Part 13

Posted on: 2010-11-13

Dear Mr Younge,

Yours with sincerity,
Pleasant Jenkinson.

After receiving such disappointing news, the last thing Younge wanted to do was sit in the very business which had earned this rejection for the rest of the day. Recollecting a certain request from one of his clients, he collected one of the bones which Miss Jenkinson had objected to, wrapped it in brown paper and string, and exited the shop, closing the establishment until the morrow.

He arrived at the Reynolds's dust yard just as dusk was arriving upon the city, clouding the deserted heaps and house in a dim foggy light, lending an added eerieness to an already seemingly supernatural scene.

Mr Wickham was there to greet him, with a large bright lantern with which to guide his way into the simple, ramshackle dwelling, and paid him the amount agreed for the leg, before inviting him to stay for a drink. With the mood that Mr Younge was in, one drink was not enough, and nor was his companion used to such a limit being employed.

In hindsight, Mr Younge is fully aware that such a mood when mixed with a liberal quantity of liquor, is apt to prove dangerous to one's moral compass.

"So, Mr Wickham, you mentioned some further business?" Mr Younge sought to confirm, recalling their last conversation during which a time and place for this meeting to sell and buy the bone had been agreed upon.

"When I first visited your establishment, we were talking of Old Mr Darcy as being a friend of yours," Mr Wickham began.

"Not friend exactly," Younge corrected with a slight chuckle. He gestured to the bottle in his hand with another similar exhale. "He was a very inquisitive spirit."

"And would you say secretive?" Wickham inquired eagerly. "About what was found in the dust for instance?"

"Why? What do you mean?" Younge asked, leaning forward in his seat, curious.

Wickham said nothing in reply, but instead made an effort to stand up, before half hobbling, half stumbling outside, beckoning his guest to follow with one of his crutches, into the valley of the dust heaps.

"Did Old Darcy ever mention how he found things?" Wickham added as they tramped their way up and over the mounds, taking care not to loose neither their footing nor a drop from the bottles of gin in their hands. "Whether he started at the top of the mounds or at the bottom? Whether he prodded or scooped?"

"And might you have prodded or scooped a little by yourself and found your physical deficiency too difficult to overcome?" Younge gathered astutely.

Wickham let the reference to his physical deficiency pass by in order to continue stating his business proposition. "Now Younge, here is my friendly proposal. If there is anything to be found on these premises, be it money, or jewels or papers, let us find it together. We agree to share the profits, we agree to further the cause of right."

Had Younge been sober, he might have listened to the doubts that his moral compass served to create in his mind. As it was, soured by drink and in matters of love, his curiosity overwhelmed his conscience, causing him to inquire further. "You've found nothing yet?"

"I've only skimmed it," Wickham informed him. "Skimmed," he repeated, gesturing at the vast expanse of mounds with his hands and the objects they clasped, a walking stick and beer bottle, taking great care not to loose his grip of either, nor his footing.

Younge took a drink from his bottle as he considered the proposition. "I scarcely know what to say to your proposal, Mr Wickham," he murmured after the liquid was swallowed, silencing some of the doubts from his moral compass.

"Say yes," Wickham suggested.

"If I wasn't so soured in the matters of romance..." Younge sighed as just the mention of that word brought back the full misery he felt when first reading Pleasant Jenkinson's rejection letter. "I've told you of the lady?" he added, waiting for a nod before he continued, as he was too drunk on both rum and misery to recall whether or not he had. "But being soured, and driven to reckless madness and desperation, I suppose its yes."

The two conspirators, now comrades in arms, clanked the bottles in toast of their new business proposition, before returning to the Bower, where their celebration continued to drain the owner's supply of gin.

It was several days after the death of the child that Elizabeth felt unable to neglect seeing her family any longer. Or more to the point, Jane would pay call on their mother and sister, for she had the patience to humour their ways, while she would visit their father. Making use of the carriage, she took her allowance and set off in the direction of his work, at the offices of King, Lucas and Foster, situated in Mincing Lane.

The clerks of said drug-house were very surprised to see a fine and elegant carriage draw up outside their window, and for a moment believed it to contain one of the illustrious owners come to pay inspection, or secure a new deal. But no, it was Mr Bennet's daughter, much to their amazement. Their surprise was such, that, when it was applied for, they happily granted him the rest of the day off to spend with her, without the lost of pay, charmed as they were by the beauty, grace and manners of the young lady.

"Well, Papa!" Lizzy cried as she embraced him outside the drug-house, once they had exited the offices to begin their amusement.

"My dear!" Mr Bennet replied, as he returned the embrace, pleased to see her. "I am glad to see you." He bowed his head for a moment. "I'm sorry I have not written. How are you and Jane?" He glanced around. "Come to think of it, where is Jane?"

"We are both well, Papa," Elizabeth replied. "Jane is visiting Mama and Kitty."

"Are we bound for Holloway then?" Her father asked.

Elizabeth shook her head. "No, I have something I want to give you, but its not in Holloway." She gestured for him to climb into the carriage.

"Its a surprise," she added, then ordered the coachman to be off to the nearest elegant tailor's.

Behind them, unseen by their eyes, and indistinguishable from the other vehicles of its kind who traversed the streets of Victoria's capital, another black Hansom cab followed at a more sedate pace, as though the occupier of that vehicle was curious as to where this handsome chariot was bound.

Mr Bennet stepped out of the tailors looking a great deal smarter than when he went in.

"Thank you, my dear," he remarked to his waiting daughter. "To have a new jacket and hat at the same time, is wonderful." He handed her the change out of the money she had given him.

Elizabeth closed his hands around the amount. "No, now you're going to treat your lovely young woman to dinner."

"And where shall we go, my dear?" Mr Bennet asked her, meeting her laughing eyes and smile with the same emotions within his own.

"Greenwich," Elizabeth informed him. "And make sure you treat me to everything of the very best."

They stepped back inside the carriage, and again the vehicle and horses off into the city, this time for the salubrious destination of Greenwich, where Society's finest and noblest whiled away their idle hours touring the extensive gardens and house, or dining at the many restaurants happy to capitalise on such pleasing countryside.

Hurst, who had been travelling in the Hansom cab which had followed them all this while, stood at the threshold of a side alley which led to the elegant tailor's, long enough to catch Miss and Mr Bennet's next destination, before returning to vehicle and directing the driver to follow the yellow chariot once again.

Mr Bennet was content to indulge his favourite daughter in all her whims for the rest of the day, so happy he was to see her and so pleased to see her happy. He recited speeches from their favourite play, which they used to read for hours in Longbourn's library, at the staircase to the entrance of Queen's House. Afterwards, as they walked past the river to the restaurant, he let her bang his walking stick along the black railings which protected the fine houses from those who could not afford them, as well as those who could. Before they turned into the street where the restaurant was situated, he taught her to skim stones along the water, with middling success. When they had entered the fine restaurant and ordered the food, Mr Bennet inwardly marvelling at the prices, and Elizabeth not caring a jot for the extravagance, he asked her amuse her imagination and his by telling him stories about all the boats they could see before him in the river. Elizabeth had always been a great storyteller, and this occasion was no exception.

"What about that one, my dear?" He asked, gesturing to a large trading ship which was temporarily stationed at one of the docks opposite, as the crew unloaded the goods it had carried from all corners of the empire for the imperial cardinal city.

Elizabeth smiled as she let her imagination run wild. "That one belongs to a merchant of immense wealth, who has married a very lovely young woman," here she gestured to indicate that the woman was herself, "and who is so wealthy that he actually owns all the boats you see on the river before you."

The food arrived, causing a break in conversation. Words between course were confined to what her sibling and parents had been occupying themselves with during hers and Jane's absence. It was not until the desert course that her father touched upon a more serious subject, such as what Jane and she planned for the future. "I suppose we may come to conclusion at home, my dear, that we've lost you and Jane for good."

"No, you can not conclude that, Papa," Elizabeth assured him. "But the Reynolds's have supplied your lovely young women with everything they need in the most handsome way. And they are such very good people, Papa." She paused to take another mouthful of the sorbet before her, wondering how best to broach the next subject, for it was one which her father would not like. Eventually she decided to just be honest. "Papa, I have a confession to make. I am the most mercenary little wretch that ever lived."

Mr Bennet was much surprised such a confession, for she had never given credence to such a characteristic, even when they had enough to afford to indulge in such a sin. "I should hardly have thought that of you, my dear."

"It's not that I care for money to keep as money, but I do care so very much for what it will buy," Elizabeth explained.

"I think most of us do, Lizzy dear," Mr Bennet pointed out to her. "About when did you feel this coming on?"

"That's the terrible part of it," Elizabeth replied. "See when I was at home and only knew what it was to be poor, and only knew the memory of Longbourn and its comforts, I'd grumble, but I wouldn't mind so much. But when I was disappointed of my splendid, albeit married, fortune and now see it daily in others hands and see what it can really do, I am now always avariciously scheming. I have made up my mind that I must have money. And as I can't beg, borrow or steal it, I must marry it."

Her father knew not what to say at this. Elizabeth had been his confidant for so long, that he knew not how to treat this piece of news. "This is most alarming at your age, my dear," he eventually settled for.

"Isn't it shocking?" Elizabeth mused, in a tone which belied her belief that such was indeed the case of her opinion of this course of action.

"Well, it would be if you fully meant it," Mr Bennet replied, still incapable of accepting that she did. "I thought you swore to marry for nothing but the deepest love?"

His daughter leaned forward in earnest. "Oh but I do, Papa. Talk to me of love and..." She sighed, her heart heavy within her. "All I see is Jane's happiness. But talk to me of poverty and wealth, and there we touch upon the realities of life."

"But, Elizabeth, what of your happiness?" Her father asked. "I know you could never marry a man unless you truly esteem him. Unless he looked upon you as an equal. If you choose to follow through with this, your other half may not be so charitably inclined to let you reap the benefits of an advantageous match."

"Tell me, Papa, did you marry money?" Elizabeth asked him gently.

Her father sighed, knowing now that she was serious in her present course. "You know I didn't, my dear."

"And are you happy?" She asked him, and upon him paling in pallor, immediately wished she had not. "Oh, Forgive me."

The visit ended on this rather sad note. Mr Bennet was not inclined for conversation and Elizabeth felt she had gravely disappointed her father by voicing such a frank indictment concerning her view of her father and mother's martial bliss, or lack there of. The both of them silent, perhaps each a little sad, she saw him back to the house, and did not follow him in to see her sister and mother, choosing to wait in the carriage until Jane was ready to leave as well. Tears slipped down her face as the pale yellow chariot carried them away, back to the Reynolds's townhouse.

She had gone to Holloway intending to do a good deed, and to see her father and family whom she dearly missed. She sent them what of her allowance she could spare, but the only notes she received were from Jane, who had always been a diligent corresponder, and now that her eldest sister was living with her, she had none. She knew her father hated letter writing, but she had hoped he would at least send something to her. Instead she had decided to visit and this was the result. After this she feared she had disappointed him beyond all of hope of a letter from Holloway.

Her tears were still in evidence when she entered the marbled hall of the Reynolds's house. Jane had inquired in vain for an reason as why she was so withdrawn and sad, and her father, when he entered the house, equally so. Anxious for none at the house to see her in such a sad state which would only provoke further inquiry, she darted to the stairs.

But it was too late. Mr Hurst was stationed with Mr Reynolds in the study below the staircase, the door opened enough for him and the master of the house to hear her return and subsequent hurried walk to the stairs. Turning round, he confirmed the information to his employer, before excusing himself to come to her side.

"I trust you had a satisfactory morning shopping, Miss Bennet?" He asked of her, not observing the state of her manner or tear stained features until he was immediately before her. Receiving nothing in reply but a sniff, he changed his tone. "Are you not well, Miss Bennet?" He asked her, handing her his handkerchief.

"I'm quite well, thank you," Elizabeth replied, though her tears were in plain evidence, disputing such an assertion, even as she wiped her eyes with the handkerchief that he offered to her from his coat.

"Well, perhaps you better stay indoors tonight," he suggested, thinking that given the time it was unlikely that she would be recovered sufficiently to enjoy the evening's soiree to which they had been invited. Catching her frown at him, he hastily added, "I simply meant that perhaps an evening of dancing and socialising would not be wise if you are out of sorts."

Offended, Elizabeth finished attending to her face and folded the handkerchief. "I'm not a child!" She cried, a petulant protest. "I think an evening's marauding and attracting is just the thing to raise my spirits."

She returned the proffered material comfort to his hand and he was left to watch her ascend the stairs, knowing he had angered her once more, on a day when her emotions were already greatly disturbed by other events much closer to home.

Jane had entered the hall by this point, in time to witness her sister's departure, and hear what Mr Hurst had said to her, and Elizabeth's response. Gently she sought to ease one person's suffering, knowing that he inquired with the best of intentions. "Do not be too alarmed, Mr Hurst. I was just as unsuccessful as you in my endeavour to make her confide in me. Though I have an idea of the reason behind her sorrow."

"Do you, Miss Bennet?" Mr Hurst remarked, turning finally from the now empty staircase to face her. "Might I be allowed to learn the reason?"

"She misses our father," Jane informed him, causing him to incline his head in empathy, perhaps even understanding. "Since her removal here he had refrained from writing to her, even though there exists no difficulties in the conveyance of such correspondence."

"Indeed, I would be glad to deliver them from him to her and vice versa," Mr Hurst assured her. "And any from yourself as well."

Jane nodded. "I have no doubt that you would. Our father loathes letter writing, but Lizzy and I had hoped he would write something to us at least. Yet he has not. And that makes her uncertain when she goes to see him, causing her to profess certain opinions which may not be her own."

"Even though he does not write, I do try to keep him and your mother and sister informed of your welbeing while you are here, Miss Bennet," Hurst explained. "I told your sister that I do as much only a few days ago."

"I have no doubt that you do, Mr Hurst." Jane smiled at him. "But my sister and my father have always been particularly close. And now they are apart, and she feels lost to him. And unsure that she could ever be close to him again."

Part 14

Posted on: 2010-11-20

Days passed, and life returned to normal at the Reynolds's house. Soirees were attended, with much marauding and attracting, admirers encouraged or rebuffed. Young and old of society amused themselves by such entertainment, either observing or involving themselves in these frivolities. Elizabeth recovered her equanimity over time, heartened when her father wrote to her, the letter followed by one for her and Jane from Kitty and then their mother. During the evenings when invitations or society was scarce, they received and entertained callers, gentleman and female, though the former rarely stayed as long as the latter, who anxious to make themselves available for callers of the same sex.

When Charles Bingley departed the Reynolds's townhouse one evening after paying just such a call, he had no idea his departure was being observed, not just by the Miss Bennets, one with fond affection, the other with something deeper and more profound, but also by another seemingly gentle man who had called upon the ladies just after Jane had joined her sister as a fellow ward.

Mr Collins had retraced his steps to the cousins of his pupil Philips' elegant household, arriving just in time to see Mr Bingley departing. Suspicious as to the nature of his visit, Mr Collins had glanced into the elegant windows of the elegant drawing room, to find the elegant cousins receiving music tuition from a smart and elegantly dressed music master. The ladies' pleasure and enjoyment achieved from the lessons could easily be descried through the glass of those sash panelled panes, along with the tutor's contentment at their progress, taste, musicality and intelligence.

Collins returned to his school ashamed for his thought and Charlie's scheme that he could endeavour to fill the gaps in the cousins education which were clearly already being filled by Mr and Mrs Reynolds's resources. He was angry by their presumption, and Mr Bingley's presumption, for who else could have arranged it? Deep within him his passionate nature threatened to flood into his anger, causing him to seek Charlie Philips out when he returned to the school, and inquire if he knew the location of Mr Bingley's lodgings. His temper was such that his pupil received the details of what he had seen through the sash windows when he asked for it, a confidence which, if he had been in a more rational state of mind at the time, Mr Collins would probably have refrained from bestowing, for fear that the pupil would imitate the master.

Pupil and schoolmaster both however agreed upon one thing. Mr Bingley would be made aware of his presumption, the reasons why it was to be called thus and he would be impressed upon to correct that presumption at once.

Elizabeth stared into the elegant mirror of her boudoir trying to compose her thoughts as well as her composure, and appearance for another evening of frivolity which lay ahead of herself, her sister and Mr and Mrs Reynolds. But the events of the hours spent with her father continued to haunt her, despite the passage of time, and the letter she had since received from that quarter, along with the ones from Kitty and her mother, addressed to herself and Jane. She could not forget the sight of his face as he heard her words with regards to her future, and the unkind question she had asked him in order to justify her belief that she was right in her decision. She had been unjust, unkind and unfair, selfish even in her manner to him, which was particularly cruel, as she had not seen him in such a long time. Remorse and guilt set in the moment the question was spoken, and the kindness of her sister's and Mr Hurst's inquiries into her sorrow were more than she felt her due, as well as that letter from her father, which had been long and full of such details as he used to write to her, as though nothing had occurred between to upset or disturb him.

