12. The Response
Chapter 12
The Response
T he next afternoon, Elizabeth left her letter at the front office of the hotel and continued on her way. The letter was taken up to Mr. Darcy’s room and left at his table while he was bathing.
When he finished, and Mr. Jefferson, his valet, was assisting him dress, he informed him of the letter.
“Who sent it?” Darcy asked.
“A Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
When hearing her name, Mr. Darcy froze, with his shirt’s cuff still not fully buttoned.
“Sir?” Jefferson inquired.
“How long has it been since it arrived?” Darcy asked, his eye firmly on the letter.
“I was informed that it was hand-delivered at the front desk, and it only arrived but a quarter of an hour ago.”
“Very good.”
He allowed Jefferson to finish assisting him, but it felt like an eternity. When he finished, Darcy was on the verge of dismissing him when Jefferson spoke up.
“Unless I am mistaken,” Jefferson theorized, “is this the same Elizabeth Bennet who walked three miles to Netherfield Park to tend to her sister, Jane Bennet, when Miss Bennet was ill?”
“Yes, you are correct.”
“And is this also the same Elizabeth Bennet whose parents passed away and she and her sisters were cast from their home by their cousin, Mr. Collins, who barely waited a month before he casually encouraged them to leave their home and threw them into the winds of other people’s plans?”
Mr. Darcy was surprised by his valet’s flare for the dramatic.
“Yes, Jefferson.”
“And this would also be the Elizabeth Bennet who now has taken up residence in Frances Street with two of her sisters.”
“Yes, Jefferson.”
“And would this also be the Elizabeth Bennet who has taken employment at Granger Hall as a professional notetaker?”
“Yes.”
Then Darcy realized that he just agreed to something that he was thoroughly ignorant of.
“What?”
“Am I incorrect?”
“I cannot deny or confirm that last bit of information because I am unaware of it. And how do you know of it?”
“Her sister, Miss Jane Bennet, is friends with Miss Fanny Thornton of Marlborough Mills. Well, Miss Thornton has a wonderful habit of telling her servants everything, without discretion.”
“Ah,” Mr. Darcy replied, knowingly, “Miss Thornton told her servants, you befriended her servants, and they told you.”
“Sir, you are aware of my habit of viewing information like it is currency.”
“Yes, and I appreciate your habits.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Sensing that Mr. Darcy wanted to read his letter in private, Jefferson began to leave.
“Jefferson?”
“Yes, Master Darcy,” Jefferson said, turning back to him.
“How much information do you know?”
“Much,” Jefferson said, with a twinkle in his eye. “Much.”
He left Mr. Darcy alone.
“Servants,” Darcy said to himself. “The Master shall always be the last to know.”
At last, he turned around and looked down at the letter that Miss Elizabeth sent. His heart felt heavy at the sight of it.
There, on the front, was her name written, bold and true. The mere sight of it unnerved him.
What if it conveyed a negative response? What if she didn’t wish for him to call on her? Nothing was so heavy than the unknown emotions of how a woman felt toward a man. Especially if the man was in love with the woman, but the woman was not in love with him.
He loved her!
After all this time, he still loved her.
While her anger toward himself had been long since done away, it appeared, he didn’t know if her attitude toward him was merely polite or if it hinted at something more that could come.
Hope was a dangerous thing.
And now, when seeing the letter, he realized just how dangerous it had been. After all, when he had proposed to her, he had presumed that he understood her sentiments, and he had been proven to be mistaken.
This letter could show him how wrong he was now.
At last, he picked up the letter.
Then he set it down again.
He picked up the letter again, and then he stared at it.
From an intense sign of despair, Mr. Darcy placed the letter against his chest and pressed it against his heart.
Sitting down, he let the missive rest there.
How could he bear any negative response from her?
It would be a shocking blow. When she rejected him, he had felt as if every bit of his skin was being bombarded with invisible rocks. He had survived it before, but he was not so certain that his resolve could suffer another great blow.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he was foolish for sending her a message. She did not welcome his attentions before. But she had been perfectly content to see him yesterday.
Such are the emotional states of people when they are in love. The constant agony of their emotions can make the mundane into a marvel. The most trivial matter into a battlefield where war can be waged. Internally, of course.
