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 betw
een 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.
Pride & Prejudice Villains Revisited – Redeemed – Reimagined: A Collection of Six Pride and Prejudice Variation Short Stories Page 13