A quiet knock on the door delivered at this moment sounded unnaturally loud in the unnaturally still room. Hurriedly she pinched her cheeks and wiped away the stain of her tears, before calling aloud, "come in!" in as joyful a tone as she could presently muster.

Her sister opened the door, attired in a gown of the finest pale green silk. "I thought you would not be ready yet," she remarked, stepping inside. "My poor Lizzy," she uttered, descrying the evidence of grief upon her face and knowing immediately the nature behind it, for she knew her sister was still haunted by the visit, though it was over days ago. "What did father say to upset you so much?"

"It's not what he said, it is what I said to him," Elizabeth at last confided to her. "I was too frank with him, Jane. I told him what I planned to do with my life, and asked him many impertinent, nay cruel, questions to prove the rightness of my scheme."

"You mean your plan to marry well?" Jane sought to confirm. Her sister nodded silently before rising from her chair to choose her gown for the evening. "Lizzy, father knows you mean well. That you mean to endeavour to provide for our family, now that the Will which covered such a scheme is rendered null and void. But I am sure Mr and Mrs Reynolds would not begrudge us money if the men that we loved were, I shall not say poor, but unequal to Mr Reynolds's wealth."

"We cannot be certain of that, Jane," Elizabeth protested. "Already I have noticed alterations within their characters, which has not been to their benefit, or to others. Who is to say what six months, or even a year, of comfort and security will do to them?"

"It may change their manner, but I dare say it will not change them in essentials," argued Jane. "And whose to say that your opinion or plans will not change in just such a passage of time?"

"Perhaps you are right," Elizabeth conceded, though not as fully with her plans as her sister wished. "Who is to say or predict what the future may hold?" she sighed as she stepped into her gown of the finest cream silk, before turning to let her sister tie the fastenings. "Oh, Jane, I wish I could think as well of people as you do."

Jane was not completely satisfied, but accepted her sister's compliment all the same. Having helped her make ready, they exited the bedroom and joined Mr and Mrs Reynolds in the hall. The four exited the townhouse and stepped into the pale yellow chariot which awaited to take them to the home of the Lucas's, whose fine and elegant soiree they had been invited to attend this evening.

As Elizabeth mounted the carriage steps, a light from one of the upper windows caught her fine eyes. She turned, just in time to see the curtains fall to meet each other behind the glass of the window belonging to Mr Hurst's study. Her expression turned thoughtful as she entered the vehicle. She had endured the mysterious secretary's surveillance of her long enough. The situation needed resolving and she was determined to resolve it tonight

In the Temple, at the lodgings occupied by many scholars and practitioners of law, the gentlemen attorneys Fitzwilliam and Bingley were also dressing themselves in formal white ties and black evening jackets with dress waistcoats and long, dinner trousers for the evening soiree at the home of the Lucas's.

"Charles, if I could find you in a serious mood for once, I'd like an earnest word with you," Richard began as his friend assisted with his white tie, grateful to catch his friend alone for a time. It had been a while since Bingley was so long in his presence, as he had been frequently absent from the apartment of late, far more than his legal affairs usually tended to warrant. His friend was so rarely inclined to anything requiring such energy, and normally, took the habit of telling him when something arose which called for that resource.

"An earnest word?" Charles echoed the phrase with some amusement. "The moral influences are beginning to work. Say on."

"For some time now you've been withholding something from me," Richard continued, now brushing lint from his friend's jacket. "I don't ask what it is, you have not chosen to confide in me." Indeed, there had not been an opportunity until for such a confidence to be voiced. "But there is something, isn't there?"

Charles raised his hands to return the favour, adjusting Fitzwilliam's tie, then brushing the dust away from the jacket. "I give you my word of honour, Richard, I don't know."

"You have some design maybe?" Richard tried, knowing full well that contrary to his oath, his friend did know. "Or some new interest?"

"Richard, you know how susceptible I am to boredom," Charles replied.

Seeing he was not going to get his friend to admit whatever it was he was hiding from him, Richard settled for offering his opinion on the mysterious business as neutrally as he could. "Well, I hope it may not get you into any trouble."

"Trouble?" Charles echoed. "That sounds interesting."

"Or anyone else," Richard remarked as there sounded a knock on the door, causing them both to turn in the direction of that panelled barrier.
Fitzwilliam forestalled his friend from answering the sound. "I'm on duty tonight," he said, before going to open it. He returned with two visitors, whom he presented to his friend. "You recollect this young fellow, Charles?" He asked regarding the younger.

"Let me look at him," Charles replied as he took in the stern expressions of Charlie Philips and the stranger. "Yes, I recollect the young fellow."

"He says he has something to say to you," Richard informed his friend.

Bingley frowned, confused. "Surely it must be to you, Richard," he protested.

"So I thought," Fitzwilliam agreed, "but he says no. He says it is to you."

"Yes I do say so," Charlie arrogantly asserted. "And I mean to say what I want too, Mr Charles Bingley!"

Bingley moved his eyes from the boy and with consummate indolence turned his gaze on the stranger. "And who may this other fellow be?"

"I am Charles Phillips' schoolmaster," Mr Collins replied.

"You should teach your pupils better manners," Charles advised. "Mr...?"

"My name does not concern you sir," Collins responded sternly.

Charles Bingley was unmoved. "True. It does not concern me at all. I shall call you schoolmaster, which is a respectable title."

"And in some high respects, Mr Charles Bingley," the schoolmaster remarked, "the natural feelings of my pupils are stronger than my teaching."

"In most respects I dare say," Bingley returned, as he carelessly lit a cigar and proceeded to lean upon the mantelpiece above the fire, "though whether high or low is of no importance."

"Mr Charles Bingley, I want a word with you!" Charlie Philips interposed with cry. "And I am glad to speak in the presence of Mr Fitzwilliam, because it was through him that you ever saw my cousin. And since then, Charles Bingley, you have seen my cousin often. You've seen her oftener and oftener."

Richard glanced at Bingley in surprise for such a revelation was the last thing he expected his friend to conceal. As for Charles, the moment Philips uttered the word cousin, he looked to Fitzwilliam to see how he took the discovery, before returning his gaze to Mr Collins with almost taunting perfect placidity, that Mr Collins soon found himself well-nigh mad from the received contempt and disdain.

"Was this worthwhile, school master?" Bingley asked Mr Collins in a tone of such complete indifference as to do nothing else but deepen the madness within the schoolmaster. "So much trouble for nothing."

"I don't know why you address me," Collins uttered, perturbed by the apparent insinuation against his intelligence.

"Don't you?" Charles queried, almost bemused. "Then I won't," he decided, the languid fashion of his voice causing yet more anger.

"Mr Collins and I had a plan for my cousin's education," Charlie Philips continued. "He's a far more competent authority than you. And what do we find? Why we find that she's already being taught! And without our knowledge. And we find, Mr Fitzwilliam, that your friend, this Charles Bingley, pays." Charlie was wrong in that account, for it was Mr and Mrs Reynolds who paid the masters to furnish the gaps in his cousins' education, but his master was right in supposing him to be handling it for Mr and Mrs Reynolds. Yet, although it was a perfectly legitimate form of business, the way Philips spoke suggested that the motive was something far darker, possibly even scandalous.

"I ask him what right he has to do this and how he comes to be taking such a liberty without my consent. I will not have any darkness cast upon my prospects, or any slur upon my respectability through my cousins." Philips' voice rose even further as he concluded his weak defence and went on to relay his demands. "Now I'm telling Mr Charles Bingley, that I object to his acquaintance with my cousin, and I request him to drop it altogether. As I raise myself, I intend to raise her. My cousin is an excellent girl, but she has some fanciful romantic notions about my father's death and other matters. Mr Charles Bingley encourages these actions to make himself important, so she feels she must be grateful towards him. I don't chose her to be grateful to anyone but me and Mr Collins! And if Mr Charles Bingley doesn't heed what I say, then it will be the worse for her!"

Bingley did all he could to appear unmoved by this threat, as indeed he was by the boy's immature and arrogant manner throughout his delivery of it. "May I suggest, schoolmaster, that you take your pupil away."

Collins ignored him, as did Philips. "Mr Fitzwilliam, you've witnessed what I have said, and I think your friend has heard me," he uttered in a more composed tone, but still full of arrogance and contempt. "Now, Mr Collins, as I have said all I wanted to say, and we have done all we wanted to do, we may go."

Collins kept his eyes on the lawyers. His pupil may have said his peace, but he had something further to add. "Go downstairs and leave us a moment," he ordered Philips.

Waiting until the boy had left, Collins addressed Bingley contemplatively. "You think no more of me than the dirt under your feet."

"I assure you, schoolmaster, I don't think about you," Charles replied easily.

"That lad could put you to shame in a dozen branches of knowledge and yet you cast him aside like an inferior," Collins declared devoutly, more at home in classroom where such displays were exulted than in the ways of gentleman scholars, who dealt with their knowledge more maturely. "But I am more than a boy and I will be heard."

Bingley tapped what remained of his cigar against the mantle of the hearth. "Judging from what I see, you seem to be rather too passionate for a schoolmaster," he observed.

"Sir, my name is Bradley Collins," Collins began again.

Charles returned the cigar to his mouth for another ingestion. "Your name does not concern me." He saw the man become disconcerted, and hesitant, causing him to prompt the teacher into conversation. "Come come, schoolmaster, speak up."

"I say what you are doing injures the boy and his cousin," Collins stated, though his words contained passion rather than conviction.

"Are you her schoolmaster as well as her cousin's?" Charles asked. "Or perhaps, you would like to be?" He sought to confirm, seeing the barely withheld untamed fervour in Collins' expression.

"What do you mean?" Collins asked, having no idea that the nature of his intentions towards Miss Bennet were so visibly apparent upon his face.

"A natural ambition enough," Charles remarked. "Far be it from me to say otherwise. Miss Bennet - who is something too much upon your lips, perhaps - is so very different from all the associations to which she has been used, and from all the low and obscure people about her, that is a very natural ambition."

"Don't you cast my background at me now!" Cried Collins.

"That can hardly be, for I know and care for nothing about you, schoolmaster, now seek to know nothing," Charles replied.

"You may cast scorn upon me, but I have worked my way upwards and have a right to be considered a better man than you!" Collins cried.

"I have no knowledge of, nor interest in, your background," Charles returned. "I have only just learned your name. Now is that all?"

Collins felt the moral high ground slipping from his grasp and attempted to take hold of it once more. "No sir, if you imagine that boy..."

"Who really will be tired of waiting," interposed Charles.

Collins persisted in carrying his point. "If you imagine that boy to be friendless you are mistaken. And I promise you, you will find me bitterly in earnest against you."

"Is that a threat, schoolmaster?" Charles queried mildly. "In the presence of two gentlemen at law?"

"I make no threat," Collins replied. "I only wish to warn. Goodnight, sirs." He bowed slightly and withdrew from the lodgings.

It was not until they were within walking distance of the Lucas's residence that Richard had a chance of speaking to his friend privately; not only did he need to prepare his inquiries, Charles was quick to call a carriage and take them away from their lodgings after that rather strange and revealing interview, and just as quick to exit the vehicle when it came to halt at the end of the queue for entry to the soiree.

"Charles? Charles, Charles, to think I have been so blind," Richard began as they walked up to the house, now he realised the truth behind Bingley's recent unusual behaviour. He remembered well what Charles had said to him that night of Philips' death; that he felt like a dark combination of a thief and a pickpocket with regards to Jane Bennet. Now to have heard him dismiss the presumptuous concern of the cousin and his schoolmaster so carelessly indicated a far deeper concern that hitherto was never mentioned.

Bingley briefly ceased walking to turn round and look at him, as though he were insensible to revelations discovered in their lodgings only a carriage drive ago. "Blind? How, my dear fellow?"

"Charles, will you please be serious for one moment," Richard implored. "Now, the boy's cousin, what do you think of her?"

"There is no better woman in London than Jane Bennet," Charles declared. "No better among my people at home, among your people."

"Granted," Richard Fitzwilliam allowed. "So what now?" He asked. "Charles, are you in communication with this girl? Is what these people say true?"

"Yes and yes to both counts, my learned friend," Charles answered in much the same way as he had the schoolmaster's questions, only with much more warmth and sincerity.

"Then what is come of it?" Richard asked. "Charles, are you planning to seduce and then desert this girl?"

Charles turned round and halted outside Lucas's house, shocked and perturbed by his friend's almost casual assumption of his future actions, alittle saddened that his mysterious nature this past season caused him to speculate thus. "No, Richard, no."

"Do you plan to marry her?" Richard asked.

"Of course not!" Charles protested.

"Do you plan?" Richard persisted.

"I don't plan anything!" Charles replied, before resuming to climb the steps to the grand entrance of the house, where the door stood open, and a footman ready to take their coats. "I am incapable of anything so energetic."

Richard rolled his eyes in exasperation before moving to catch up with his wayward friend. "Charles, Charles..."

"Stop this mournful catechism, it really will not do," Charles beseeched.

"What is to come of this, Charles?" Richard asked. "Where is all this going?"

"My dear, Richard," Charles remarked, "I haven't the faintest idea."

Inside Lucas's, the wards of Mr and Mrs Reynolds reclined elegantly on a sofa together, talking quietly, entirely unaware of the conversation which had just taken place between two gentlemen of their acquaintance. Their attention was occupied with observing the other guests of the Lucas's, and the select circle which these Sir and Lady 'Empire' had gathered about them, or rather those who had flocked to pay court to these new illustrious personages of patronage and wealth.

The circle included Mr Reynolds, who was eagerly expounding the particulars of his previous profession, to less eagerly listening personages.

"First, there is the fine dust from which the bricks are made," Mr Reynolds was saying, to Sir William, and Lady Lucas, Lady Metcalfe, and Mr Harrington. "Secondly, there are the cinders which are used to burn the bricks into shape."

"What a complicated business," Lady Metcalfe remarked in a dismissive, imperious tone, anxious for that to be an end of the subject.

Mr Reynolds was oblivious to her superior disdain. "Then we have the rags and bones which are sold to marine store dealers," he continued.

"So much money to be made from rubbish!" Lady Metcalfe commented in the same tone once more, with the same anxious wish.

"Old boots, sold to Prussian shoe manufacturers. And lastly, though not leastly, any jewellery which may be found nestling in the ashes," Mr Reynolds finished, causing his young companion to clutch fearfully at the diamonds which surrounded her neck, lest the handsome jewels were suddenly snatched from their setting and buried in the dust mounds for others to find and make a fortune with.

In another group, Lady Catherine de Bourgh held court with a number of equally imperious and superior ladies and gentlemen, her nephew upon reluctant attendance, his arrival having been noticed by her from the moment the footman escorted him and Bingley into the room.

"So, there is your Reynolds, nephew," she observed to Fitzwilliam, in a manner suggestive of having a personal hand in setting up the establishment of the Reynolds's entry into the cream of Society. "Your golden dustman."

"Really! The Lucas's would invite anyone," a Miss Morris-Pope, one of the young debutantes of the Season, commented scornfully.

"Anyone with over twelve thousand a year," Richard reminded the young woman, who flicked her fan huffily. "The Reynolds's are very good people. They aim to make much good use of their money and enjoy themselves at the same time. I hope I would have the good-hearted grace to do likewise."

Lady Catherine tutted. "Really, nephew, I think you're in love with these Reynolds's. What does Charles think?" She asked, only to turn and find her nephew's friend nowhere within her view. "Where is Charles?" She asked, shaking her head. "He'll be skulking in some corner somewhere," she judged.

Richard refrained from replying, even though from his position by his Aunt he could see his friend, a cigar in his hand, talking with Miss Jane Bennet by one of the open doors as the Lucas's had invited too many people for them all to occupy more than one room comfortably.

Miss Bennet was smiling and listening to his friend, and Charles in turn was smiling and listening to her. Their conversation was full of things of interest to none other than themselves, and their position in the room was as such as to permit none to join or overhear their conversation. Richard's eyes remained upon them for but a moment, as his attention was soon caught by the movement of Mr and Mrs Wickham, as Sir William Lucas introduced them to the Reynolds's. The son of his late Uncle's steward had obviously invested wisely the four thousand pounds left to him by his godfather's will, and his late cousin's generosity before he departed for the Cape.

Charles too had his attention captured by the sight of these newlyweds, as he observed his sister and her husband bow and curtsey to Mr and Mrs Reynolds.

"Who are those people, Mr Bingley?" Jane asked him as she turned to see what had caught his eyes. "Do you know them?"

"The lady is my sister, Miss Bennet. Caroline Wickham. The gentleman is her husband, George Wickham," Charles answered.