At last, Darcy gathered his courage—for he had much of it—and he opened the letter. Preparing himself, he began to read.
Dear Mr. Darcy,
We thank you very much for your desire to pay a visit to our humble home at Frances Street. It is always lovely to meet friends. Yet, it is in consideration to your sensibilities, on many accounts, that I fear we must decline it. Understand that this is NOT out of any desire to not further our acquaintance with you, but rather to shield you from encounters that might be uncomfortable for you.
Mr. Darcy, to be frank, our home is not a domicile that you would wish to visit. Frances Street is…we have been reduced in the eyes of the world and while my sisters have succeeded at making our residence comfortable, quaint, and very livable, you might be apprehensive at the mere presence of it.
As much as I do not wish to recall our last encounter, but I must. You made it quite plain that you did not take pleasure in attaching yourself to relations who are so decidedly below your own. Well now, we are even lower. I tell you this now, because I would fear the look that you would exude when seeing the street on which we live and the house in which we reside.
I, myself, have felt shame over this degradation. It would be useless to deny that. However, I am getting used to it, and learning to feel the shame less keenly by every moment. Rather, I am doing all in my power to be proud of the fact that all my sisters have done well to not give into despair over our unfortunate circumstances, but rather, has done everything to recover and continue on. Such ability to adapt must recommend itself!
Yet, I wish to be candid with you. Also, you deserve no less, for disguise, of any sort, is your abhorrence. I would not ask you to visit, for I fear that you might not enjoy the experience.
However, I look forward to us continuing our acquaintance if you care to still do so after receiving this letter.
Thank you for your kind offer.
Yours etc.
Elizabeth Bennet
When closing the letter, Darcy was stricken with all sorts of emotions!
She had rejected the offer for a visit, but it was not out of a desire to not see him!
After all, he knew enough about her character to be aware that if she did not truly want to see him, she would have been frank about it.
No.
She did not want him to pay a visit because she thought she would be ashamed for him to enter their house and see how they lived.
And see all that they lost.
Shame: that very thing that had initially prevented him from proposing to her before. And, when thinking on the matter, she was correct. Frances Street really was an area of destitution and poverty. And that’s where they lived. Then would she be ideal for him?
His heart said yes.
But his mind said no. Again!
If he did take a trip down to Frances Street, and he did see the circumstances that they lived in, perhaps this would glean some more knowledge on the matter.
But rather, he had a better idea.
“Frances Street?” Mr. Thornton echoed. “Why do you wish to know about that place?”
The next day, he had paid a visit to Mr. Thornton at Marlborough Mills, in hopes that Thornton would know a little bit about that area of Milton. Thornton had met him in his office but was needed to make his rounds and oversee everything. So, Darcy followed him through the halls, past all the workers. Not used to the sight of so much labor around him, and usually unaccustomed to the fluffs of cotton in the air, Darcy coughed a little.
“Just a mere bit curious,” Darcy said, removing his handkerchief and holding it over his nose and mouth.
“It is amusing to see you walk through here.” Thornton chuckled as they climbed the steps that helped Thornton oversee everyone in the factory, to make sure that no one was slacking on their responsibilities. Darcy climbed the steps with him and, he could not deny, there was something mesmerizing about seeing all these downtrodden workers, hard at work, with the white cottons moving through the air like larger snowflakes.
“Yes,” Darcy acknowledged, “Indeed, I must look entirely out of my element.”
“Nothing more or less than a man whose townhouse is from the South walking into a factory in the North,” Thornton replied. “Very well, I can see that you don’t want me to pry into your affairs.”
“I don’t wish to be elusive,” Darcy explained. “There is just no story to tell yet. So, I don’t wish to waste your time.”
“Very well. Have you ever been to the seedier sides of London? The parts where no one in the aristocracy would dare to tread. Where gypsies and beggars dwell, and if you walk down it, they beg you for coins?”
“Yes. Well, in truth, I have never really walked down such streets, but rather, I have driven past them.”
