trap himself. I didn’t look away from his searching gaze, which eventually seemed to soften. Finally, he pulled out a fresh piece of paper. “I may be able to help you, Mrs. Younge.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling a tug of hope. Perhaps I would be able to put my life back into order, after all. One letter, really, was all I would need, and this man would write it for me. For the first time in a long while, I smiled.

“First, I must ask, is it likely that anyone will know what you were actually doing during this gap in your references?” he said, reaching for a pen.

“No. I tried being an actress. I used another name and bleached my hair. I don’t think anyone would recognize me.” My face heated as I said it. It had been an act of desperation, and foolishness. One I longed to put behind me, but would never be able to without Mr. Thompson’s help.

“You didn’t have to tell me,” he said, the undercurrent of amusement back in his tone. “I’m not here to pass judgement on why you need the letter, only to write it. Who is it to be from? If it’s from a person who doesn’t exist, you don’t need me. Anyone can write a letter.”

“She’s a real person.” She had to be, for the position I’d secured an interview for. People who hired governesses of the quality I could claim to be were the sort of people who checked references, sometimes very thoroughly. “She wrote many letters and some would recognize her handwriting. Her name is Susan Clifford. She went to Canada a few years ago, having inherited some property there.”

“Do you have samples of her handwriting?”

His tone was neutral, but I couldn’t imagine what sort of fool he’d think me if I didn’t. Even the best forger couldn’t copy handwriting he’d never seen. I handed him a packet of letters. He smiled slightly and took them, leafing through them until he came to the blank pages at the bottom of the pile. He looked up, raising his eyebrows in a way that made his scar crinkle into even more grizzly looking folds.

“Is this her stationery?”

“Yes, but I can’t get more.” I’d visited Susan after I’d given up trying to make a living acting. She’d been happy to have me to help whittle down her possessions to a manageable size before she left England, and I’d been grateful for a place to stay while I grew my hair out long enough to hide the blonde ends under a cap. When I’d kept it, I’d thought only of using the stationary for myself, but time and desperation had brought me to this more reprehensible application.

“This will do very well indeed,” he said. “What do you want the letter to say?”

I handed him a note in which I’d summarized my skills and listed character traits I wanted portrayed. I was truthful in this, at least as far as the skills were concerned. As to my character, I wanted to portray myself as honest, but my seeking a forged letter of recommendation said I wasn’t. I looked down, shame warring with necessity.

“Some skills are hard to fake,” he said in passable French. “There is no point in writing a letter and not being able to do what you say you can.”

“I am quite capable of speaking, reading and even instructing someone in French,” I replied in the same language. Then I switched to Italian and asked, “Do you wish to test me in drawing and music as well? Perhaps I could do a sketch of the children playing in the other room, if you supply the paper?”

“I don’t speak Italian,” he said, revealing that he either recognized the language or was smart enough to guess what I’d switched to, based on the skills I was claiming. I rather suspected it was both.

“I do, though not nearly as well as French,” I said, returning to English. “I possess the other skills I claim as well. I just can’t let anyone know what I was doing then, especially for the job I want. It’s for someone very wealthy.”

“Titled?”

“No, but he is the grandson of an earl.” His eye narrowed and I wondered if I should have lied, though I was trying not to compound my sins. “Why? Do you charge more?” I didn’t have much, but I could pay him more later, if I got the position.

“I charge less. I lost my eye to a titled gentleman, whose family then decided they didn’t want to look at my face anymore and let me go.”

The way Mr. Thompson said the word gentleman let me know that he doubted its applicability. He paused for a moment and then named a price. I named a lower one, unsure if he’d added in a discount for my prospective employer’s relationship to nobility. After a few exchanges, we reached an agreement. I had no idea what a forger ought to charge, but I could afford his help, so I was satisfied.

“I require thirty percent now,” he said. “The rest is due when I hand you the letter.”

I didn’t see any reason to argue the point so I nodded, fishing the coins from my reticule. He seemed respectable enough, especially in view of his line of work. I slid the money across his desk.

“Do you have the other letters you spoke of with you?” he asked.

Somehow, it reassured me that he didn’t scoop up the coins immediately. In fact, he didn’t even look at them. “No. I didn’t believe I would need them?” I said, making the statement into a question.

“I think it would be worthwhile to bring them by tomorrow,” he said. “I’d like to ensure nothing they contain contradicts what I intend to write.”

I nodded again. “Then, that will be all?” I asked.

I eyed my pile of letters and stationary, where they sat before him. Not only were they all of my spare sheets and my letters from Susan, a last link to a kind friend, they also contained her side of conversations regarding my time as an actress. There was nothing scandalous in them, or even overly private, but I didn’t care for the idea that he might read them all. I hoped I wasn’t making a terrible mistake, relinquishing them to this man. I returned my attention to Mr. Thompson’s face to find him once more regarding me with faint amusement.

“Yes,” he said. “Although I won’t complete your letter until after I see the others, tomorrow.”

I nodded and stood, slightly surprised that he rose as well. He was tall, and it was easy to see by the bulk of his shoulders that he was more fit than gentlemen tended to be. I knew general opinion was that any evidence of hard labor was unseemly, but I couldn’t help but be impressed by his form. He bowed slightly and I acknowledged the courtesy with a nod.

“Until tomorrow, then, Mrs. Younge,” he said.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Thompson.”

The woman who’d escorted me in looked up as I exited the office, giving me a smile, which I returned. The children continued to play, uninterested in the actions of adults. I saw myself out, accompanied only by a fleeting envy for their innocence.

Chapter Two

I’m committed to your cause.

The same woman admitted me again the following day, and sat opposite the open office doors with the same children. She looked a bit too old to be Mr. Thompson’s wife, but one never knew. I considered asking, but it was obvious she would have given me her name if she was of a mind to.

“Mrs. Younge,” Mr. Thompson said, looking up as I paused in the doorway. “Do come in.” He laid a clean sheet of paper on top of what he was writing before I came close enough to read it. I hoped that meant he valued my secrecy as well.

“Thank you,” I said. I crossed the carpet, noting that, while not new or expensive, it was serviceable and much nicer than a bare floor. I retook my place perched on the hard wooden chair across from him.

“Did you bring the other letters?” he asked.

“I did,” I said, smiling slightly. It would have been rather pointless to return without them, so I found the question a bit amusing. I brought them out and set them on the desk in front of me. One at a time, he took up the letters, carefully opened them, and read. Several times, he nodded to himself. After he was done, he placed one flat on the desk and turned it toward me.

“I could rewrite this one and eliminate this section.” He pointed to a sentence that said, I hired her in spite of her not having a letter of recommendation from her previous employer. I was glad I did so, because she was very good with my daughter.

“How much more would you charge for that?” I asked. It would be worth it if it wouldn’t be much. I already had an explanation prepared; that Susan’s letter had been slow to reach me from Canada when I’d secured that position. Changing the line, something I hadn’t considered, would be an even better solution.

“Nothing. I’m committed to your cause.”

I glanced up at him, a bit surprised, and found his eye traversing my features. I returned my attention to the letter between us before he could raise his gaze from my lips and catch me looking at him, not wanting to embarrass us both. It wasn’t the first time a man had looked at my face and I wasn’t naïve enough to think Mr. Thompson meant anything by it.

I was possessed of ample evidence that I was not the sort of woman who inspired longing gazes from rakishly handsome gentlemen, though I wasn’t certain he qualified as such. That Mr. Thompson was handsome, even scarred as he was, was indisputable. That he was rakish was more doubtful. He’d done nothing to encourage the opinion other than having but one eye, like one of Captain Johnson’s pirates.

Not that it mattered what sort of man Mr. Thompson was, so long as he was honest in business. I did not have any intention of passing up my opportunity to work for one of the wealthiest families in England. I didn’t wish for, and could not afford, any sort of entanglements. Nor was I the type of woman to inspire them.

My late husband’s indifference, repeatedly reinforced by the young men who came backstage at the theater, had long ago assured me I held no great appeal for men. I’d never been sure why. I knew I was no great beauty, but I had even features, thick hair, a milky complexion, and all of the requisite physical attributes. I’d conclude my personality was somehow lacking, except observation had long ago informed me that most men didn’t take personality into consideration when forming amorous intentions.

“You really must allow me to alter that line, Mrs. Younge,” Mr. Thompson said. “It contradicts the existence of the letter I shall write for you.”

I realized he’d taken my silence for contemplation of his offer, which was what I should have been doing. I nodded, to cover that I hadn’t been, and immediately regretted it. He picked up the letter, folding it and setting it to his right.

“Thank you,” I said, for lack of anything better to say. I eyed the letter. I had some misgivings about leaving it with him, but I could hardly ask for it back now.

“If you return tomorrow afternoon, I’ll have both letters ready for you,” Mr. Thompson said.

I gathered my other letter from his desk, trying not to think about how difficult it would be to get a position without the letter I was leaving him with, should anything happen to it. I looked up to find him smiling at me and was once again reassured.

“Until tomorrow, then, Mr. Thompson,” I said, rising.

He stood, once again bowing.

Chapter Three

… it seemed overly brash to brag while lying.

When I returned the following afternoon, for the third day in a row, Mr. Thompson looked up as I reached the doorway to his office, waving me in. He stood, stacking some papers and setting them face down before pulling out other papers from a drawer.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Younge,” he said. “Would you like me to send for refreshments?”

“No, thank you,” I said, a bit startled. While I didn’t know how much a forger should charge, I was sure I wasn’t paying him enough that he ought to be feeding me. “May I?” I asked, gesturing to the chair in which I normally sat.

“Of course,” he said and we were seated.

He leaned across the desk, placing two letters in front of me. Both looked like the letter of recommendation I’d left with him. So much so, in fact, that I couldn’t discern which was the real one. Looking back and forth between them, I could see small differences, but it was impossible to tell the original from the forgery until I reached the offending line. I hired her after confirming her most recent reference, just before her employer emigrated. I was glad I did so, because she was very good with my daughter.

“It fits. Everything is even in the same position on the page,” I said, impressed. I doubted my former employer would be able to tell he hadn’t written it.

“It also fits with the story you told me about Miss Clifford,” he said.

“It wasn’t a story,” I said absently, still admiring his work. Susan really had emigrated to Canada.

He pushed another letter across the table, this one on Susan’s stationary. The handwriting so exactly matched hers, it was eerie. As I read the letter, I realized he’d caught her phrasing and misspelled a word Susan would misspell. The letter even had a worn look, as if I’d been carrying it about with me since she’d left. It was a more glowing reference than I would have written, for it seemed overly brash to brag while lying, but I had to assume Mr. Thompson knew his business. As I read, he placed my bundle of letters and the remaining unused stationary on the desk as well.

“Thank you,” I said. “These are perfect. I don’t know how to repay your kindness.”

“My other seventy percent would do,” he said, his smile showing even white teeth.

“Oh, yes, of course,” I said, working to stifle a laugh. He made a good point. Paying him likely was all the thank you he required. I set the money on the desk and carefully gathered up the letters, like the treasure they were. If I’d ever thought his fee was high, I now knew it was worth it. With these letters to aid me, I was confident I was ready for my interview with Mr. Darcy.

Chapter Four

…he was judging people by their social standings…

As I followed an impeccably dressed maid through Mr. Darcy’s townhouse, I took in the understated elegance of the furnishings and ornamentations. Tasteful and stylish, the decor served as silent testament to the truth behind reports of Mr. Darcy’s wealth. I was shown into an office clad in rich woods and thick carpeting, with a formidable, nearly regal man seated behind a large desk.

I tried not to be daunted. I needed to keep my wits about me for the interview. If I secured the position and did well, I might never need to worry for my future again. If Miss Darcy came to care for me, she would likely keep me on to look after her children and, by the time they were grown, I would be in a position to retire. Indeed, she might give me a pension. The Darcy’s were reputed to be good to their servants, providing for them in their declining years, something I could hope Miss Darcy had learned. That was why I’d gone to the desperate measure of seeking a forger. The security of my future rested on this single interview.

Mr. Darcy looked up from his ledgers and stood as I was shown in, which only made me desire the position more. Though we were nominally of the same class, some employers treated women in my position as servants, letting them be almost invisible except when needed. Mr. Darcy would never stand when a maid entered a room, likely wouldn’t even acknowledge her existence, but I was a gentlewoman. At least, I used to be, and would continue to be seen as such so long as no one ever realized I’d spent a year in the theater.

“A Mrs. Younge to see you, sir,” the maid said, before disappearing from the room.

“Mrs. Younge,” Mr. Darcy greeted, inclining his head. “Please, be seated.”

He gestured to a richly upholstered chair before his desk, waiting until I sat before retaking his own chair. I couldn’t deny that Mr. Darcy’s grand furnishings were physically more comfortable than the ones in Mr. Thompson’s sparsely appointed office, but I was much less comfortable seated across from the hauteur of Mr. Darcy. I hoped Miss Darcy wasn’t quite as intimidating.

“You come to me highly recommended,” he said. I believed he’d heard of me from my previous employer, who let me go after financial reverses made the family retrench dramatically. “I have every expectation of finding you suitable for the position.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “Here are my letters.”

I handed him the letters of recommendation. I’d arranged them chronologically, putting the only real letter on the top of the stack. I held my nerves in check as he read, sure he would raise his gaze at any moment and accuse me of my crime. I knew nothing of forgeries, after all. That they looked real to me meant only that they could fool someone with no experience dealing in them. It didn’t mean they could stand up to the level of scrutiny Mr. Darcy seemed to be applying.

He read each letter only once. He didn’t seem to linger any longer on the ones I knew to be fake. He took no notes at all. I wondered if he would remember the names of the references. Did he even intend to verify them? Finally, he refolded the last page and set the stack on my side of the desk. I resisted the urge to scoop them up and hide them.

“I understand you are the widow of Mr. John Younge,” Mr. Darcy said.

“Yes,” I replied, surprised by his line of questioning. So many thoughts were going through my mind, including my dread of being declared a reprobate and rehearsed responses regarding my skills, but none pertained to my late, unremarkable, husband.

“Did you manage his household?” Mr. Darcy asked, his expression stern, as if I’d already shown myself to be unsuitable.

It irked me that a man not even as old as I was would seem so aloof and arrogant. As I considered my answer, I reminded myself that Mr. Darcy’s connections and wealth put him above me. I decided there was no point in anything but honesty, as I didn’t understand his line of questioning and he could easily verify it if I lied. Besides, I’d vowed that obtaining the forgeries would be my only dishonest act.

“I gradually took over during the first year of our marriage,” I said. “His housekeeper taught me how to manage. I was very grateful to her for doing so, because she died and I had to take over fully.”

“How long were you married?”

“Five years,” I replied, though I was still uncomfortable with his questions. They seemed rather personal and irrelevant. Did the length of my marriage matter when we both knew it had ended in widowhood? I resisted the urge to fidget, worrying he had somehow realized I wasn’t entirely what I pretended to be.

“And you are now…?” He allowed the question to trail off, raising a dark brow.

“Twenty-nine. I married at sixteen.” I’d married a man who had a grandson two years my senior, but there was no reason to bring that up.

He regarded me across the desk for a long moment. I forced myself to remain relaxed and composed, calling on everything I’d learned in my year on the stage. I had no idea what he was thinking, but he couldn’t have any idea what I was, either. At least, I hoped not. If he knew my mind was running in spirals of panic, worrying he’d guessed that two of my letters were forged, it didn’t show on his face.

“I am looking for someone to run a household for my sister. Miss Darcy is currently in school, but I want her to be in London where she has access to the best masters,” he finally said.

“She won’t be living here?” I asked, surprised. I closed my mouth, wishing I’d thought of something slightly more intelligent or decorous to respond with.

“She needs a smaller household, giving her a level of independence. It will also be easier to keep fortune hunters away from her that way. Her dowry is thirty thousand pounds.”

I nodded, finally understanding his earlier line of questioning. I was to be responsible for much more than just the appearance of respectability that a chaperone provided. “Meaning even a wealthy man could be tempted,” I said.

“Exactly. I want her to meet women of her own age and have some mild experiences socializing, but with someone constantly watching not only her, but the staff as well. Here, I am sad to say, some of my friends would be tempted to court her. She will be fifteen in a few weeks and is still much too young for that.”

I nodded again, though it seemed an odd thing to say to a woman who’d married at sixteen. Taking in his austere handsomeness, I wondered how much of his wish to have Miss Darcy living somewhere away from him was for her good and how much of it stemmed from a desire to keep conducting his life as he liked. “What else do you want for her?” I asked when he didn’t resume speaking.

“I want her to continue to work on her accomplishments with the best masters. I would like her to become aware of what goes into running a household. I am not saying she should have control, by any means, but I want decisions to be discussed with her. When she marries, she should know something about household management.”

“And the mild socializing you suggest? Am I to decide where she can and cannot go, and what invitations she may accept and issue?”

“Yes, you are, though she should be consulted and made aware of your reasons,” he said.

I wondered again what sort of girl Miss Darcy was. If she was anything like her brother, I could see my life becoming very difficult.

“She knows girls from her school and, of course, the teachers,” he continued. “She may socialize with them. She should have some contact with men but, for now, only relatives and, perhaps, old family friends.”

“I’m sure Miss Darcy can provide me with the names of her relatives, but are there any of them I cannot trust with her?”

“No,” he said, clearly offended.

I contained a wince. It was that sort of unpolitic talk that had always kept me from gaining the lead roles in the theater. Well, that and a reluctance to trade my favors for advancement. Taking a deep breath, I forged ahead. “What about family friends? How will I be able to evaluate who is suitable and who is not? You’ve already implied that some of your acquaintances are not,” I added, defending my question.

I hoped he would see I was being thorough, not disrespectful. He regarded me across the desk, frowning. I wasn’t sure if the haughtier of that disapproving expression was aimed at me, or if it was how his face naturally tended to settle when he thought. He would, I supposed, be a handsome enough man if he could rein in his arrogance.

“You may ask Georgiana,” he finally said. He held up a hand, almost before I realized I’d opened my mouth to speak. “Not outright, of course. Ask her if they have dined with her at Darcy House or Pemberley. She won’t lie to you. If they have, you may trust them.”

I nodded yet again, hoping I looked intelligent, not like one of those bobbing toys they sold in the market. “What do you feel she needs in the way of accomplishments?”

“I want her to become fluent in French,” he said, switching to that language. He spoke it better than Mr. Thompson, but I preferred the forger’s easy manner of address. Somehow, Mr. Darcy made even the flowing, normally romantic language of our continental neighbors sound stilted and disapproving. “She speaks it somewhat well, but has to continuously pause to select her words.”

“I could insist we speak only French on certain days of the week,” I answered in the same tongue. “But my accent isn’t perfect. She should have access to a native speaker.”

“Your accent is better than mine,” he replied, surprising me with the compliment.

“Thank you,” I said. I elected not to mention that both my mother and nanny had been French. One never knew how an English gentleman would feel about such a thing.

“Your point is also well taken. Georgiana should have the benefit of a perfect accent. It’s something I have already taken into account.”

Of course it was. Far be it for me to think of something that Mr. Darcy had overlooked.

“She plays well and draws well, but both could be improved,” he continued, returning to English.

“Do you have particular masters in mind, or will you want me to find them?” I asked, also switching languages.

I secretly hoped for the latter. It would give me the opportunity to impress him with my choices, and to make ones I felt would be best for Miss Darcy. My hope was dashed as he opened a drawer and pulled out a piece of paper. He slid it across the desk.

“I have a list prepared,” he said.

I picked it up and read it. The music, drawing, Italian and dancing masters were the most expensive in London. Arguably not the best, but definitely good and decidedly popular. It took influence to even acquire a place in their schedules. True to his word, there was also a French master, but I didn’t recognize her name.

“Excellent choices,” I said. By the slight lifting of his brow, he was surprised I’d offered my opinion. “I don’t recognize her, however.” I set the sheet back on the desk, pointing to the French master, Madame Falconet.

“She’s from Paris. She came to London only a few years ago. She’s from a very good family.”

And thus must be a good teacher, I thought sarcastically. At least, presumably, her accent would be impeccable. I should be able to help Miss Darcy overcome anything the woman lacked in instructional acumen.

Looking at Mr. Darcy, with his excessively expensive clothing, his perfectly starched cravat adding additional stiffness to an already ridged posture, I didn’t know why it surprised me that he was judging people by their social standings, not their proficiencies. Nor should I complain, as it worked in my favor. Because I was the daughter of a gentleman and had married a gentleman, he deemed me to be a good choice for his sister.

“Is there anything else you feel I should know, or would like to ask me?” I made sure not to look at the letters, still in a neat stack on his desk. I could almost feel the incrimination of the forged ones leaking out into the room. I wanted to remove them before he realized the truth.

“I believe that will be all,” he said, standing. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, rising as well. Keeping my movements slow, I picked up my stack of letters, hardly glancing at them.

“I shall let you know my decision tomorrow,” Mr. Darcy said.

“Thank you,” I repeated.

He came around the desk and walked me to the door of his office, closing it firmly behind me. Although I found the man even more arrogant and aloof than the average landed gentleman, I fervently hoped that wasn’t the last I would ever see of him. Working for the Darcy’s was the type of opportunity I’d been striving for, and I desperately wanted to secure the position and do well at it.

Chapter Five

I didn’t know if I’d ever seen a young woman more in need of guarding.

True to his word, Mr. Darcy sent a thick envelope the following day. I opened it with slightly trembling fingers. As soon as his list of London masters fell out, I knew I had the job.  There were also two letters and another sheet of paper. The first letter contained an offer to hire me, a stipulation as to my salary and a start date. The second was a letter of introduction to the housekeeper he’d hired for his sister, and the second paper contained the address of the house. I was unsurprised that the street he’d selected was the most expensive in London. I assumed, to his mind, that made it the best.

I arrived the following day, my possessions in tow. The house was blessedly small for the street it was on. Not that I couldn’t manage a large household, but it seemed a waste of time that should be spent on Miss Darcy. The furnishings were impeccable, though not as expensive as those in Mr. Darcy’s townhouse, and in a more ornate style. I assumed that everything was rented.

I quickly discovered that Miss Darcy was a very shy, naïve girl who worked diligently on her accomplishments. She was obedient and hardworking, with little evidence of her brother’s arrogance. I had no difficulty getting her to practice her music or drawing. French presented more of a challenge, not because she refused to speak it, but because she spoke very little in any language.

She had an endearing, gentle manner and a sweet singing voice. She was tall, her figure willowy and elegant in a way that many men would find appealing, though some would consider her too slender. Her face was luminous with youth, and it was very easy to see why Mr. Darcy worried some gentleman would take advantage of her. Add thirty thousand pounds to her demure loveliness, and I didn’t know if I’d ever seen a young woman more in need of guarding.

The first few weeks we lived together in the house passed pleasantly enough. Miss Darcy showed little inclination to go out and never argued with my decisions. In fact, I began to wonder if my charge had any character. It seemed impossible she could be the perfect girl that she appeared to be, yet I could detect no rebellion in her. I began to feel the temptation to come to her with irrational decisions about household affairs, simply to see if she would argue with me. She seemed intelligent, but could anyone with a mind truly be as biddable as she appeared?

To my relief, for no young woman should be as devoid of self as Miss Darcy seemed to be, after about three weeks of managing the household, I noticed a problem. I’d long since learned that keeping careful track of the accounts for a household gave insight into potential issues. While it was the case that, in any household, there would be unexpected expenses, sometime there were things that went beyond what was reasonable. In my previous job, I’d uncovered a cook’s addiction to sweets. In the job before that, I’d discovered that the heir was a secret drinker.

In this case, the extra expense was candles. Miss Darcy used too many of them. She also claimed to have insomnia and was in her bed for ten hours or more each night. I knew some young women needed extra sleep, but that seemed excessive.

The following day, when Miss Darcy began her scheduled practice on the pianoforte, I excused myself and went to her room. Normally, I stayed in the parlor while she played, usually with something to occupy my hands. It was more to keep her company, and because her playing was enjoyable to listen to, than for any need. She would complete her daily practice without any urging from me.

I closed the door to Miss Darcy’s room behind me with a quiet click that surely couldn’t be heard over her playing. It was, of course, a lovely room, but nearly devoid of character. The few adornments that were there were all, I suspected, gifts from her brother. I shook my head. Miss Darcy must have some sort of personality. I was sure of it.