"Why do they not acknowledge you?" Jane inquired curiously.

"We are estranged," Charles replied, and she turned to him with a sympathetic gaze. "My father resented my sister for being my late mother's favourite," he explained. "Upon her coming of age, he cast Caroline out of the house and forbade me from ever having contact with her. I do not wish to cause him hurt, even unknowingly, so I obey."

"How terrible, for both you and your sister," Jane remarked. "Were you close?"

"As close as a brother can be to a sister, in youth. But as we grew, Miss Bennet, we altered, in both disposition and vocation. My father expected both of us to earn the money he would endow us with; I by employment in some worthy profession, she by a wealthy marriage to a gentleman of noble pedigree. Simple enough, if she chose the man he intended for her. But she did not, and in the ensuing argument, my father cast her out of the house and his life, leaving her penniless, and impressed upon me that the same would happen if I tried to contact or assist her. Caroline refused all my help, proclaiming that she was quite capable of making an advantageous marriage by herself, and we have not spoken since." He paused, musing on the memory for a moment. "I was my father's favourite, she, her mothers' and my father resented her for it. I suppose the distance was inevitable."

"I am sorry for you," Jane uttered sympathetically. "I would hate anything to come between Lizzy and me."

"I am sure nothing could, Miss Bennet," Charles remarked earnestly. "You are both so alike in your dispositions, so devoted to protecting each other's feelings and passions, that nothing could ever come between you."

"Miss Bennet," a voice said now, causing Jane and Charles to notice the sudden appearance of one of the liveried Lucas footmen. "If you will excuse me, Miss, but a gentleman wished to talk with you for a moment. He is waiting outside."

"Tell him I will come directly," Jane replied. "Excuse me, Mr Bingley."

Jane was very surprised to discover that the gentleman waiting outside for her, was Mr Bradley Collins, and her heart and mind began to worry about her cousin whom she had left in his care.

"Don't be frightened of me, Miss Bennet," he began as she came towards him.

"Mr Collins. Is Charlie well?" Jane asked.

"Your cousin has confronted Mr Charles Bingley," Mr Collins revealed. "This very evening quite ineffectually. So I came here to ask you to think again. Do not take help from a mere stranger, but rather from your cousin and your cousin's friend."

Jane replied kindly to him. "The help Charlie objects to, was considerately and delicately offered, Mr Collins. Mr and Mrs Reynolds welcomed myself and my sister into their home, and offered to fill any gaps in our education which we may feel were lacking. Mr Bingley was intrusted to arrange the masters we asked for."

Collins sighed, overwhelmed by her beauty once more. "I wish that I had... Have I said these words?" He asked more himself than her. "I wish that I had the opportunity of devoting my poor experience to your service. But I fear I would not have found much favour with you." He paused, trying to control himself. "I am a man of strong feelings, Miss Bennet. I don't show what I feel. Some of us are obliged to keep things down. I only have one thing to say, but it is the most important. There is a personal concern in this matter which might make you feel differently," he began, but something in his countenance or manner made Jane draw away alittle, causing his courage to fail from revealing anything further. "But I see that to proceed under the present circumstances is out of the question. Will you please accept that there will be another interview on the subject?" He asked her.

Jane knew not what to say. There was something in his countenance and manner at the moment that truly frightened her. "Mr Collins, I don't..."

"There will be another interview!" He cried, in such a way that she had no choice but to accept the information for warning in the future. "Good God there is a spell on me," he murmured. "Goodbye," he added, before walking away.

Jane watched him go, a shadowy figure, dissolving into the night, his outline some times dimly breached by the street lamps. It was a while before she could tear herself away from the sight, fearing that if she did so, the foreboding she felt would only worsen. Even so, as she turned to go back inside, she felt his features and his words continue to haunt her for the rest of the evening.

Part 15

Posted on: 2010-11-27

Inside Lucas's house, Elizabeth had no idea that her sister had just attended the most disturbing interview of her life. She was more pleasantly occupied, as pleasantly as one can be that is when one is sitting alone upon a sofa, eyed eagerly by every personage in attendance, hosts included.

"You seem to attract the attention of all the young men, my dear," Mrs Wickham remarked to her as she joined her. "You will have many suitors, I dare say, and some of them must be agreeable to you. Surely, someone like Mr Fitzwilliam?" She inquired.

Elizabeth shook her head. "Dear me, Mr Fitzwilliam is pleasant enough, but..." she trailed off, allowing Caroline to guess the end of the sentence.

"His fortune is not sufficient?"

"You misunderstand me," Elizabeth protested. "I only meant I shall choose my husband carefully. I'm prepared to wait, as you have, find an equal match."

Caroline smiled falsely. "Oh yes, you can be sure George loves me as every bit as much as I do him." She rose, having learnt all she could at this juncture. "You need another glass of wine, my dear, please, let me."

Mrs Wickham walked away to the serving tables, where her husband was awaiting her company and the nature of her discoveries.

"So the beautiful Miss Bennet, the dustman's ward, what did you find out?" George Wickham asked his wife quietly.

"She will be more than a match for their fortune," Caroline replied, disappointed by her investigations. "For a stupid young girl she has uncommon..."

"Good sense?" Wickham finished. Caroline almost sneered at him, for there seemed to be in his comments a plan to remind her of her past folly regarding such schemes to acquire fortune, but she restrained herself, returning to the beautiful Miss Bennet instead. After all, everyone possessed a weakness of some sort that was susceptible to various methods, they just needed more time before they were revealed, however unwitting or intentional.

It was nearly midnight when Mr and Mrs Reynolds and their wards returned to their elegant townhouse from the Lucas's later, full of wine and sugared delicacies, which had been proffered to them all by those illustrious and superior personages anxious to court their favour and patronage.

"No need to ask if you had a successful evening," Mr Hurst observed to Miss Elizabeth, who took her time to ascend, or perhaps more accurately, stumble up the entry steps, while he waited for their return by the open front door.

"Very successful, thank you," Elizabeth answered, emboldened by the fine champagne which the Lucas's had served enthusiastically to their guests. "I'm engaged five times over," she teased as he took her cloak. "Hurst, I would speak to you inside," she added, before walking towards the drawing room, leaving him no choice but to follow.

She was standing before the fireplace when he entered, staring at the flames which a servant had lit to warm them upon their return. She turned as he closed the door and advanced to stand before her.

"Mr Hurst, you provoke me to speak to you," Elizabeth began. "I've been meaning to speak to you for some time. You must stop watching me. Stop judging me."

Hurst was not entirely surprised, having descried she would say something for a while now. "I admit, I do watch you, Miss Bennet. You must forgive me," he apologised, though not in shame of his actions. Neither her expression nor her stance changed, which he considered encouragement enough to admit something more. "Miss Bennet, I think I must tell you, that I think I am becoming..." he paused before rephrasing his confession. "That is I fear that I'm becoming profoundly interested in you."

Elizabeth looked at him, not sure whether to be offended or touched. She settled on the former emotion. "You know how I am situated here, sir. It is not generous or honourable of you to conduct yourself towards me as you do."

"It is dishonourable to be interested in you? Or even fascinated by you?" Hurst inquired, incredulous at the idea of disguising himself even further when in her company.

"Mr Hurst!" Elizabeth cried, annoyed by his presumption.

"I hope, Miss Bennet, that it is pardonable, even for a mere secretary, to declare an honestly felt opinion of you. A truly felt devotion." Hurst raised his eyes to her fine dark gaze. "Forgive me, but I cannot, I will not retract my feelings."

"I reject them sir," Elizabeth declared.

Hurst breathed deeply as he received the response which he had long suspected would be forthcoming if he ever admitted to her how he felt. "I should be blind and death were I not prepared for the reply."

"I beg you may understand Mr Hurst, you must put an end to this now and forever," Elizabeth entreated.

"Now and forever," Hurst echoed, almost desolate in both feeling and tone. "Have no fear for the future, it is over."

"I am relieved to hear it," Elizabeth replied. "I have plans for my life," she added. "Why should you waste yours?"

"Waste my life?" Hurst echoed, surprised. "Miss Bennet you have used some harsh words. I have been ungenerous, dishonourable, in what?"

"You know every line of the Darcy Will," Elizabeth replied. "Was it not enough that I should be willed away like a horse, or a dog, or a package?" she asked him. "Now knowing every penny of my worth, you feel yourself bold enough to speculate on me? Am I to be forever the property of strangers?"

"You are wonderfully mistaken," Hurst replied, yet refraining from revealing to her why she was, for he knew the attempt would make her more resistant to his feelings. He watched her turn to the fire, and took it as his signal to leave. "Good night, Miss Bennet. Of course I shall conceal all traces of this interview from Mr and Mrs Reynolds and your sister. Trust me, it is at an end forever."

Elizabeth turned as he reached the door. "Mr Hurst, I am glad I have spoken. You may not believe me but it has been painful and difficult and if I have hurt you, I hope you will forgive me. I'm really not as bad as I dare say I appear. Or you think me."

Hurst did not reply to her, silently exiting the room.

Elizabeth did not linger by the fire after his departure. The effects of the Lucas's fine champagne were fading away, making her feel alittle sorry for her manner when she spoke with him just now. But she was not sorry for the words. He had to stop, or it could lead to his ruin, and she did not wish that. She did not love him, but she did not wish to hurt him, or endanger him, either by direct or indirect action. But really did he think that he had ever stood a chance of her returning his interest? He was just a secretary. She was a ward of the Reynolds's, and she planned to use that connection to what advantage she may, for herself and for the betterment of her family. None of which would be achieved by such a match.

She left the drawing room and sought her sister upstairs, finding her within the privacy of her bedroom.

"Jane, are you well?" She asked her, upon observing her sister seated at her dressing table, seemingly emotionally exhausted by the events of the evening. "Mr Bingley told me that a gentleman had asked for you to meet him outside, and that afterwards you were not your usual self. Is anything the matter?"

"Oh, Lizzy, I've had a trial of an encounter," Jane confided. "And I see that you have also had such similar end to this evening. What did Mr Hurst say?"

"He confessed to possessing a 'truly felt devotion' to me," Elizabeth replied, sitting down on the bed. "To being 'interested' and 'fascinated' by me."

Jane joined her, chuckling at her sister's expression. "Oh, I think I could have told you that, Lizzy. Ever since I came to live here, I have observed him watching you."

"I am not surprised," Elizabeth replied. "Rather I am astonished that he should presume to think of me, and to follow me."

"But, Lizzy, he is a good man. A gentleman," Jane protested.

"I will not deny that he may be good, but a gentleman?" Elizabeth queried. "Jane, he is but a secretary. How would Mr and Mrs Reynolds react to such a confession? They would have him cast out of the house, I am sure."

"They would not," Jane protested.

"Still, the attention would not be welcomed," Elizabeth asserted. "Anyway, it is at an end now. I have spoken to him, and he has promised that he will no longer watch me, or profess such an interest in me. And this is not what I came to talk about with you."

"I know, Lizzy," Jane relented, letting go of her attempts at misdirection. "It will seem like nothing in the telling, but Mr Collins was waiting, to say something to me. He wanted to offer his services as to my education."

"As to your education?" Elizabeth echoed. "Why the nerve of the man!"

"He seemed in earnest, unselfish, disinterestedness," Jane murmured.

"But?" Elizabeth prompted.

Jane sighed, uncertain as to how phrase the feelings she felt whenever her cousin's schoolmaster was near. "He is a very strange man," she finished.

Her sister nodded, understanding the feelings behind the word, as any close sister would. "Well, I wish for your sake that he were such a strange man as to be a total stranger. Now, let us talk about a much happier subject. Let us talk about Mr Bingley."

"Mr Bingley?" Jane echoed. "Why do you wish to talk about Mr Bingley?"

"Because I am of a humour to talk about him," Elizabeth replied. "He is a gentleman. Do you suppose he is rich?"

"He said to me that his father wished for him to earn the fortune he would inherit," Jane replied.

"An unusual attitude," Elizabeth observed. "But perhaps a prudent one in such uncertain times as these. Do you think he is interested in you?"

"In me? Why would he be interested in a poor girl who used to row her Uncle Philips on the river?" Jane asked her sister. "I was so shy that first night I saw him I wished I could disappear," she confessed.

"That does not answer my question," Elizabeth commented.

Jane thought for a moment before replying. "Well, he has his failings. But I think its for a want of something to trust in. And if I were a lady, which I'll never be, I would hope that maybe I could help him become more..." she sighed, unable to think of the word, as she recalled his searching, tender expression whenever he looked at her. "Even though I am so far beneath him as to be at all worth the thinking of beside him," she added softly.

"I will not allow that," Elizabeth protested. "You are his equal, if not his superior."

"And I will say, that I do not think such a devotion as Mr Hurst has for you will be so easily quitted." Jane insisted.

"Then we shall part tonight in agreement to differ as to our opinions concerning these three gentleman," Elizabeth proposed, before kissing her sister goodnight and retiring to her own room.

Indeed, if Jane and Lizzy could see Mr Hurst now, they would both think that opinion. For the man was as laid low as anyone could be by the outcome of the evening's interview. The sanctuary of his study had been sought after his withdrawal from the drawing room, but the room, once comfortable and soothing to his often tormented thoughts, now seemed a prison as deep as the river which he was sickened at the mere sight of.

"Ah well, William," he murmured to himself as he placed his hands upon the desk, letting them support his weight, "you would find out. And now you know it absolutely. She has consigned you to the grave once more. And now you'll stay buried forever. For you have no chance of happiness in this life."

Any onlooker might consider his words strange, if they happened to hear them, and indeed, Mrs Reynolds was no exception. She chanced upon him as she came up the stairs, his room being in full view of said stepped elevator. She happened to glance at him as she walked by towards her rooms, hearing his words and watching him sink slowly into the confines of his chair, laying his head upon the palm of his hand upon the desk. There was something so mournful, so desolate, so lost in his expression, that the countenance was suddenly and instantly familiar to her, causing her to halt before the threshold to his study. At that moment the entire key to the mystery surrounding their secretary was laid open to her.

"William," she cried out, causing him to look up.

And then he had to dash out of the room, in time to catch her as she fainted away.

Part 16

Posted on: 2010-12-04

When Mrs Reynolds came to, she found herself in her husband's arms, her head resting on his lap, and the mysterious secretary standing before them. Only he was the mysterious secretary no longer, as she recalled from what she had seen and what she had heard before she swooned. Still surprised by what she had learned, she spoke in order to clear the last vestiges of doubt from her mind.

"William, is it really you?" She asked him.

Hurst nodded. "I am sorry I deceived you," he apologised sadly. "But I did not know what else to do."

"I hardly know what to say," Mrs Reynolds remarked, as her husband slowly helped her rise to sit upon the sofa. "How did this come to be?"

"It is a long tale," William replied. "And an ugly one at that."

"But you no longer seem unable to bear it alone," Mrs Reynolds observed. "It is time to tell us, everything, William."

He sighed and relented, then took a chair across from them and began his tale. "I came back to England shrinking from my father's memory, from my father's money and my father's choice of bride. Mistrustful of everyone and everything.

"I'd become aware over the course of the voyage that a third mate bore a similarity to myself that occasioned me to be mistaken for him. We gradually formed an acquaintance, it being known by general rumour that I was making the voyage to England to claim my inheritance. He, by degrees, came to know of my sad history, and my uneasiness of mind as to my future, and in particular, my future wife. So we hatched a plot that on landing we would change identities to buy me a little more time before reporting to Mr Fitzwilliam. We would watch Miss Elizabeth Bennet, as she accuses me of watching her now.

"As part of our plan, I left the ship alone. When we stopped at Jenkinson's I was still not suspicious, although I remember him taking a twist of paper from one pocket to another before we set out for our lodging. We cannot have gone a mile from that shop before we came to the house. It was a terrible, windy night. I'll never forget that roaring, it echoes in my head everytime I so much as glance at the river.

"'Why don't we exchange our disguises now?' my sailor companion was so full of helpful suggestions. We celebrated the start of our plan with a drink. The drug must have been powerful, for it took effect immediately. The next thing I knew, I was looking at myself as if I was a spirit hovering outside of my own body.

"The third mate stole my identity and the sum of money he had betrayed me for. And then suddenly there was the sound of an axe; a woodcutter felling trees, a crashing of wood. Intruders burst into our lodgings. They were attacking my attacker. My double-crosser, was being double-crossed. The irony was, their blows did not rain so hard upon me. The next thing I was aware of, was being thrown into the river.

"I do not know how long I was in the water. I do not know which side the river spat me out of. I do not know how long I lay there. I do know that I was choked to the heart.

"With the little money I had somehow concealed from the murderers, I wandered the city until I found the notice wall of a nearby public house. The police poster described myself, William Darcy, being found dead and mutilated in the river. Described my dress and the papers in my pocket and stated where I was lying, waiting to be identified.

