“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 reali
zed 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 almos
t 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.
Pride & Prejudice Villains Revisited – Redeemed – Reimagined: A Collection of Six Pride and Prejudice Variation Short Stories Page 16