Treading softly, not difficult to do with the lush carpeting, I crossed the room and opened her wardrobe. I felt around the bottom, looked behind her dresses and in the back corners of her drawers. I peeked behind her furniture and under the edges of the carpet, before turning to the bed.

I checked beneath her pillows. I was about to drop to my knees to peer under the bed when a voice in the hallway startled me. I crossed to the door and put an ear to it.

“. . . so much more handsome than Tommy,” a voice I recognized as one of the maids said.

Now that I was at the door, I could hear footsteps without.

“La, don’t be daft,” another girl who worked in the house said. “Tommy’s much more . . .” The footsteps trailed off as her voice became too muted to understand.

I put a hand to my pounding heart. I ought not to be so nervous. I was only doing what Mr. Darcy had hired me to do. It was my responsibility to discover why Georgiana Darcy was using so many candles. I only hoped it wasn’t for anything too scandalous, like corresponding with a gentleman. Then, I would have failed before I’d begun.

I could have asked Miss Darcy why she used so many candles, and would need to if I didn’t find anything suspicious. I worried the question would force her to lie to me, however. Or, perhaps worse, insult her, if she truly wasn’t doing anything untoward. Either would drive a wedge between us. New as our acquaintance was, I knew I needed a bit more time with her before we tested our budding regard too strongly. A personality like Miss Darcy’s needed gentle handling.

No longer hearing anything in the hallway, I returned to the bed, dropping to the floor to look underneath. I was rewarded with the discovery of a large box. I slid it out, hoping it didn’t contain an equally large pile of lover’s letters. I couldn’t fathom what I would do if that turned out to be the case.

The box contained books. I took each out, examining them. There was Evelina, Cecilia, Belinda, The Mysteries of Udolpho, and many more. I sat back on my heels. Georgiana Darcy was a secret romantic; a secret novel reader.

I smiled, relieved. Here was something a normal young woman would do; hide in her room at night and read forbidden novels. That her brother wouldn’t approve of such a practice was likely, but he also hadn’t expressly told me she was forbidden from reading such things. I looked over the books again, feeling that this might be both a good way to impart wisdom to Miss Darcy and something for us to bond over.

First, however, I had to determine the level of suitably of each book, for likely some were not appropriate for Miss Darcy. It was a daunting pile, and I didn’t know all of the titles. Of the ones I did know, I only considered one to be truly inappropriate. I set it aside, placing the others I was familiar with back in the box before setting that one on top. I selected one of the novels I didn’t know at random, sat down in Miss Darcy’s chair, and began to read. There was no way I could judge if the novel was inappropriate without trying it.

It was suitable enough, though unrealistically romantic, and fairly engaging. I was about thirty pages into it when the door opened. Miss Darcy gasped, a sound I echoed, startled. I realized I’d been so engrossed in the story, I’d lost track of time.

Miss Darcy’s eyes were wide and steeped in guilt as they darted from me to the box on the floor. She bit her lip, looking about almost as if she might bolt from the room. I realized I would have to be more temperate than I might have been with another young women. I closed the book and set it aside.

“Please explain to me what I’ve found here,” I said, gentling my tone.

She looked down at her feet, twisting a slipper-clad toe into the carpet. “Books,” she whispered, almost too softly for me to hear.

“I can see that,” I said.

Her head popped up, her eyes even wider. “They’re mine. My brother sent me money and I bought them.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you stole them.” I smiled, something I wouldn’t normally have done while reprimanding a charge. “I want to know why you hid them and why you hide the fact that you are reading them.”

Silence met my question, along with more abuse of the finely woven carpet, though I was sure it could stand up to Georgiana’s nervous fidgeting.

I didn’t think harshness was needed, so I kept my voice kind. “Miss Darcy, I need an answer.”

“At school, the teachers didn’t approve of novels,” she whispered.

“Well here, in this household, I don’t approve of you hiding things.” I rang for a servant.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, her foot stilling. “You won’t tell Fitzwilliam, will you?”

“No, I shall not inform your brother, so long as you promise to no longer hide things from me,” I said. “Most of these books are perfectly suitable reading for a young woman, and will give you something to converse about in like company.”

“Thank you,” she said on an exhale, smiling.

“Do not thank me yet,” I said.

A maid appeared in the doorway. “You rang, missus, miss?”

“Yes.” I stood, quickly returning all of the books to the box. I looked the maid up and down. She seemed sturdy enough. Lifting the box, which was rather heavy, I handed it to her. “Please put that in my room.”

“Yes, Mrs. Younge,” the maid said with an awkward curtsey.

I thought she was the one who didn’t think Tommy, the baker’s delivery lad, was very handsome. I turned back to face Georgiana, who watched the girl until she left. She then leveled accusing eyes on me.

“Those books are mine,” she said.

She still whispered, but there was a vehemence in her tone and a stubborn set to her jaw that I had never seen before. In fact, it was the first time she’d protested anything. That was interesting. I’d finally found something that Miss Darcy felt strongly about, her books.

“I am not going to destroy them, and you will see most of them again,” I said. “Please get ready to go out.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, still looking mutinous.

“We’re going to see Madame Falconet.”

Miss Darcy blinked several times. I could tell my answer surprised her. All else aside, we rarely visited Madame Falconet. Normally, she came to Miss Darcy’s house twice a week and lessons were conducted here. I hoped we would find her at home and available, for I had a plan on how to affect multiple positives from Miss Darcy’s proclivity for reading romance novels; furthering our friendship and her language skills.

Miss Darcy was still frowning at me, making no move to ready herself. “Of course, if you don’t wish to do this my way, we can always take the matter of the novels up with Mr. Darcy,” I said.

Her eyes went wide and she hurried past me to her wardrobe.

“I’ll expect you in the foyer shortly,” I said, leaving the room to hide my smile.

I took myself to my room and rang for a maid as I set about wrestling my hair into my bonnet. The box of books sat at the foot of the bed.

“Yes, missus?” It was the other maid. Possibly, the first was afraid I would make her carry things again.

“Please have the carriage brought round,” I said.

“Yes, missus.” She dropped a curtsey and left.

Miss Darcy climbed into the carriage without protest, but she pouted the entire ride. Looking askance at her protruding lower lip, I felt that pout would be the bane of some poor young man’s existence in the not too distant future. Fortunately, I was not a besotted young man, so Georgiana’s pout was wholly ineffectual.

Madame Falconet’s maid showed us in. The French woman rose to greet us, gliding across the room in her slightly too frilly muslin gown. I assumed her goal was to appear more youthful and exotic, but she wasn’t succeeding.

“Mademoiselle Darcy,” Madame Falconet said, taking Georgiana’s hands and mock kissing her cheeks. “Madame Younge,” she added, nodding at me over Miss Darcy’s shoulder.

“Madame Falconet,” I replied, nodding back, but she’d already returned her attention to the focus of this visit; the young woman with relatives in the nobility and a very wealthy brother.

Madame Falconet kept Georgiana’s hands, leading her to a sofa and sitting with her. She leaned toward Miss Darcy, giving the impression that Georgiana was the most important person in the entire world. She reminded me of the women who did end up with the leading roles in plays. I didn’t quite care for her. I seated myself in a chair across from them.

“Magnifique! It is so wonderful to see you today,” Madame Falconet gushed. “Such a grand surprise.”

Georgiana nodded, looking at their joined hands. I could tell she was wondering if it would be acceptable to pull hers free.

“Would you care for refreshments?” Madame Falconet asked. “Shall I send for some of your English tea for you?”

“No, thank you,” Miss Darcy said.

“No? Well then, tell me, my dear, why have you come to see me this day? What can I help you with?” Madame Falconet asked. “Tisk, tisk,” she said before Georgiana could even open her mouth. “Tell me en Francais.”

Georgiana looked to me, her expression beseeching.

“We’ve come hoping to borrow a French novel,” I said, switching to that language. “It should be something of a romantic nature, but appropriate for a young woman.”

Madame Falconet finally released Georgiana, turning to me. “Madame Younge,” she said, also in French. “You always speak so impeccably. Sometimes, I wonder that you even need me at all.”

She said it with laughter in her voice, but a hard glint in her blue eyes. She pursed her lips, looking me up and down, then rose gracefully and crossed to a set of shelves. Pulling out a book, she turned back.

“I think this would do,” she said.

I rose as well, realizing she had no intention of bringing me the book. When I drew close, she handed it to me. She kept a smile on her face, but I had the distinct feeling she liked me even less than I cared for her.

It was a copy of Paul et Virginie. I was familiar with the work, and deemed it suitable enough. “Thank you,” I said. I skimmed the shelf, seeing little else there that I would permit Georgiana to read. If this book went well, I would have to look into purchasing more. Madame Falconet’s taste in literature ran toward the lurid. “May I assume you have read this?”

“But of course,” she said, looking and sounding offended. “It is boring, no?”

“I think it will be just the thing for Mademoiselle Darcy.”

She nodded, smiling with little sincerity.

I looked over to find Georgiana gazing at the floor, which annoyed me slightly. The girl took so little interest in what went on about her. I hadn’t switched to French to exclude her. I’d hoped she would be interested enough in what was transpiring to work to follow our conversation.

“Miss Darcy,” I called, reverting to English. She looked up, her expression startled. I walked toward her, holding out the book. “This shall be your new reading material.”

She took it, turning it over in her hands.

“It is a story you will enjoy,” I said.

She nodded, her expression glum.

“When you finish it, you may have one of your novels back,” I said. “For each novel you read in French, you will continue to receive back one of your English ones. I will choose stories you will like,” I added, smiling at her encouragingly. “Also, as this is now part of your studies, you will read during the daytime, not at night. Nighttime is for sleeping.”

Behind me, Madame Falconet snorted. I ignored her.

“Are we agreed?” I asked Georgiana.

“Yes,” Georgiana said.

I didn’t demand she repeat the syllable in French. “Thank you, Madame Falconet,” I said, turning back to Georgiana’s French master. “We appreciate you receiving us unexpectedly.” Behind me, I heard Georgiana stand.

“But yes, of course,” Madame Falconet said. “I am always pleased to see Mademoiselle Darcy, and I shall see you again soon, for our usual lesson.”

“Where you will go over what you’ve read,” I added to Georgiana.

That earned me a sullen nod from Georgiana and a glare from Madame Falconet, though it was cast with a smile on her lips.

“Until then,” Madame Falconet said. “Au revoir.”

“Au revoir,” Georgiana mumbled.

We saw ourselves out.

Chapter Six

He was looking as harshly handsome and unyieldingly superior as ever.

Over the next few days, I could tell Georgiana resented what I’d done, especially my rule that the book must be discussed in French. Her reading went very slowly at first, and I frequently had to help her with translations, the only time English was permitted in relation to the novel. When Madame Falconet arrived for her next lesson, the three of us discussed what little Georgiana had managed to read, my charge whispering in halting French. I received frequent and expressive looks of disapproval from Madame Falconet for the duration of the session.

The following week progressed better, however, and, by the time Miss Darcy was a quarter of the way through Paul et Virginie, she was caught up in the story. When the novel was finished, the three of us had a long talk about it, during which Georgiana was much more animated than usual. Madame Falconet and I then selected another book. Miss Darcy read it, but next elected to reread Paul et Virginie.

Aside from pursing her accomplishments, twice a week, Miss Darcy socialized with other young ladies. Usually, these were dismal affairs, with girls who were only compatible in theory, but not in practice. The elite families with young ladies who weren’t yet out thought that all they needed to do to give the girls practice moving in society was to bring them together. Under the watchful eyes of their mothers or governesses, they would become great friends, but I knew those friendships only lasted so long as eyes were on them. Miss Darcy spoke so little on these occasions that she was usually ignored.

In a way, I almost thought that was better for her. Most of the girls seemed to be the sort I’d initially feared Miss Darcy would be, after meeting her brother, and I didn’t think Miss Darcy would really enjoy their company. Of course, given their pampered upbringings and the nature of the occasions, they could hardly be expected to behave any other way than affectedly. I knew there was no way to determine who among them was actually kindhearted without interacting more, and spent considerable time trying to think of a way to encourage Georgiana to speak with them.

Nothing I tried seemed to help, though, and our next social occasion found her once again sitting along the wall beside me, when, by rights, she ought to be one of their leaders. She was bright, pretty, and very wealthy with impeccable connections, after all. If nothing else, I thought some of the women should think to ingratiate their daughters in the hopes they might end up spending time near Mr. Darcy and catch his eye. He was one of the most eligible bachelors in their circle, after all.

As these uncharitable thoughts were going through my head, the woman seated to the other side of Georgiana turned toward her.

“Miss Darcy,” she said. “I believe I’ve heard you are of a studious inclination. May I ask what you enjoy reading? I’ve been attempting to catch my Lucy’s interest.”

The woman was one I always felt to be nicer than the average mother attending the events. She was less wealthy than the others, which I assumed was partly why she’d learned kindness. We all knew the only reason she and her daughter were permitted into the group was that her brother, via her sister’s marriage, was an earl with a marriageable son.

“I enjoy reading Paul et Virginie,” Georgiana said, switching to French.

I was a bit surprised she was holding so strictly to my rule about using French when discussing the work. I waited, hoping the woman would react kindly.

“Oh, that is a splendid story,” the woman said, also speaking French. She glanced past Georgiana to me, smiling. “But ever so sad.”

“Yes,” Georgiana said, still in French. “I think that’s part of what makes it so wonderful a story, though.”

A governess, who was a French émigré, joined the conversation and the three of them spoke enthusiastically about the book. It was the most I’d ever seen Georgiana speak while attending one of those occasions. Knowing she couldn’t see me, as she’d turned toward the other two women, I smiled.

Their animated conversation drew attention, and soon a group of girls wandered over. “What are you talking about?” their leader asked.

“Paul et Virginie,” Miss Darcy said. “I’m sorry, but Mrs. Younge says I have to speak French when I discuss it.”

“That is the rule,” I said in French, before anyone else could react. I knew it would be more polite if we spoke English, but I also knew all of these girls studied French.

The émigré governess turned to her charge. “I will help you read it, if you are interested,” she said, still in French. “It is an excellent book and will help you see the beauty of the language.”

“Perhaps you can read a passage to us?” I suggested to the émigré governess, knowing Miss Darcy had the book with her and feeling that a native French speaker would be the best choice. The governess did read for us, impressing me with her theatrical skills. For the next several meetings, time was set aside to continue reading the book, although I learned that many of the girls took it up on their own. By the time the ending of the novel was read most of the girls were in tears over the death of the heroine.

As the novel was having such an extensive impact in Georgiana’s life, I sent Mr. Darcy a report mentioning it and the readings. I didn’t give any indication of discovering Georgiana’s book collection or reveal that Paul et Virginie romanticized a world without class distinctions. He did not reply to my letter, but when he came to town we dined at his house with an elderly couple who were French speakers. The woman, who had obviously been coached to do so, started talking about the book. Miss Darcy was still under its spell and spoke more in mixed company than I had ever seen her do.

Later that evening, while Georgiana was playing, Mr. Darcy took the seat beside mine. He was looking as harshly handsome and unyieldingly superior as ever, so I knew he hadn’t sought my company for any sort of polite socializing.

“That novel was an inspired choice,” he said, his voice too low for Miss Darcy to hear from where she sat behind the pianoforte on the other side of the room. “Georgiana was more animated than I’ve ever seen her be in company and her French has improved tremendously.”

“Thank you.”

“What is the book about?”

“A man and a woman who are brought up together and fall in love,” I said, adhering to the plotline and hoping he hadn’t discovered from anyone what the story was more deeply about. “She’s sent away to marry someone else, but returns to marry her love. She drowns on the return trip.”

“It sounds a bit morbid, and not at all interesting,” he said, frowning.

“You are not a fifteen year old girl,” I said.

“No, I’m not,” he said.

From anyone else, I would have deemed the reply in jest, but I knew it was not. He turned his attention back to his sister’s playing. From his expression, I suspected he was evaluating it, rather than enjoying it. To my relief, Georgiana played flawlessly.

Chapter Seven

Tears, after all, got you nowhere, much like relying on men.

The weeks passed and London grew hot. Georgiana’s social engagements began to dwindle as many families left for the country. I mentioned this to Mr. Darcy in one of my reports. I secretly hoped he would make arrangements for us to depart the city as well, but didn’t presume to even hint as much.

In response, Mr. Darcy sent round a note to Georgiana saying he would be taking her to some relatives for dinner. Not knowing if I was invited, I made sure that both of us were ready. As we waited for Mr. Darcy to arrive, I could tell Georgiana had no notion I had gone to any special trouble.

We spoke of inconsequential things, mostly in French. Georgiana had finished her third read of Paul et Virginie, enjoying it even more the third time, since she wasn’t stumbling over the French as much. While I was pleased her French was improving, and didn’t dislike the book, I was growing a bit tired of her youthful enthusiasm for it. It was with mild pleasure, therefore, that I heard Mr. Darcy arrive.

He was shown into the parlor where we waited for him, and we stood in greeting. He bowed upon entering, very dashing in his impeccably tailored and outlandishly expensive tails coat and contrasting trousers. He looked me up and down as he straightened, the unyielding lines about his mouth forming a frown.

“Mrs. Younge, there is no need for you to accompany us. I believe it’s been quite some time since you had an evening off.”

“Thank you,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. I didn’t feel neutral, however. I was certain that Mr. Darcy had only done me the kindness of giving me an evening off because he found me unpresentable. It was unfair of him to judge me so. He had no right to evaluate me like that. My clothing was perfectly correct and respectable. If he wanted me to spend more on eveningwear, he ought to pay me more.

Mr. Darcy held out his arm and Georgiana crossed to him. “Good bye, Mrs. Younge,” she said, smiling and obviously blissfully unaware of her brother’s censure of me. “Have a nice evening.”

“Thank you,” I repeated, for lack of anything else polite enough to say. “You as well.”

Mr. Darcy nodded in dismissal and led his sister away. I stood for a moment, fuming. I was good enough to guide and protect his sister, it seemed, but not good enough to be seen in his company. Of course, Mr. Darcy thought quite a bit about his station and prestige. Anyone could see that. I was reminded of my first impression, of a man with enough arrogance to rival royalty.

I went to change into less formal clothing, considering some of the things I might do with my evening as I did so. I could use the time to go over the ledgers, or sew, or read another of Georgiana’s books to decide if it was one I could return to her. Mr. Darcy had given me the evening off, though, and I would take it. All of the shops were already closed, but the sun wouldn’t set for another three hours. I decided to take a walk.

Almost of their own accord, my feet took me past the house I’d lived in with Mr. Younge. The knocker was on the door, meaning someone was living there. I stopped for a moment to regard it, taking in the familiar front steps, the solid form of the door, the curtains seen through the windows. They were newer, I realized, not the ones that had been there when I lived inside.

I loved the house. I’d maintained it well, even when Mr. Younge was dying. The last time I’d been in it was when Mr. Edward Younge, my husband’s eldest son, had told me to leave. My pleasure in seeing the house dimmed as his harsh words came back to me.

“You shall inherit nothing, Mrs. Younge.” He’d slurred my married name, making it clear he didn’t believe I deserved it.

“I don’t understand,” I’d said, too grief stricken to take in his words.

“I’m sure you do,” Mr. Edward Younge had said. “I know you thought you were making a good match, taking a doddering old man for all he was worth, but your father included no provisions for you. He bartered away your security when he sold you to a senile old man for a paltry five hundred pounds. That’s all women like you are worth, you know. Not even as much as it would take to keep a good prostitute.”

I raised a hand to my cheek, remembering how I’d cried. I hadn’t had anything to say to his accusations. At the time, all those years ago, I’d been too stunned to think.

“You’ve already lived off of my inheritance for five years,” he’d continued. “If you haven’t squandered everything in the household account, take what you will, but I want you out of this house, my house, immediately.”

So I’d left. With less than three hundred pounds, I’d left the house I’d come to call my home. I remembered standing outside with my clothing tightly packed into my cases and nowhere to go.

I sighed, dropping my hand from a cheek that hadn’t felt tears in a great while. Not since that day. Tears, after all, got you nowhere, much like relying on men.

It would have made sense for my husband to have considered my widowhood. I’d married him on my sixteenth birthday, when he was sixty-two. I’d been a good wife to him and managed his household well. I’d shared the marital bed on the rare occasions he’d wanted me to and attended to the sickbed when that was what he needed.

Genuinely grieving for a man I hadn’t loved but had cared for, I’d become an actress for almost a year. I’d supported myself, but soon realized there was no future in it. The mild success I’d had, I’d owed to being young and pretty, and the ability to act with a believable French accent. While the accent would remain, I was not so great a fool as to think my looks would. I also knew my face wouldn’t take me far enough to make any real money when I was disinclined to accept the advances of theater managers and interested young gentlemen. I knew the affections of the former were fleeting and that the latter were only looking for one of those five hundred pound a year mistresses.

I resumed my walk, but I couldn’t keep the past out of my head as well as I could move my feet away from the house where I’d known a brief respite of happiness. Unbidden, my older sister’s face coalesced in my mind. She’d been so very pretty, with long dark hair that fell in waves and skin to rival fresh cream. Once, long ago, she’d been my best friend, though I’d envied her nearly beyond reason.

She’d tried to fight our father when she was sold off. He’d locked her in her room and allowed her only bread and water until she’d broken. She’d died in childbirth a year later. Looking back, I sometimes wondered if she would have survived if her health hadn’t been hurt by months of a poor diet and no exercise. When my turn had come, I hadn’t fought, and had even managed to come to my wedding with dry eyes. I’d been rewarded by a kind husband who had allowed me to continue my training in accomplishments.

He’d enjoyed having a wife who played and sang. He’d liked when I’d drawn pictures of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I’d presided over his dinner parties and displayed my knowledge of French to some of the émigrés he’d known. I’d thought he was sufficiently fond of me to see that I was cared for, but instead he’d left me with nothing.

A bell tolled and I looked up, realizing I’d already walked for over an hour. I’d been so caught up in my memories that I hadn’t paid much attention to where I was, only making sure I didn’t wander into any parts of town where an unescorted lady ought not go. Now, I was near Mr. Thompson’s office.

A smile dispelled the malaise of dismal memories that Mr. Darcy’s disdain and the sight of my old home had stirred in me. Here was the home of a man who hadn’t let me down, for his letters had readily passed scrutiny. I recalled Mr. Thompson’s easy manner and handsome, scarred face and thought it might be kind to let him know I’d succeeded, and pleasant to be across from a man who didn’t look down on me.

I was let in by the same woman, the one who watched the children. Her smile was friendly.

“I don’t have an appointment,” I said.

“He’s just finishing with someone now. I’m sure he has time for you,” she said. “You know the way.”

“I do,” I replied, nodding. Still, we walked the short distance together, for she was returning to her place across the hall from him.

A woman in her forties was coming out of his office as we approached. She marched up to me with apparent purpose and held out a letter. “Read this to me,” she said, her jaw jutting out at a belligerent angle.

Bewildered, I looked down to find the neatest handwriting I’d ever seen. I read aloud from the page, finding the letter of a mother to her son, telling him of her new job and that he needn’t worry about her. When I finished, I held the letter out and she took it back.

“That’s what he said was on there, but you can’t always trust people,” she said, but she was smiling now. She folded the letter carefully and left.

I turned to find Mr. Thompson watching me, an amused expression on his face. He stood and came around his desk. “Mrs. Younge, it’s a pleasure to see you again. Do come in.”

I stepped into the room and, for a moment, I thought he might take my hand and kiss it, as if we were two people of the upper classes affecting French mannerisms. Instead, he gestured to his lone chair. I noticed it had a cushion now.

“Will you sit?”

“Thank you,” I said.

He went back around his desk, retaking his place.

“That didn’t look like a letter that required your, ah, unique skills,” I said.

“No, it was simply a message from a woman who can’t read or write to her son, who reads with difficulty.”

“How much did you charge her?” I asked. I regretted it immediately. I’d never quite learned to properly curb my inquisitiveness. My overindulgent late husband was to blame, I supposed.

“A sixpence more than the cost of the paper and ink, and I used the cheapest of both of those.”

“You’re not getting rich off of her,” I said, wondering if I’d overpaid him after all.

“No, but I’m making a living.” My skepticism must have shown on my face. “I’m only writing things that are above board, these days. I work for lawyers a couple of days a week now. They have some clients who are barely literate and they want things written so they can be easily read. Also, the older man has a palsy in his hands and has me write letters to his numerous clients.”