"A brush with death has a profound effect. The heart is terrified and the mind has cold reason. I decided to stay in this half-death limbo. Why shouldn't I try my plan after all? Having mysteriously disappeared, I could still test Elizabeth. It seemed to my frozen mind, an excellent plan.

"The inquest pronounced me dead. William Darcy died. Frederick Denny, the name I used to see the body formally identified, disappeared. And William Hurst was born."

Silence- a nervous yet comfortable silence, one which comes from a person having confessed a matter which was a heavy burden to him, to another, the action giving him relief that he was no longer the only one who knew it -reigned the room when he finished speaking, as Mr and Mrs Reynolds took in the tale they had learned. Across from them the now non-mysterious secretary anxiously awaited their reaction, his eyes moving from gazing at them to the flickering flames of the fire in the hearth and the candles adorning walls and tables around the room.

Eventually a sound penetrated the nervous yet comfortable silence. A soft sound, an unexpected sound. The sound of joy combined with tears.

"Lord be thankful," Mrs Reynolds cried. "Here is our dear Fitzwilliam Darcy come back to us!"

William looked at her puzzled, not by her words, for they were true, but by her reaction. He had not expected them to cry for joy at this discovery. He felt ashamed for the thought, for he knew they were good, unselfish people, who would welcome him back to their home and their lives without a second thought for the legal and monetary consequences which would inevitably follow, but he had been so used to depending on no one but himself, being confronted with scoundrels, that this act of kindness seemed alien by comparison.

"Now my son," Mr Reynolds remarked, bringing a smile to William's still anxious face, as he used the title he had often addressed him by when he was a child in their house at the dust mounds, "what ever can have occurred for you to be in such a state as my dear wife found you in tonight?"

"Miss Bennet confronted me," William replied, looking away into the flames of the fire, which still warmed the room where only hours ago the event he was now summarising took place. "She rejected my affections for her, and told me to stop watching her, to stop judging her." He paused to blink away the grief which came upon him at the memory.

"You did not tell her the truth?" Mrs Reynolds asked.

"How could I? It would force her into a marriage with a man she has no affection for. A man who does not deserve her, even if she did."

"Now, William, that is not true," Mrs Reynolds protested. "You are a good, honourable man, who clearly loves her."

"I do not attempt to deny that I ardently admire and love her," he replied. "But I have been watching her, judging her character, judging her worthiness. She was right to confront me on it, just as it would be right now for me to leave."

"Leave?" Mrs Reynolds echoed.

"I cannot stay stranded in this limbo between life and death any longer. I shall leave London tonight."

"But where will you go?" Mr Reynolds asked him. "What will you do?"

"I do not know," William replied. "Nevertheless I must go."

"Why must you go, William?" Mrs Reynolds remarked. "It is an easy matter to bring you back to life. We could call your cousin and the Inspector in the morning, and have the whole thing sorted by the end of the day."

William shook his head. "My dear friends, good old faithful servants; you deserve my fortune. I know that you plan to spend it wisely. If I were to come back to life I will inherit that fortune and with it, sordidly buy a beautiful creature who has little regard for me. I would buy her and debase her in her own eyes aswell as mine."

Mr Reynolds turned whiter than chalk at the resolution being formed. "William, you are alive, we cannot keep the property and fortune which is rightfully yours."

"My father wrote many Wills," William replied sadly. "How do we know if he did not intend to leave you the estate after all?"

"We don't because the one which leaves you your rightful estate is legally recognised," Mrs Reynolds cried. However, her husband gasped and turned even whiter, causing her to look to him. "What is it, my dear?"

"I did find another Will," Mr Reynolds replied. "Buried amongst the dust mounds, secured in a metal box. It left your property to us, excluding and debasing you entirely from any claim in such terms as to destroy your reputation completely."

"You must have it legally established," William urged. "And I must leave."

"No, we will not wilfully disinherit you," Mr Reynolds decided. "You will inherit the fortune your father left you."

"I do not want Elizabeth on his terms," William declared. "If I can have her, I want it to be because she wants me too, for love."

"What would content you?" Mrs Reynolds asked. "What would make you stay? Would you stay if Elizabeth cared for you?"

"Why would she care for me?" William asked.

"She's a little spoilt, but that's only on the surface," Mr Reynolds remarked. "She's true golden at heart."

"Oh, if I could but prove so," William murmured.

"What if she was to stand up for you when you were slighted?" Mrs Reynolds asked him. "If she was to be true to you when you were poorest and friendless? And all this against any interest. How would that do?"

"Do?" William echoed. "It would raise me to the skies," he uttered softly.

"Well, make your preparations for it is our firm belief that up will you go," Mrs Reynolds decided.

"But how will we do this?" William asked wondrously.

"Elizabeth was a little frightened of me at first," Mr Reynolds recalled. "She thought me a dusty and brown old bear. What if I was to become that old bear she thought me once? William, prepare to be slighted and oppressed."

William Darcy,- or rather Hurst, as he shall continue to be known until all deception is at an end -looked at his dear friends with a mixture of disbelief, surprise and wonderment as to how all this would be accomplished. "Could we do this?" He asked softly. "Is it right to continue to deceive her?"

"If she does love you," Mrs Reynolds replied. "Then she will gain all that you and she deserve. Fortune and happiness. And when this revealed, she will love you too much to care for the deception."

Part 17

Posted on: 2010-12-11

After a restless night, filled with a troubled and interrupted sleep of concerned thoughts, all occupied with what had occurred the evening before, Jane was the first to rise in the Reynolds's townhouse the next morning. Silently she dressed herself in a simple gown, devoid of finery, and made her way downstairs, determined to find some quiet solitude for more rational reflection.

In the hall she found one of the footmen waiting for her, with a message that her cousin was wanting to see her outside. Puzzled as to why he had come this early, and concerned as to why he was here, Jane had little choice but to thank the footman and step in the cold and slightly ominous foggy morning air.

"Mr Collins, be calm sir," she could hear her cousin saying as she came towards them. "We have everything on our side. Hello, Jane."

"Good morning, Charlie," Jane replied, trying to conceal her increasing worry at the nature of their business with her. "What is it you wished to see me about?"

"Not here," Charlie replied, taking her arm in his firm grasp. "Let us walk to some place quieter."

Still puzzled, but seeing she had no choice, Jane consented and silently let her cousin walk her, himself and his schoolmaster, out of the rich suburbs, until they came upon the deserted graveyard of St Peter's, in Cornhill.

Mr Collins walked alittle away from them on arrival, turning his back on them in order to give the cousins some semblance of privacy.

"Janie," Charlie uttered, turning to her, "Mr Collins has something to say to you. I'll go for a stroll and I'll be back in a while. I know what Mr Collins means to say and I very highly approve of it." He pressed a kiss to her hand before releasing her from his arm. In desperation she clung to his hand, fearing to be alone one more with the man who had caused so much distress only the night before, drawing him back to her, but only briefly. "Now Jane, be a rational girl and a good cousin," he finished, before walking off.

Jane watched him go, the fear rising within her heart, unable to meet the schoolmaster's imposing posture, who seemed to loom over the surroundings as though he were a large memorial to his name, proclaiming the sad news of his state of affairs to the world. She thought to run away, but instantly dismissed the idea, knowing that it would only delay what he wished to say, not dismiss it altogether. Summoning some courage, she stepped closer to him, causing him to turn and face her.

"I said when I saw you last, I said there was something left unexplained," he began nervously. A silent pause followed, as he raised his eyes to her face, and found cause somewhere in her expression to pace the ground beneath him. "I hope you will not judge me by my hesitating manner," he explained. "Most unfortunate for me it is, that I wish you to see me at my best, and know you see me at my worst." He paused, attempting to collect himself. "It is my destiny," he murmured.

Jane knew not what to say to this. There was something so haunting in his manner, in his looks, in his speech. She longed to escape, yet felt unable to leave.

"You are the ruin of me," he uttered, starting afresh, causing her to gasp in protest. "No, you are the ruin of me," he repeated, dismissing any further objection she may have had. "I have no confidence in myself, I have no control over myself when your near me or in my thoughts, and you are. You are always in my thoughts now. Since first I saw you." His voice rose to a cry of despair. "God, that was a wretched miserable day!"

Jane felt obliged to speak now. "Mr Collins, I am grieved to have done you any harm, but I never meant to."

"There!" He interrupted her. "Now I have seemed to have reproached you." He paused, breathing deeply, as if all his energies were being exhausted by this conversation. "There are people who think highly of me," he added. "There is one, a schoolmistress who thinks particularly well of me. I have won a station in life which is considered worth winning."

"Surely, Mr Collins, I do believe it," Jane remarked, unsure what he trying to say.

He continued as he had not heard her. "And I believe if I was to offer her..."

His intentions were unmistakable now. Jane interrupted him, wishing to spare him and herself further pain by having him continue. "Mr Collins, I think I have heard enough. Let me stop you there and go and find my cousin."

"I can restrain myself, I can restrain myself," he resolved abruptly. Taking several deep breaths, he seemed composed once more. "There," he uttered, attempting to smile.

A tense silence arose between them, broken by the sudden intrusion of a street lighter, coming to snuff out the light by the graveyard.

Mr Collins looked at her with an urgent plea. "Please, let us walk awhile," he asked.

Jane wordlessly consented, reluctantly following him deeper into a row of grave stones crypts sheltered by a leafy hedge. Despite the increasing, if alittle foggy, morning light, they seemed to close upon her, preventing her from seeing some way to escape this encounter, forcing her to follow it through to its inevitable end.

"Now you know what I am going to say," Mr Collins began when he came to halt, his imposing posture giving away only a little as to the state of his emotions, by the fiddling of his hands at his cuffs. "I love you," he revealed. "What other men might mean when they use that expression I cannot tell. What I mean is that I am under the influence of some tremendous attraction which that I have resisted in vain." He looked at her, his eyes as haunting as their surroundings in the ghostly, misty dawning light of the coming day. "You could draw me to fire. You could draw me to the gallows. You could draw me to any disgrace." He paused to add in a tone almost of despair, "this confusion in my thoughts is what I mean by you being the ruin of me. But if you were to look favourably on my offer of marriage, you could draw me to any good, every good, with equal force!" he finished with a passionate cry. "My circumstances are quite easy, you would want for nothing," he added, somewhat calmer.

"Mr Collins..." Jane began nervously, fearful of what he might say to her.

He forestalled her. "I am in thorough, dreadful, earnest. Now, please, please, don't answer me yet." He turned away from her, gripping the gravestone nearby for support, his body weak from the passionate display of emotion this long speech caused.

Jane stood silently, watching his actions, wondering where her cousin was. Wishing he would return, or someone else she knew would come and rescue her from this dreadful meeting. She felt a darker motive, both behind his speech and the seeming pleasantness of this sheltered gravely patch, as though her suitor were a jailor, and these stone memorials his bars which would leap to his defence and imprison her if she said no. Yet what else could she say? She did not love him, it was as simple as that. Blindly or willingly, she could not walk into the shadow this man imposed. She had experienced its like before, to survive only by mortal release, and she could not help but feel that such an endurance would not end so well a second time.

"Now, is it yes or no?" Mr Collins asked her, breaking her silent reflection.

Jane feared to speak, knowing her reply would only incite his passions once more, but she also knew that she must answer him, and now, before she caused him further harm. "Mr Collins, I am grateful and flattered by your words, and I hope you may find a worthy wife before long and be very happy. But I do not, I cannot return your feelings, so it is no."

"And are you quite decided and is there no chance of change in my favour?" He asked, his hands still fiercely gripping the gravestone.

"I am quite decided, Mr Collins," Jane replied.

Something was wrenched out of him then; a cry of despair and anger, a sudden and violent stroke of lightning in this terrible storm. "Then I hope I may never kill him!" He cried, and with these words pounded his fist against the mournful monument, the movement causing immediate injury. Uncaring of the blood now dripping from the broken flesh of his hand, he suddenly turned and grabbed her arms, pressing her against another grave which resided behind her.

"Mr Collins! Please let me go!" Jane cried, truly terrified now, unable to meet the horrible expression in his eyes, trying in vain to resist the crushing grip in which he held her, almost as if he wished to strangle a different answer from her. "I must call for help!"

"This time I will leave nothing unsaid!" He yelled at her, refusing to let her go. "Mr Charles Bingley!"

"Was it him of whom you spoke with your murderous rage?" Jane asked fearfully, no longer just for herself. "Was it Mr Bingley that you threatened?"

Suddenly he let her go, withdrawing away, nursing his bleeding hand with the unharmed one. "No, I threaten no one," he uttered in a tone which seemed to belie his previously murderous one, while his look seemed to convey otherwise. "Mr Charles Bingley," he repeated. "He haunts you."

"He is nothing to you I think," Jane said.

Collins looked at her, and the expression within his wild, bloodshot gaze made her recoil in fear once more. "Oh yes he is," he hissed. "He is much to me," he added, the meaning frighteningly and deadly clear.

Jane calmed herself. His manner had knocked her usual politeness and will to think and behave with goodness to others, yet her tone and her words were more mild than perhaps they could have afforded to be in such a situation. "Mr Collins, it is cowardly of you to talk to me in this way," she remarked. "But it means that I can tell you, I don't like you, I never have liked you, and that no other living creature has anything to do with the effect that you yourself have produced on me."

Again he seemed not to hear her. "Of course I knew all about this Charles Bingley all the time you were drawing me to you."

"I did no such thing," Jane protested.

"Mr Charles Bingley, with him in my mind I went on and with him in my mind I have been set aside," he continued. "Oh I'm not complaining," he added, "I'm just stating the case. You may imagine how low my self-respect lies now. It lies under his feet and he treads upon it and exults in it."

"He does not," Jane objected.

"I have stood before him face to face and he has crushed me in the dirt with his contempt," Collins asserted.

"You talk wildly," Jane cried, knowing this could be not true.

"Quite collectedly," he corrected, his composure almost within his control once more. "I am quite calm. And I made no threat, remember." He walked away from her, out from the sheltered area, out on to the entrance path once more. "Philips!"

Jane followed him in time to see her cousin return from his 'stroll.'

"I am going home," Mr Collins told him. "I shall walk by myself. I shall be at my work in the morning just as usual."

If he intended to convey no indication of the result of this meeting, the schoolmaster failed utterly, for his pupil would have to have been blind to miss the wound across his knuckles, the fury within his eyes and voice, contrasted with the display of turmoil, fear, and grief upon his cousin's face.

Charlie watched him go, then turned to her, reproachful. "After all my endeavours to cancel the past, and to raise myself in the world, and to raise you with me." He took her hands in his, and continued as though he were the elder, and held some paternal authority over her, when in truth he could claim nothing of the sort. "Come Jane, lets not quarrel. Lets be reasonable and talk this over like cousins. Don't cry. As Mr Collins' wife you'd be occupying a far better place in society than you hold now. You can leave the riverside far behind you. Your ridiculous dust patrons and their patronising charities. Now we can set this straight. I'll tell Mr Collins this is not final."

Jane clutched at his hand, fearful he would tell him immediately. "I cannot let you say any such thing to Mr Collins," she said.

"You shall not bring me down!" Charlie cried at her.

"Charlie, how can you say such words?" Jane asked, puzzled as to how her refusal of marriage to his schoolmaster would ruin him.

"I'll not unsay them," Charlie replied angrily. "You're a bad girl, and a false cousin. And I've done with you. I've done with you forever."

He wrenched his hand from her grasp and walked away, leaving her alone and friendless in the graveyard.

After that distressing encounter, events were somewhat of a blur. Jane would not remember what she did following her escape from the graveyard, conducted as soon as her cousin disappeared from her sight. Nor would she remember how she recollected her bearings enough to walk in the direction of the Reynolds's house. Her mind was in such turmoil over all she had heard and said, that it could not summon up the care for her surroundings until she had formed some resolution as to what to do next.

She was woken from this daze by the appearance of another gentleman, who waited for her at the turning which led into the lane of Portland Place.

"Miss Bennet!" Charles Bingley cried upon seeing her. Then, seeing her distressed expression, added in a tone of the deepest concern, "what is the matter?"

"Mr Bingley, please leave me alone," Jane pleaded, glancing around her to make sure they were not seen together, as she could not shake the feeling that they might be observed.

"Miss Bennet, you know I have come expressly to see you," Bingley returned, falling into place beside her as she continued to walk home.

"Mr Bingley, leave me," Jane pleaded. "And pray be careful of yourself," she added, recalling Mr Collins' murderous rage only hours ago.

"Jane, what is the matter?" Bingley asked her softly, his concern for her overriding any thought to propriety of address.

"My cousin," she replied tearfully.

"Your cousin is not worth a thought, far less a tear," he assured her.

