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
Pride & Prejudice Villains Revisited – Redeemed – Reimagined: A Collection of Six Pride and Prejudice Variation Short Stories Page 23