“In his handwriting?” I asked, wondering if that counted as forgery or not.

“Yes, but he dictates the letters.” He smiled. “I don’t change a thing. I don’t even correct his grammar.”

“So you are now an honest forger?” I returned his smile. It was peculiar, but I’d forgotten how handsome he was. It was easy to look at his disfigurement and remember it, while not giving the rest of his face its due.

“As long as I can make a living that way,” he said.

“No more trying to go after the titled few?” I was a bit surprised. When I’d first come to see him, months ago now, I’d been aware of a lurking anger when he mentioned the nobility and told me how he’d lost his eye. Thinking of the story, my gaze was drawn back to his scar. I wondered if it was familiarity that made it seem so much less obtrusive now, or his cheery manner.

“I decided I would be better off not being angry.”

“Easier said than done.” I looked down at my hands, folded in my lap.

“Why are you angry?” he asked, resting his elbows on the desk.

I glanced at him. He looked kind, concerned and genuinely interested. Perhaps because it was so much on my mind that evening, I spoke haltingly of my sister and her death, of my father trading me to an old man for a paltry sum, and of that old man’s death and how I was cast out. Mr. Thompson remained attentive throughout the telling, and I found myself oddly buoyed by his attention. I’d never told anyone my tale before. Somehow, it was better, feeling like someone knew, and cared, what had happened to me.

“I see,” he finally said, when I reached my current station as governess to Miss Darcy and fell silent. “I’m sorry for what your father and your husband’s family did to you.”

“But you don’t think I have a right to be angry?” I asked, the ease I’d found in telling him my story replaced by annoyance that yet another man was judging me and finding me lacking.

“Yes and no,” he said. “Yes, you have cause, which I suppose gives you the right, but it isn’t doing you any good. I know how you feel. I also have cause, but I decided it wasn’t worth risking a run in with the law to avenge myself on my former class.”

“What do you mean, your former class?” I asked, confused. One was of the gentry, or was not. It was a firm line that I was endeavoring to remain on the right side of.

“My father was a clergyman and I received an excellent education, but not a formal one. I couldn’t be ordained without a university degree, so I became a secretary to the son of a nobleman. I was soon writing all of his letters, and those from his sister and younger brother to various relatives. After a while, they stopped reading what I sent, content to let me, in effect, converse on their behalf.”

His smile faltered and he leaned back in his chair, making me regret asking.

“The young man I worked for stole some valuable items from his family home to pay his gambling debts,” he continued in a grim voice. “When they were discovered missing, he blamed his valet. He was quite open with me about it. I suppose, since I wrote all of his letters, I was almost a sort of walking journal for him.” He shrugged, his expression shifting into a grimace. “Regardless of why he told me or what he assumed my role to be, I couldn’t live with the unfairness of what he’d done, casting his valet out with no references. The man’s life was all but ruined. I wrote a confession for my employer, including an abject apology, to his father.”

“Without consulting him?” I couldn’t believe his brashness. Then, he was a man, and had been a young man at the time. Looking back, I was sure there had been a time I’d been that idealistic and naïve. A time before my sister had been bartered away.

“He had no intention of getting his hand slapped,” Mr. Thompson said. “If that meant ruining his valet, he didn’t care. I told him what I’d done after I sent the letter. He attacked me with a knife.” He gestured to his scarred face and eyepatch. “I was lucky to get away alive.”

“You were a fool,” I said without heat or judgement.

“I was.” A smile crossed his lips, perhaps for my forthrightness. “I was told to leave three days after the attack. At least they sent me away in a carriage with all of my possessions. My great aunt lives here. Because of what I’d done, I could never get a reference. Not that it would matter. With this face, I could never get a good job.”

“How long ago was that?” I asked.

“About two years.”

So much was unsaid. Without the support of family, money, and position, justice was hard to obtain. The gambling, thieving, volatile, lying young man who would someday fill his father’s titled position would never pay for attacking Mr. Thompson, nor had he likely suffered much for his other crimes. Looking at Mr. Thompson’s scarred face, I realized he had more reason to be angry than I did. He’d gone from a handsome young man, living fairly well and with a full future, to dwelling in isolation with his great aunt on the edge of the respectable regions of London.

“What happened to the valet?” I asked, partly to change the subject and partly because I wondered if Mr. Thompson’s intervention had done him good.

“He received an excellent letter of recommendation which helped him get another job.”

I smiled at that. His answering smile gave me the courage to ask a more important question. “What gave you the strength to stop being angry?”

I was curious, because I was still angry. I was angry with my father, who, in spite of having sold off his daughters, died in poverty. I was angry with my husband for not providing for me. I was furious with his son for not offering me a home. I was even angry at myself for my attempt to be an actress, which threatened my security as a respectable governess.

“I’m afraid nothing noble or even helpful to you,” he said. “The truth is, my former employer died in a tavern brawl. His family was unable to hush it up because he started the fight and there were many witnesses.”

I’d heard about the case. It appeared I’d both underestimated how well Mr. Thompson must have lived before now and erred in predicting that no justice would be served to the man who’d disfigured him. “You were mixing with high ranking people,” I said.

He nodded. “Which is where the answer to your original question lies. I once thought of myself as one of the gentry, but I’m not anymore. Perhaps I never was. I’m not certain what my class is, but I will have to live on what I can earn, and my skills are no more valuable than many a man with less education and less refined manners.”

“I’m really a servant,” I said, my tone bitter. “I have more responsibility than anyone else in the household, yet neither the servants nor masters respect me.”

“I’ve been in a similar position. I don’t envy you it.” He watched me for a long moment, his face unreadable but his eye intent. “Come, I’d like you to meet my great aunt, Miss Hodges.”

He stood, coming around the desk, and again I had the strange premonition he would reach for my hand, but again he did not. Belatedly, I stood as well. He walked past me out the door. Curious, I trailed after.

We ascended two flights and he knocked on a door. A maid answered and we were shown into a small sitting room. We were greeted by a woman in her seventies who used two canes to stand. She had wispy white hair and a kind face. It was hard to tell but I thought, once, she must have been quite pretty.

“Miss Hodges, this is Mrs. Younge,” Mr. Thompson said. “Mrs. Younge, this is my great aunt, Miss Hodges.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear,” Miss Hodges said. “Please, do sit down.”

We all sat, the small room feeling a bit full with Mr. Thompson and I on the lone, small, sofa and Miss Hodges in the single upholstered chair.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance as well, Miss Hodges,” I said. “You have a lovely home.”

“Miss Hodges never married but inherited this house, which gives her an income as a lodging. I was lucky to have a place to go to,” Mr. Thompson said, casting a kind look toward his great aunt.

“I am the lucky one,” Miss Hodges said. “He looks after the house for me and helps with the tenants, and he pays me when he uses me as an address.”

“As an address?” I asked, unsure what that meant.

“I have clients who write letters to my great aunt. She passes them on to me,” Mr. Thompson explained.

Miss Hodges nodded. “My hands aren’t what they used to be, you know, or I would see to it myself and pay my nephew a finder’s fee.”

She chuckled and I gathered this was in the nature of a jest between them, but I still didn’t understand why people were writing them. “If your clients can write, what do they need you for?”

“I write them back, in my great aunt’s handwriting. Some of them have no friends. Some of them pretend to be lifelong friends of Miss Hodges. One has four invented friends, and I write from all four using different handwriting for each. I write innocuous letters to them and they respond.”

“Mr. Thompson lets me read the letters,” Miss Hodges said. “I live a much more interesting life in those letters than I actually do.”

“Why?” I asked, looking back and forth between them, thoroughly confused.

Rapid footsteps sounded on the stairs we’d come up earlier. Mr. Thompson stood, crossing to the door instead of answering me. “Your pardon,” he said over his shoulder as he pulled the door open to reveal a child of about six.

I thought I recognized him as one of the ones usually overseen by the woman who answered the door and acted as chaperone.

“Sir, ma says you have a man waiting in your office,” the boy said.

“Excuse me, Great Aunt, Mrs. Younge. I didn’t realize it had gotten so late,” Mr. Thompson said, hurrying away.

I turned to Miss Hodges, wondering if I should make my farewells and how late it was.

“The one with four friends is just lonely,” Miss Hodges said before I could speak, taking up the explanation where Mr. Thompson had left off. “She knows its fiction, to be sure, but it’s worth paying for. At least, I tell myself she has to know it’s not real, since she pays. Sometimes, though, I wonder if she doesn’t half believe it, at least in a way. Also, I know she leaves the letters out for her servants, and even her family, to find. She’s written as much. It’s amazing the lengths some people will go to for the sake of appearance.”

“And the others?” I asked, intrigued.

“They are women who are thought less of because of their lack of friendships. The letters give them status. I actually attended the wedding of another of Mr. Thompson’s clients, but she’s stopped writing since she married. I suppose she has real friends now, though I did quite like her. She gave me a generous gift before we parted ways. I think Mr. Thompson’s place in all of it was forgotten, but I thought it too unkind to remind her. We both did so enjoy our friendship, even if it was really him writing my letters to her.”

We chatted for about half an hour before Mr. Thompson returned. Though he’d hurried away, he seemed at ease again. “I’m sorry for leaving earlier, Mrs. Younge,” he said. “I hadn’t realized the time.”

He didn’t sit, so I rose, taking his mention of the time as a reminder. “It is getting rather late, isn’t it?” I said. “Miss Hodges, it’s been a pleasure talking with you. I hope we may converse again sometime.”

“You’re a sweet girl to say so,” she said, reaching for her canes.

No one had called me a girl in a long time. I found it oddly pleasing. “Please, don’t stand on my account,” I said.

She nodded, settling back into her chair with a look of relief.

“Mrs. Younge,” Mr. Thompson said. “It is late indeed. May I walk with you to your destination?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Thompson,” I said.

He led the way from the room and outside. The woman and the children were gone, the doors to their parlor and Mr. Thompson’s office closed. He let us out the front door. When we reached the street, he didn’t reach for my hand as I kept picturing, but did offer me his arm. I was happy to take it. We had a very amiable walk and after that, whenever I had free time, I visited Miss Hodges or Mr. Thompson.

Chapter Eight

I was intrigued, wondering who Mr. Wickham was.

That pleasure was soon going to be denied me in order to give Miss Darcy a greater pleasure. Mr. Darcy, likely tired of carting his sister about London to give her something to do now that the season was over, arranged for us to go to Ramsgate. Whereas a few short weeks ago, I would have been pleased, now I was saddened. It was odd, how quickly Mr. Thompson and Miss Hodges had begun to fill a void in my life. It was a space that had been empty for a very long time; since my sister had left home when I was thirteen.

The next time I was free, I walked over to tell Mr. Thompson and Miss Hodges about my upcoming absence. The woman who watched the children, most of whom were not her own, let me in, but informed me that Mr. Thompson was out. I felt a strange sense of loss as I walked past his closed office doors toward the stairs that would lead me to Miss Hodges. It would have been nice to bid him farewell, since I’d been informed we were to be away for over a month.

“Mrs. Younge,” Miss Hodges greeted as I entered her cozy parlor. She didn’t stand. We’d long since agreed she shouldn’t put herself to the trouble for me. If she saved her hands, not using her canes as much, she could do a small amount of knitting or sewing, which pleased her. “It’s so good of you to drop by today.”

“I’m afraid it will be the last day for some time,” I said, settling onto the sofa. “Mr. Darcy has arranged for Miss Darcy to visit Ramsgate.”

“Well, it will be nice for you to get away from London in this heat, but I’ll miss your company,” Miss Hodges said. She was forever saying kind things to me.

“As I will yours,” I replied, meaning it.

“I think Mr. Thompson will miss your company as well,” Miss Hodges said, merriment in her eyes.

“Perhaps.” I felt my face heat.

“I won’t keep you now, as I’m sure there is a lot to do to make a fine lady like Miss Darcy ready for travel, but I should like if you would write to me.”

“I should like that as well, but I don’t know that I can afford it,” I said, a bit surprised she would try to make money from our friendship. Then again, Mr. Thompson was working hard to avoid forging, so he likely needed all the extra coin he could manage, and they undoubtedly assumed Mr. Darcy paid me well. He did, but not so well that I wanted to spend my coin buying letters.

Miss Hodges smiled. “I meant, rather, that you should write me for the pleasure of it, if you wish. I would enjoy receiving a real letter, from a real friend, and will write you back myself, free of charge.”

“Will your hands manage it?” I asked, going from reluctant to concerned. It was a great kindness on her part, to make the offer. I was a bit dismayed I hadn’t immediately realized she wanted me to write as a friend. I wasn’t accustomed to having friends, though. None of my previous positions had even permitted me free hours.

“Oh, they’ll make do,” she said, holding out her gnarled hands to inspect them. “If you receive a letter on plain paper in a hardly legible scrawl, it’s from me. If it’s on fancy paper with perfume and ornate handwriting, it’s from Mr. Thompson.”

We both laughed at that.

“I promise to write,” I said, and reluctantly made my farewells, for she was correct that there was much to do. It wasn’t until later, as I walked home, that I realized Miss Hodges had implied Mr. Thompson might write me, and not as a paid service.

The day before we left, Mr. Darcy came to visit. We both stood when he entered the parlor, and he bowed, as he was always quite correct in his behavior. Correct or not, his countenance was harsh with arrogance, and I couldn’t help but wonder if that was why he wasn’t yet married. As a man in his late twenties, it was more than time for him to take a bride. I could only surmise that, though wealthy and handsome, he was either too arrogant for any lady to like or too arrogant to like any lady. I suspected the latter, for there were plenty of young women who would put up with much more than condescension to gain a rich husband.

“Georgiana, Mrs. Younge,” he greeted.

“Mr. Darcy,” I said, nodding.

“Would you care to sit, Fitzwilliam?” Georgiana asked, instead of waiting for me to do it. It was something we’d been working on.

To my dismay, for Miss Darcy had been practicing saying the correct things to a visitor, Mr. Darcy shook his head. He held an envelope out in my direction, not bothering to look at me. “I’ve arranged for your lodging in a place that has a view of the ocean,” he said to Georgiana.

I took the envelope, resisting the urge to ignore it until acknowledged.

“That is a letter of introduction to the Martins,” Mr. Darcy continued. “Mr. Martin was a friend of Father’s. He should be able to introduce you to people who are appropriate for you to know. I’ve written him and he’s replied. He and his wife know you are coming.”

“That was good of you,” I said. I didn’t think the sea would be enough entertainment for Georgiana for the month we were planning to be there. “Do the Martins know girls that are Miss Darcy’s age?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, finally turning to me. “But they should have a good idea of where to find them. Besides, she should become accustomed to meeting people of all ages. She’ll probably come out in a little over a year.” He glanced at her when he said the last sentence.

“Do you expect anyone else Miss Darcy would know to be there?” I asked.

“Well, she might get a surprise visitor,” he said, turning to Georgiana with a teasing smile, the first smile I’d ever seen from him.

“Mr. Wickham?” Georgiana asked with eagerness.

Mr. Darcy’s face turned from pleasure to an instant of pain, quickly concealed, which made me wonder at the nature of this Mr. Wickham’s absence. “I think Mr. Wickham is too busy to visit a resort town,” he said. “I might visit.”

“Oh,” she said sadly. “I hoped to see him again. I thought . . . I thought that when the clergyman at Kympton died, Mr. Wickham would come to claim the living Father bequeathed to him, but he never came.”

“Mr. Wickham informed me that he didn’t wish to be a clergyman and asked for financial compensation for not taking the living,” Mr. Darcy said, his tone even more devoid of emotion than usual. “He said he wanted to go into law. I think that was a better choice for him.”

“I believe the study of law to be very time consuming,” I said, trying to ease the tension that I sensed building. Was Mr. Darcy disappointed that Miss Darcy didn’t consider him as interesting as this Mr. Wickham, or upset that he couldn’t produce the man his sister most wanted to see? I was intrigued, wondering who Mr. Wickham was.

Chapter Nine

…getting pregnant wasn’t in my long term best interests.

I’d expected to find the Martins too staid and socializing too much with their own generation. Instead, I found they held large parties where they invited many of the soldiers and sailors who were in Ramsgate. As a port, it was a hub in the war with Napoleon, so there were plenty of sailors and soldiers to host. After our first visit with them turned out to be a nightmarish party where I had great difficulty keeping a drunken lieutenant away from Miss Darcy, I decided that we would not be spending time with the Martins. Georgiana was relieved, since the man had genuinely frightened her.

With our only avenue to meet people closed, we spent the following day cooped up indoors due to bad weather. The day after that, we were both eager to get out. We walked along the boardwalk, taking in the sights and smells of the sea. The sounds as well, for we hardly spoke at all. Georgiana was never loquacious, and after two days together in the carriage from London, we’d exhausted our avenues for conversation.

We stood for a long moment watching a ship set out to sea. I fervently hoped it was carrying many of the sailors and soldier away, especially the drunken lieutenant. Not that I would put Miss Darcy in a position to encounter him again, or any like him.

When the ship had dwindled into a speck on the horizon, we turned to continue our walk. Miss Darcy let out a startled squeak, then lengthened her stride, rushing toward a man standing nearby, watching the ship. I hurried to catch up to her, reaching her at the same time as she stopped beside him.

“Mr. Wickham,” she exclaimed, happier than I’d ever seen her.

He whipped around, displaying a handsome face that was wreathed in surprise. “Miss Darcy! What a pleasure. I hadn’t thought to see you here, and without your brother.” He nodded toward me, his look friendly and curious.

“This is Mrs. Younge,” Miss Darcy said. “Mrs. Younge, this is Mr. Wickham. You remember, Fitzwilliam and I spoke of him?”

“I hope not disparagingly,” he said. His tone was jovial, as if the words were in jest, but tension hardened the corners of his smile. “Mrs. Younge, a pleasure,” he added, bowing to me before turning back to Miss Darcy.

“Of course not disparagingly,” Georgiana said. “Fitzwilliam explained to me that you’d gone into law. That does sound ever so much more exciting than the clergy. Are you enjoying your studies? I didn’t think to see you here, but I had such hopes.”

Miss Darcy prattled on, but I was having trouble concentrating on her words. I was horrified to realize I recognized Mr. Wickham. What was worse, he might recognize me. He was one of those men who came backstage to visit the actresses.

I tried to fade into the background, observing their conversation. Wickham had to say little, as Georgiana was carrying on quite animatedly. It was obvious she held him in both affection and esteem. As I watched, I thought back over all he’d said and done so far, looking for signs of what sort of man he was, aside from the type who enjoyed the company of actresses, or an indication that he’d recognized me.

I hadn’t been a great actress but, when on stage, I’d done a decent job. Mr. Wickham, I decided, was better than I’d been, but he’d still held his I-am-surprised-to-see-you expression for too long when he’d turned to find Georgiana beside him. A genuine expression of surprise was always brief. Besides, there was little chance he’d been so engrossed in watching the ship that he wouldn’t have already seen Miss Darcy. She was a tall, attractive young woman and any man within sight would have glanced her way at least once during the slow process of the ship leaving port.

“And how long have you been a companion to Miss Darcy, Mrs. Younge?” Mr. Wickham asked, his cultured tones cutting into my musings. He was looking at me through narrowed eyes, his brow creased in puzzlement.

“For some months now, Mr. Wickham,” I said, keeping my tone even, though my heart pounded. If he went from puzzled to certain, there was no way I would be able to keep my position. I folded my face into severe, prim lines, trying to look older. With any luck, he wouldn’t recognize me.

Nor was I very recognizable. I’d never had much of a following in my year as an actress. I’d gone by a French name and spoken with a French accent. The men who’d come backstage had been wild about two of the other actresses in our company. They’d usually overlooked me, and I’d encouraged them to ignore me. A prudish French mademoiselle hadn’t been what they were looking for, and that’s what I’d been, having fully realized that getting pregnant wasn’t in my long term best interests.

I met Mr. Wickham’s eyes without looking away. Mademoiselle Marie Blaise was behind me. Even if Mr. Wickham did recognize me, or think he did, I doubted anyone could prove Marie Blaise and I were one and the same.

“I’m sure you’re enjoying the famous Darcy hospitality,” he finally said, the lines of thought smoothing from his brow.

“I am enjoying being Miss Darcy’s chaperone,” I said, emphasizing the word. “Have you enjoyed Mr. Darcy’s hospitality often?”

“I have,” he said, his smile almost convincing. “Both Darcy House and Pemberley are lovely establishments.”

“Mr. Wickham practically grew up with us,” Miss Darcy said. “I still don’t understand why he ever went away. We were all quite happy together.” She turned to look at him. “You shouldn’t have gone, George. I’ve been terribly lonely without you. You know how my brother is.”

“Now, Georgiana,” he said, smiling down at her in a way I definitely did not care for. “We’ve discussed this before. It’s all of his responsibilities and duties, taken on at so young an age, that make Fitzwilliam so very, very, very boring.”

Georgiana giggled. She shot me a guilty look, and I made sure my face showed my disapproval. This use of Christian names was not acceptable, even with a childhood friend. “Miss Darcy, I think you forget yourself,” I said.

Georgiana formed her lips into a pout. Mr. Wickham eyed them longingly, but pulled his gaze away to nod at me. “Mrs. Younge is correct, Miss Darcy,” he said, turning back to Georgiana. “We mustn’t forget our manners. Your mother didn’t have you spend all of those dinners practicing on me in order for you to behave recklessly now. We are, after all, in a very public place.”

“Yes, Geo-”

He raised his brows.

“I mean, yes, Mr. Wickham,” Georgiana said, casting me another look.

I smiled at her to let her know I appreciated her effort. “It’s about time for us to head back, Miss Darcy,” I said. “You don’t want to take too much of an outing so early in your visit. You aren’t yet accustomed to the seaside air.”

“May I see you tomorrow?” Mr. Wickham immediately asked, reaching for Georgiana’s hand and bowing over it.

“I would like that very much,” Georgiana said, beaming at him.

“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Wickham,” I lied. It hurt, to see how happy Georgiana was in the presence of this man, for every ounce of intuition I possessed told me he wasn’t worthy of her affection.

“And yours, Mrs. Younge,” he said, bowing slightly in my direction. He gave Georgiana a long, lingering look before turning and strolling away.

My mind considered the meeting as we walked back to the house Mr. Darcy was renting for us. I was impressed that Mr. Wickham had managed to ascribe blame for the necessity of social propriety on me, our location and even Georgiana’s late mother, but not on himself or her. In fact, Mr. Wickham had made it seem as if he and Miss Darcy were bound as co-conspirators in resenting the restriction.

He’d also agreed with my reprimand which, if I wished to see it that way, was a compliment. I did not wish to see it that way, however. I wasn’t charmed by Mr. Wickham at all. It was increasingly obvious to me that his appearance in Ramsgate was not an accident. Likewise, his goal was blatantly clear.

Still, it seemed as if Mr. Wickham met Mr. Darcy’s criterion for who was permitted to associate with Georgiana. From his choices of Madam Falconet and the Martins, I’d already learned that Mr. Darcy was one to base such decisions on a person’s rank and standing, not on their character. While I had the feeling that Mr. Wickham’s character was not one worthy of associating with Georgiana, I knew little of the rest of him. I didn’t dare turn him away without word from Mr. Darcy. I simply wasn’t a good judge of who he may or may not consider acceptable company.

When we reached the house we were staying in, I got Georgiana started on her afternoon pianoforte practice and then collected my writing things. While she played soothingly, I wrote to Mr. Darcy, letting him know that Mr. Wickham had approached us and expressing my curiosity to know if he was an acceptable companion. I tried to convey my concern without giving offence.

I didn’t mention my dismay over the Martins, not wanting to incur Mr. Darcy’s displeasure. I had the feeling he would side with their reputation over my judgement. I also penned a letter to Miss Hodges, telling her and Mr. Thompson of our uneventful journey and the trials we’d faced since arriving. In view of making it entertaining enough to be worth their while to pay for the delivery, I included everything I knew or deduced about Mr. Wickham.

Chapter Ten

In every story, he was the hero or the victim.