“And that is precisely the answer that I would have expected. Well, picture that in your mind. That is Frances Street. People on that street do their best to have an air of gentility, but they are…what they are. They do live in dire conditions, and they are always struggling to get by. Milton’s color is already grim, but there, the grim rests hardest. Here in the North, a man such as myself would brave walking down such a street. But you…are you intending to take a trip there?”
Darcy scratched his lip.
“There is someone who resides there, who I have had a past acquaintance with.”
Thornton crossed his arms over his chest, turning to Darcy, interested.
“Really? Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, Derbyshire! To know someone who would live there.”
“It is of small consequence,” Darcy lied. “It is a family of ladies who lost their country estate, due to an entailment to the male line. When their parents passed away, their cousin claimed ownership of their home, and the sisters were forced to live elsewhere. Three of them have taken up residence in Frances Street.”
“From living in the country to Frances Street? They must have fallen very far down indeed.”
“So, it may seem.”
“And you said these were a set of sisters?”
“Yes.”
Thornton did not reply, but he gave Darcy a discerning look. Darcy noticed this, but he decided to act as if he took no note of it.
“Are these the Bennet sisters that you and Fanny speak of, by any chance?” Thornton asked.
“It is them.”
“Very well,” Thornton replied, “actually, there is someone here who is more of an authority on that Street than myself. You can speak with him if you wish.”
“I don’t know.”
“The choice is yours. He’s by the spinner there, with the long curly hair.” Darcy followed Thornton’s eyes and saw the man, and the state of his clothes. “Then again, his clothes give a proper indication of what Frances Street is like.” The man’s clothes were gray, dirty, and gave all the indication of one who labored during the day and went home to a humble shack. “His name is Boucher. He might know about these ladies.”
Seeing that there was no harm to it, Darcy wondered if maybe he should meet this man. After all, since the Bennet sisters had been living there for so long, perhaps he knew of them.
“Do you mind if I talked to Boucher in your office?”
“It would be no trouble. Would you like me to join you?”
“I think I could overpower him if he decided to get vicious,” Darcy quipped.
“He won’t. He’s not an angry man. Just a weak one.”
Darcy did not find this criticism to the man as being rude on Thornton’s side…because Thornton would know better than anyone.
Mr. Darcy went to Thornton’s office and waited. Soon, the door opened, and Thornton’s overseer entered, followed by Boucher.
“Mr. Darcy, this is John Boucher. John Boucher, Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, in Derbyshire.”
The overseer left them alone.
“Sir,” Mr. Darcy said, bowing.
Seeing this illustrious man bowing to him flustered Boucher. Uncertain, and insecure around such a more illustrious man than himself, Boucher bowed clumsily.
Taking one look at Boucher, Darcy comprehended Thornton’s assessment of Boucher’s character. This unfortunate creature didn’t seem like a very independent sort of fellow. He was not short, but nor was he tall. His figure was clearly a little malnourished, his face had a defeated look, and he had a flat nose. While these features were neither offensive to the eye, nor vicious in appearance, a want of happiness would have been needed to lighten his features. He had curly reddish-brown hair that fell behind his ears and his eyes had a blank look in them. Seeing this tall stern man looking down at him only added to Boucher’s insecurities. His shoulders slackened under this wealthy man’s gaze and fine clothing.
“Sir?” Boucher voiced, “I was told that yer asked ‘bout me.”
“Indeed, I did.”
“What do yer need of me? I haven’ done anything.”
“No, I can assure you, that you were not asked here for any assumed wrongdoing. I merely wished to inquire about something that I think you may know about.”
Boucher squinted.
“That I may know ‘bout?”
“Yes, sir. As I understand it, you reside on Frances Street.”
“Yea, I do, sir.”
“What manner of street is it?”
“Well…it’s a street.”
Darcy leaned back. He could see that he was not going to get much out of this fellow.
“By any chance, do you know of a family of sisters who have taken up residency there? They came up from the South.”
Boucher’s eyes widened.
“Yer wouldn’ be talkin’ bout the Bennet sisters, would yer?”
“Indeed, I am. You know them?”
Boucher chuckled.
“We all know ‘em. Anotha one jus’ moved in but couple days ago. Many of the men say than’ goodness.”
“Why do they say thank goodness?”
“Because they fancy ‘em, I reckon. Sometimes, the lads need a bonny face to look on, yer understand. And theirs is a picture.”