"Mr Bingley, I have had a bitter trial today," Jane replied, anxious for him to be gone far from her, so he might be better protected. "I hope you'll not find me ungrateful, or mysterious or changeable. I am wretched." She swallowed a sob and pressed his hands in farewell. "Remember what I said to you, and take care!"

"Of what?" He asked her. "Of whom, Jane?" He gently clasped her hand. "You will not tell me to go away will you? Jane? You will not send me away from you, will you?"

Suddenly she could bear his caring entreaties no longer. She felt the walls of the houses closing upon her, threatening to jail her, just as the headstones did only this morning.

Jane tore herself away from him and ran the remaining distance to her home. She opened the door, brushing past the surprised footman waiting in the hall, and ran upstairs to her room. Once within, all composure fled and she flung herself upon the bed, refusing to move until she had cried out all her terror and grief.

Calmness returned to her as night began to fall. She sat up, wondering how no one had yet to enquire after her welbeing, but grateful that none chose to disturb her privacy, for somehow, the release of all the grief caused by the morning had created within her the inspiration as to a solution to its end.

Though Mr Bingley may not have intended it, his words had given her a rational, if perhaps somewhat extreme, resolution to her present troubles. Silently she rose from the bed, threw open her wardrobe, and gathered her most durable, simple gowns and shawls, packing them into the large travelling bag she had arrived here with from her late uncle's home in Limehouse parish.

When that was done, she sat down at her desk, drew out some writing paper and pen and wrote a note to her sister and the Reynolds's, saying that she had received a letter from their Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, inviting her to spend some time with them.

Outside Bingley watched the window of her room from his post within the street outside the house, his mind wondering what she doing and how she was. He had no idea of what could have taken place to cause her to be in such a state, but he believed he knew her well enough to wait until she had recovered, when he would have no doubt of being received by her into the house.

"She did not insist upon my leaving," he murmured, trying to convince himself when the delay stretched into the darkness of the evening. "She would not send me away. Charles, Charles, Charles, what a business!"

Her note written, Jane took hold of her travelling bag and left by the tradesman entrance at the other end of the house.

Posted on: 2010-12-18

Part 18.

While one departure began in the night, another followed in its wake, though this time with mortal intent. The river cast its victims, young and old, rich and poor, alike, it made no distinction as those who tried to ride the waves still do. Currents were dangerous, even in their seemingly calm and tranquil states, and fool was the fellow who dared not to respect them, whether in sea, stream or river. The art of navigating them was one of a life time, aided by ships of wood or metal, as man put to use what talents they may in earth's most natural source for transportation. Inevitably battle would ensue, competition for who held the right of way upon the currents. Sometimes the victor would not even see the victim they turned asunder in course of their travels, or learn of their fate, whether good or bad.

Such was the case today, and, as was usual in such towns of many parishes, Limehouse was the first to hear news of the matter; and the Fellowship of the Six Jolly Porters, the usual port of call for those in distress or witnesses to the event.

"Something's gone down in the fog, Miss Hill!" A man cried from below, heralding the mortal departure to the good lady of the establishment.

Miss Hill was all businesslike, the victims of the river no unusual event to her, as to be rendered commonplace even; she knew the methods of treatment well. "See that the boiler's full. Hang some blankets to the fire," she ordered. "Come on, have your senses about you," she admonished as some parishioners failed to move fast enough. "Does anyone down there know what happened?" She called out to the herald.

"It is the steamboat," he replied back.

"It is always the steamboat," one parishioner commented, well-versed as any of his home streets comrades of the common cause of many river fatalities.

"It is a local craft, Miss Hill," the herald informed her, "run down by a foreign steamboat," he added, using the term to mean a stranger to the parish rather than the country. Foreign fares too, no doubt, as rarely did one mix with the other.

"How many in the craft?" Miss Hill called, while all around her those in the public house made ready to receive the victim or victims.

"One man, Miss Hill," the herald replied, just before the man was brought upstairs into the tap room, slung over a shoulder, his ill-soaked and mud ridden condition instantly translatable as one who held no hope of reviving.

Then Miss Hill caught the man's profile in the gaslight as he was carried by, and her thoughts turned dark and deep, as she recognised him.

"Good God," the blessing was flung from her, "it's Rogue Jenkinson."

Another in the room stilled upon the announcement, all thought of work and aught else immediately forgotten. "Oh God, father," Pleasant murmured. "Poor father."

Once self proclaimed partner to Jessie Philips in matters of profession, now Jenkinson looked to be partners in matters of death as well as life, however such relationship was begrudged by Gaffer. For man had no control over their mortal ends, just as surely as they had none over their birth.

Upstream, the night was like any other, as far as society was concerned, to be feted over by indulgence at some worthy's house. Tobacco and cigar smoke, combined with the smell of fine wine, port and brandy ruled the air, along with the faint whisper of gas from the lights, the clinging choking smell which accompanied it, and the confection of sweets and sour in the food. Conversation too ruled the air, audible only between groups, distinct to sex as well class. Serious matters rarely reigned here, frivolities were the chief subjects; the former being reserved for clubs and parliament.

Elizabeth sought an empty sofa, her mind in no state for socialising, present only at the behest of the Reynolds's, while inwardly fretting over her sister's sudden departure the night before. If Jane had received news from their Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, which Elizabeth doubted, she must have taken the letter with her, for nothing remained of it in the house. It was not like Jane to be so mysterious, the two of them had never withheld a secret from each other in their lives. Something must have driven her away, something darker than a note from their Aunt, which Elizabeth received no hint of in their last communication from that quarter. Nor had Mr Bingley been informed despite paying call upon her before her departure, for his surprise was clear to see when she and the Reynolds's returned to the house to ready themselves for the evening's frivolities.

The Gardiners lived near the north country, in Derbyshire, having removed from London a year before the illness struck Meryton, for the good of the children's health. Mr Gardiner still held business interests in the town, but such matters were managed now by his stewards, who were well equipped to take care of the warehouses under his management, without need for him to come into town. No more than a few years older than the two eldest Bennet daughters, Mrs Gardiner frequently invited Jane and Elizabeth to spend time with them, and had offered to provide for the family when they were forced to give up Longbourn. Mr Bennet would not hear of it however, causing them to carry on as before.

Someone laughed, a familiar tone, catching Elizabeth out of her thoughts. She glanced up towards the source, in time to witness Mr Reynolds, amused by his circle of boon companions, empire builders all. Unlike her he seemed unconcerned by her sister's sudden departure. Once was there was a time when he felt awkward and uncomfortable in high society, just as she felt now. The alteration was distinctive.

What a change there is in him, she mused inwardly. And to think that I once wished him more at ease in this company, she added to herself. Money has made him comfortable. It was an ugly thought, to her who had once wished to possess the same wealth. Now she felt very uncomfortable, attired and surrounded by the effects of money, out of place in a world she once devoutly desired to be a part of by marriage.

Oh, Jane, Jane, she wondered silently. Where are you now, and are you in any better comfort than I am at present.

Someone possessed the presence of sober mind to fetch the local physician, who surveyed his patient with the solemn view that held little hope for his survival. A brief examination reached the same conclusion all the parishioners of the Six Jolly Porters arrived at; Rogue Jenkinson had breathed his last upon this earth.

His daughter gave her blessing kiss, sorrowful for the father whom she had cared for most of her adult life. A lonely future was hers now, as lonely as the vigil she now assumed by her father's body, as he lay on the trestle table, awaiting the coffin makers.

The Fellowship resumed their previous pastime around the distressing scene, their eyes immune by now to the horrors of the river, all having bore witness to such a fate at one time or other. Rogue Jenkinson may not have been liked or respected by the parish, but they accorded his body the right of resting in peace, as a hush reigned within the tap room, silent as the grave ground which the man was soon to rest under.

The Physician partook of Miss Abbey's kind offer to quench his thirst, and happened to be enjoying what was left of his pint as a sudden harsh coughing broke the silence. The racking sound of a life choking for breath, as water was retched out of their source for air.

Rogue Jenkinson lurched up from his table, instinctively turning to the side to empty his body of the foul river which threatened to choke his internal organs. His daughter kneeled beside him in sudden relief, waiting for the recovery to begin.

When his strength allowed him to sit, she spoke. "Father, you were run down on the river but you're safe now," she informed him gently. "Your friends have given you shelter."

Jenkinson looked grimly upon the place and its members, who once barred him from admittance, doubting and begrudging their generous motives in putting up his body. "A steamboat was it?" He growled out, the river still clinging to his throat.

"Yes father," Pleasant confirmed.

"Damn them to hell," Jenkinson uttered sourly. "I'll have the law on to her. And them that runs her!" He cried, his blood up.

The Fellowship returned to the nursing of their ale, satisfied and perhaps a little dismayed that all was well with their Rogue. His daughter held her peace, eyeing her father as he stared down the gaze of Miss Hill and the doctor, resentful and vengeful, unheeding their looks of admonishment and disapproval. They knew what little such appeals to the laws accomplished in the circles of the poor, and where such persons who dared to try with what little resources they had by resorting to such an appeal, ended up. Life and circumstances were a vicious spiral amongst the poor, with little hope of bettering themselves and the short expectancy that they would rarely live long enough to earn the means of a living, either for themselves or their children, however unusual or extreme it may be.

Never a lady to miss an opportunity when she was presented with one, Mrs Wickham caught sight of Miss Bennet all alone and thoughtful upon the sofa, and inwardly gleamed at the possibilities.

"You seem a little pensive tonight, my dear," she said in a caressing, yet exquisitely tailored tone of superiority as she seated herself beside Miss Bennet.

"H'm," Elizabeth barely murmured, discontented at being disturbed from her ennui.

"My dear, I believe..." Caroline paused, thoughtfully, deliberately, before flicking her fan in a decided purposeful negative. "No I will not," she added, placing the item to her lips in a signal of silence.

Elizabeth summoned a smile from somewhere. "If you believe me to be in love," she said artfully, "I can assure you, you are mistaken."

"No indeed," Caroline replied confidently. "It cannot be so very easy to find a man so worthy of your attractions."

"The question is not to find a man, but an establishment," Elizabeth corrected her, though the thought was no longer so satisfying to her as it once had been.

Caroline flicked her fan in a gesture of admiration. "My love, your prudence amazes me," she replied. "Where did you learn to study life so well?" She smiled at her knowingly, before looking ahead. "You're right of course. You must..."

"I don't mind telling you, Mrs Wickham," Elizabeth interrupted.

"Caroline, my dear," her companion gently corrected.

"I don't mind telling you, Caroline, that I am convinced that I have no heart," Elizabeth replied, forgetting for a moment the worry over Jane. "And as for seeking to please myself, well I don't."

"But you can't help pleasing, Elizabeth dear," Caroline countered, in a voice which was gentle and yet superior at the same time. "You'll have many admirers to shun, don't worry," she added, causing Elizabeth to laugh self-consciously as she remembered the admirer she shunned recently. "Ah, my dear, you must tell," Caroline's eyes gleamed with curiosity, determined to make what use of it she could. She watched her friend look away, and noted the direction with glee. "You do not mean Mr Fitzwilliam has proposed?"

Elizabeth blushed a little and turned back. "No, indeed not," she answered. "In terms of establishments there are others who are even less worthy than Mr Fitzwilliam."

"No my dear, I cannot believe you," Caroline protested.

"What would you say to our secretary?" Elizabeth countered, the confession out of her mouth before she was aware of the consequences.

Caroline had the grace to look elegantly shocked and peeved. "My dear, the hermit secretary who creeps up and down the back stairs?" She queried incredulously. "The man must be mad," she decided, at the thought of someone daring to breach the circles of the highest society.

Elizabeth looked down at her lap, twisting her hands. "He appeared to be in his full senses," she replied, recalling the evening now in a mind more doubtful of her refusal than it had been when she first uttered it. "I told him my opinion of his declaration and dismissed it. Of course it was very inconvenient and disagreeable," she added, convincing everyone but herself. "It has remained a secret however, and I hope I can on you never mentioning the matter," she appealed to her friend.

"My dear you may count on me absolutely," Caroline assured her sincerely, holding the fan to her lips once more. She dealt a kiss to Elizabeth's cheek before rising from the sofa, and seeking a glass of wine for them both. Her mind meanwhile stored this useful piece of scandal, waiting for the right time to spring it upon those who would pay handsomely for the knowledge of such information.

Across the room upon the threshold of an open door, as the occasion required more than one room be sacrificed by the house for use, Lady Catherine de Bourgh found her nephew in quiet consultation with his friend. Knowing they were the source behind the latest mystery she had discovered just this evening, she paraded over to them.

"Nephew, do you recall the last time we were here?" She began, ignoring the groans from both him and his companion.

"No, Aunt, I do not," Richard replied.

Lady scoffed in exasperation at his reply. "Of course you remember, nephew. It was in this very room that you told us the romantic story of my dearly lamented nephew William Darcy. And over there, sitting very comfortably, are your golden dustmen. And what is that the golden dustmen has told me? There is another disappearance."

Richard turned to his friend, prepared to dissemble if he must, but Charles was stoic and resigned in the face of gossip. Leaning casually against the door frame, a cigar in his hands, he remarked, "tell it, Richard. Or they're sure to make you."

"The reference is to the following," Richard began, raising his voice to carry across the whole room as conversation died and everyone turned to listen and look. "The young woman Jane Bennet, niece of the late Jessie, otherwise Gaffer Philips, who you will remember was accused of the murder of William Darcy. Mr Reynolds, my client, was of course anxious to be in communication with Jane Bennet when she departed from their house suddenly one night. He referred the task to me, and I have tried my hardest to find Miss Bennet. I even have some special means," he directed a look to Charles, who quietly smoked his cigar all through this, "but I have failed because she has vanished."

"Vanished?" Lady Catherine echoed. "You mean kidnapped?" She queried, horrified. "Oh, not murdered?" She added, disgusted.

Charles lost his patience and with it his silence. "No, he does not mean that," he replied. "What he means is that she has vanished voluntarily. But she has vanished. Completely," he reiterated before walking away.

Richard watched him go with concern. Since Charles first informed him of Miss Bennet's disappearance, his concern had deepened to include not just her, but his best friend. Even when he was assured by the Reynolds's that Miss Bennet was safe at her Aunt and Uncle's and merely wished to protect his friend by keeping confirmation of her whereabouts from the public gossip, thus the need to instigate this show of a search, his concern had remained. He knew Charles would not be content to be left in ignorance of a woman whose interest had stirred his energy like no other did before.

He was deeply worried about Charles, who had taken to wandering the city alone day and night, while seeking solitary corners during the social events Richard dragged him to in an effort to get him out of his black mood. He knew Charles was searching actively for Miss Bennet, he was the 'special means' he had referred to in his speech a moment ago. His friend had told him soon after Miss Bennet vanished that he would use any means to find her, fair or foul, and by his recent penchant for nocturnal wanderings, Richard knew all too well it was the latter he had now resorted to. He had no doubt of his friend's resourcefulness.

But he worried where this searching would take him.

Part 19.

William Hurst rose from his chair as soon as he heard the carriage wheels hitting the pebbled driveway. Exiting his study, he swiftly descended the stairs in time to reach the ground floor just as the door opened to usher the return of Mr Reynolds and his ward. Since their confabulation over a certain young lady, the couple had impressed upon him the details of their plan to help him win her affections. William had scrupled about deceiving her in such a way, but they reminded him that he began the lie concerning his true identity, causing him to accept their plan, else face loosing the woman he loved forever. This excursion today, was a good opportunity to put said plan into effect.

He stepped to Mr Reynolds's side and deftly relieved him of the large pile of books he had carried in. "I trust you had a satisfactory morning shopping?" he asked before studying the titles with interest. "Ah, more lives of misers I see," he commented as Miss Bennet entered the house.

"That's all right with you is it?" Mr Reynolds queried in a tone of rebuke. "For those that have," he patted the volumes, "this is the required reading. Those with a fortune to protect." He added, all superior, his chest puffed out, his hands on the edges of his tailored jacket, his head raised high.

Miss Bennet looked down at her grown, embarrassed by the comment and disdain coming from her companion. "Will you be joining us this afternoon, Mr Hurst?" She asked.

"Join us?" Mr Reynolds echoed in incredulous astonishment before the secretary could answer her kind inquiry. "Join us! Hurst has my business to attend to. Come, come, Elizabeth." He strode in the direction of the drawing room, leaving Elizabeth with no choice but to glance at Mr Hurst solemnly, before following her guardian.

"Miss Bennet?" Hurst uttered softly before she stepped away, causing her to look up at him. He indicated a glance to his jacket pocket as he replied, "this came for you earlier."