Wickham called on us the next day as early as it was polite to do so. I did not mention to Miss Darcy that we hadn’t told him where we lived, realizing she might consider it romantic that he found out. As I had no ready reason to turn him away while I awaited a reply from Mr. Darcy, we spent the next three days in Mr. Wickham’s company. I made certain he was never left alone with Miss Darcy and I could tell he was beginning to resent me for it. On the fourth day after we’d not-so-accidentally met Mr. Wickham, it rained. I thought that would give us a reprieve, at least for a few hours, but the maid came in saying he’d come to call, Mr. Wickham on her heels. It was so early for anyone to visit, Georgiana wasn’t even with me in the parlor yet. Setting aside the needlework I’d only just taken up, I stood to greet him.

“Mrs. Younge,” he said, bowing before looking about the small room.

“Mr. Wickham,” I acknowledged, forgoing any interjection on the pleasure of seeing him. “Miss Darcy will be down shortly. She’s writing her brother. Would you care for refreshments?”

He shook his head, crossing the room to settle on a sofa. “She cares about him a great deal, doesn’t she?”

“She does,” I agreed, sitting. I returned to my needlework, in no mood to break the silence. With not quite feigned diligence, I carefully stitched several small flowers, while the clock on the mantel ticked loudly. I was very precise with my needlework. There was a place in London where I could sell it. What little I made from those transactions went into my meager savings.

“You remind me of an actress I saw a few times in Cambridge,” Mr. Wickham said.

I was prepared for this. One thing I had perfected as an actress was the art of showing no expression. I’d also honed the skill for years while trying to appear to be the perfect governess.

“I don’t know if you are trying to insult me or compliment me,” I said, glancing up. I could see he was disappointed by my lack of reaction.

“Neither,” he said. “I’m trying to place you.”

“If it’s on the stage, it is an insult,” I said in stern tones.

“Not if you actually were on the stage,” he replied, arching an eyebrow suggestively.

“I wasn’t,” I lied calmly.

“Pauline Bonheur!” he said. “That’s it! I was trying to remember the name.”

“Now you really are insulting,” I said with only a slight suggestion of anger. There was no point in overplaying it. I had played in Cambridge and remembered Mr. Wickham from there. The name he recalled was that of the leading actress. Her name wasn’t actually Pauline Bonheur, but she’d used it. I’d helped her with her French so she could pretend better. I wasn’t surprised he didn’t remember me correctly. In fact, I was surprised he remembered at all.

I regarded Mr. Wickham with apparent calm for a moment before returning to my needlework. I could see he was uncertain. I hadn’t reacted as he’d expected. I’d shown no signs of guilt, and it had been eight years, which surely made him question his memories. He was clearly used to fooling people, and didn’t expect people to be able to fool him.

He tried to engage me in conversation, but I answered him briefly. I endeavored to appear to pay more attention to the thread in my needle than whatever thread of conversation he introduced. He spoke of Georgiana’s improvement since he had last seen her. Although he might have been trying to convince me his attraction to her was genuine, I think he was trying to flatter me. Since I didn’t like either possible motive, I was unmoved.

Georgiana entered the room. We both stood to greet her.

“Geor--” She shot me a glance. “That is, Mr. Wickham, it is so good to see you.”

“And you,” he said, bowing. “Have you been writing?” He nodded toward the sealed letter in her hand.

“Yes, to Fitzwilliam,” she said. “I’ve been terrible about writing him so it took me an extra-long time. He’s going to be so pleased to learn you’re here with me.”

“Would you like me to post it for you?” he asked, holding out his hand.

“I couldn’t ask you to go to the trouble,” Georgiana protested.

“For you, Miss Darcy, it is no trouble at all.”

She beamed at him and placed the letter in his hand. He tucked it into his coat and I was certain it would never reach Mr. Darcy.

I let him get away with it, knowing my letter was already on its way. I decided to attack. “Mr. Wickham, Mr. Darcy said you gave up the living at Kympton to study law. How is that going?” The unspoken statement was that he could hardly take weeks off from his study of law to visit Ramsgate.

“I’m afraid I’ve suffered a setback,” he said. He aimed both his charming, self-deprecating smile and his words at Georgiana. “A position I wanted came up, the qualification for which was to write the most comprehensive brief. I wrote one up, working quite diligently, but when I went to deliver it, I couldn’t find it. Not only was it gone, but all of my notes were missing as well.” He shook his head, his face folding into lines of dejection. “I later found out that another student had delivered my brief. When I protested, he brought forth copies of my notes, saying that if I had written it, he wouldn’t have needed to write drafts.”

“What happened?” Georgiana asked, her eyes wide.

Mr. Wickham, I reflected, was the one who really ought to be on the stage.

“I got angry and behaved badly,” he said. He looked down when he said it, lowering his voice as if making a confession.

“No,” Georgiana protested.

“I’m afraid it’s true,” he said, peeking up at her through his lashes like a flirtatious miss. “It pains me to tell you of it, but I discovered that the student who took my brief was having an affair with a married woman.”

Georgiana gasped.

“I’m afraid it only gets worse,” he said.

“Then, perhaps, Miss Darcy should be spared hearing it,” I said.

“No, please, tell me what happened,” Georgiana begged, looking between the two of us.

“I told her husband,” Mr. Wickham said. “He, in turn, became angry and he behaved worse than I had, beating up the thief. I don’t mind telling you that I felt quite guilty about it. The whole situation became public knowledge, with various rumors flying about. I know I should be a better man, Georgiana, but I realized I couldn’t deal with it all and left. I don’t think I’m fitted for the law.”

“Oh George, that’s awful,” Georgiana said.

“It certainly is,” I added.

His final statement, at least, sounded like the truth. He wasn’t fit for practicing law. The rest of his story rang false. My guess was that he was the thief and he’d been angry at being called out. I wondered if there had actually been an adulterous wife and, if so, whether Mr. Wickham or his accuser had been her lover. There was no way to gauge the truth of it. I may as well flip a coin.

“What will you do now?” Georgiana asked. She held out a hand to him. He glanced at me and didn’t take it.

“I’m afraid I must take a commission in the military,” he said. “I realize that may mean my life will be given in service to my country, but that is a small price to pay for an honorable living, and I have no other means.”

“Oh no,” Georgiana said, clutching her hands to her mouth.

I crossed to her and put an arm about her shoulders, before he could, and helped her to sit with me on a sofa. All the while, she kept wide eyes on Mr. Wickham. Donning a mask of concern myself, I decided I’d best learn as much about this man as possible, and hope Mr. Darcy had taken my letter to heart and was, even now, on his way to us.

I persuaded Wickham to talk about himself, no difficult feat. Georgiana was enthralled, but she didn’t realize how much he was revealing to me. In every story, he was the hero or the victim. Sometimes, he was both. She was too young and too naïve to see through him. That, of course, was why young misses had governesses.

Chapter Eleven

…did he really think I would trust him?

The next day, we took a walk on the beach. While Georgiana was collecting shells, appearing even younger and more naïve than usual, Mr. Wickham walked beside me. We watched her together, looking more like parents, I thought, than a governess and suitor. I wondered if he had any qualms about his pursuit of her, a girl who was barely fifteen.

“You know, if I were to marry Miss Darcy, I’m sure that she would want you to continue to work for her,” Mr. Wickham said. “It must be difficult for someone like you to find new employment.”

I just smiled and nodded. I’d assumed he was staying by my side to keep his expensive footwear well away from the salty water of the bay, but I’d been wrong. He was beside me in order to offer vague promises and bribes, not knowing he spoke to no avail. Even were I the sort to be influenced, did he really think I would trust him?

We continued walking along the beach, keeping parallel to Georgiana where she skirted the waves, gathering shells. I didn’t speak to Mr. Wickham, knowing I wasn’t a good enough actress not to allow my dislike of the man to show. Likewise, he ignored me, his attention on Georgiana. I had the unsettling feeling he wasn’t going to leave us a moment to ourselves until he got the chance to do whatever it was he was plotting.

Our walk down the beach was bringing us near a nanny presiding over four children, and Georgiana began to angle back toward us, obviously not wanting to walk through their shoreline frolics. I was relieved. She didn’t speak much, but having her with us would help alleviate the tense silence that currently surrounded Mr. Wickham and me.

As Georgiana neared, three of the children along the shore began to argue, showing she’d had good sense in avoiding them. I shook my head when they started throwing sand and yelling at one another. Their nanny was obviously not suited to the task of minding them.

“Miss Darcy,” I greeted Georgiana as she drew abreast us. “I’m pleased you didn’t become caught in that.”

She nodded, smiling at me before turning to Mr. Wickham. “Look at all of the shells I found,” she said, holding out the small basket she carried.

“They’re lovely, Miss Darcy,” he said, but he wasn’t looking at the shells.

I cleared my throat. It was about time to suggest we part ways with Mr. Wickham for the morning, though he was sure to reappear after luncheon and insinuate himself into our company again. My words were preempted by a particularly loud shout from one of the little boys. The older girl screamed and began to cry. I shook my head, watching the nanny wade in, trying to calm them.

Over her shoulder, I could see the youngest child, a little girl, toddling down the beach, her chubby little fingers reaching out, as if she could catch the sea. I called, but the nanny obviously didn’t hear me. The sea receded and the child chased after it. I started forward just as the next wave came in, knocking the little girl from her feet.

I broke into a run. Her little blonde head disappeared below the surface and I shouted again for the nanny. She was looking at me now, a young boy by each hand and the older girl between them, but she obviously didn’t know why I was shouting at her. Not stopping to explain, I ran past, right into the water. I scanned the waves, looking for the youngest child.

Her head popped up again, chubby arms flailing, and I lunged toward her. I didn’t know how to swim, and my layers of clothing were already weighing me down, but she hadn’t yet been dragged far. Unfortunately, she was trying to cry. She gurgled and went under again as sea water filled her mouth.

I reached her before she could disappear from view once more, pulling her up. Clutching her against me, I staggered back to shore. By then, the nanny had realized what was happening and ran toward me as I came out. Her face was whiter than the foam riding the waves, and tears stood out in her eyes. Behind her, the older three children clutched each other and cried.

“Penelope, Penelope,” the nanny sobbed, reaching for the child.

I relinquished her, pressing a hand to my side. I was panting, almost exhausted, though my efforts hadn’t taken more than a few moments.

“Thank you, oh thank you,” the nanny cried.

I nodded, still trying to catch my breath. Looking around, I realized I didn’t see Georgiana or Mr. Wickham anywhere.

“Please, missus, please,” the nanny said, cradling the crying child. “Penelope is saved. We won’t speak of this, will we? Please?”

“Speak of it?” I repeated, hardly hearing her. Where was Georgiana? Worse, where was Mr. Wickham, for he was surely with her.

“To anyone who might mention it to their parents,” the nanny whispered, leaning closer.

I looked from her to the other three children. They were all young, but old enough to talk. I didn’t think I was the one she needed to worry about repeating the story. “I won’t say a word, but I really must be going.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you ever so much. You saved her, and me.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. I lifted my sodden skirt, which was dreadfully heavy. I was soaked. I would need to get back to the house and change soon. I walked up the beach, my gaze searching for Georgiana, though I had the dreadful feeling she was well gone. Yes, I’d saved the child’s life and possibly the nanny’s position, but who was going to save me?

Chapter Twelve

Things had gone too far.

They came back four hours later. I was furious with her. Mr. Wickham looked like a cat that had gotten into the cream. He took one look at my face and made no effort to come inside, bowing over her hand before taking his leave. I was glad I’d sent a letter to Mr. Darcy, but I didn’t need his intervention anymore. Wherever he was and whatever he thought of Mr. Wickham, I now had every excuse I needed to keep her away from the man.

Georgiana hardly looked contrite as I took her into the parlor and lectured her extensively on running off and on what happened to young misses who ruined their reputations. I stood before the sofa she sat on and spoke at length and with considerable passion, but she remained silent. Finally, I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere. She was simply too infatuated with the miscreant.

I took a deep breath, deciding to try a new tactic. “What kind of man is Mr. Wickham?”

“He’s wonderful,” she said, as starry-eyed as I’d ever seen a young woman. “He’s good and kind and noble and smart. He’s like Saint-Preux.”

A cold feeling came over me. “Where did you get Julie, ou la nouvelle Héloïse?” Saint-Preux was the hero of that story. That book was not suitable for her to read. Things were worse than I’d realized. I thought she and I had come to terms on her illicit reading.

“Madame Falconet leant it to me.” She tipped her chin up, defiant.

“She shouldn’t have without my permission.” I would deal with the book issue later. I was impressed that she had read an eight hundred page book in French, but now was not the time to say so. “Mr. Wickham is after your dowry. He is not a good man,” I said, hoping to shock her into seeing the truth.

“He loves me. He said he’s loved me since I was a child. I’ve always loved him. Can’t you understand?”

“If he loved you, he would safeguard your reputation by treating you as a gentleman should,” I said. “He would go to your brother and ask permission to court you.”

“My brother is jealous of Mr. Wickham,” she said, and I could almost hear him feeding her the words. “Our father preferred George.”

“Mr. Wickham,” I said, emphasizing the name, “is the sort of man who would let a child drown so he could secretly court you.”

“No. You had rescued the child. He said you would be embarrassed to be seen with your clothes soaking wet and we should leave.”

“So, instead of embarrassing me, Mr. Wickham took advantage of a child nearly drowning to whisk you away to court you?”

“It wasn’t like that,” she said, her expression so earnest it pained me. “I’ve longed to have private time with him. He wouldn’t leave until we saw you catch the child.”

“A gentleman would have been in the water saving the child before I could even reach her,” I said.

She bit her lip, tears forming in her eyes.

I sighed, sitting down in the chair beside her. “What liberties did you allow him?”

She hung her head. “He put his arms around me,” she whispered. “He kissed me.” She brought her head up, her eyes flashing. “I enjoyed it. I kissed him back. If it was wrong, wouldn’t I feel guilty?”

“Your guilt is not the issue,” I said, though I suspected she did feel at least somewhat guilty or she wouldn’t have confessed. “If you and Mr. Wickham really love each other, you will wait until you’re of age.”

“That’s not for six years,” she cried, glaring at me.

I resisted the urge to rub my temples. She had a point. Six years was a long time for me. It would be an eternity for her. I couldn’t admit as much, though. “This is not a decision you can make at this time,” I told her, using my most stern tone. “Mr. Darcy is a fair man. You must rely on his fairness in this matter or wait until you’re considered old enough to make your own choice.”

She pressed her lips into a thin, mutinous line.

What was I to do? I didn’t dare stay in Ramsgate any longer. Not with Mr. Wickham about. Who knew what lengths he’d be driven to by a willing girl and thirty thousand pounds?

We had a carriage and could return to London. Mr. Darcy might be angry with me for doing so without his leave, but it was the best thing for Miss Darcy. Aside from locking her away, I could see no alternative.

“Go to your room and stay there until morning,” I said.

She glared at me but obediently got up to leave.

“Miss Darcy,” I called.

She turned back.

“We will discuss this more. I know that six years is a very long time. Please understand that I’m trying to do what’s best for you.”

She gave a jerky nod and stomped from the room.

Things had gone too far. I sent for the coachman and told him we would be returning to London in the morning, but not to tell anyone else of the plan. In the morning, I would see that Miss Darcy’s things were packed quickly, without her having a chance to notify Mr. Wickham. I could pack my things this evening without her knowing.

All that remained was for me to inform Mr. Darcy, though it occurred to me to wonder where he was. He’d been in London, and was under no obligation to inform me of his travels. I couldn’t help but think he might be away, however, for he hadn’t yet responded to my first letter. Thinking that perhaps I’d been too subtle, I opted for straightforwardness.

Dear Mr. Darcy,

Because I do not trust Mr. Wickham’s behavior with Miss Darcy, I am returning to London tomorrow morning. I am not notifying Miss Darcy until shortly before we leave, as I am concerned she will rebel. I hope I have made the right decision. I don’t wish to give any offence, but in spite of his satisfying the condition you gave of having dined with Miss Darcy at Pemberley, I don’t believe Mr. Wickham-

I was interrupted by the heavy tread of a man’s footsteps coming toward the parlor. I looked up, worried that Mr. Wickham had set all pretense of propriety aside and come calling again already. To my relief, Mr. Darcy entered the room.

“Mrs. Younge,” he said, looking about.

I set down my pen and stood. “Mr. Darcy! Thank goodness you’ve come.”

“What’s the matter?” he asked, a frown darkening his already austere features.

“I was writing you.” I handed him the letter. “You must speak to her.”

He read it quickly, favoring me with a withering look before slapping the half-written note down on the desk and hurrying from the room.

I sank back into the desk’s chair. Based on the look on Mr. Darcy’s face, I doubted I would remain employed. Drawing in a shuddering breath, I fought to keep my composure. Being Miss Darcy’s chaperone was supposed to have been my security, and I really had done my best. Now, it was unlikely I’d even be able to get a recommendation, though I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Gathering myself, I went up to my room and packed, deciding it was best to be prepared for the worst, though I couldn’t help but cling to the idea that I’d done everything Mr. Darcy had told me to. If he took exception to my distrust of Mr. Wickham, well, I couldn’t help that, but I would stand by my decision to take Georgiana away. From the look on Mr. Darcy’s face, I could tell he was greatly displeased with me. I just wasn’t sure if his displeasure was for me not keeping his childhood companion away, or my declaration of distrust for the man.

I realized I was standing in the middle of my room, holding the damp garments I wore earlier. I had everything else packed, but they were still damp from the dip in the sea. I hung them back up. I would have to pack them in the morning.

For something to do, I took out my book of household accounts. I returned to the parlor and went over it, making sure it was up to date. Mr. Darcy found me there.

“You will take the carriage to London in the morning.” He put some money on the table, his face creased in lines of disapproval. “This should cover your expenses and your wages to date. You will go to the house you shared with my sister and remove all of your things. The coachman will then take you anywhere in London you wish to go.”

“No, sir,” I said.

“You wish to remain here? The rent is paid for the month.”

“I will go to Darcy House. You will give me the name of a servant you trust who will come with me and oversee my packing. The servants where we lived will expect to be let go. Some of them may be tempted to take things. I want you to be certain that I did not.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said stiffly.

“Because you will blame me regardless?” I asked. I kept my tone neutral. My words were inflammatory enough.

“Very well.” His tone was cold enough to chill ice. “You will also take this filth with you.” He slammed two books down on the table. One was the last volume in Julie, ou la nouvelle Héloïse. The other was Les Liaisons Dangereuses. He was right, that was filth.

“I have never seen these books before,” I said. Then I realized I had, on Madame Falconet’s bookshelf. “She didn’t get them from me. Nor did I know she was reading them.”

“Don’t add perjury to your crimes,” he said. “I don’t anticipate having to see you again, Mrs. Younge.” Scowling, he turned on his heels and left.

I wanted to argue with him, but there was no point. Nothing would save my job. Nothing I said would give me a good reference. Even if I could make him see that I’d done nothing else wrong, the truth was, it was my role to make sure Miss Darcy wasn’t reading things like he’d found her reading, and I had failed. I was on my own. I had nowhere to go and no prospect of getting work.

Chapter Thirteen

No one wanted to remind Mr. Darcy of Mr. Wickham.

I sat down to a solitary breakfast the next morning, finding a note from Mr. Darcy by my plate. It contained the name of a servant at Darcy House and of the maid he’d ordered to accompany me there. It also had a sealed note to the servant. At least he’d remembered my request for a witness. I didn’t need to be blamed for any more things that I hadn’t done.

I ate more than usual, for I didn’t know how long the money I’d saved would last. Every meal might count. As I was finishing, the cook appeared at my shoulder, placing a towel-wrapped bundle on the table beside me while clearing away my plate, a job normally reserved for a lesser servant. She hurried away so quickly that I didn’t have time to say thank you, but I’m sure it was understood. The towel contained an entire loaf of bread and was, in itself, fine enough that I could sell it for a small amount after the bread was gone. Reluctantly, I left the towel and wrapped the bread in my shawl. I was not reduced to stealing. Not yet.

As I stood from the table, Miss Darcy’s maid skittered into the room. “Mrs. Younge,” she asked in a near whisper, her eyes wide. “Do you think Mr. Darcy will let me go too?”

“Why would he?” I asked. I didn’t bother trying to find out how the servants knew. Servants spied, and gossiped, and I’d already expected my circumstance to be the talk of the house.

“Cook said he’s so angry, he’ll let us all go, just in case we were in on Miss Darcy’s conspiracy.”

“What conspiracy?” I asked sharply, dreading her answer. I was sure it would have something to do with Mr. Wickham.

“Miss Darcy told Mr. Darcy that she’d planned to elope with Mr. Wickham, this Friday at dawn.” It was Thursday. “He was going to get a carriage. She was going to sneak out.”

“Don’t tell anyone that,” I said. I knew the maids often listened at doors, especially if they thought their jobs were in jeopardy, but that didn’t mean I could encourage anyone spreading that sort of gossip about Miss Darcy. It could ruin her. She was a naïve, love-struck girl, but she didn’t deserve to have her life thrown into shambles for it, even if mine had been. At least now I knew for certain why Mr. Darcy was so angry. “He’s less likely to let you go if he thinks you don’t know,” I added, thinking that a better injunction against her repeating the tale than protecting Miss Darcy’s reputation would be.

She nodded. I’d probably confirmed what she already knew. “We’ll miss you here, missus,” she said, looking down.

“And I shall miss all of you,” I replied. I would, too, in a way. The staff Mr. Darcy employed tended to be good, hard working and loyal. Though my position between worlds hadn’t allowed me to form friendships with any of them, they’d been pleasant to work with. It was bitterly amusing to me that Mr. Darcy employed so much more care in selecting his servants than he did his sister’s governess.

There were many things I wanted to say to Mr. Darcy, but there was no point. I’d never convince him of my lack of culpability. At this point, convincing him wouldn’t even matter. I knew he wasn’t the sort of man to go back on the decision to let me go. He was too proud for that.

I didn’t speak with the maid Mr. Darcy sent with me. Instead, all the way back to London, I thought about what I could have done better. I should have kept Mr. Wickham away from Miss Darcy from the start. I’d guessed what he was. I wasn’t a fool.

I tried to tell myself that I’d allowed him to stay because, technically, he fit Mr. Darcy’s criterion. I knew that wasn’t completely true, though. In honesty, his adherence to the rules set up by Mr. Darcy was what I’d hoped to use as an excuse for my behavior, should I need it. The truth was, I’d been enamored myself. Not with Mr. Wickham, but with how much happier, more open and freer Georgiana was when in his company. I’d also known, deep down, that if I kept him away, the delicate rapport that I’d been cultivating with her would have been ruined. As Miss Darcy’s growing affection for me had been central to my plan for my life, I’d taken the risk of Wickham to help it along.

I gazed out the window at the passing scenery. I didn’t feel guilty for taking joy in Georgiana’s happiness, or for encouraging our growing rapport, but I did for not working harder to keep Mr. Wickham away. How could I have known things were already so out of hand, though? He’d seemed gentlemanly enough. He’d been raised with Mr. Darcy, after all. Though my instincts had said Mr. Wickham would have made Georgiana a terrible husband and I’d worried he was trying to do something to trap her, I’d had no reason to think him so low that he would persuade her to elope.

Sighing, I tugged the curtain closed. No matter how I tried to justify myself, Miss Darcy’s attempted elopement had happened while I was in charge of her. It was my fault. It was precisely the sort of thing I’d been hired to prevent.

Mr. Darcy was right to let me go. Though he was cold and arrogant, he wasn’t actually being unreasonable or unkind. He’d paid me and given in to my demand, as well as provided me with a carriage. He’d even sent a maid with me for propriety. Propriety! I would soon have no reputation. No one would hire me as a governess or a housekeeper. I would be lucky to get a job as a maid.

When I reached Darcy House, the servant whose name he gave me was not a somewhat elderly servant, as I’d expected, but a footman named James who was close to my age. I gave him Darcy’s note. James informed me he was supposed to help me with my luggage and see that it all got to my destination in London.

I found myself oddly angry at that. I wanted to have a grievance against Mr. Darcy, yet he had seen to my comfort and safety. As James helped me pack, he asked, “What happened? We heard you were getting along very well with Miss Darcy.”

“Mr. Wick--” I started to say but stopped myself, shaking my head. Even though I would never get a similar job, I didn’t want to gossip about Miss Darcy’s indiscretion.

“He’s a bad ‘un,” he said, obviously recognizing the name in spite of my attempt to catch myself. I must have looked surprised, because he added, “I grew up at Pemberley, and saw a side of Mr. Wickham that old Mr. Darcy never saw.”