Mr. Darcy’s eyes narrowed even more, and this made Boucher cease chuckling.
“Are you well-acquainted with the Bennets?”
“Me? Naw. But me wife is. Sometimes they give her spare food for our little-uns.”
“You have children?”
“Six, sir.”
This boded well for Darcy. He feared that Boucher might have begun to take an interest in the Bennet sisters. Without even being aware of it, he found himself strangely protective over all three of them.
“Do you know if any men have taken an interest in the three ladies?”
“Well, I know, fo’ a fact, that men have taken an interest in two of them, but the ladies don’ take an interest back. It’s not that they are prudish, nothin’ like that. They jus’ don’t notice when men notice ‘em back. They jus’ take the men’s compliments of ‘em in good fun and keep ‘bout their business. Me wife don’ ever hear mention of any men come to visit ‘em either. In fact, no one does. Strange, when I come to think ‘bout it.”
“Why?”
“Well, they clearly come fro’ good family. That much is certain by how they dress and how me wife tell me ‘bout how they act. She say that some of the things in their house clearly came from some estate they were raised on. They were from the South, yer see? And they must have been ladies of some sort. So, why no one visits them from where they come from is strange, I reckon.”
“So, you would say that they ‘stick out’ from the usual Frances Street inhabitants?”
“Oh, ver’ much! It’s obvious that they have none to look aft’ them, cause’ if they did, then they wouldn’t have to sink so low. Then again, none of us deserve to be there.” Here his eyes turned misty from sadness. “My wife and little-uns def’ly don’ deserve it. No child should have to live like that, yer understand.”
“Yes,” Darcy replied, surprised by the sudden tinge of sympathy that he felt for the man.
On the other side, Boucher suddenly felt a tinge of disinterested protectiveness that was unlike him. A sense of chivalric duty that was selfless.
“Beggin’ yer’ pardon, sir,” he uttered, “but yer’ askin’ these questions cause of innocent curiosity, right? There’s no harm yer thinkin’ bout? Cause those girls is innocent. They haven’ done anythin’ to deserve?—”
“I can assure you, sir,” Darcy voiced, stonelike, “I have no pretensions of the kind. I merely ask it out of…concern for their welfare.”
“Oh, well then, tha’s good. Sir, please forgive me for soundin’ like that. I was just…concerned too.”
Darcy relaxed.
“Yes. Forgive my sharp tone.”
Realizing that the poor man must have felt so intimidated, and that he had been beneficial in educating Darcy on the Bennet sisters’ situation, Darcy felt that Boucher should not walk away empty-handed.
Reaching into his purse, Darcy pulled out four pounds.
When seeing it, Boucher’s eyes lit up.
“For your children, sir,” Darcy said, for the sake of encouraging the man to spend it on food and not drink. “And for your wife.”
“Yeah, thank yer’, sir,” Boucher said. “The missus will be so glad!”
Giggling, Boucher left.
Afterwards, Thornton entered the office, for it was time for his workers to have their reprieve. They all exited the factory, and like one large gray mass, they exited the Mill and went to the nearest pub or place of rest.
Darcy had been standing by the window that overlooked the mill’s grounds, so he was able to see their exodus. Watching them eagerly leave was amusing to him, and Thornton noticed this.
“From this angle, humanity is always agreeable to watch,” Darcy said.
“Yes, it is. Then you have to be forced to get closer to them, and then everything changes. Did Boucher tell you anything useful?”
“Yes, he did. Thank you for the suggestion.” Suddenly, Darcy’s eyes wandered back to the view because something distracted him. A fleck of purple amongst the gray masses. “Miss Hale?”
“What?” Thornton asked, turning to where he looked. There, accidentally being jostled along with the crowd—having to make her way through them—was Margaret Hale.
She was wearing a blue dress and bonnet, with a flattering purple coat over it and black gloves. Not meaning to be overcome by the crowd, Margaret Hale backed up against a wall, holding her purse close to herself.
Both men looked at each other, quizzical.
“This is a conversation for a later date, isn’t it?”
“Possibly so.”
When both men turned back to the crowd, the fleck of purple that was Miss Margaret Hale, was gone.