Elizabeth looked to see a white folded letter sticking out of his jacket pocket. It felt strange taking it from him rather than being handed it, but since his arms were still full with the large pile of books, it was necessary. Her hand brushed the material of the his jacket, feeling the contrast between the fine material she wore and the coarser cotton which he was attired in. He stood very still as she removed the letter, his eyes glancing away from her, after Mr Reynolds, making sure this scene passed unnoticed and therefore unremarked upon by the master of the house. Elizabeth briefly glanced at the writing before she secured it within the confines of a concealed pocket in her dress. A cursory glimpse at the direction was more than enough to determine the author, and a smile lit up her face.

"Thank you, Mr Hurst," she said before following Mr Reynolds. He watched her leave, his eyes tracing her fine womanly form, remembering with pleasure the smile she showed for him and him alone, in gratitude at his solicitude and in relief due to recognition of the identity of the sender. He had seen her sad and thoughtful since the sudden departure of her sister, causing him concern over his decision to attempt to win her affections while she was in such distress over a close friend and sibling. Now this smile rewarded him and emboldened him into trying, for surely this letter would bring her relief.

The letter was from Jane, to say she had arrived safely at the Gardiners, and all was well. Reading through the letter twice, Elizabeth still could not discern anything behind the words which gave her cause for concern about her sister. There were some troubling points however; namely that her location be kept a secret from all save herself and the Reynolds's. Jane requested that Mr Bingley especially be not informed of her whereabouts, or their cousin Charlie Philips. The latter concealment was easy enough, Elizabeth had little contact with their cousin even when he visited Jane at the Reynolds's house.

But she wondered at her sister's reasons regarding the former gentleman. Mr Bingley seemed to care for her sister, he had been concerned for whereabouts and safety ever since she disappeared, even before. What excuse could she give for Jane no longer desiring his company? Better ought not to mention it perhaps, though how she would escape inquiries concerning any resumption of her manner to cheerfulness was beyond her at present. This letter had accomplished little except incite more questions and a desire to see her sister as soon as she was able.

Elizabeth set the letter aside and composed her reply, gently requesting why such concealment was necessary, but promising her faithfully that she would do as she was asked.

After finishing her correspondence, Elizabeth rejoined the Reynolds's in Mr Reynolds's study, where he was holding court with Mr Hurst standing before his desk of business, and Mrs Reynolds quietly occupied herself with some needlework. Whatever conversation took place before she entered the room was beyond her knowledge, for the gentleman, the lady and the mysterious secretary were silent when she entered.

Encountering the gaze of all three of them as she closed the door, caused Elizabeth to almost hesitate, unable to escape the feeling that she was intruding. A not uncommon emotion to her mind and body, but one she had only recently begun to feel whenever she spent time with Mr and Reynolds outside the realms of Society dinner parties, balls, soirees and anything other occasion which required her to be sociable. She could not understand why this feeling had come upon, along with the other mixed sensations which accompanied it, all leading to her feeling unsettled with everyone and everything. She felt that her world was soon about to shift, and in a direction no one could predict, thus causing her fear that the outcome would not content her.

"Now, Hurst," Mr Reynolds began, once he and Mr Hurst finished watching Elizabeth enter the room and take her seat, "where were we?"

"You were saying, sir, you considered that the time had come to fix my salary," Mr Hurst replied. He had withdrawn his gaze from Elizabeth first, she noticed, in part due to the agreement she forced upon him to be constrained, a natural by product of her rejection of his feelings for her upon that evening before Jane left. However, she had also observed that it did not stop him caring for her, or keeping her in view at least, in way of protection rather than marked devotion or attraction, yet an impulse which inevitably sprung from such a move. Her feelings had softened towards this surveillance, so much so to find a strange sort of comfort within it, as she began to experience those previously mentioned ominous sensations.

"Oh don't be above calling wages, man," Mr Reynolds replied. "I never talked of salary when I was in service." He managed to say this with a rather undeserved and therefore inappropriate superiority at having risen above such ignominious origins.

"My wages," Mr Hurst corrected himself, in a subdued manner, something which Elizabeth had lately observed in him. He appeared vulnerable, as she looked at him now, as though he had every reason to be scared of his employer, fearful of wrestling from him the means with which to live, monetary wealth required in return for his hard work which he had earned long ago.

"Now, regarding these wages," Mr Reynolds continued in that self same imperious manner. "I've looked into the matter, and I say two hundred a year. What do you think?"

"Thank you sir," Hurst replied, as Elizabeth found it difficult to conceal a gasp. She was aware that one hundred and fifty was the threshold of a gentleman, hardly an income which Society would term applying to their definition of the word, but there were distinctions in everything, during such times as these. Yet two hundred did not seem adequate recompense for what he did.

"It's a fair proposal," Hurst allowed.

Mr Reynolds rose from his chair behind the desk and came to stand before his secretary, clasping his shoulders in an almost camaraderie fashion, yet with ever the appearance of an overbearing employer to his most put upon employee. "You see, Hurst, a man like me has to consider the market price. Since inheriting this fortune of mine, I have become acquainted with the duties of property, and what such property is worth in the eyes of those who have it, and those have not. A sheep is worth so much in the market and I ought to give it that price and no more. Likewise a secretary."

"You are too kind, Mr Reynolds," Hurst replied, yet in that same nervous manner than implied what he just professed was not what he really believed. Nor did Elizabeth believe it, for Mr Reynolds' speech did not imply benevolence, or fairness, a good master bestowing what was due, but rather a master bestowing what was seen to be done.

"I want to keep you in attendance," Mr Reynolds went on in the same superior fashion. "I want you ready at all times. I'll have a bell rung from this room to yours. And when I want you, I'll touch it." Elizabeth flinched at this declaration, for to her mind it sounded a kin to something insidious, unworthy of the position in which a secretary was held. Rendering him a servant, and a lowly one at that. This entire interview in fact seemed to be served with the intention of making Mr Hurst feel inferior, small, vulnerable and fearful of his employer, and wholly dependent upon him.

"I don't call to mind that I have anything more I have to say to you." said, Mr Reynolds, who turned away from Mr Hurst disdainfully, dismissing him from the room to that impersonal study of his. For the first time Elizabeth wondered if he felt as lonely in there as the room now appeared so in her mind.

Hurst bowed to Mr Reynolds, then to his wife, and then finally to Elizabeth, with a small look, one that seemed to convey to her more than its length would allow. She felt immediately as if she understood his feelings to be the same as her, that he felt the injustice of his treatment just as much she did, yet bore the hardship, in favour of seeing her, and giving her assurance of his continuing regard, and her continuing comfort, with the deliverance of letters, like the one he gave her from Jane today, as well as many other things, which would be revealed in time. In the past, such an avowal of affection would have called her to reject him, as she had already. Now however, she derived from them a certain comfort, took them as a constant, in this increasingly ever uncertain world.

The door closed loudly, the echoing sound bringing her back to an awareness of her company, and of the tension that seemed to still haunt the room which Mr Hurst has so recently vacated.

"Edmund, my dear," Mrs Reynolds began hesitantly, her manner nervous and uncertain, Elizabeth noticed, as though the emotions which the secretary displayed just now were also haunting the room just like the tension.

"Yes, my dear?" Mr Reynolds returned, his voice warm and genuine, all the superiority disappeared. Yet Elizabeth could still feel a part of it, present within the room, which seemed very crowded now, ghosted by as it was with all these negative emotions resulting from wrongful conduct.

"Excuse me putting it to you, but don't you think you're being a little strict with Mr Hurst?" Mrs Reynolds asked tentatively, as though she though she was a little fearful of her husband, something Elizabeth had never witnessed from her. Indeed, when she first came to live with them, the Reynolds's appeared to possess the kind of relationship her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner displayed between each other, the kind of relationship she herself had always wished for, before such illusions were sunk into the sea, along with the promises of old men and young ones with conditional fortunes to inherit. "Don't you think you being little not quite your old self?"

Mr Reynolds had barely sat down behind his desk before leaping up again at this inquiry with an energy rather fierce and boundless, that was inappropriate to the inquiry which merited it. "Why, old lady, its the same with Hurst as with the footman. You must either scrunch them or they'll scrunch you."

He glanced to their ward, capturing sight for the first time of her concerned expression, and turned on her with the same boundless energy, a miserly eagerness acquired within his eyes. "Now this isn't entertaining, Miss Elizabeth, now is it?" he turned to his wife, a hand gesturing at their companion, who seem inclined to answer him with the truth of what she felt concerning his assertion.

"Now Elizabeth, for her age, is remarkably well up on what to go in for. You're right my love," he said as he loomed over her with that monetary glint still present. "Go in for the money. Make a profit from your good looks and from the money me and Mrs Reynolds will have the pleasure of settling on you, for we're very fond of you, my dear. A golden ball of opportunity lies at your feet, Elizabeth, my dear!"

Elizabeth nodded, but inwardly her mind was suddenly concerned at the change she saw in her once kind and generous guardian. Mr Reynolds appeared so altered from his first brush with wealth as to be quite unrecognisable.

Looking at him as he returned to his desk, remembering the fearful expression across his brow as he loomed over her, and the unjust treatment of Mr Hurst, Elizabeth could not help but wonder if this was what money did to you; worsen and corrupt the character and mind until you no longer knew yourself, or others that you once cared for, for now you cared for nothing but money.

Money, she found herself forced to conclude, was spoiling Mr Reynolds, and not for the first time did she fear becoming mired within the same sinking affliction.

Part 20.

Posted on: 2011-01-29

Nightfall fell in slow increments upon the city, blinding those who had not lost their vision to the fog or smog which plagued the poorer streets. Time for all citizens of London to seek their beds or board, a safer alternative to the perils that came with the fall of darkness. As for the richer side, they had their gaslights and candles and carriages to aid them in returning home, still no less to fear from the encroaching blackness as the poor, if not even more so, for they had the more to loose.

During the night these vast divisions of Society were never more apparent, the comparisons never more broad. Blackness threw up a wall between rich and poor, barring one from the other, until the daylight could be seen again, though in some areas, the wall was still present, crossed only at one's peril. Rare was the man who from the richer side who dared to cross the barriers into the poor areas, and often he was also unwise, for that way held danger, both to his wealth and to his life.

However, there was such a man abroad tonight, in an area which a man of his wealth would be a fool to enter, even in the alleged safety of daylight. Such entry from such fools usually caused them to part with some of that wealth, either due to some debt or addictive affliction, such as gambling or the temptations of the opium dens. Occasionally the affliction or debt was too great, causing that man to never emerge from the area, his remains to be washed ashore, or torn to ribbons by the ferries.

But this man was different from the rest. His wealth was new, his origins old, and from the area he was now traversing. He knew his surroundings well, he would not be caught unawares by a curious opportunist.

Yet he was not unobserved through his nocturnal adventure. Two sets of inquisitive eyes watched his movements, as he navigated his way through the dust mounds surrounding his old house. They saw his crouching, furtive manner, caught sight of the shovel which he carried within his hand, the skill with which he used it. If they were too far away to see what he might have been concealing or revealing, the distance was no barrier for speculation.

"He's looking for something," Old Wickham murmured. "What's he doing?"

"He's got a shovel," Mr Younge remarked. "And he knows how to use it." They watched him move to another series of heaps, digging away anew. "He knows these mounds like his own garden. He could bury us without a trace, if we give him reason. Come on," he urged the retreat to the house.

Barely were they there safely installed within the comfortable but batted armchairs which resided in the parlour before the front door was pushed open, and the glow of a lantern entered the darkened hall, followed by Mr Reynolds.

"What's the matter, Wickham?" He asked as he caught sight of the man's blanched countenance upon his entrance. "You're as pale as a candle."

Wickham forgot to breathe in his rush to cover his pale complexion, and his body rebelled the oxygen as a result.

"Physic yourself to be order for the morrow," Mr Reynolds advised, before catching sight of the other companion in the room.

Wickham ceased his coughing and ushered the man out from the concealing darkness. "This is a friend, Mr Younge," he revealed.

"Of Clerkenwell?" Mr Reynolds sought to confirm, receiving a nod in return. "I've heard of you," he added, brightening eagerly. "You knew the old man. Did he tell you of any hoardings of money or even better?" He inquired in the manner of someone in need of every penny, when clearly such was not the case. "Oh by the by, I've decided to sell off the mounds, Wickham," he added, almost as an afterthought.

The tenant who had thought himself entitled to whatever treasure remained beneath these dusty covers was rightly stunned. "What?"

"Gonna loose the mounds," Reynolds repeated. "They're to be carted off that's the end of it," he added abruptly, considering the matter at an end. "Goodnight," he continued in farewell, forestalling the man's ushering to the door. "No, I know the way out."

Younge restrained his companion, who was ready to grab their departing visitor by the coat tails, and strangle him for ridding him of his claim to wealth. "Did you hear him! He's going to cheat me! Cheat us! Before we can find anything! Let me get at him."

"Now why would you be wanting to do that?" Mr Younge asked him. "Think, man. The clearing will take more than a day, weeks even, I dare say, and the movement may reveal the treasure quicker than our fumbling could ever do."

"I hope you're right, Younge," Wickham remarked stilling at last under his friend's restraining hand clasp upon his shoulder. "For I fear the morning arrival of all those carts, carrying away the fortune I am entitled to."

Several days after he was brought into the tap room of the Fellowship for the Six Jolly Porters, left for dead, Jenkinson came to a weather-beaten series of wooden planks, laughingly called a walkway across the dredges of the river. Silently he crouched before the edge, his eyes peering into the grimy water, attempting to descry the nature of the depths below.

He remembered heaving the muck from his mouth; the poisonous liquid clinging to his throat and lungs, the knowledge of how close he was to death. But how long he spent in the water, where the river washed him up, or what caused him to almost surrender to dark currents beneath these boards, was up for speculation.

He felt the pressure and tread of someone else walking those planks, and looked up to encounter the figure of a man sombrely clothed, with a countenance to match, grim and closed mouth, saying only what he chose.

"Been walking and lost my way," the man revealed. "Been looking out for someone I used to know," he added, resting his hands on the frail support ledge. "I feel she may have passed this spot."

"She?" Jenkinson queried, curious, despite himself. "The lady travels alone?"

"Yes," the man replied. "At least I believe so. You've not seen a man have you?" He asked him. "A city man, a man of law? His name is Bingley."

"Bingley," Jenkinson echoed, recollecting the man and his companion. "Oh, I'd know him if I saw him."

"You are acquainted with this man?" His companion asked.

"I am indeed," Jenkinson confirmed. "Along with that Fitzwilliam fellow. When I was cheated at the time of Philips's death."

The stranger regarded him with new interest. "You are Jenkinson."

"What's it to you?" Jenkinson countered, forcing the man into silence. He crouched for a moment longer, considering. "This river's drowned me once," he revealed. "I mean to get the better of it." He rose to his feet with the practice of an old river hand. "I'm thinking of taking a job up river. More respectable. What do you think?"

"You know Philips's niece?" The stranger asked.

"None better," Jenkinson replied. She was kindest soul that ever lived in this neighbourhood. A far better carer than his burden of a daughter.

"Have you seen her?" The stranger asked.

"Not since the day of Gaffer's death," Jenkinson replied.

"And him, Bingley," the stranger inquired. "Did you ever see them together?"

"Certainly I have," Jenkinson agreed.

"And did he make a show of being kind to her?" The stranger inquired.

"Oh yeah, that was very definite," Jenkinson grinned, remembering the occasion he saw him stare into the window of her dwelling, and his comment to Lawyer Fitzwilliam, concerning how he felt like a dark combination of a traitor and a pickpocket when he thought about Miss Bennet.

The stranger reached into pocket and retrieved some silver. "Suppose I was to offer you five shillings?" He remarked.

Jenkinson grinned at him. "Well I'd take it," he replied, opening his hand to receive the proffered funds. "What's this for?"

"I don't know, I don't know," the stranger replied, sounding suddenly so very lost, that Jenkinson almost felt sorry for the man. "Look, do you know where she is?"

"No," Jenkinson answered.

"Well if you do have any intelligence of her, or of him, would you be willing to part with it?" the stranger asked. "Look you can trust me, I'm a schoolteacher."

Jenkinson nodded, storing away the information about the man. He watched the stranger walk away. "I don't know where to find ya," he called out.

"I'll know where to find you," the schoolteacher replied. He stopped suddenly, seemingly at a loss once more. "Oh, the five shillings, I don't know what I want for it, remember. No I don't know. If anything," he finished before walking away.

Jenkinson watched him go, knowing that with a little bit of detective work, he could find the school which answered in the affirmative to having such a teacher who matched that stranger's description. Yes, there was money to be made out of this encounter, if he bided his time and put it to good use.

Part 21

Posted on: 2011-02-05

Elizabeth woke one morning to a complex of puzzling sounds emanating from the ground floor. Despite the magnificence of the townhouse, the richness in the materials which were used to build the place, the walls could not hide certain noises from reaching every room no more than her father's house in Holloway. Or Longbourn, for that matter, but she often refused to dwell on her memories of their once ancestral home.