“Mr. Darcy did not like him associating with Miss Darcy,” I said.

He nodded as I said it. “Mr. Wickham was asking the servants at Darcy House where she was. I didn’t tell him, but another footman did.” One of Mr. Darcy’s servants, not one of the ones I managed. I was relieved, although it didn’t change anything. “We didn’t tell Mr. Darcy, because last time Mr. Wickham visited, they had words. No one wanted to remind Mr. Darcy of Mr. Wickham.”

I wished they had told Mr. Darcy, but there was nothing for it now. My possessions packed, we carried them out front and loaded them up. I directed the coachman to take me to Miss Hodges. I had nowhere else to go. I only hoped I was welcome there. James carried my meager possessions up the steps and waited until the door was answered.

To my surprise, Mr. Thompson, not the woman who usually came to the door, greeted me. I was so pleased to see him, I felt a wave of emotions lodge in my throat. As distraught as I was over Miss Darcy, I wasn’t even sure what emotions they were, only that I’d missed him.

“Mrs. Younge,” he said, looking over my pile of belongings. “It’s a pleasure to see you. Would you like me to bring those inside?”

James set down my cases and left as I nodded, not trusting my voice at that moment. Mr. Thompson picked up my things, managing all of them at once, save two small cases I took. Wordlessly, he carried them up to Miss Hodges’ room, pausing on the landing outside her parlor.

“We don’t have any vacancies, but you can sleep on the sofa tonight. Unless you would prefer a maid’s room in the attic?” His look was questioning, and the sympathy in it made me want to cry.

“The maid’s room,” I said, mastering my voice. “I don’t want to inconvenience Miss Hodges.” That wasn’t the real reason. I might as well begin as I would have to go on.

He nodded and led me upstairs to one of the attic rooms. After depositing my possessions, he handed me a key. I was surprised the room had a lock. Most attic rooms didn’t.

“I’ll come back and check on you after you’ve had a moment to get settled,” he said.

I could tell he had questions, and was grateful he wasn’t asking them. “Thank you,” I managed.

He left and I stood in the middle of my new room, turning in a slow circle. It was a nice room, really. With its size, it was obviously meant for two maids to share. There was even a small, shuttered, glassless window. It would be miserably cold in the winter, but it was summer now and a window would be welcome, both for ventilation and for light. I tried not to cry as I arranged my possessions, wondering which I should sell.

There was a knock on my door and I wiped my eyes before answering. It was Mr. Thompson, a warm smile on his face. It had been many years since anyone had smiled at me like that. I felt my lips wanting to turn up in response.

“Come downstairs,” he said. “It is time to earn your keep.”

“What?” I asked, blinking in confusion. Did he mean there was a way I could stay with them? I didn’t know what he charged, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to afford it for long if I didn’t find some sort of work.

“Miss Hodges will give you a free month’s room and board if you tell your story. She’s very curious to hear it. We’d only just had your letter. Come, she needs the distraction.”

A flash of pain crossed his features with his last sentence. Deciding now wasn’t the time to ask him about it, I filed it away for future reference. Mr. Thompson wasn’t a reticent man. He would tell me what was troubling him when he was of a mind to. “Are you sure?” I asked, aware that a month’s rent was much more than my story was worth.

“We’re both sure,” he said.

“Thank you.” I wanted to say more, but I didn’t know what to add.

“Think nothing of it, Mrs. Younge,” he said. To my surprise, he reached out and caught my hand in his, squeezing it lightly before letting go. “It’s the least we can do for a friend. We’ll be waiting for you.” He turned and walked down the steps.

I stared at the hand he’d clasped, aware it was shaking. Sucking in a deep breath, I tried not to think about what I would have done if they hadn’t let me in. I’d often felt unlucky in my life, but not in that moment. Having Mr. Thompson and Miss Hodges as my friends, true friends, was the most fortunate thing that had happened to me since I was a young girl.

Composing myself, I made my way downstairs to Miss Hodges’ apartment. Somehow, they’d contrived a meal for me. I’d eaten sparingly on the road, since I knew that a few extra pennies would be needed in the future. Between bites, I told them everything, including my early suspicions of Mr. Wickham.

“He tried to bribe you with future employment?” Miss Hodges asked when I’d finished. Her eyes were bright with interest, but she seemed smaller than before, and frail. Perhaps I’d just forgotten how tiny she was. “Why not promise you money?”

“Because she might be gullible enough to believe in the promise of employment, but I doubt anyone would be foolish enough to believe his offer of money,” Mr. Thompson said.

“Yes. It would have had to be enough money for me to feel I wouldn’t need to find employment, since allowing him access to Miss Darcy would, obviously, ruin any chance of me finding another position,” I said. “I might have trusted Wickham if he offered me five pounds immediately, but not if he offered me a thousand pounds in the future.”

“Well, you can have employment here,” Miss Hodges said. “I find I am no longer able to carry out the task of managing a lodging house. Mr. Thompson has taken over much of the work, but at the expense of his own employment. If you’re willing to do the work, you would be a Godsend.”

I wasn’t entirely sure how honest her vehemence was, but I was touched by the offer and could little afford to turn it down. Still, I looked to Mr. Thompson, gauging his feelings on the matter. He nodded encouragingly. If anything, he looked hopeful.

Promising myself that I’d be the most worthwhile employee Miss Hodges could have, I smiled my gratitude. “Thank you. It would be a Godsend for me as well.”

Chapter Fourteen

You must have managed to look quite menacing.

It soon became clear that Miss Hodges and Mr. Thompson really did need more help. The job wasn’t a sinecure, but I thought myself up to the task. Dealing with tenants was new to me, but running a household wasn’t.

As I did with every new position I took, I spent the first several days of my new job seated in Miss Hodges’ parlor, familiarizing myself with the books. Everything seemed to be in good order until recent months. About three months ago, Miss Hodges’ handwriting had become shakier, and some of her figures had stopped adding up. As I sat in her parlor, working my way through the errors, I realized one of the lodgers hadn’t paid his rent in months. Miss Hodges had been carrying him. I looked over at her where she dozed in her chair.

“Miss Hodges,” I said, my tone soft enough not to wake her if she was deeply asleep.

“What?” she asked, blinking rapidly.

I smiled, waiting patiently for her to realize who I was and where we were.

“Mrs. Younge,” she said. “How nice of you to sit with me.” Her eyes dropped to the ledger open on the low table before me. She frowned, but then her expression cleared. “How are the books?”

“They’re in good order, Miss Hodges,” I said. At least, they were now that I’d set them right. There was no reason to trouble her with that, though. “This one tenant, though, Mr. Williams, he hasn’t paid his rent in several months.”

She sat up straight in her chair. “He hasn’t?”

“No. He hasn’t.” I shook my head.

“Well, he has to go. This isn’t the first time. I told him, next time, he had to go.”

I nodded. “I’ll see to it.”

She smiled and settled back in her chair. I waited until she dozed off again and retrieved some of the older records. It pained me to do it, but I felt I must confirm that Mr. Williams had indeed been derelict in the past before I carried out her order. I didn’t want to falsely penalize the man.

I was relieved to discover she was not mistaken, and thought maybe I was worrying too much over the recent change in her ledgers. She’d said, after all, that she didn’t have the energy to see to all of her duties. She’d likely been hurrying through the ledgers of late. Well, she wouldn’t need to hurry any longer. I would take care of things for her.

That evening, when Mr. Williams returned from his work, I went to his room, knocking in as authoritative a manner as I could muster. After a moment, I heard footsteps and the door opened. Mr. Williams was a burly man, a bit taller than I was. He looked me up and down in a way I didn’t appreciate.

“Yes? Can I do something for you, miss?” he asked.

“It’s missus,” I corrected. “Mrs. Younge. I’m afraid I have bad news, Mr. Williams. You haven’t paid your rent in three months. You must either pay your back rent by the end of the week or gather your things and depart.”

His brows came together to form a dark line. “Aren’t you the new tenant?”

“I am the newest resident here, and Miss Hodges’ assistant.”

“So says you,” he said. “I’m not handing over a penny.”

“So says Miss Hodges,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m serious, sir. Do you agree to pay your back rent by Saturday?”

He shook his head, his expression mulish. “It’s not my fault the old lady didn’t collect. She didn’t come for it, so I spent it. That’s that. Her own fault.” He leaned a bit closer to me. “If you’re nice about it, I’ll pay next month’s.”

I resisted the urge to slap him, taking a step back. “Are you saying, then, that you refuse to pay your rent?”

“I am,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Then I must ask you to vacate this lodging house.”

He laughed, taking a step back into his room and closing the door.

I stared at the door for a long moment, his chuckling fading as he moved away. I hadn’t anticipated his response, and it filled me with impotent anger. I realized running a place of lodging wouldn’t be quite the same as managing a household for a landed family. There, everyone had to obey me or face being let go. With Mr. Williams, I had no real power. I could go to the constabulary, but there was no way to know if they would feel moved to help.

I knew someone who would feel moved to help, though. Turning on my heels, I headed for Mr. Thompson’s office, knowing he was working late. I didn’t want to ask for his help, as my purpose there was to free up his time for his work, but I saw no alternative. I only hoped he would have more success than I had. Mr. Williams seemed like a complete ruffian.

I found Mr. Thompson in his office, bent over his desk. The doors to his office were open, although the house was closed for the evening. I stood for a moment in the doorway, the tension leaving me as I watched his graceful hand moving across a page. He was surrounded by candlelight, and looked almost more ethereal than real, like some sort of guardian angel. At least, to me he was.

He looked up and I schooled my expression. I wasn’t sure what look had been on my face, but worried it hadn’t been an appropriate one. I tried not to notice how the candlelight downplayed his scar and missing eye, and heightened his strong jawline and well-formed mouth.

“Mrs. Younge,” he said. “What a pleasant interruption. May I help you with something?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Thompson,” I said. It seemed odd to call him that after the thoughts I’d been harboring before he spoke. For the first time, I wondered what his given name was. “One of the tenants needs to be evicted. He hasn’t paid his rent in several months, and now owes four months’ rent. When I offered to give him until the end of the week to supply it, he said he would never pay. I asked him to leave, but I’m afraid he doesn’t recognize that I have the authority to do that.”

“Mr. Williams?” he asked.

“How did you know?”

“He’s been derelict before. Miss Hodges told him he wouldn’t be allowed to shirk his payments again.”

He carefully cleaned his pen before setting it aside and standing. He came around the desk toward me with a purposeful stride.

“Thank you,” I said. “I don’t mean to take up your time with my responsibilities.”

“It’s no trouble,” he said as he led the way back to Mr. Williams’ room. “He isn’t the sort of person Miss Hodges should have rented to.”

I trailed after him, feeling as if I’d somehow failed. I hung back as he knocked on Mr. Williams’ door. I didn’t think having me by his side would help.

“I told you I--” Mr. Williams’ angry rumble broke off when he opened the door to find Mr. Thompson standing there.

“Williams,” Mr. Thompson growled in a much more menacing rumble than I’d ever heard from him. “I understand you were asked to leave.”

I couldn’t see Mr. Thompson’s face from where I stood, but I could see the hard set of his jaw. I tried to picture how his scarred, one-eyed face might look in the dim light in the hall.

“I . . . I was,” Mr. Williams said. “I, uh, I’ll pay my rent, though. I have the money for this month.”

As Mr. Williams’ tone had risen to a pleading whine, I could only assume Mr. Thompson had transformed his visage into something at least as intimidating as the voice he was using.

“And the three other months you’ve missed?”

“I’ll get it to you in a month. Two months at the most.”

“I’m afraid that is not an option,” Mr. Thompson said.

“You’ve done it before.”

“You lost any grace period when you told Mrs. Younge you wouldn’t pay your back rent. You now have only two reasonable alternatives left. Gather your things and leave now, or pay one month’s rent and leave in a week. If you refuse either I’ll be forced to help you find your way out.”

“I’ll go. I’ll go,” Mr. Williams said. “Give me a couple hours. I have a friend with a wheelbarrow. I don’t have much, but I’ll need it. I can’t carry it all at once.”

“I’ll give you one hour to reappear with this wheelbarrow,” Mr. Thompson growled. “If you aren’t back, I’ll chuck everything in this room on the fire.”

“You can’t burn my things,” Mr. Williams gasped.

“The way I see it, they became my things the moment you refused to pay your rent,” Mr. Thompson said. “Your hour’s already started,” he added, stepping aside so he was no longer filling the doorway.

Mr. Williams scuttled past him.

“Williams,” Mr. Thompson said. He held out his hand. “Your key. You won’t need it. I’ll be waiting for you out front.”

Mr. Williams fumbled about, producing the key. He handed it to Mr. Thompson and hurried away, not even looking at me as he rushed past. Mr. Thompson watched him leave before dropping his gaze to meet mine.

“Let’s go in and see if we can pack for him,” he said. “I’ll feel better once his things are out of his room.”

“You offered him an hour,” I said, coming forward. I had no sympathy for Mr. Williams, but I didn’t want to dump his possessions on the street. I was too familiar with the feeling of being turned out to wish it on anyone.

“We’ll keep them just inside the door while we wait for him,” he said.

“You wouldn’t burn them?”

“Of course not.” He grinned at me. “That would make a mess, I’m sure. We’ll keep them for a day or two, but not let him in his room again. If we put them outside, they’d be stolen. I wouldn’t mind if some poor, needy soul ended up with them, but it would probably just be the first dishonest passerby. If he doesn’t come this evening, I’ll make him ransom them.”

“You mean, you’ll charge him for storing them.”

“I put it better.”

“Well, you are the writer,” I replied, giving him a smile.

Mr. Williams did return, just as we’d carried the last of his possessions downstairs. I stood inside, not wishing to interact with the man, as Mr. Thompson helped him secure the lot of it in the wheelbarrow. It did fit, though not well, but they tied it round with twine and I was sure Mr. Williams would be able to move it well enough. With a few murmured words, Mr. Thompson sent our former-tenant on his way. He moved back to the base of the steps, where I joined him. Together, we stood in the dwindling daylight, watching Mr. Williams wheel his possessions down the street.

“You must have managed to look quite menacing,” I said to Mr. Thompson once Mr. Williams was out of sight.

He gestured to his scarred face. “It’s the patch and scar. I look like someone who’s been in real fights.”

“It’s more than that,” I said. “You were very assertive.”

“It helps that I must be four or five inches taller than the fellow.”

I looked up at him, his amused visage turned downward, toward me, and reflected that Mr. Thompson was probably four or five inches taller than most men. He was slim, but I knew he was also strong. I’d seen him do enough heavy work around the house to prove that. I didn’t think the former tenant would know that, though. He should have seen a man of slender build who spent most of his time behind a desk, yet he’d been intimidated.

“Still, I’m surprised at how well your tactics worked,” I said. “I can’t imagine you actually harming anyone. Not over rent, at least.”

“You don’t realize, though, that you aren’t the only one who can act,” he said.

As I watched, the sparkle of laughter in his eye transformed into a chilling glower. His lips curled into a fierce grimace, pulling back from his rows of even white teeth. I had to admit, when coupled with the violent looking scar and the patch over his eye, he really was quite menacing.

Not to me, though. I laughed, shaking my head, and he returned to normal. “You’re right, that was exceedingly scary,” I said. “Much more frightful than the look you actually gave him, I’m sure. If I ever need that look, I’ll signal you like this.” I brought my hand up and pushed my hair back from my face but, instead of letting my hand fall afterwards, I drew a line with my little finger from my forehead to my chin, pausing for a moment beside my eye.

“I’ll remember,” he said with a smile. He offered me his arm and we ascended the front steps.

Chapter Fifteen

Poor man. He actually had to go out and work for a living.

Thinking about how thin Mr. Thompson was, and how Miss Hodges seemed to be growing smaller before my eyes, I employed my skill at managing households to come up with a plan to help everyone in the lodging house eat better. After discussing it with Mr. Thompson and Miss Hodges, I arranged for regular meals for anyone who was willing to pay for them.

Previously, the tenants usually bought their meals from stalls in the street or cooked in the fireplace in their room. After we started offering meals, most of the tenants bought the breakfast every day, and the dinner much of the time. The food wasn’t fancy and the variety was minimal, but we all ate well enough. Having the funds to purchase more food at once helped me broker better deals. It was more profitable to sell me a whole lamb at a discount than to sell smaller cuts for more, but without the assurance they’d all be bought before turning bad.

Though the meals improved our lives and those of our lodgers, they also created too much temptation for the cook. Instead of planning meals that used the supplies I bargained for wisely, she deliberately cooked too much of each day. At first, I thought she was just incompetent and tried to work with her. Eventually, though, after positioning myself near the kitchen, I realized she was selling off the extra food. I was so infuriated that my effort to make all of our lives better was being taken advantage of that I didn’t need Mr. Thompson’s help to sack her.

Miss Hodges and I interviewed new cooks, alerting me to another problem. Miss Hodges’ increasing deterioration was growing out of hand. I’d been trying to ignore her fading health, but could no longer deny that her mind was slipping. I let her offer the job, on the spot, to an incompetent applicant who caught her fancy, not wanting to make a fuss. Once I had the woman settled into the cook’s quarters, I climbed up to my attic room, locked the door, and cried.

I cried for Miss Hodges, who was so kind and full of interest and life, and for Mr. Thompson, who had already lost everyone else he ever cared for, and for myself, who had just found this wonderful friend, only to have her fading away before my eyes. I realized that Mr. Thompson already knew what was happening. Miss Hodges’ health had obviously been the reason for his look of pain the day I’d returned to London. Life, I reflected, was often exceedingly unkind.

As I’d suspected from her interview, the cook Miss Hodges selected was completely incompetent. She couldn’t even make a drinkable pot of tea. Without consulting Miss Hodges, as I felt it would only upset her, I let the woman go. This time, I hired a new cook on my own.

She turned out to be more than acceptable. In fact, she was quite good. I considered us very lucky to have her. The only reason she wasn’t working someplace much grander was because she was a recent widow without references, something I’d been willing to overlook in favor of my impression of her. Mr. Thompson enjoyed her meals so much that he asked me to discover if she was capable of preparing a dinner for six. He wanted to invite the members of the law firm he worked for to dinner, thinking it might help his standing there.

I spoke with the cook about Mr. Thompson’s dinner request and came away certain of two things. One was that she was quite capable of cooking such a dinner, and probably a much larger one. The other was the realization that the lodging house couldn’t afford to put on such a dinner. This was easily solved, as Mr. Thompson said he would pay for it.

Mr. Thompson’s dinner was a complete success. His effusive praise of how well the event faired, coupled with the quality of food coming out of the kitchen on a daily basis, convinced two of the other tenants to ask if they could pay to have dinners there. Word got out, and soon we had private dinners held at our lodging house at least twice a week, often hosted by people who lived blocks away.

We gave the cook half of the profits from each dinner. This was partially to be fair, but also because we knew that, the more her reputation grew, the harder it would be to keep her. It was Mr. Thompson’s idea, though he said it was Miss Hodges’. I was sure he had discussed it with her, but I doubted she’d comprehended what he was saying.

Miss Hodges’ health was the one blight on our happiness. Soon after we began the dinners, I had to arrange for fulltime care for her. Fortunately, between my management of the lodging house and the frequent dinners, we’d increased Miss Hodges’ income enough to afford the additional service.

I spent as much time with her as I could, but she was growing increasingly incoherent. In her frail state, she was becoming a danger to herself. We both tried to be as soothing as we could be, and the girl I selected to sit with her was very sweet tempered, but it rent my heart to see Miss Hodges that way. Though Mr. Thompson was unfalteringly cheerful when he visited her each day, I knew it must weigh heavily on him, too.

Miss Hodges’ health seemed to hit a plateau, and we settled into a happy enough routine. Mr. Thompson asked me to give myself a raise. As usual, he said it was Miss Hodges’ idea, but I had my doubts. Some days, she didn’t even remember who I was anymore. Most of the time, she seemed only to recall people from her younger years, whom I didn’t know.

After my raise, I was making the same amount that Mr. Darcy had paid me, and I enjoyed the work more. There was no mindless conversation with other governesses or constantly striving to stay in the background. I was also able to save more, because I didn’t have to dress as formally. We didn’t dress up for dinner. We ate in what we wore all day. Mr. Thompson insisted I move downstairs to a room with a fireplace the next time one became vacant. The room was quite small but it was a luxury compared to my attic room, and much warmer as the nights turned cold.

The days grew shorter and the air crisp, and I took to walking a short time each afternoon. I had the lodging house and side business as a private dining hall well in hand, and I found it increasingly difficult to spend all of my free time with Miss Hodges. She rarely knew me now, but had taken to the girl I’d hired, whom she thought was one of her cousins. She’d regressed so far back into her childhood that she seemed to no longer have a place in her world for a woman of my advanced age of nearly thirty, and my presence often upset her.

I’d taken a longer than usual walk, having gone all the way to the bank to make an addition to my small savings, and was just starting up our steps when I heard a man call my name.

I turned to find one of my least favorite people coming down the street toward me. “Mr. Wickham,” I said, my tone flat.

“Good day, Mrs. Younge,” he said, all smiles and affability. “Do you live here now? Why, I never thought to see you again.”

“I work here,” I said, using the truth as a lie. I didn’t care for the idea of Mr. Wickham knowing where I lived. “It’s a lodging house.”

“I’m overjoyed to hear you’re employed, and to find you looking so well.” He stopped at the bottom of the steps, leaning toward me. “I was worried about what might have happened to you after Mr. and Miss Darcy left Ramsgate so precipitously. I understand you left a few hours before they did, which made me suspect you hadn’t fared well.” He said it in a low voice, as if we were coconspirators, an idea I didn’t appreciate. His face was pulled into an exaggerated appearance of sincerity.

I eyed him, hoping he was there by coincidence and that he’d quickly forget he’d ever seen me. It shouldn’t be hard for a man of his self-absorbed nature to do. I didn’t believe for a moment that my name had crossed his mind in the months since we’d met in Ramsgate. Nevertheless, there was no point in making him my enemy. “I’m well enough. How are you?”

“I’ve been better, I must admit. I was pursuing something I thought would be quite fruitful, but it didn’t work out.” Another heiress, I didn’t doubt. “I’m going to join the militia in Hertfordshire. A man has to eat.”

Poor man. He actually had to go out and work for a living. Unfortunately, the militia wasn’t famous for working people very hard. He would have much too much free time and be given quarters to live in and food to eat. That was, if he was serious in the idea. I readily recalled him saying the same thing once in Ramsgate, to inspire sympathy in Miss Darcy. I reminded myself that there was no reason to make an enemy where I didn’t have to, especially one who was petty and spiteful.

“Good luck to you,” I forced myself to say with every attempt to appear sincere. “I hope things work out. I would like to stay and catch up more, but I have work to do.”

“I understand,” he said. “People such as you and me must always be working, just to get by.”

I smiled and nodded, doubting my tone should I choose to reply to that. He bowed and left. I hoped fervently that I would never see him again.

Chapter Sixteen

…stories like that did nothing but delude innocent young girls, making the realities of the world even more of a shock.

Miss Hodges died early in the morning on a bright, cold winter’s day. If the fact that it wasn’t a surprise mitigated the distress her passing caused in any way, I wasn’t aware of it. Mr. Thompson and I did and said all of the correct things, but I could tell by his tear-filled eye that he was deeply upset. It took all of my willpower to withhold my own tears for later in my room, where they belonged. Being strong for him was the only comfort I was permitted to give, though I was conscious of a desire to do more. I agonized to see him standing beside her body, suffering alone.

The girl I’d hired to look after Miss Hodges was a weeping puddle of cheap fabric, so I told her she could stay on as a maid until she found other work. Mr. Thompson watched the exchange with so little expression that I didn’t know if he’d heard us through his grief. I gathered the young woman to me, feeling it was time to leave nephew and great aunt alone, aware that not all of the girl’s distress had been quieted by my offer. She also seemed genuinely upset over the death of her charge, which didn’t surprise me. Miss Hodges, even in her decline, had been a warm and caring person. Though few would ever know it, the world was a lesser place without her in it.

I took our new maid to the kitchen, seeking tea for us both. As soon as we stepped in, I realized the news had filled the house. As with most homes, all the help gathered in the kitchen. I looked about at the cook, weeping into her apron, the three existing maids, all crying, and the new hired man. He hadn't been with us for long, having recently been employed to take over much of the heavy work around the lodging, since Mr. Thompson generally didn’t have time for it any longer. Even he looked distressed, however.

