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

by Renata McMann

  “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?