Slowly she rose from the pillows, casting her gaze around the bedroom, noting the condition of the daylight entering through curtained sash windows, judging the hour how her father had taught her to in her youth on the grounds of her first home in rural Hertfordshire. Despite the contrast between London and Meryton, it was a science which depended little on surroundings. Once an estimate of an hour was established firmly in her mind, she moved from the bed to dress herself, her mind returning to the internal speculation as to the origins behind the sounds which had woken her in the first place.

There was little peace within her since Jane had escaped to their Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, perhaps even before. Elizabeth just felt that the inability to remained settled and contented, was much more apparent to her now than it had been. Many things disturbed her equilibrium; the noises below were the last in a list which could be summed up in two words; William Hurst. Everything which disturbed her related in some way to him, no matter how indirect the degree of connection, from the changing temperament of Mr Reynolds, to the absence of her sister at a time when she most needed a confidant.

Jane's absence troubled her, even though she could hazard the possible cause as to her sudden departure one night for their maternal Uncle's home. Elizabeth felt this fresh parting deeply, more so than when Jane was caring for their Uncle and nephew Philips. The secrecy which her sister used was doubly disturbing, for rarely did the two of them hide their thoughts and feelings from each other. She knew her sister's reasons for leaving were no doubt sound, but she did not know the exact nature of them, other than that they might involve Mr Collins. This was only a supposition however, and not a certain one at that, for while she knew of the man's visits to the house, Jane had chosen not to confide in her the subject of those visits.

On the rare occasions she had been in the company of the man, Elizabeth had seen nothing in Jane's manner which could cause her concern, but as far as her own counsel went, she did not trust their nephew's old schoolmaster. There was something foreboding in his manner, a dark depth to his character. Elizabeth had only seen the merest hint of this, but the aspect became more apparent in Jane's behaviour after she returned from private conversations with him. Just as it had the day she left.

There had been little correspondence since her sister's departure too, and when Jane did write her letters were full of their aunt and uncle and nieces and nephews, nothing concerning why she left. It concerned Elizabeth that her sister was so reluctant to confide in her, because she could not help but think that the truth was dangerous for all of them, most of all for Jane herself. Her sister strove to protect their family whenever she could, her loyalty was far more powerful than her own.

A violent thump which caused the floor below her feet to vibrate, broke Elizabeth's reflections just then. Having finished her toilette, she quitted her bedroom and made her way down to the entrance hall, which turned out to be the location from where the noise was travelling. Descrying the sight before her as she came to a halt midway down the last set of stairs, Elizabeth silently concluded that the noise was not the only thing which was travelling.

A large collection of luggage bags and suitcases littered the black and white marble tiled hall, some in the process of being transferred by servants from the room to a carriage outside, an equipage which she could espy out of one of the front facing windows. Mr Reynolds stood upon the threshold before the gathering of these cases, Mr Hurst beside him. The faithful secretary's head was bowed slightly over a note book, taking notes of his employer's instructions.

Mr Reynolds looked up as her tread upon the stairs became audible. "Ah, Lizzy, my dear," he greeted her in the usual way. "Hurst is travelling to Derbyshire today."

Elizabeth frowned in puzzlement. "Derbyshire?" She queried.

"Yes, to survey the late Mr Darcy's estate; Pemberley," Mr Reynolds replied.

"And how many days will Mr Hurst spend there?" Elizabeth asked, silently judging the quantity of luggage left before them.

"Oh, only today, my dear," Mr Reynolds informed her. "The cases you see before us are to be stored at the house for when we decide to visit the place." He looked at her carefully, before adding, "you may go with him, if you like."

"May I?" Elizabeth asked, thinking of her sister.

"Of course, Lizzy, my dear," Mr Reynolds assured her. "Visit your sister Jane, I'm sure Mr Hurst can escort you there. Lambton is but five miles from Pemberley."

"I will escort Miss Bennet anywhere she wishes," Mr Hurst replied quietly.

"When do we leave?" Elizabeth asked.

"As soon as you are ready, my dear," Mr Reynolds replied.

"I will go and fetch my travelling clothes then," Elizabeth informed him before turning round to return to her bedroom for her coat and bonnet.

Mr Reynolds however stopped her before she had reached the landing halfway. "Let the servants get them, Elizabeth. That is what they are there for," he added with a look to Hurst, the full meaning of which his secretary could not fail to comprehend, before he left them alone in the hall.

The train left at the station just when it was due, taking Mr Hurst and herself away from the hustle and bustle of the London streets into the quiet and peaceful countryside. Elizabeth took the window seat in the carriage, her fine dark eyes gazing out at the passing views of the lush green fields and the various cottages or country estates from station to station, but her mind remained full of her sister, wondering if this surprise visit would cause Jane to confide in her, for she held no hope that it would allay her fears or concerns.

After the train departed from the last station before Kympton, Elizabeth turned to her travelling companion, silently studying him. His eyes were upon the opened pages of the leatherbound volume which was resting in his hands. It struck her that this was the first time they would be alone for the day since that evening he made known his feelings for her. She had rebuffed his advances then, and a part of her still felt that she was right to do so, but it was increasingly diminished by other evidence which stood in his favour.

His gentlemanlike manners, his considerate and respectful silence when they were in company with Mr and Reynolds, and his quiet acceptance of the change in Mr Reynolds's manner towards him. Elizabeth did not agree with Mr Reynolds's altered behaviour, but she did admire Mr Hurst's silent refusal to treat his employer in kind, or raise some objections concerning the treatment. It spoke well for his temper, a character trait which she had come to hold certain reservations of at late, especially when it was displayed by other persons she was acquainted with.

He must have sensed her gaze upon him, for he looked up from his book and asked her, "shall you be delighted to see your sister after so long a parting from each other?"

"Very much," Elizabeth replied. "It has felt strange to be without her after only just having her company again. I believe I feel her absence more now than when she was helping my Uncle and nephew Philips." She paused, before asking her own question. "Do you think well of my sister, Mr Hurst?"

"I think quite highly of her," He replied.

"I'm so glad of that," Elizabeth found herself replying, though she did not know why she was pleased that he approved of her sister. "There is something refined in her beauty is there not?"

Mr Hurst nodded. "She is very striking."

"Yet there is a shade of sadness upon her. I noticed it even before she left London," Elizabeth remarked, admitting for the first time the concern she felt for her sister. " I'm not setting up my own opinion here. Mr Hurst, I'm asking for your opinion."

Her travelling companion nodded. "I noticed that sadness. I hope it may not be as a result of the false accusation against your uncle."

Elizabeth could not fail to discern the distance in his tone, and sighed. "Mr Hurst, Please don't be so hard on me. Don't be so stern. I wish to talk to you on equal terms."

He closed his book and rose to seat himself next to her. "I was forcing myself to be constrained as required by our agreement." He smiled at her. "But there, it is gone."

"Thank you," Elizabeth uttered, taking his hand.

The train came to a halt, and they disembarked. To his surprise Elizabeth did not let go of his hand until they had left the station and came upon a wide footbridge covering a gentle flowing stream. The walk was brief in its production, but he felt deeply the sensations caused by the clasping of their hands, the touch of his skin against her own. The desolation he felt when her hand parted from his was most acute.

It was a warm summer's day, and in the current easiness of her company, William felt himself able to remove his jacket, revealing a white shirt restrained by a black waistcoat and fitting narrow armbands, designed to keep the shirt free of stains and creases. He folded the edges of his jacket inward and placed the garment on the stone wall. "In her letter to Mrs Reynolds, Jane stated that her name and residence must be kept strictly secret. I was hoping that you may be able to try and find out why."

"Of course. I'd be glad to help if I can," Elizabeth replied. "I have my own suspicions as to why, but you must allow me the privilege of sisterly confidence. I will not reveal anything unless Jane allows me to do so."

"It is only natural that you possess such feelings," William replied. "And I am sure that Mr and Mrs Reynolds will respect your silence."

"Thank you," Elizabeth uttered. She came to join his resting stance against the metal rails of the bridge, resting her bent arms across them, as her clasped hands hovered above the gently flowing water. "Mr Hurst, it seems so long since we've spoken to each other naturally. I'm embarrassed to bring up another subject, yet I can no longer keep silently wondering. It is Mr Reynolds. You know that I am not only grateful to him but I have a true respect for him."

"Unquestionably," William replied. "And that you are his favourite companion."

Elizabeth nodded. "That makes it difficult," she turned her face towards his. "Mr Hurst do you think he treats you well?"

William hesitated, uncertain how to answer her. "You see how he treats me," he added eventually.

"Yes I see it clearly," Elizabeth replied. "You see I have been watching Mr Reynolds these past few weeks."

He smiled at her choice of words. "You? Watching? Surely not."

She blushed, knowing to what evening he inferred, inwardly touched and embarrassed that he seemed not to hold her words said then against her. "I have to admit I have been watching him. And though on my first meeting with Mr Reynolds I found him gruff and dark and somewhat dirty I'm ashamed to confess, I've grown to find him kindly and unspoilt by his good fortune. But now..." She sighed, unsure of how much to say.

William found her eyes with his own, hoping that his solicitous gaze would inspire her to continue. "Now?"

"But now I have to admit that fortune is spoiling Mr Reynolds," Elizabeth added. "And I've seen the way he treats you and it gives me pain because I cannot bear it to be thought that I approve of it."

His features acquired a softened, almost ardent look as he replied, "Miss Bennet if you could know with what delight I see that fortune is not spoiling you."

"This treatment," Elizabeth added. "Well, I sometimes think that it must lower you in your own estimation."

He thought of the conversation with the Reynolds, of their plans and his own, choosing his next words with infinite care. "I have very strong reason for bearing with the drawbacks of my current position."

"Well, I sometimes think you repress yourself," Elizabeth confessed. "You force yourself to act passively."

"You are right," he replied, for her words were true, from a certain point of view. "I force myself to act a certain part, to appear to be something else to those who might be watching. But I have a settled purpose."

"And a good one I hope?" Elizabeth asked him.

William inclined his head. "And a good one I hope," he added, taking her offered hand once more. "Come, I better set you on your way to see your sister."

"Jane," Elizabeth cried as her sister opened the door of the Gardiner's residence to admit her, "I am glad to see you."

"And I you," Jane replied, embracing her. "Aunt and Uncle Gardiner are out with the children in Lambton just now, you find me all alone here."

"That is to the good, for I want a frank conversation with you," Elizabeth replied. "On a subject which you seem disinclined to confess on paper. How are you, Jane? Why did you leave London so suddenly?"

Her sister breathed deeply, taking care to let her reply sound as calm as she could possibly make it. "There is a certain man, a passionate and angry man who says he loves me, and I must believe does love me. He's a friend of our cousin."

"Mr Collins," Elizabeth deduced astutely. "And you're hiding here because you're afraid of him?"

"As you know, I'm not timid generally, but I'm always afraid of him. I'm afraid to read the newspaper or to hear of events in London in case he has done some violence."

"But you're not afraid of him for yourself," Elizabeth determined, knowing her sister well. "Then you must excuse me but it must be that there is someone else?"

"His words are always in my ears and the blow he struck when he said them is always in my head. 'I hope I may never kill him.'"

"'Kill him?'" Elizabeth echoed. "Is Mr Collins so jealous?"

"Of another," Jane confessed. "Of a gentleman. I hardly know how to tell you. Of a gentleman so far above me and my way of life. He's shown an interest in me since our Uncle's death. You know whom I'm speak of, Mr Bingley. He must not know I am here or give at least clue where to find me!"

"I see," Elizabeth pressed her sister's hand tenderly. "Of course I see."

"I live here peacefully," Jane replied. "And I hope you do not mind that I stay here for a time, until I feel the danger has passed."

"Of course," Elizabeth replied. "And I hope you may forget both these men. The violent one and one who causes you such worry."

"Oh I do not want to forget about him," Jane protested.

"I don't understand, Jane. If you care for Mr Bingley so, why not allow him to know that? Wouldn't confirmation of what he feels and might be willing to endure, be better than living in hiding?" Elizabeth countered. "Where is the gain, my dear?"

"Does a woman's heart seek to gain anything?" Jane asked her. "If I were to forget him, I should loose I shall loose the belief that if I had been his equal and he had loved me then I would have tried with everything I had to make him better and happier. I have no more dreamt at the possibility of being his wife than he ever has. And yet I love him, I love him so much and so dearly. When I think my life may be weary, I am proud of it and glad of it to suffer something for him. I may never see him again. His eyes may never look at me again. I'd not have the light of them taken out of my life for anything that life can give me. There I've told you everything. I didn't mean to. I did not want you to worry about me more than when we last parted."

"I only wish I deserved your confidence more," Elizabeth replied. "Do you wish Mr and Mrs Reynolds to know why you left?"

"I do not wish to trouble them so," Jane answered. "Just tell them that I am helping out our Aunt and Uncle."

"And make sure Mr Bingley does not learn where they live," Elizabeth added. "Oh, Jane, I wish I could ease things for you. If only I knew how."

"Mr Collins' passion will pass the longer my absence from London lasts," Jane prophesied. "He will forget me and we shall go on as before, as common and indifferent acquaintances." She smiled at her sister. "Now, how has it been for you since I went away?"

"Mr Reynolds continues to alter," Elizabeth replied. "His treatment of Mr Hurst worsens by the day. I am thankful that I never told him or his wife of that evening when he confessed his feelings for me. I dread to think what might happen if that event were made public."

"And Mr Hurst," Jane added, "has your opinion of him changed?"

"He is a friend," Elizabeth replied. "I endeavour to treat him so more and more since Mr Reynolds's change in manner. He does not seem to hold that evening I cruelly rejected him against me."

"No one who truly loved you would, Lizzy," Jane revealed.

"You think he still loves me?" Elizabeth asked with a gasp.

"You do not?" Jane countered. "His feelings are evident just by the attention with which he continues to show you. If he ignored you, I would be less certain of his feelings, for avoidance can be both due to the desire to continue to love you or to fall out of such love. And your feelings have changed for him, which leads me to believe that he is merely waiting for a chance to ask you again."

"A man who has been refused?" Elizabeth asked incredulously. "How could I ever be foolish enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to a woman? There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!"

"Love does not give up at the first stumbling block," Jane pointed out. "Nor should it do so, else we would never find it so fulfilling as to desire it with all our hearts."

Elizabeth walked back from the Gardiners, the five mile distance from Lambton to Pemberley no trouble to her. When her father still had Longbourn, she would spend most of her days rambling about the countryside, rain or shine, whatever the season, her return to the house witnessed and despaired of by her mother, who would cry aloud at how her second daughter would ever gain a rich husband, when she chose to run wild about the countryside, causing her dresses to gain inches of mud about the hem lines.

To which her father would reply that such displays show a healthy disposition rather than a constant concern as to the money which said gentleman would feel threatened by. She frowned now as she recollected such teasing, for she realised once more how her comments must have hurt her father the last time she saw him. Resolving to summon her courage upon her return to London and apologise to him in Holloway, she went on.

Reaching the beginnings of a gentle slope into a deep, lush, green valley, she slowed her pace, catching sight of something which made her stop altogether. Before her stood a magnificent house, constructed from local stone, with generous windows, casting a glorious reflection into the shimmering lake before it. She caught her breath in vain for it was taken away by the sheer beauty of the place.

When she travelled with the Gardiners in her youth, she had toured a number of stately homes, all of them impressive in their own right, but none which touched her heart as this one had. It seemed to belong to the landscape, as though no architect or landowner was responsible for placing it in this valley save nature it self. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste.

'And of all this,' she murmured inwardly, 'I might have been mistress.' With these grounds she might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, she could have rejoiced in these woods and hills as her own and welcomed visitors. But, no, she recollected to herself, for she would be with a husband who was a stranger to her, bound by contractual agreement, unlikely to welcome relatives who were so far below his situation in life. This was a lucky recollection, - it saved her from something like regret.

She descended the lush green slope, rounded the natural lake, her admiration of the house and grounds only increasing as it came nearer to her fond gaze. Finding a gardener by one of the borders before the stairs which led to the house, she asked him for the whereabouts of Mr Hurst. He kindly replied with clear directions to the estate office, and she thanked him, before continuing on her way.

The estate office was situated in a separate building by the stable blocks, which, had she taken a closer look, would have appeared unusually active for an estate that was reportedly shut up since the death of last incumbent. But Elizabeth paid this no mind as she possessed no reasons for such suspicions just yet. Instead she found the building described to her by the gardener and knocked on the door.

"Welcome to Pemberley, Miss Bennet," Mr Hurst greeted her as he opened the door. Turning he acknowledged the man behind him with a nod of farewell, before joining her outside. "What do think of the place?"