“Missus,” the cook wailed, coming forward. “Missus, what will happen to us?”

I blinked at her, rearranging my thoughts. I was so upset over the loss of my friend and over Mr. Thompson’s pain, I’d forgotten to consider the practicality of the situation. What would happen to us indeed? One could hope and assume that Mr. Thompson would inherit Alder House, but there was no way for us to be sure. Even if he did inherit the house, would he want to keep it or sell it? He’d been growing increasingly successful in his own right. He didn’t need the lodging house to live, and it did represent an investment in time and effort.

Not that I would give voice to any of those worries. I was responsible for managing Alder House and the staff, and I took that responsibility quite seriously. “I will, of course, find out,” I said. “When I do, I shall tell you.” The cook moaned and covered her face with her apron. “Keep in mind what an intelligent and caring person Miss Hodges was.” I swallowed back tears. “I am sure she has a plan in place to take care of all of you.”

I wasn’t sure, but I would never admit that. I did my best to smile. “Now, everyone, please return to you duties. It’s important that we support Mr. Thompson at this time. He has just lost his family.”

I put a reassuring look on my face and eyed them all until they returned to their work. Once I was satisfied they were in hand, I climbed back up to Miss Hodges’ parlor to check on Mr. Thompson. My soft knock yielded a muffled, “Enter.”

He was standing where I’d left him, looking down at his great aunt’s still form. I could only see half of his face, the half with the eyepatch, but his slumped shoulders bespoke of his sorrow. I carefully shut the door and crossed to him, daring to put a hand on his arm.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “She was a wonderful woman.”

He let out a choking sob and turned, wrapping his arms about me and burying his face in my hair. I went still in shock, but only for a moment. I brought my arms up and held him, rubbing his back soothingly as I’d longed to do earlier. I was no longer a governess or chaperone. I wasn’t even a miss. I was now thirty and a widow, and there was no reason I shouldn’t comfort this man, for whom I held so much affection, in his time of sorrow.

Mr. Thompson didn’t give in to his grief for long. Sooner than I would have liked, he straightened, turning away to compose himself. I didn’t move, filled with a muddled mixture of grief and a strange longing. Georgiana’s silly romantic novels came into my mind and I struggled to dismiss them. I’d learned long ago that stories like that did nothing but delude innocent young girls, making the realities of the world even more of a shock. The sorts of things that happened in romantic novels didn’t take place in the real world.

Mr. Thomson turned back. His eye studying me, he reached up and smoothed a thumb across my cheek. I blinked, realizing I was crying. He unfurled his fingers, sliding them up the side of my face until his palm rested against my cheek, his fingers buried in my hair.

I didn’t dare move. I had no idea what he meant to do, but every fiber of my being was poised, waiting to find out. His gaze bored into mine and my breath quickened.

“You should go,” he whispered.

I nodded, the smooth skin of my cheek sliding along his palm, but that seemed to be the only thing I was capable of doing. For all of my years, for all that I’d been married and been an actress on the stage, I’d never felt before as I did in that moment. The urge to kiss him, to reach up and pull his head down toward mine, was nearly overwhelming.

“Mrs. Younge,” he said. “I beg you, please go.” He dropped his hand, turning back toward Miss Hodges’ still form, effectively shattering whatever spell had taken hold of me. I looked around the room, feeling how hot and still the air was, and took a stumbling step backward.

“I’m sorry,” I said, unsure exactly what I was sorry for. Miss Hodges’ death? My forwardness? The fact that he hadn’t kissed me? I all but ran from the room.

Chapter Seventeen

What if he took my avoidance to mean I was upset by what he’d done?

I already had a black dress because of the death of the relative of a former employer. I sincerely mourned Miss Hodges for herself but my grief was mixed up with my insecurity and the memory of Mr. Thompson’s arms around me and his strong hand on my cheek. I muddled through the next several days, managing to maintain a stoic façade when outside my room.

I kept putting off the staff’s questions about what would become of them, telling them I hadn’t found the right time to discuss it with Mr. Thompson yet. In truth, I was avoiding him. I didn’t know how to behave after our exchange.

Did he harbor feelings for me, ones I longed to ascribe to him? If he did, why had he pleaded for me to leave instead of kissing me? If it was out of respect for Miss Hodges, I understood and agreed, but he must have seen how willing I was. I felt he would come to me and make his intentions clear, if he had any. That he didn’t seek me out made me doubt it had been anything other than a moment of weakness on his part.

Finally, I could avoid Mr. Thompson no longer, for he called a meeting of all the employees so that a lawyer could read Miss Hodges’ will. He stood at the front of the room with the lawyer, looking very somber in black. Suddenly, I felt guilty for avoiding him. What if he needed someone to speak with, or to sit with? What if he took my avoidance to mean I was upset by what he’d done?

“I would like you all to know that I have inherited Alder House and will be keeping you all on,” Mr. Thompson said, once we were assembled. His gaze swept across us, not pausing on me, and I felt an additional tightening in a chest already constricted by grief. “Miss Hodges has made provisions for all of you in her will, which you shall now hear.”

He turned and nodded to the lawyer, who began to read aloud from a sheet of paper. The servants were each given a small sum of money. The largest amount was ten pounds, to her personal maid. The man servant received only one pound because of his recent employment. To my astonishment, Miss Hodges left me fifty pounds. It was a generous amount. Mr. Thompson inherited the rest, in addition to the house.

The reading of the will spurred a new round of crying from the cook and the maids. Mr. Thompson didn’t sit during it, but remained standing at the front of the room, his face impassive but pain glinting in his eye. When the lawyer was done, they shook hands and the man departed. I ushered the servants out, thinking Mr. Thompson would want to be alone.

“Mrs. Younge?” he called, as I herded the cook out last, reminding her that we had a dinner scheduled for the following day.

I froze, a bit daunted by the surge of happiness that went through me when he called my name. “Yes, Mr. Thompson?” I asked, turning back to face him.

I was acutely aware that we were now alone, though the doors to the hall were open. His expression remained neutral. If there was something more to be seen, some emotion lurking deep in his eye, I had no way to know if I was imagining it.

“Would you be willing to help me sort through my great aunt’s possessions?”

“Of course, Mr. Thompson,” I said.

“Do you have time now?”

I nodded. I had matters to see to, but nothing that couldn’t be put off.

“Thank you,” he said.

He crossed the room, stopping in front of me for a long moment, as if he might speak. I waited, filled with equal parts dread and hope. I knew what I wished him to say, but I wasn’t sure I was brave enough to hear the opposite. As long as he didn’t speak, I could imagine he cared.

He shook his head and turned, walking past me out of the room. Tamping down my disappointment, I followed. We climbed the steps to Miss Hodges’ parlor, my mind conjuring up the bittersweet memory of the first time we’d made the trip. I was very grateful to have found such a good friend as Miss Hodges, if only for a little while.

It took us longer than I would have thought to go through Miss Hodges’ rooms, making a pile to sell, one to donate and one for Mr. Thompson. We also set aside a few small items for Miss Hodges’ personal maid, and for me. Mr. Thomson was adamant that Miss Hodges would have wanted me to have something to remember her by.

When we were done, I looked over the now barren parlor, to the bed chamber beyond. They were nicely furnished. I turned to Mr. Thompson, unsure if now was an appropriate time to discuss what should become of the rooms. It seemed wrong to let them, but vacant, they would stand as a constant reminder.

“What do you think we should charge for it?” he asked, saving me from bringing it up.

“You don’t want the rooms?”

“I only sleep in my room,” he said, eyeing me. “I have no wife, no children. This much space would be wasted on me.”

“I’ll ask around and come up with a figure,” I said, my heart filled with a strange ache.

“Let me know when you do.” With that, he left the room.

Chapter Eighteen

…if she had a brain in her head, she was hiding it well.

For a time, my interactions with Mr. Thompson became few and brief, and took on a strict level of propriety. I wasn’t pleased by that, but I had no idea what to do about it. I’d never learned the art of gaining a man’s attention. My marriage had been arranged without my knowledge or blessing, and in the theater, I’d worked to avoid any sort of entanglements.

My personal frustrations and failings didn’t affect my work, however, and Alder House prospered. We had four or five dinners a week, as people liked our cook and a dining room that seated ten. All of the rooms were rented. Even those in the attic, which went to servants who worked in nearby houses that didn’t have space for them.

As the memory of our encounter in Miss Hodges’ parlor grew less fresh, Mr. Thompson and I settled into a pleasant routine. Though he worked in the law firm three days a week and helped with the books of several local businesses, and his private clients filled the rest of his time, we began to see more of each other. We ate breakfast and dinner together daily, and we had many brief meetings concerning the running of Alder House. Winter passed into spring, and then summer.

Mr. Thompson increased my salary by ten percent, saying I’d earned it. For some reason, his doing so made the gulf between us seem greater. It was almost as if, by paying me more, he was reminding me of my place in his life.

I couldn’t be anything but grateful for the increase, though. My savings were growing, although slowly. I had a stable job where I was given the freedom and power to do the best I was able. Overall, my life was good. Perhaps better than it ever had been before. At least, that’s what I logically told myself, trying to ignore the gap in my happiness where Mr. Thompson’s affections should be.

Summer was winding down when I heard a loud, persistent knock at the door. I knew the maids were in the kitchen, helping prepare the dinner we were hosting that evening, so I went to answer it myself. Walking past Mr. Thompson’s office on my way, I glanced inside to see him hard at work, alone. I tried not to mind that he didn’t even look up as I passed.

I pulled the door open and nearly closed it again. There was a Hackney coach outside, waiting. None other than Mr. Wickham stood on our steps. The man I most wished to avoid in all the world.

“Mrs. Younge,” he greeted, his smile easy and wide. He was dressed in an officer’s uniform, which would have made him quite handsome and dashing, if I didn’t find him repugnant. A tall, attractive and very young woman was on his arm. She reminded me of Miss Darcy.

“Mr. Wickham,” I said, my tone flat.

“This is Miss Bennet,” he said, tugging her forward a little.

Miss Bennet smiled an almost vapid smile. “Heavens, it’s nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Younge,” she said. “Georgie has been promising me a proper place to stay for ages now.” She leaned forward, looking over my shoulder to peer inside.

I reevaluated my initial comparison of Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy. The girl before me may have mirrored Miss Darcy in youth, height and comeliness but, if she had a brain in her head, she was hiding it well. I stepped out, pulling the door closed behind me. Peering past them into the coach, I couldn’t see anyone else with them. Miss Bennet appeared to be without a chaperone.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“We need a place to stay,” he said. He emphasized the word we, giving me a meaningful look. His smile didn’t falter, though he had every reason to be ashamed of himself and his request.

“Not here,” I said, automatically. “I don’t have room.” I was lying. We had a small room that had just been vacated, but I wanted no part of Wickham’s schemes. It was one thing to be passably polite to the man, but quite another to become involved in whatever he was plotting.

Wickham’s smile hardened in place, his eyes darkening with anger. I was reminded that he was a man who wouldn’t hesitate to cause me trouble. I suddenly didn’t feel quite safe out there on the steps with him, though I wasn’t truly afraid. Still, I decided it was best to show him that I was no longer alone in the world, at the mercy of his machinations.

“Just a moment,” I said. “Mr. Thompson might know a place.” I deliberately didn’t refer to him as my employer. Let Mr. Wickham think we were more to each other than that. It would make him hesitant to bother me again.

I turned and opened the door, calling to Mr. Thompson. As I did, I winced. I knew the maids were farther away than he was, but I hadn’t realized I’d reached the stage where I would shout for someone. I recalled the day Mr. Thompson labeled the gentry our former class. For the first time I realized he was right. I was no longer a gentlewoman.

“Coming,” he called back.

I was grateful for his quick response, and that he was working from Alder House that afternoon. He appeared in the hall, his face worried and his long strides carrying him to me. He cocked his head to the side, and I realized he must have picked up the anxiety in my tone.

I brought my hand up to the side of my face that was toward him and pushed back my hair before drawing my finger down my forehead, to my eye, down my cheek and to the corner of my mouth. I didn’t know if he’d recall the meaning of the gesture, for we hadn’t needed to use it until now. It was ironic, I reflected, that with all of the people we dealt with, most of whom a man like Mr. Darcy would consider vulgar and low, the first time I needed Mr. Thompson’s and my secret gesture was for one of Mr. Darcy’s associates.

“My friend Mr. Wickham needs a place to stay,” I said, hoping Mr. Thompson would recall the name even if he didn’t remember the gesture. I pulled the door open wider as I spoke, revealing Mr. Thompson fully to them. Miss Bennet’s eyes went wide in her head, and Mr. Wickham’s smile faltered. She pulled on his sleeve, taking a half-step back. I tried to see Mr. Thompson as they did, looming and disfigured, but couldn’t. “I informed him we’re full, but thought you might know someplace for him.”

“I know of three places not far from here,” Mr. Thompson said. He turned to Mr. Wickham. “I could show you. I can walk back,” he added, nodding toward the Hackney still waiting in the street.

I pressed my lips together over my annoyance. That wasn’t quite what I’d asked him to do. I wanted Mr. Thompson to intimidate Wickham.

I shot him a look but held my peace. I knew his way was better. There would be no menace, no reason for Mr. Wickham to get angry with me or plot revenge. A part of me, though, had anticipated seeing that fake smile wiped from his face.

“We’d be grateful,” Wickham said.

I could tell he didn’t mean it. I was sure Mr. Thompson could as well, but he smiled and nodded, coming out to stand beside me. Wickham, I thought, had expected me to make room for him. Well, he would have to take what he could get.

Miss Bennet looked back and forth between us. She turned to me, her smile bright. “We’re going to be married,” she said, leaning toward me. “That’s why we need a place to stay. Together.” She giggled.

Sadly for her, I was quite sure she believed they would be married. A glance at the pained edge to Wickham’s brittle smile cast doubts on the assertion, though. I looked over Miss Bennet’s clothes. She looked like a lady, but I doubted an heiress would be dressed in anything that unfashionable, and I doubted Mr. Wickham would marry a woman bereft of a fortune.

“My family will be so surprised when I write them and sign the letter Lydia Wickham,” the girl prattled on. I couldn’t tell if she always talked a lot, or if Mr. Thompson was making her nervous. “I left Harriet a letter. I bet she was surprised. I told her in the letter to have her maid mend a ghastly tear in my gown. Do you think she’ll do that?” She glanced at Wickham, who shrugged.

“I also told Harriet to tell a lieutenant I promised a dance to that I was sorry I wouldn’t be there, but I had to go off to get married,” she continued, apparently oblivious to how inane she sounded. “It will be nice to dance with him as a married lady, too. I love my Georgie, and I know he won’t object to my dancing with others once we’re married, will you Wickham?” She turned to him, batting her lashes in an idiotic way.

“Of course not,” he said, looking embarrassed, as well he should.

Miss Bennet opened her mouth again.

“You don’t want to keep that Hackney waiting,” Mr. Thompson said, before she could speak.

He pushed past them, heading down the steps. Miss Bennet tried to drop a curtsy to me, but Wickham pulled her away, following Mr. Thompson. She settled for a wave instead, looking back over her shoulder.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Younge,” she called. “Isn’t it a lark that you only just met Miss Bennet, and now I shan’t be her any longer?”

I tried not to gape at her as Wickham dragged her away. I’d met more than my share of young misses. Rarely had I come across one as devoid of sense as Miss Bennet. I suppressed a shudder and headed back inside to attempt to focus on my work while I waited for Mr. Thompson to return.

He wasn’t gone as long as I expected, so I assumed he’d found them lodging at the first of his three locations. I looked up from my ledger as he came into the dining room, which I used as an office during the day. “Where did you take them?”

“Not far, to the Green House,” he said.

I nodded. It was an inexpensive place, but decent enough so that Miss Bennet should be safe there. I didn’t want Wickham in a place that nice, but I supposed she, no matter how vapid she seemed, deserved something acceptable. “A good choice,” I admitted.

“I helped him negotiate a good price as well,” Mr. Thompson said.

“Why did you bother?” I asked, still put out that he hadn’t chased Wickham away, as I’d hoped.

“For two reasons,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “The first is the girl. No one gets to be as self-centered and thoughtless as she is without being cared for. The world tends to kick people like that around until they learn, so she’s obviously been protected by someone. She may be worthless, but someone will be hurt by what happens to her.”

It was an odd analysis, but I accepted it as a reason. I was surprised by his empathy. “And the second?”

“Mr. Wickham is the sort to form a grudge, and to overreact when he finds a way to repay it. You conveyed as much when you told Miss Hodges and me of your time in Ramsgate, and of Mr. Wickham’s actions against his fellow law student. Not making an enemy of the man when you didn’t need to was your own reasoning.”

I recalled myself saying that very thing and knew he was right, but that didn’t make me happy about helping Wickham, not in any way. I realized, also, a part of me was hurt that Mr. Thompson had been so accommodating to a man he knew had wronged me. I felt as if he should have stood up for me. He should have done something to show he cared about me. Of course, for all I could tell, he didn’t.

“I know that makes sense, but I hate that you helped Wickham in any way. He harmed me,” I said, angry.

“Did he?” Mr. Thompson asked, his tone gentle. “Have you been hurt by your year here?”

“No, but he’s deprived me of a choice. I am here at your whim.” I glared at him. He gazed back with something that looked suspiciously like pity on his face. “It’s all well and good for you to be forgiving. The man who wronged you is dead. Wickham cost me the future I was striving for, and he’s still gadding about, obviously unrepentant and just as horrid as ever. His actions haven’t hurt him at all, only me.”

Mr. Thompson frowned at me. I gazed back, unable to quell my ire. A knock sounded at the door. Mr. Thompson grimaced. “That will be my appointment.”

“You’d best go, then,” I snapped.

He didn’t move. A woman’s voice, one I recognized as a regular client of his, called. Mr. Thompson said, “I have to go.”

I nodded. Shaking his head, he went to open the door. I kept my face a ridged mask of anger until they settled in his office, in case he looked my way, but neither of them did. I hurried to my room, blinking back tears. How dare Wickham come to my door with some young girl he’d carried off? How could Mr. Thompson be so cordial to the man?

I let myself cry for a moment and then washed my face. My anger faded, replaced by shame. I shouldn’t have lashed out at Mr. Thompson. He was right, only good had come from my time at Alder House, even if I had to endure the daily torture of living alongside a man I was beginning to suspect I loved just as deeply as any silly girl in a novel could.

Chapter Nineteen

…I aided him, against your wishes…

Mr. Thompson and I didn’t speak at dinner. I tried to pull a veneer of normalcy over myself, but my growing awareness of how I felt about him, coupled with the turmoil of the day, made it difficult. I was relieved when the meal was over and we stood.

“Mrs. Younge,” Mr. Thompson said before I could leave the room. “I would like to speak to you in my office.”

I nodded, turning away from the route that would take me to the sanctuary of my room and heading down the hall toward his office. His tone was so formal that I worried he had some form of reprimand in mind for my overly harsh words earlier. I tried to pull my anger back to me, to steel myself. Instead, I could only find remorse.

When we entered, he shut the doors behind us. Typically, that wouldn’t trouble me. We usually kept the doors open for propriety, but sometimes difficult tenants required us to speak in private. I’d stopped being uncomfortable with it a long time ago, until tonight. Tonight, the room seemed smaller than usual, especially as he brushed by me to cross to his desk. He didn’t go around it, but rather leaned against the corner, facing me. He gestured to the seat in front of him, but I shook my head.

He regarded me for a long moment. The room was dim, lit by the fading daylight coming in the corner windows. His good side turned toward the light, he looked more handsome than ever.

“Mrs. Younge, let me make one thing perfectly clear,” he said. “I would be a fool to drive you away. The profitability of Alder House comes from you. I realize I could sell the house for a decent sum, but it’s better to keep it and live off the income, leaving it, in effect, as the principle. I have some good jobs right now but, like you, I am saving. We both know that fate can be fickle. You are not here because of a whim, but because you are very good at what you do. I need you.”

“I . . .” I wasn’t sure what to say. “Are you apologizing to me?”

“I am,” he said. “I should have complied with your wishes. You are more important to me than anyone, let alone Mr. Wickham and a foolish young girl. It shouldn’t have been a question of logic or even of trying to show you how to let go of your anger. Mr. Wickham wronged you, and was obviously in the process of doing more wrong, and I aided him, against your wishes and my own conscience.” He shook his head, as if at his own foolishness. “I’m sorry.”

“I shouldn’t have spoken to you as I did,” I said, my mind and heart racing. I wrestled with coherent thought, fixated on the way he’d said he needed me. “I’m sure, in truth, it was painful for you, for many reasons, when your former employer died. I know that, at one time, he was a friend.”

“It’s a pain which has long since faded, since any feelings of friendship died when I found out his true character,” he said, shrugging. He pushed off his desk, coming over to where I stood in the middle of the room. I tilted my head back to look up at him. “I don’t want what happened today to come between us. I don’t want any more dinners like the one we had tonight.”

“Nor do I,” I said. I realized I was shaking slightly. I hoped he couldn’t see it. In what way, I wondered, did he mean that he needed me? He’d started off speaking of Alder House, but his declaration had sounded more personal than that.

“Alder House needs you,” he said, his gaze on my lips. “And I am not a fool.”

I stared at him, unsure where reality left off and a world of my conjuring began. Was he about to kiss me? Was I imagining the look in his eye? My own eyes slid shut.

There was a swish of air and sudden footsteps. The doors to the office flew open. I opened my eyes in time to see Mr. Thompson stride from the room.

Chapter Twenty

Here is where you belong.

The following day, Mr. Thompson wasn’t at breakfast. I didn’t see him all day, for it was one of the days he normally spent at the lawyers. I tried not to think much of it, but I was fraught with misgivings.

Did he care for me? Had I horribly misread his desire to kiss me and made fools of us both? He’d said Alder House needed me. Maybe his feelings toward me were only physical, and he was striving not to take advantage of the foolish way I’d all but offered myself to him, again. I knew men were possessed of a trove of base desires. Wanting me and loving me could be two very different things.

When he wasn’t at dinner either, I began to suspect that was, indeed, the case. Mr. Thompson wanted me. I wasn’t wrong there. He didn’t wish to wed me, however, or love me. He knew giving in to his desire, something I seemed to quite wantonly encourage, though I didn’t really mean to, would be a brief relief before it turned into ruin. Clearly, the long-term success of Alder House was more important, to both of us, than a brief dalliance.

After three days, he appeared at breakfast again. There was no denying the tension that had formed between us, but he spoke and behaved as normal. I tried to do likewise.

Everything was not normal, though. I was constantly on edge. I tried to act as I had before, but I kept finding myself gazing at his face like some sort of lovelorn fool. I was sure he noticed, and it must have embarrassed him as much as it did me. Added to that, I could hardly sleep at night, my dreams even more scandalous than my waking thoughts.

I began to feel trapped. I loved my work at Alder House, but I was more and more afraid that I loved Mr. Thompson, as well. I had no other prospects for work, though. No way to save myself from endless days of pining after a man who didn’t love me.

Worse, how long could I go before throwing myself at him, which would only make things more terrible? He might be strong enough to resist me again, putting us back into a state of embarrassment. If he wasn’t, I was sure we would have a brief, wonderful passion, with even more dire consequence. I hadn’t spent a year on the stage avoiding that sort of trouble only to give in now.

I was sitting at the dining table, attempting to focus on the accounts, when I heard footsteps in the doorway. I looked up to find the widow who rented the parlor across from Mr. Thompson’s office. I’d long since learned that two of the children she watched were her own, but she was paid to mind the others.

She came into the room and I smiled as we exchanged greetings.

“I came to tell you I’ve an offer for you,” the widow said, once she was seated and the pleasantries concluded.

“An offer?” I repeated, frowning.

“I’m to be married again,” she said.

“Congratulations.” I was happy for her. She seemed like a good woman, and her children would be better off for having a father.

“My new man, he has a house like this,” she said. “I’m going to take my service there, since I won’t have to pay rent in my own home.”

“Thank you for letting me know,” I said. I would never admit to her that it was a relief. We could be renting the room for much more than we charged her, but hadn’t wanted to raise her rent or turn her out. “I don’t understand how that’s an offer, though.”

“My new man, he’s heard all about what you’ve done here. He would like you to come manage our house for us. I know what you’ve done, but I don’t think I could do it, and I’ve the little ones to mind.”

