Pride & Prejudice Villains Revisited – Redeemed – Reimagined: A Collection of Six Pride and Prejudice Variation Short Stories

by Renata McMann

  “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.