I stared at her for a moment. She waited, her face patient. “I don’t know what to say. That’s very kind of you. May I have time to think over your offer?”

“You may,” she said. “It’s him offering, though. I told him you wouldn’t accept. You won’t leave Alder House.”

“Why is that?”

“You and Mr. Thompson, you’re in love,” she said. “Anyone can see it, plain as daylight.”

I raised my eyebrows. I thought about denial, but that would only confirm it. “Well, I’ll let you know when the daylight reaches us, but, in the meantime, I’ll think over your offer.” I chuckled, to add ease to my statement.

Either my acting was very rusty, or my feelings for Mr. Thompson were that obvious, because I could tell she wasn’t fooled. She shook her head, standing. “I’ll tell my man that, but I know you’ll stay here.” She smiled at me. “As you should. Here is where you belong.” She ambled away, saving me from trying to answer that.

Was Alder House where I belonged? I knew I liked my work. I was being forced to admit I more than liked my employer. What I hadn’t liked was feeling trapped, as I had for most of my life. It hadn’t occurred to me that anyone would think to credit me for Alder House’s prosperity. The cook, maybe, or Mr. Thompson, but not me.

Obviously, I did have choices. I had options, and opportunities. Whatever I did now, for once, was truly up to me. I smiled, suddenly feeling much more confident.

Chapter Twenty-One

If he was going to be arrogant, I saw no reason to help him.

My newfound confidence gave me the ability to ignore my awkwardness with Mr. Thompson and behave in a truly normal manner at meals. This seemed to alleviate his anxiety as well, and I reflected that he’d obviously been on edge since I’d all but offered to let him kiss me in his office. I knew I was no great beauty, but I was attractive enough and it couldn’t be easy to work beside a woman you logically didn’t want, but physically desired, when she was so ready to offer herself up to you for just a few compliments and kind words.

A few days later, life was finally normal again. Mr. Thompson was attending meals and working at Alder House, instead of avoiding it. I was in the parlor across from him, as it was now vacant, actually going over figures instead of staring at them while my mind wandered.

A knock sounded at the door and I went to answer it. Mr. Thompson looked up as I passed by, giving me a tentative smile, which I returned. I hadn’t told him about the offer I’d received. I really didn’t plan to take it. I wondered, though, if he’d heard and what he thought about it.

I was still musing on that when I opened the door. The tall form of Mr. Darcy filled the doorway. I took a step back in surprise.

“Mrs. Younge,” he said, his tone full of anxiety, rather than the condescension I’d expected.

“Mr. Darcy,” I said. My voice was loud enough that I hoped Mr. Thompson would hear. I didn’t want to embarrass myself by yelling down the hall. I also didn’t invite Mr. Darcy in.

“Is Mr. Wickham here?” Mr. Darcy asked, stepping forward.

I wished I hadn’t moved back earlier, making room for him on the threshold, but my surprise had gotten the better of me. “No.” I started to close the door, not caring that he was halfway inside.

“Have you seen him within the last two weeks?” he asked in that same anxious tone.

He put out an arm to keep me from closing the door. I would have been alarmed, but I could hear Mr. Thompson getting up from his desk. I knew, from the assessing glance Mr. Darcy cast over my shoulder, the moment Mr. Thompson stepped into the hallway. As he neared, I could hear him walking up behind me. Mr. Darcy looked back down at me, his expression hopeful.

“I may have seen Mr. Wickham,” I finally said. I glared up at him. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m actually looking for a Miss Bennet,” he said.

That was interesting. While I enjoyed the idea of Mr. Darcy being forced to compete over a woman with Mr. Wickham, I sincerely doubted Darcy cared about someone so silly. Perhaps he was a friend to her father? I didn’t remember a Bennet family mentioned by him or Miss Darcy, but that might not mean anything. It wasn’t as if he’d ever gone out of his way to let me know who was or was not acceptable or significant company.

“It’s important,” he said in a strained tone.

Now something I had to say was important? I pressed my lips into a bitter line, scrutinizing his face. Mr. Thompson was behind me, his presence lending me strength. Mr. Darcy kept looking between us. He didn’t appear at all daunted, but I could tell he was becoming more annoyed.

If he was going to be arrogant, I saw no reason to help him. He didn’t get to only listen to what I had to say when it suited him. “There was a tall, pretty, self-centered girl with dark hair,” I said, letting him know that I could help him.

“That’s her.”

The relief on his face momentarily quenched my anger, but bitterness reasserted itself.

“Well, now you know you’re on the right track,” I said, and again tried to shut the door. I didn’t try very hard, knowing he wouldn’t let me and knowing, as well, that I was being petty. He had to know what it felt like, though, to have something important to say and be ignored.

“Mrs. Younge,” Mr. Darcy said, putting a hand up to stop the door again. “If you have any knowledge of where she is, it would be a great help to me.”

“I have no reason to help you.” I let my tone betray my bitterness.

“Do you have any reason to harm her?” he asked.

He had a point, but I wouldn’t admit it. “About a week and a half ago, they were together. I know where they were then.”

“Where?” he demanded, all eagerness. I could see he would run off the moment I told him, never thinking of me or what he’d done to me again.

“I have a price,” I said.

“I am prepared to pay.” He’d gone all haughty again, looking down on me like I was something he’d found washed up on the beach, dead.

I laughed, but it wasn’t a joyful sound. “You think you can throw money at me and I will do what you wish?” I shook my head. “Everyone who you consider beneath you isn’t actually your lesser. You will pay, but not with money.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to investigate what happened in Ramsgate,” I said. “I want you to ask Miss Darcy what really happened. Ask her about her letter to you. Make her tell you everything. She’s basically truthful and should tell you. I want you to find out about the Martins and see if I was justified in not spending time with them.” My voice was rising in tone and volume, but I couldn’t seem to stop it. He’d fired me, without deigning to hear my side. I’d done my best. I’d been about to remove Georgiana, and had been the only thing keeping her from whatever fate Miss Bennet was now suffering. “I want you to remember what you told me about whom I could freely allow Miss Darcy to spend time with.”

At my last statement, his face folded into lines of confusion. “What I told you?”

“You told me that someone who had dined with Miss Darcy at Pemberley or Darcy House was acceptable company.”

Mr. Darcy’s look of confusion turned to surprise. He remembered.

“And what of the first letter I sent you?” I asked. “If Wickham was so unacceptable, why didn’t you write back immediately when I asked about him?”

“First letter?” The look of confusion was back.

“The one I wrote you just after we arrived, expressing my uncertainty about allowing Wickham to be around Miss Darcy.”

“A letter from you eventually caught up to me,” he said, his words crisp. “I didn’t deem it worth reading. I tossed it on the fire.”

I glared at him, seeking forbearance. “I see,” I finally said.

“Are those all of your request?” he asked, his tone and expression unyielding.

“No.  I also want you to check with Madame Falconet about the books you found. I never gave those books to Miss Darcy and wouldn’t have let her read them, if I’d known she had them. Of course, Madame Falconet will likely lie, so you’ll need to ask Miss Darcy to collaborate what I’ve said about the books. After that, you can find the coachman you hired for Miss Darcy and confirm that I had planned to take her away from Ramsgate the next morning.”

“I don’t know what you think I’ll discover,” he said, returning completely to the arrogant, aloof, near-aristocrat I recalled, “but I will not subject Georgiana to any of this. I’m here on an important matter, not to provide amusement for you, Mrs. Younge.”

I stared at him for a long time. So, my fate was a matter of amusement? Why did he have to be so bullheaded? I wasn’t really asking for anything from him. I simply wanted him to know the truth. I was not vulgar or incompetent and I hadn’t let him, or Georgiana, down. He should know that he’d judged quickly, harshly and incorrectly. Of course, he may not have enough of a conscience to care. The man was so infuriating, I didn’t know if I longed to yell at him or cry, but I wouldn’t allow myself to do either in front of him.

“Very well,” I said stiffly. “Please allow me to close the door.”

Frowning, he moved back.

I slammed the door, my next breath a half-sob. I don’t know why I cared so much that I be vindicated, except that I wanted Mr. Darcy to suffer remorse. Georgiana as well. I’d done the best I could for them, and they’d cast me out without hesitation. Georgiana could have spoken up for me after I left. She obviously hadn’t.

Trying to hold back my tears, I turned, intent on the sanctuary of my room, and ran into Mr. Thompson. I’d all but forgotten he was there behind me. He clasped me by the shoulders to steady me, his eye scanning my face.

I could only imagine I was a fright. I could feel how hot my face was and the lines of sorrow pulling at it. I tried to inhale slowly, but tears sliding from my eyes.

“Come with me,” Mr. Thompson said, his tone low and soothing.

He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and led me to his office, where he pressed me firmly into the chair across the desk from his. I could hear him moving behind me, closing the doors, and realized this was the first time he’d done that since the night I’d thought he would kiss me. For some reason, recalling that only made me cry harder. I wondered how my life had become so full of tears.

He pulled a chair over and sat down next to me, offering a handkerchief. I took it and tried to dry my eyes, but I just kept crying. When had I gone from a respectable young woman with a decent, if old, husband to someone who could be cast out for not knowing which instructions I should follow? Where was the justice in the world? Where was the reward for trying to live a good, respectable life, for doing one’s best?

I couldn’t seem to stop crying. Mr. Thompson slid his chair even closer, wrapping his arms about me. The warmth of his embrace, his breath soft on my temple as he stroked my hair and murmured soothingly, penetrated my self-indulgent tears. I pulled back and dried my face, but not before it began to grow hot for another reason. Mr. Thompson and I were behind closed doors, alone, and he’d embraced me. Even now, his hands still rested on my arms.

“Mrs. Younge,” he said, his voice low. “I tell myself daily that I must not do anything to drive you away, but you make it impossible.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What do you fear will drive me away?”

“Pressing my unreciprocated regard on you,” he said. He leaned closer again, his hands sliding up my arms to clasp my shoulders.

“Unreciprocated?” I said, stunned. Did he believe I didn’t care for him? How could he think such a thing? Then I realized what he was really saying. He cared for me. He wasn’t worried about driving me away with a tawdry, meaningless dalliance. He was worried about driving me away with affection.

“I embraced you when my great aunt died,” Mr. Thompson said. “I touched your face.” He suited action to word, sliding a hand up my cheek and into my hair, as he’d done those many months before. “I invited you into my office and closed the doors. If you don’t return my affection, these actions are sure to drive you away, and I can’t have that.”

“For the sake of Alder House?” I asked, searching his face.

“For my sake,” he said, sliding closer.

I leaned into his hand, aware of each of his long fingers twined in my hair, his palm against my cheek. His other hand was still clasped on my shoulder, his thumb stroking my arm. I could feel his leg pressed against mine through my skirt.

“What if your feelings aren’t unreciprocated?” I asked, my voice coming out as such a quiet whisper, I wasn’t sure he heard.

He leaned over and kissed me. He was hesitant at first, his kiss soft and questioning. Feeling oddly shy, I moved my mouth against his, which seemed to be all of the encouragement he needed. He wrapped his strong arms around me and lifted me to my feet, pulling me against him, his lips never leaving mine.

I’d been married once, years ago, but that embrace, our two bodies pressed together as we stood in Mr. Thompson’s office, was the most intimate experience of my life. My husband had probably been much more practiced at kissing, since I was his third wife, but I’d never been moved by his kisses the way I was by Mr. Thompson’s.

Finally, with a gratifying show of reluctance, he lifted his lips from mine. He didn’t release me from his embrace, though, and I didn’t try to get away. Tilting his head down, he rested his forehead against mine. We stood there, listening to each other’s breath slowing, and the world had never felt so right.

“Mrs. Younge,” he said, his tone hesitant.

“Yes?”

He lifted his head, looking me in the eye. “What is your first name?” he asked, after so long a pause that I could only assume that wasn’t what he’d originally intended to say.

“Mary,” I said, blushing at the realization that I’d kissed a man who didn’t know my name, and whose name I didn’t know. “What is yours?”

“Thomas,” he said with half a smile.

“Thomas Thompson.” I felt the urge to giggle, something I hadn’t done in half a lifetime. “Your father didn’t have much imagination.”

“I was named after him.” His smile turned teasing. “Mary Younge. Marry young. You did.”

“I was aware of that on my wedding day.”

“I think you kept Miss Darcy from marrying young,” he said.

“More importantly, I hope she was kept from marrying badly.”

“I would like to marry well,” he said, reaching up to twine a lock of my hair in his fingers.

I raised a hand to my head. I hadn’t realized so much of my hair had come undone. “What do you mean by well?” I asked, entranced by how fascinated he seemed to be by the lock.

“I would like to marry someone I can work with day in and day out and still look forward to seeing every time I am absent from her. I want to marry someone I can respect.” He tucked the lock behind my ear and dropped his gaze to mine. “Stop me if this makes you uncomfortable. The last thing I want is to chase you away, because I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time, but I know life isn’t a fairytale. I know my declaration of love may not result in happily ever after. I thought I could live with that, so long as I could be near you, but it’s killing me. I know I’m no prize, Mary. I’m scarred and ugly.”

I stood on my toes and kissed his scarred cheek. “I love your scar. I love everything about you, Thomas Thompson. I even love your name, because it’s at least as silly as mine.”

“If I have my way, yours will change,” he said. “But, please, don’t declare yourself so recklessly. It isn’t just my missing eye that puts a pall over me. I spent almost two years forging references. I don’t think my past will catch up with me, but it might and you might be widowed again.”

“I don’t care,” I said, realizing I meant it. I’d learned early on that happiness was precarious. I would take whatever time we could have together, and I would cherish it.

“My forging isn’t the only thing that makes me less than upstanding.” He slid his hands down my back, pulling me close. “I’m lustful. I can’t stop thinking about you, wanting you, day and night.”

“So long as it’s me you’re lusting after, I think that’s a flaw I can live with,” I said, smiling. He obviously didn’t know, probably couldn’t know, how wonderful it was to hear that I inspired such thoughts. “And you will kindly recall, Thomas, that I was an actress for nearly a year. You are not the only one who has faltered.”

“That doesn’t matter to me,” he said. “All I care about is that, in the future, we falter as one. Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” I said, reaching up to pull his head down and melding my lips with his.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I truly hope you save the young woman from herself.

We announced our engagement the following morning. I was dismayed with how unsurprised the staff and tenants were, but it only seemed to amuse Thomas. He held my hand while he told our kitchen full of employees, who smiled and congratulated us.

“It’s about time you both admitted you’re meant for one another,” the cook said.

She then burst into tears, which she dried on her apron. I reflected that her apron seemed to see more tears than flour, for she was a very neat cook. At least this time, her tears were shed in happiness.

It was one of the days Thomas worked with the lawyers, and I was a bit taken aback at how much I didn’t wish for him to go. I was, I realized, just as bad as any silly girl in any foolish book, devastated by the thought that the man I loved would be away from me for hours. Thomas either sensed my misery or felt the same, for he led me into his office, closed the door, and proceeded to kiss me so soundly that I thought it would keep me from missing him during the day, but of course I was wrong about that.

I wondered how soon we could be wed. Now that he’d confessed his love, and I’d admitted mine, it couldn’t be soon enough for me. I hurried back to my room to fix my face and hair, glad no one saw me on my way.

Before I could settle myself to work, there was a knock on the door, though it was rather early for visitors. I went to open it, knowing the maids were hard at work. To my surprise, Mr. Darcy was on our steps.

“Mrs. Younge,” he said, his tone clipped.

“Mr. Darcy. I didn’t think to see you again.” I said it with surprise, not rancor, but his expression darkened. In my excitement over my engagement, I’d all but forgotten about Mr. Darcy and his quest for Miss Bennet.

“You gave me no choice,” he said. “I’ve found no other information about Miss Bennet’s whereabouts. I will concede to your demands, though I can’t see what you hope to gain.”

I shook my head. The man was so arrogant, so sure he was correct in his judgement of me. Did he really think I would go to the trouble if not in the right? “I hope to be vindicated, Mr. Darcy,” I said. “You never allowed me anything in the nature of a hearing. I was tried and punished without a chance to defend myself. Is that how you would wish to be treated?”

He eyed me. His grim expression gave me no indication of whether or not my words had any impact.

“As I said, I am willing to pay your price,” he finally said. “I suppose you will have me on my knees in apology before you’ll tell me where Wickham and Miss Bennet are?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I am not in the business of debasing and humiliating people. If I have your word that you’ll speak to Miss Darcy, and make every effort to get to the truth of the matter, that is good enough for me. I’m happy to tell you where Mr. Wickham and Miss Bennet were, and perhaps still are, staying.”

Mr. Darcy blinked. I could all but read the pain that rearranging his thoughts was causing him on his face. Obviously, he wasn’t accustomed to having to reevaluate his opinions.

“You have my word, then,” Mr. Darcy said. “I will endeavor to find out what, as you say, truly happened. I can’t promise it will change my mind about you. I certainly won’t hire you back.”

“I don’t wish to be hired back,” I said. I allowed myself to smile slightly. “I make more now than I did working for you.” I could tell that surprised him. “Nor do I need any promise of change from you, sir. I’m not entirely sure you’re capable of such.”

His frown was back. “Fine. May I know where you last knew Wickham and Miss Bennet to be?” he asked, his voice cold.

I told him, adding, “I truly hope you save the young woman from herself.”

“I’ll do my utmost,” he said. He nodded courteously enough. “Farewell, Mrs. Younge. I don’t anticipate we shall meet again.”

I shrugged, stepping back inside and closing the door softly. I didn’t think Mr. Darcy and I would meet again, either. I smiled, elated that I really didn’t care.

Later, I found out that Mr. Wickham and Miss Lydia Bennet were married. I stumbled upon the information by accident, as they were wed in the church Thomas and I attended. Mr. and Mrs. Wickham were married there the week after Thomas and I were. A small part of me was both pleased and amused that we were married first.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I’ve learned that many of my judgements about people were wrong.

It was September before I saw Mr. Darcy again. I truly hadn’t expected him to return and, since becoming Mrs. Thompson, I hadn’t really cared. Still, I was intrigued to see him at my door, and by the two people who were with him. I recognized the man as Mr. Younge, the grandson of my first husband. After a little thought, I realized the woman was his wife. She was about my age and I wasn’t surprised she’d changed since I’d last seen her.

“Mrs. Younge?” Mr. Younge asked tentatively.

“I’m Mrs. Thompson now,” I said. I could see Mr. Darcy’s surprise at that. “Please come in and meet my husband.”

I performed the introductions, wondering why Mr. Darcy would possibly have brought my late husband’s grandson to my door, and how he’d even located the man. Both Mr. and Mrs. Younge went wide-eyed when they saw Mr. Thompson, but Mr. Darcy showed as little reaction to my husband’s scarred face and missing eye as he had the first time he’d come to our door. We all settled into chairs and, as we did so, I realized there was something different about Mr. Darcy. He seemed less arrogant, perhaps even less stiff, than before.

“Would anyone care for refreshments?” I asked.

“No, thank you,” Mr. Darcy said. “We don’t intend to take up much of your time, Mrs. Thompson, Mr. Thompson.” He turned to Mr. Younge, who perched on the edge of his chair looking nervous, and nodded.

“I’ve come here to apologize for my father,” Mr. Younge said, the words tumbling a bit in his haste. “He lied to you.”

“He lied to me?” This certainly wasn’t the conversation I’d expected.

“He lied to you about my grandfather’s will. My grandfather left you five thousand pounds. I know it wasn’t a lot, considering his wealth, but he also expected that my father would give you a home, though that was, I gather, a verbal understanding and not in writing.”

“He used to brag about it before he died,” Mrs. Younge interjected, looking less nervous and more indignant. “He said he drove you away. He said that if you were too foolish to realize his father would have settled something on you, then you didn’t deserve the money.”

“We tried to find you,” Mr. Younge said, clearly anxious I believe him. “We even advertised in The Times.”

“I wasn’t reading the newspapers then,” I said, unable to think of anything else to say.

I looked back and forth between them, stunned. All these years, I’d worked and struggled to save, thinking my late husband had wronged me, doubting every moment of happiness I’d thought I’d brought him, and none of it had been true. He had cared for me. He’d meant me to be secure, with an income and a roof over my head.

“Well, the money is yours,” Mr. Younge said, the words sounding as if they were coming from far off, making their way through the spinning in my head. “It’s over seven thousand now because of the interest. We’ve kept it invested, hoping we would find you someday. In truth, I rather forgot about it.” He looked to his wife, shrugging.

She reached out and patted his hand, and I reflected that they’d grown into nice people. Mr. Younge obviously took after his grandfather, not his father, which was a good thing. I tried to recall the name of their first child, whose portrait I’d done for my late husband, but couldn’t. I shook my head, trying to clear it.

Seeking some notion of what I should be doing or saying, I turned to Thomas. He met my eye, his expression amused. Say thank you, he mouthed.

“You’re giving me seven thousand pounds?” I said instead.

“It’s over seven thousand,” Mr. Younge said. “We’d also like to extend our apologies.”

“I can’t imagine how you must have felt, cast out like that,” Mrs. Younge said, her expression one of sympathy.

I nodded, still at a loss for words.

“I also have this for you.” She stood, pulling out a letter and walking over to where I sat. “It came for you years ago. I couldn’t forward it, so I kept it.”

It hadn’t been opened. I recognized the handwriting as Susan Clifford’s. She was the woman whose reference I’d paid Mr. Thompson to forge, the one I’d help ready for her trip to Canada.

I took it, noticing that my hand was shaking. In truth, I felt like all of me was. “Thank you,” I said, tucking the letter away. It had waited for years. It could wait a bit longer.

Mr. Younge stood as his wife walked back to his side, signaling for the rest of us to rise. “We’ll be going, then,” Mr. Younge said. “I’m glad we finally found you, Mrs. Thompson. It’s been many years, but it’s a relief to know we can put this right.”

“You have no notion of what this means to me,” I said. I hoped they knew I didn’t mean the money, although the money certainly meant a lot. Knowing I hadn’t really been worth so little to my husband and the family I’d done my best to embrace was worth much more than seven thousand pounds. “Thank you. You’ve set right my faith in the goodness of people.”

“Even knowing what my father did?” Mr. Younge asked, the worried look back.

“He was one man,” I said. “Both of you and your grandfather have shown yourselves to be good, decent and caring. What are the acts of one man compared to all of that?”

He nodded, smiling for the first time. He offered his arm to his wife.

“I’ll show you out,” I said.

“We know the way,” Mrs. Younge said. “I believe Mr. Darcy said he must speak to you as well.” She smiled, her dimples reminding me of the young woman she was when last I saw her, and then they were gone.

I turned to Mr. Darcy. “Shall we be seated?” I asked, deciding not to offer refreshments again.

“Thank you,” he said. We sat, Mr. Darcy’s gaze going to Thomas. “I would like to speak to you about Ramsgate, Mrs. Thompson.”

“My husband knows all about what happened at Ramsgate,” I said, “though no one else does.” I didn’t think there was any need to bring up Miss Hodges.

“Then, sir, I appreciate you not making it public,” Mr. Darcy said to Thomas. If Mr. Darcy was displeased with me for having spoken of it, he didn’t allow it to show. He turned back to me. “I want to apologize to you. I’m not saying you handled things perfectly, but my sister made it plain that you weren’t at fault. She also didn’t realize how my actions at the time would hurt your chances of employment.”

“I realize I didn’t handle it as well as I could have,” I said. There was no reason to hide the truth. “I should have sent Mr. Wickham packing immediately. If I’d done so the first day, he wouldn’t have had time to work his magic on her. If I’d been more self-assured and followed my instincts, none of it would have taken place.”

“Looking back, I realize that he did fit our agreement of who Georgiana was allowed to spend time with. Also, I understand how I may have seemed inconsistent in my choices, making your decision more difficult. I had no idea what the Martins were like.” His gaze grew abstract for a moment. “I’m afraid I’ve made a habit of judging people based on station alone. A bad habit.” He refocused on me. “I thought you, like most women seem to, had come under Wickham’s thrall, or that he’d bribed you, or you were so romantic you approved of the elopement.”

I gave an unladylike snort. “The only way Mr. Wickham would be able to bribe me would be cash in advance. I never trusted him.”

“You were unusual in that.”

“The one thing you did not consider was that he could have tried to blackmail me,” I said. Mr. Darcy raised his brows, clearly surprised. “That’s the closest to the truth, though I didn’t allow it to sway me. He had leverage. He wasn’t quite sure of his facts, which made his attempts easy for me to avoid.” I looked over to Thomas, who shrugged. He didn’t care if I wanted to be completely honest with Mr. Darcy. “I wasn’t entirely forthcoming with you, Mr. Darcy. After my first husband died, I tried to make a living as an actress. Mr. Wickham suspected he’d seen me in that role, but didn’t remember enough details to pressure me. I’m sorry I deceived you on that.”

He regarded me for a long moment, then, to my surprise, he actually smiled slightly. “It doesn’t matter anymore. In the last few months, I’ve learned that many of my judgements about people were wrong.” He stood up, so Thomas and I did too. Mr. Darcy held out his hand to Thomas, who shook it. “Mr. Thompson, I talked to some people about your injury. It’s too late for justice, but possibly not too late for reparation.”

I glanced at Thomas, surprised. Mr. Darcy’s investigation of the truths in my life had obviously been more thorough than I’d meant it to be, though he hadn’t uncovered my acting.

“No reparation is required,” Thomas said, his tone and manner easy. “I made my peace with what happened long ago.”

Mr. Darcy nodded. He turned to me. I held out my hand to him and he took it. “I hope whatever caused you to help Miss Bennet is resolved to your satisfaction,” I said, meaning it. What I kept to myself was that I also hoped that, whatever had wrought this change for the better in Mr. Darcy, he remained this way.

“Thank you,” Mr. Darcy said.

“I’ll show you out,” Thomas said.

After they left the room, I opened Susan’s letter. It was in two parts. The first part was short, and pulled at my heart.

Dear Mary,

I realized after I boarded the ship to Canada that you could use a letter of recommendation. I’ve written you one below. If called upon, I will confirm it.

Your Loving Friend,

Susan

The remainder was a letter of recommendation that praised me to the skies and claimed that I’d worked for her from two weeks after my first husband’s death until she left for Canada. She wrote that I’d tutored her niece in drawing, pianoforte, French and Italian, and that I’d run her household with great skill. Susan had known all about my acting. She’d been a good friend then, even better than I’d realized.

I stared at the letter, tears in my eyes. After so many years of thinking everyone I’d cared about had little affection for me in return, it was almost painful to find out the truth. My life had been one big misunderstanding, perpetuated by one cruel offspring and Mr. Darcy’s now-repented prejudice.

I reread Susan’s letter of recommendation. If I’d had this letter, my whole life would be different. I would have been able to get a good job, like the one I’d thought I’d found with Miss Darcy, as soon as Susan left for Canada. I would likely be living in a lovely home now, caring for the children of a girl I’d all but raised.

I folded the letter up and put it away. I would be forever touched and grateful that Susan had thought to send it. I would also be forever grateful that I hadn’t received it. With this letter in my possession, I would never have met Thomas and had this life, possibly filled with my own children and grandchildren. Now, I would have my very own happily ever after.

Epilogue: Twenty Years Later

Not long after the day Mr. Darcy visited us, Thomas received a thousand pounds from his former employer’s younger brother, who has now succeeded to his father’s title in lieu of his dead older brother. I don’t think Mr. Darcy paid the money himself, but I am fairly certain the money was only paid after Mr. Darcy spoke to the man.

Rather than let our considerable windfall stay in the bank and earn interest, we invested in another lodging house and found a couple to run it. Thomas always says that my greatest skill is my ability to assess people and know who is right for a job. I’m not sure if he is correct, but the couple we found was perfect and that house prospers.

As I write this, a great grandson of my first husband is courting Thomas’ and my daughter. They know we are not gentry, at least not anymore, but Alice’s dowry is enough that station doesn’t seem to be a consideration. We own quite a bit of property in London now and have expanded to some of the surrounding communities.

Our son is only sixteen, but he is being trained to run the family business. I was glad that my two pregnancies didn’t keep me from continuing to do my share, which mostly meant teaching couples how to run lodging houses. French, Italian, pianoforte, and drawing are now forgotten skills. Mr. Thompson and I are both proud of what we have achieved, not of where we came from.

~ The End ~

Wickham’s Journal

Mr. Wickham was our greatest challenge. He is the most active villain in Pride & Prejudice. He does much that is clearly wrong. It seems unlikely that he could reform, but we considered this as a possibility, because this book would not be complete without a nod to Mr. Wickham.

Wickham

Lydia Wickham crushed the black fabric of her skirt in her hand, wondering if she dared turn the page. She’d been going through her husband George’s belongings after his death and had stumbled on a journal. She’d no idea, all these years, that George kept a journal.

She was already wishing she’d never found it. From what she’d read so far, her husband was not the man she thought him to be. He was mean, low and petty. He’d done terrible things with little or no remorse. Reading his youthful indiscretions was gouging a hole in her heart.

Though George hadn’t taken the time to write with any regularity, he did seem to have written each time anything truly important happened. She’d already endured reading about him forcing Mr. Darcy to pay him off for the living he’d turned down, and about George’s failed attempt to elope with Mr. Darcy’s sister. Both had brought the extra dismay of realizing she’d wronged her own sister, for Lydia had never quite believed Elizabeth on either score. Until now.

Although those stories and the others she’d read hurt, they didn’t measure up to the pain of losing George. She was worried, though, that what was to come next might. Though she knew many people thought her a bit silly, Lydia was possessed of a fine memory. Until now, nothing she’d read directly concerned her, but George had dated every entry. She knew she was coming up to when they’d met.

Lydia stared at the journal for a long while. She closed it, a finger marking her place, and took in how battered it was. Who would have thought George would carry something like that around with him, let alone keep it for a lifetime?

Sitting there staring at it, she realized she had to know. Perhaps she was silly after all. Taking a deep breath, Lydia reopened the book and turned the page.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of no fortune must be in want of a rich wife.

Unfortunately, I got Lydia Bennet. At least she came with some money. Thanks to Darcy, my debts were paid and I got a commission of ensign in the regulars. He even settled a little money on her. Her father is to pay me a hundred pounds a year, but marrying her means I can no longer marry a genuine heiress.

At first, I thought Darcy rescued her out of some feeling of responsibility toward me. Instead, I’ve come to realize he was pining after Lydia’s sister Elizabeth. Well, he succeeded in buying her and I’ve learned once and for all that Darcy bears me no love of any kind. His father would be disappointed, had he lived to see the day.

Lydia snapped the journal closed again. She had no idea her sister’s husband had paid for any of those things. Why had no one ever told her? Did Elizabeth know? She had the horrible suspicion that everyone knew. All this time, she’d thought her Uncle Gardiner had been their benefactor, when it was Mr. Darcy. Unable to resist the allure of what other truths her husband’s journal might hold, she returned to reading.

Still, there are good sides to being married to Lydia. For one, although she has no notion at all what she’s doing, she’s very enthusiastic about her marital obligations. There’s nothing to complain about when it comes to having an attractive, willing young woman in your bed. I’m also sure she’ll be able to persuade two of her sisters and her mother to give her money on a regular basis. Of course, it won’t be enough to live like a gentleman and there’s no future in it, but it will do until I can come up with something better.

I suppose it’s unfortunate there’s no real chance of Lydia dying young. She’s healthy as a horse, and not much smarter. It runs in the family. The mother is an idiot. The eldest daughter believes the best of everyone. Elizabeth is a gullible fool. The ugly daughter fills her head with bad advice and the fourth one doesn’t put anything into her head at all. Their father doesn’t even have the sense to make his family behave. I suppose that last was something I thought of as a good trait, until I got caught and they forced me into this marriage.

That was the end of the entry. Tears slid down Lydia’s cheeks, but she was committed now. She wanted to know every horrible, awful thing George had thought of her. A slow simmering anger was building in her. It hurt, but the pain wasn’t as bad as how she’d felt since losing him. She turned the page.

It’s been two months since my wedding day. Lydia had us engage in some ridiculous sort of celebration this evening, as she did on the same date a month ago. I’ve come to have a great deal of sympathy for her father. Maybe he did try to train her. Maybe it isn’t his fault she’s a fool.

It’s taken me forever to teach her the concept of not biting the hand that might feed us. She is constantly giving offence without realizing it. There is simply no point to that. She’s so skilled at it, I’d think she was doing it deliberately if I hadn’t met her ridiculous mother who she resembles so closely. I hope she doesn’t deteriorate with age as rapidly as her mother obviously did.

At least Lydia looks good now, and she finally seems to have gotten it into her head to think before she speaks. We’ll need all of the good will we can pull together. Rumors of my bad behavior are catching up with us. I’d thought Darcy paying my debts would be enough, but the merchants hereabouts have heard of my previous conduct and aren’t willing to give me credit. I’ve been paying with cash anyway, as there’s no point in giving Lydia ideas that will land me in debtor’s prison, but it’s hard not to be respected. I need to go somewhere new where my reputation won’t follow me.

Not to mention, I have to get away from that harpy Colonel Forster is married to. She will not accept my overtures of peace. I’ve even seen her slight Lydia. It isn’t as if it’s my wife’s fault she ran off with me. She was raised to be a fool and I was very charming. Mrs. Forster is the one who’s at fault, if anyone. Maybe she knows the truth of that and it’s the reason she hates me. Either way, I’ll never get ahead if I stay here under a commanding officer who’s constantly having poison whispered in his ears and in a town where no one shows me the respect I’m due.

I see no other choice but to volunteer for service on the continent. I’ll have to present it to Lydia in terms that will make her go along with it. I don’t need my last days here to be filled with a berating or crying woman. She’s too pretty for me to want to remember her that way. No, I’ll tell her in terms that make me appear to be the best of men. It is for King and Country that I will go to war. I’ll probably add that I’m afraid Napoleon might invade England. After all, I can’t have my darling wife unsafe. She’s sure to buy that, the stupid ninny.

Not for the first time in the past weeks, Lydia wished George was alive again. Only, this time she wished it so that she could berate him until his ears bled. Yes, she’d bought it. She remembered it well, the night he told her he felt he must go to war. She’d cried, yet she’d idolized him. She’d loved him for wanting to keep her safe and for being so brave. He was right. She was a ninny. She turned another page.

I arrived on the continent two days ago. I’ve decided I will behave very well. No gambling. No carousing. I will present myself as a reformed gambler who couldn’t resist. I will help people out. I will do my job, at least when people are watching. The trouble so far is, there is always someone watching. Still, I must buckle down and behave well. My reputation is worth a little extra effort. In order to keep tongues from wagging, I have to give them nothing to wag about.

I’ve met an ensign named Matthews. He shouldn’t be here. He had a perfectly good job working for his father back in London. He’s one of those men who actually is noble. The sort who believes all that nonsense about duty. Poor fellow. With such a curse, it’s no wonder he feels he must serve his country and protect his family. I’ve taken him under my wing out of pity. Well, and because he’s wealthy. It never hurts to have wealthy friends, especially ones who don’t know me well.

Lydia frowned. She should have been more suspicious of George making such good friends with Matthews. Her husband had mentioned him often in his letters, with seemingly genuine affection. How could George have been so duplicitous? Should she tell Matthews now?

Matthews is proving just as useful as I’d hoped. I exerted a little charm and now he’s my dearest friend. A dear friend who pays my way, which is the best kind. He pays whenever we go for drinks, or if I need new kit. He thinks I’m trying to save all of my money for my wife and child.

I was shocked when Lydia wrote me almost nine months after I left saying we had a daughter. Lydia named her Jane, after her sister who is most likely to give her money. At least she’s learned something from me. I have suspicions that Jane Wickham is not my child, but there’s no point in making an issue of it. I write Lydia loving letters and she responds in kind. I have no idea which of us is lying more.

You were, Lydia thought bitterly. She couldn’t believe he’d been writing her lies while she was in England, waiting for him. Taking care of their daughter and dreaming of his love. What a fool she’d been. How could she have been so taken in by George for so many years? It was small comfort that others had been equally fooled.

Matthews has made it his mission to help me save. He thinks I’m very naïve about money. I let him have his delusions. Helping me seems to make him feel better about himself. Why take that from him? He helped me to arrange for money to be put in a bank account in England. In turn, I’m helping him cope with the mysteries of his military duty. I’d say he’s getting more out of our so called friendship than I am, if not for all the free drinks.

Lydia sighed, rubbing at her eyes, and moved to a seat nearer the fire so she could read better. She looked about, not having realized it was lit. One of the maids must have come and gone without disturbing her. That was kind of them. She hoped that if her expression had been too suffused with emotion, they’d chalked it up to grief. She looked down at the journal, scanning the next, very short, entry.

It’s a sad day. Matthews was wounded. They’re sending him home to England. He’s been my constant companion for two years. I think I’ll miss him. I know I’ll miss his money.

She shook her head. Her husband had been a horrible man. Should she tell everyone so they would know not to grieve for him? Ruining his reputation when he was no longer around to fix it seemed a fitting punishment.

I’ve been trying to make new friends since Matthews left. I can charm anyone I wish into liking me. I can get all the free meals and drinks I like. It all seems less amusing than it used to, though. I’d grown so accustomed to Matthews. We made a good team. Making new friends, no matter how much money they have, hardly seems worth it, somehow.

Still, it’s good for my reputation. I can’t seem to like any of them well enough to keep up my side of the friendships, but I make sure to extract myself with care. I must be doing a fair job of it, as I’ve heard that people now speak well of me. My reputation on the continent is much better than it was in England. I can’t say I’m not enjoying it.

Lydia frowned. She recalled his letters from the time after Matthews left but before he returned to her. She’d sensed a sadness in them. He’d seemed terribly lonely. She’d attributed it to missing her and his friend. Could all of the emotion in his letters really just have been a shame to cover up the fact that he was too lazy to make new friends and that he missed Matthews’ money?

I stayed in Brussels after Napoleon went to Elba and I was lucky enough to fight in Waterloo and receive the perfect wound. At long last, I’ve been shot. I’ve both hoped for and dreaded the day. It went as well as it possibly could have. The ball went through my left arm. They say that now that I’m well enough to sit up, soon I’ll be able to walk. Then they’ll send me home. My arm will likely still be in a sling, but I don’t mind. It’s only by the grace of God that it all went so well. There seem to be no significant complications.

Better still, Matthews somehow heard of it. He wrote me that he has a job waiting for me in his family’s business. He seems to think I’ll be perfect for it. From his description, I might be, but it sounds like a great deal of work. I suppose I have no alternative but to accept. Thanks to Matthews I have a little money saved, but it won’t last long. I hate to lose the last shreds of my claim to the title of gentleman by working for a living, but I have little choice other than gainful employment. I have a wife and a daughter to think of, after all. Besides, Matthews says me taking the job will benefit both of us. I’ve missed helping him out.

A bitter smile touched Lydia’s lips. She wasn’t sure she should read what came next. She could recall George’s return so well. Did she really wish to ruin the memory?

I am finally reunited with my wife. She’s been staying with her sister Mary, who married a clerk of their uncle’s, an attorney. At first, I was concerned. Why would she be there when Jane and Elizabeth have much nicer homes? I was worried she’d offended the rest of her family, even though I knew I’d taught her the concept of being nice to people who could help her.

It was a strange sort of day. As I’m still not sure how to interpret much of it, I’ve decided to write it down as faithfully as I can so that I may revisit it later. The first thing I recall after I arrived is that I hadn’t known where Mary lived, so I stopped at the uncle’s house. He was surprisingly kind.

“Welcome, Mr. Wickham,” the uncle said. “I’m sure you want to see your family, but if you would like a drink first, you can rest a bit.”

“Thank you, but no,” I told Lydia’s uncle. “I am eager to see my wife.” I wasn’t, but after four years, I knew I should pretend I was. “I also want to meet my daughter.” I realized that would be a good thing to add.

“Of course. You were wounded?” he said, gesturing to my arm.

“Just a scratch,” I said honestly.

“Infected?”

“Not badly. It’s almost well.”

I saw disbelief in his eyes. At first, I thought he didn’t think I was actually wounded. Then I saw the sympathy. He thought I was being stoic. In fact, I was being truthful. It’s odd that it didn’t occur to me sooner, but I realize now that my wound is worth more than just an honorable reason to come home. People respect it.

He insisted he carry my belongings to Mary’s house. He was red-faced, overweight and on the wrong side of fifty, yet he wanted to carry my portmanteau. I finally let him, thinking the brief walk would do him less harm than the argument.

I have to admit, I’d forgotten how beautiful my wife is. Or maybe she grew more attractive while I was away? Either way, I can’t help but be thankful for her comeliness.

When I walked in, she started toward me, but veered away so as not to hit my injured arm. Somehow, holding her with my good arm felt right. It was the oddest sensation, and one of the confusing things about the day that I wish to capture here for later scrutiny. It was as if her uncle, Mary and my never-before-met brother-in-law all melted away. There was only Lydia, her warm body clasped to my side. She even smelled good, and her hair was like silk against my cheek. I’d also forgotten how tall she is. Quite the tallest woman I know.

“I’ve been very good,” she whispered. “I stay with a different relative for about a month and moved on to someone else. That way no one gets too upset with me. I’ve even saved a little money like you said I should. Not as much as you’d want me to, but…”

I interrupted her with a kiss. I will never tell her that I only told her to save so she wouldn’t go into debt. Then it happened. A little girl of about three came into the room. She looked up at me with my own mother’s eyes and something strange shifted inside me. Something undefinable. I think I may even be afraid of it, whatever it is.

Several wet drops hit the page and Lydia realized she was weeping again. She wiped her eyes. It wouldn’t do to smear George’s words. They were the first kind things he’d written about her.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I must continue to pretend. I’m enjoying the adoration here too much to allow anyone to see who I really am underneath the facade of returned hero, loyal husband and devoted friend. Let people think that my years on the continent have changed me. It will be just pretense, but no one will ever know. I will do the best I can in the job Matthews is offering. I will pretend to be the best husband and father ever.

I will be the only one who knows it isn’t true.

Her tears stopped as she read those words. How could he write that, undoing all the joy of his previous entry? Which man was he, the one she recalled or the one who’d called her names and didn’t even seem to like her? She should never have opened his journal. She wished she’d never found it. It was almost like losing him all over again.

She hurtled the worn volume across the room. It lay there, open, mocking her with its truths. George had been pretending. Their whole life was pretense. Matthews and her children must never know. They shouldn’t have to feel the betrayal churning inside her.

Her gaze went to the fire. She stood and crossed to the book, realizing it must be burned. As she reached to grab it, she took in three words; my beloved Lydia. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Did she dare read the entry? It was near the back of the book, much farther than where she’d left off. Picking up the journal, she crossed to the fire.

Looking back, I see how odd life is. I sit every evening in my chair by the fire, my beloved Lydia across from me, and I wonder how it is that God chose to grant me such a blessed life. I wasn’t worthy. Far from it. At one time, I was the worst of men. If anyone deserved to be punished by a life of misery, it was me.

Lately, I find myself wondering when it all changed. Certainly, it began when I met my dear Jane for the first time. Something altered in my heart. I was too blind to realize it then, though I noted it. In my ignorance, I even feared it.

It grew when Lydia handed me my son George for the first time. He was so amazingly small. Such a little life, and it was up to me to make sure he prospered. More than that, it came to me that it was up to me to ensure he didn’t make the mistakes I’d made.

Then there is Lizzy. Our youngest. She has all of her mother’s beauty and all of her aunt’s stubbornness. I used to feel sorry for her husband, young Richard Fitzwilliam. Growing up knowing her through family, he’d never had any hope of wedding anyone else, and she orders him about like the Colonel his father was. I feel sorry for him no longer, however, as life has taught me that being ensnared by the woman you love is no hardship at all.

Yes, I love my Lydia. I’ve been back through this journal half a dozen times, trying to chart the path of my life, and I can’t find the day, the moment, I came to love her. I wanted to. I wanted to give her that moment to keep always, because I feel that I’m slipping away.

I’m old now, and tired. I can hardly hold my pen and I can’t see well enough to read or write by a flame any longer, but must sneak this journal out by the light of day. Though I don’t wish to leave my Lydia alone, I feel I might meet our all mighty Father soon. When I do, I won’t ask him why he gave me such a wonderful life. It is not my place to question his wisdom. All I will say, all that will be in my heart, is thank you.

Lydia swallowed, trying to hold back tears. This was him, the George she knew. The husband she loved. She would keep his secrets. She would never allow anyone to read the earlier pages. These, though, at the end, she might tell them about. Their children, especially, deserved to know.

She turned the page, eager to read more. It was blank. She fanned through the few pages that were left in the old journal. All were blank. Flipping back, she looked at the date at the top of his final entry. April the eleventh. The day before George died.

~ The End ~

Enjoy our work? We’d love to know your thoughts.

To leave a review for Pride and Prejudice Villains, just visit: https://www.amazon.com/Pride-Prejudice-Villains-Revisited-Reimagined/product-reviews/1522770909/

Want to read more by Renata McMann and Summer Hanford? Take a look below.

By Renata McMann and Summer Hanford

The Second Mrs. Darcy

Georgiana's Folly (The Wickham Coin Book I)

Elizabeth's Plight (The Wickham Coin Book II)

The above two books have been published in a single volume as:

Georgiana's Folly & Elizabeth's Plight: Wickham Coin Series, Volumes I & II

The Scandalous Stepmother

Poor Mr. Darcy

A Death at Rosings

Caroline and the Footman

Mr. Collins’ Deception

Mary Younge

Lady Catherine Regrets

The above four stories (and two additional stories) are collected in:

Pride and Prejudice Villains Revisited – Redeemed – Reimagined A Collection of Six Short Stories

Entanglements of Honor

From Ashes to Heiresses

The Fire at Netherfield Park

Courting Elizabeth

Epiphany with Tea

Miss Bingley’s Christmas

Her Final Wish

Believing in Darcy

By Renata McMann

Heiress to Longbourn

Anne de Bough Manages

Three Daughters Married

The Inconsistency of Caroline Bingley

Pemberley Weddings

The above five stories are collected in:

Pride and Prejudice Variations: A collection of Short Stories

By Summer Hanford

Ladies Always Shoot First Half Hour Reads Series Page

Included are:

Captured by a Duke

To Save a Lord

One Shot for a Gentleman

Anything for a Lord

Sign up for our mailing list and get your Thank You gifts!

From Ashes to Heiresses

In the wake of a devastating fire at Longbourn, Elizabeth and Jane are taken in by their aunt and uncle in Meryton. Concerned about their situation, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley come to Hertfordshire, but not before Mr. Wickham attempts to use Jane’s heartache to his advantage.

PLUS

Eat Like Jane Austen for a Day

Your shopping, preparation and dining guide to eat like Jane Austen for a day, without a household staff.

Sign up for Renata McMann’s New Releases emailing list and get free copies of Ashes to Heiresses: a Pride and Prejudice Short Story and Eat Like Jane Austen for a Day: a How-to Pamphlet.

Click here to get started:

http://www.renatamcmann.com/news/

About the Authors

Renata McMann

Renata McMann is the pen name of Teresa McCullough, someone who likes to rewrite public domain works. She is fond of thinking "What if?" To learn more about Renata's work and collaborations, visit www.renatamcmann.com.

Summer Hanford

Summer Hanford writes Regency, fantasy and Pride and Prejudice variations. In May of 2017, her half-hour reads series, Ladies Always Shoot First, was released by Scarsdale Publishing. The first four books in her five book Thrice Born series are: Gift of the Aluien, Hawks of Sorga, Throne of Wheylia and Plains of Tybrunn. Book five is forthcoming in 2017. Shorter works appear in various magazines and anthologies, including Aoife's Kiss, Something Wicked Anthology Vol. II, Daughter of Icarus, The Ampersand Review and Nightmare Walkers and Dream Stalkers Vol. II.

Starting in 2014, Summer was offered the privilege of partnering with fan fiction author Renata McMann on her well-loved Pride and Prejudice variations. More information on these works is available at www.renatamcmann.com. Additionally, in 2016, Summer was lucky enough to be asked to join Austen Authors, a great place for fans to get more Jane Austen. To explore Austen Authors, visit www.austenauthors.net.

Summer is currently working with McMann, providing content for, creating and managing websites, and is the fantasy and science fiction faculty member at AllWriters' Workplace and Workshop, LLC., an international creative writing studio. She lives in Michigan with her husband and compulsory, deliberately spoiled, cats. For more about Summer, visit www.summerhanford.com.