"I like it very much," she answered, her eyes drifting to admire the building and grounds once more. "I would say that it is beautiful, but I fear there is an inadequacy with the word to describe this place."

"I feel that too," Hurst agreed, though his eyes lingered on her far longer than they had the house, his need to learn that she approved of the estate far outweighing his desire to see a place which he last saw during his childhood. Such innocent days were a stark contrast to the times he lived in now. "Would you like a tour? Mr Reynolds gave me the keys, and I have been reading enough of the papers to pass muster as a guide, I believe."

Elizabeth turned to him, her sister's words on her mind, but too still caught up in the beauty of the place as well as a desire to see more of it to concern herself as to what he might read into her acceptance just yet. "If you are able to free yourself, then yes, I should like that very much. I know Mr Reynolds gave you a lot of instructions however, and I do not wish to inconvenience you with my curiosity."

"No, no," he assured her. "Your visit to your sister was all the time I needed to fulfil Mr Reynolds's instructions." he gestured to the path behind them, leading into the inner courtyard and entrance of the house.

She soon found Hurst's estimation of his abilities as tour guide to be typical of the rare opinion he professed aloud of his intelligence; under-exaggerated. Not only was he acquainted with the layout of the house and the pieces of furniture contained therein, but he also knew enough of the family history to satisfy her questions as to the identity behind certain likenesses, or who adorned a room with a particular look or ornament. He led her through all the principle rooms in an unhurried manner, allowing her to gaze at her leisure.

When they reached the music room, another gasp escaped her lips, as she caught sight of a fine Broadwood Grand which resided in one corner of the room, beside an equally fine harp. Before she was aware of her movements, her feet moved to place her body before the keys, her slender fingers idly picking out a tune. Only then did she note the production date of the piano, which caused her to realise her actions.

"Oh, perhaps I should not have come, as I seem to have ruined a surprise," she remarked, catching Hurst out of his reverie. "Mr and Mrs Reynolds must have ordered this for their visit for Jane and I to play."

"Well, I won't tell them if you don't," Hurst replied, inwardly relieved that he did not have to think of an explanation. For the piano was intended for a sister, his who still lived in the Cape with her companion, and his hoped for wife, who had just stepped away from the gift. Forcing the memory away, he followed her and carried on with his tour.

The last principal room was the gallery, and he took her up the flight of stairs which led to it feeling a considerable amount of trepidation, for there was a particular likeness within this room that her keen eye could find, causing her to realise everything. But the room could not be avoided, for there was a drawing of how the room looked some centuries ago, in another room, which had caught her curiosity.

Elizabeth studied all the fine paintings, asking him about the identity of each person painted therein, which he answered calmly, inwardly surprised he could, considering his state of nerves. When they reached the portrait in question, he tried to give it as little emphasis or meaning as he had dealt the others in the gallery.

"That is your Mr Darcy," he answered her inquiry. "I understand it was painted in the Cape last year, and sent to this house along with rest of the luggage. Mr and Mrs Reynolds asked for it to be placed here alongside his ancestors."

She stared at the likeness in silence for such a long time, that he feared she had noticed the resemblance between the painting and himself. Then she turned to him and smiled. "Come, Mr Hurst, he was never really my Mr Darcy. I never even met him, after all."

Hurst was both relieved and regretful that she had not noticed what he most feared her to. "And that one," he added, as they moved on to the next portrait, "is of his sister, Georgiana."

Elizabeth gasped as she surveyed the image of a young, blond haired blue eyed girl, placed in the same tropical surroundings as her brother. "I had no idea he had siblings. Surely the estate must be hers now? And why isn't she here, does she even know of her brother's violent and untimely end?"

"I er, believe Mr and Mrs Reynolds wrote to her," Hurst hurriedly answered, for the need for such explanations had not occurred to him until now. "And she chose to stay in the Cape with her companion. It is, I understand, the only country she has ever known, as she is more than ten years her brother's junior. But Old Darcy, her grandfather, had no knowledge of her, and therefore she is not recognised in the Will."

"The poor girl," Elizabeth murmured, her heart going out her. "She must miss her brother terribly."

"Yes," Hurst answered, "she must."

Later, as they walked away from the estate, the bell from the parish church was heard to chime, disturbing the peaceful and comfortable silence in which the end of their time together had placed them.

Hurst mentally counted the number of chimes and retrieved his pocket watch to confirm matters. "We will make the train if we walk swiftly," he observed. "You look rather serious Miss Bennet," he added as he glanced at her.

"I feel rather serious," Elizabeth replied. "Would you believe Mr Hurst I feel that I've passed whole years today."

He smiled at her. "You are overtired."

She shook her head, taking his kind observation with an equally kind reply, a pleasant contrast to the days of their first acquaintance with each other, when such a remark would have provoked a defensive response. "No, I'm not all tired. I feel that much has happened to myself, you know?"

"For the good I hope?" he asked her, receiving a nod in reply. Noticing how the wind ruffled the loose dark brown curls of her hair, curls he often long to kiss or encircle his finger with, he added, "You're cold. You're trembling." Immediately he took his jacket off and placed around her shoulders.

When Elizabeth took his arm companionably in reply, he could have shouted his joy to the spectacular summer sunset which caressed the horizon that they were walking past. "What a beautiful sky," she commented, observing it. "What a glorious evening," she added with a glance at him, followed by another clasp of his hand.

Ahead a train whistled, causing him to boldly take hold of her hand and run for station.

Part 22

Posted on: 2011-02-12

Back in London, in the area of the Temple and the law courts, Charles Bingley entered lodgings he shared with Richard Fitzwilliam to find his friend sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, smoking his pipe. His eyes were half closed, unruly dark brown hair falling over his forehead, pale grey fog seeping from the brown wooden cup at the end of the narrow tube sucked by his mouth.

In the hearth the heat turned the coal a shade of dark red, the crystals sizzling as they knocked against each other. The fire cast a warmth around the bachelor lodgings, adding a comfort to the simple wood panelling, the Spartan furnishings, the small dining table with its four Chippendale chairs and the two large leather armchairs, one of which the lawyer in question reposed within.

"My dear Richard, you are the express picture of contented industry," Charles observed aloud. "Reposing after the virtues of the day."

He took possession of the facing partner of furniture in his usual fashion, a languid air of easy tiredness about his movements, an energetic study of lethargy.

Richard took the pipe from his mouth as he took in the seemingly languid state of his friend as he retrieved a cigar from the nearby box and began to smoke. "And you, my dear Charles, are the express picture of discontented idleness. Where have you been all day?"

Bingley gestured with the newly lit cigar to the streets outside their lodgings carelessly, a sprinkle of ash falling into the hearth. "I've been about town. And I am about consulting my eminently respected solicitor about the state of my affairs."

"Well, your highly intelligent and respected solicitor is of the opinion that your affairs are in a bad way, Charles," Richard replied. "How could they be any other, Charles, when you spend your entire day wandering the streets in search of a certain personage?"

Charles rose from his armchair to rest an arm on the mantle ledge of the fireplace, his booted feet kicking idly at the fender. Yet his disposition had acquired a sudden serious air in response to his friend's inquiries. "But you could say at least that I don't gamble or party or speculate or invest. Or any other greedy activity that may eat up my non-existent income."

Richard sighed at the sorry state of his friend, who presented an almost pitiful figure, driven to distraction and despair by the disappearance of a girl. "Charles. You know you do not really care for her."

"I don't know that," Charles answered quietly and seriously, with a small amount of anger that shocked his friend out of his reproachfulness. "I must ask you not to say that. As if we both took it for granted."

"But if you do care for her, you should leave her alone," Richard advised.

Charles continued to stare at the fire with the same lost, sad, distracted expression splayed across his features. "I don't know that either. Tell me, Richard, have you ever seen me take so much trouble about anything?"

"My dear Charles, I wish I had," Fitzwilliam answered.

Bingley left the support of the hearth and walked to the window, where he gazed out at the nocturnal prospect. "If my taking so much trouble to recover her does not mean that I care for her, what does it mean?"

Richard shook his head, gathering his arguments once more, as his hands occupied themselves with the refilling of his pipe. "You must consider the consequences."

"You know I'm incapable of that," his friend replied with a small smile, his gaze briefly switching from Fitzwilliam then back to the panes of glass.

Their serious discussion was disturbed just then by a knock at the door, which Richard made move to answer, half rising from his armchair before being forestalled by his friend.

"I'm on duty tonight," Charles replied before disappearing to retrieve their caller.

He returned barely a minute later with a man whose sight caused Richard to rise out of his chair with a start, almost dropping his pipe in utter astonishment.

The figure was a collection of ill-kempt rags and hair, skin oiled by the toils of the road and a life lived in the bottle. He half stumbled, half staggered into the room, despite Bingley's best efforts to keep him upright. A wild look possessed his aged features, gleaned eyes gazing about their new surroundings as though the walls were the cage in a zoo, or the conditions of bedlam. Indeed, Fitzwilliam half wondered if their visitor had escaped from that disreputable asylum.

"Now," Charles began as he ushered the man into the room, a sudden energy acquired to his manner and disposition, "this interesting gentleman is a cab driver who I found it wise to make the acquaintance of. My dear, Richard, may I present Mr Dolls?" He barely paused for Richard to incline his head in reply, let alone speak. "Now I believe Mr Dolls endeavours to make a communication to me, but it may be necessary to wind him up before any sense can be got out of him. Brandy, Mr Dolls?"

"Three penn'orth of rum," the already half-cut man barely managed to reply.

"Mr Dolls' nerves are considerably unstrung," Charles added. "And I think it upon the whole, expedient to fumigate Mr Dolls."

Richard watched as his friend took the coal shovel from the fire, poured a powder in it from a small tin on the mantle of the hearth and proceeded to do just that. "Bless my soul Charles, what a mad fellow you are! Why is this creature here?"

"Mr Bingley," Dolls queried, his gaze wildly following the attorney as he swept around him with the coal shovel, followed by the trail of fumigated steam. "This is Mr Bingley?"

"Of course it is," Bingley answered half irritably as he continued to fumigate the man and the area surrounding him. "What do you want?"

"Three penn'orth of rum," Dolls repeated, proffering his glass forward.

"Would you do me the favour, my dear Richard?" Charles asked his friend, who now reluctantly moved from his stance by the fireplace. "Wind him up. I'm occupied."

"You want directions don't ya?" Dolls recollected as Fitzwilliam carefully retrieved the carafe of rum and poured the required amount into the small glass that the coachman clutched in his shaking hand. "You want to know where she is?"

"I do," Charles confirmed, pausing from his fumigation for a moment.

Dolls attempted to salute. He was unsuccessful so settled for draining his glass instead before replying. "I'm your man."

"Have you got the direction?" Charles asked, his attempts to fumigate abandoned as his mind focused on the reason behind this unusual visitation.

"Three penn'orth of rum," Dolls requested once more.

"Wind him up, Richard," Charles commanded. "Wind him up."

Richard caught his friend by the arm as he realised the full nature of to what these inquiries were intended for. "Charles, you cannot stoop to this."

"I said I would find her by any means, fair or foul," Charles reminded him as he began to fumigate the coachman once more. "These are foul, I will take them." He turned to Dolls, pausing in his actions to urge the man on. "Can you remember the direction? If that's why you've come, tell me what you want?"

"Ten shillings, three penn'orth of rum?" Dolls asked eagerly.

"You shall have it," Charles promised. "Just give me the direction."

"Fifteen shillings, three penn'orth of rum?" Dolls haggled.

"Get me my wallet, Richard," Charles asked, to which Fitzwilliam reluctantly complied, leaving the parlour for a moment to visit one of the two bedrooms in the lodgings for the item in question. He returned from his friend's room, took a position nearby as he retrieved the coins from their confinement and handed Bingley the required amount.

"Here you are, Dolls, all yours as well as all the three penn'orth of rum you can drink," Charles showed the money to the drunkard. "Now, give me the direction."

"Plashwell cottage, Lambton, Derbyshire." Dolls replied, his eyes glowing as he eagerly eyed the carafe of liquor and the coins.

Charles returned the coal shovel to the fireplace, poured the fifteen shillings into the man's pocket, placed a large bottle of rum in one of his hands, and hauled him out of the parlour, towards the door. "There. Drink yourself to death for all I care."

Richard watched as the door closed and drew breath, preparing himself for another serious conversation with his friend, inwardly wishing that the Reynolds's would tell him the location of Miss Bennet so he could have prevented his friend from sinking to these methods of discovery.

The dustman had been his first port of inquiry when Miss Bennet was gone, indeed the man had initiated the search, only to drop it just as suddenly, without explanation from him, his wife or his ward, who all seemed satisfied that the young woman was well and safe where she was, wherever that happened to be. Since then he had tried in vain to prevent his friend from continuing the search, and now that Bingley had discovered the location, he knew that all further attempts of persuasion could prove impossible.

"It seems to me that you have had no money at all since we've been married," Caroline Wickham, née Bingley, commented to her husband as they sat down to a dinner which lacked all the usual finery they were accustomed to on the evenings when they ventured out of Sackville Street to neighbourhoods of Portland Place.

Indeed it was rare that the couple chose to stay at home rather than venturing out into Society, so lacking were they in the comforts to which they had long been accustomed to acquiring. No fine works of art painted by respectable artists graced their panelled dining parlour, nor elegant linen their simple mahogany table. Threadbare cushions resided upon their chairs and sofas, tiny embers glowed in their hearth, remnants of candles hung in the sconces.

"What seems to you to be the case, may possibly be the case," Wickham conceded amicably before taking a spoon and a sip of their meal. "In any case, we're soon to be bankrupt if we do nothing about the case."

A servant entered, placing another dish before them, causing the couple to fall into silence until they were alone once more. Considering their state of affairs they were lucky to still possess a half decent household, and a confidential one at that, so behind in the wages were they, for Society would have long deserted them if the truth were known, shocked by the state of affairs which their once newlywed friends were now reduced to.

"We find ourselves in a corner," Wickham confessed to his wife. "What do we do?"

"There's nothing to sell?" Caroline asked him, glancing around their parlour, which lacked all the gifts gullible well-wishers gave in joy of the couple's nuptials, no china or porcelain ornamentation, and sparse furnishings.

Wickham shook his head. "Nothing. The furniture is surety already."

"So we must borrow," Caroline concluded. "Then I suppose it is natural to think in an emergency of the richest people we know. And the simplest."

"The Reynolds's?" Wickham determined astutely. "They're too well guarded."

Caroline rose from the table and took out one of the thin cigarettes she had taken to smoking of late, a narcotic relief from the present monetary turmoil of her married life. She put the drug to her mouth and inhaled, calming herself for the betrayal which she was now about to make. "Supposing if we could be of inestimable service to Mr Reynolds. He has grown very suspicious of late, remember? And simultaneously rid him of his secretary?"

Wickham turned to his wife, a wicked smile gracing his features as he listened to her explanation of how they were to achieve this feat, then timely step in, and fill the breach, providing another service to the sovereigns of industry without loosing or parting with any of their remaining possessions, save perhaps honour and decency.

As the night continued to darken, Richard was still concerned about the methods which his friend had now stooped to in his search. He had secured a small table by his armchair for the carafe in order to partake of some brandy, as the produce of the pipe he was smoking was no longer sufficient to quieten the turmoil in his mind, while his friend wandered the limits of the room, arguing his case for the defence of the visitor they had just entertained, supping from the snifter of brandy in one hand, inhaling the smoky aroma from his cigar carried in his other, all the languor and lethargy gone from his disposition.

"Think about it this way," Bingley proposed as he continued to pace the length of the parlour, turning as he reached the end of every sentence. "I give our Mr Dolls useful employment. Keep him off the streets. Pay him exorbitantly."

"You could make almost anything musing, Charles, but not this," Richard remarked as he leaned back in his armchair with a sigh.

Charles ceased his pacing for a moment, a seriousness acquiring itself to his expression as he gazed at his friend in surrender of the case. "Yes, I'm rather ashamed of it myself, so let's change the subject."

"It is so deplorably underhand of you," Richard continued in delivering his judgement upon the affair. "So unworthy, setting up this pathetic spy."

"Ah, now you have suggested a new subject," Charles said, causing Fitzwilliam to frown at him, for that wasn't his intention. "Isn't it amusing? I never can go out after dark but I find myself attended. Always by one spy, sometimes by two."

"Are you sure?" Richard asked, learning forward in his armchair, all disapproval fading from his countenance, his voice, and his manner as his concern for the safety of his friend conquered all other turmoil. "Charles, have you some debt I don't know about?"

"Observe the legal mind," Bingley mused with some joviality, before continuing to pace the floorboards once more. "Respected solicitor, it is not that. The schoolmaster's abroad."

"The schoolmaster?" Richard echoed, some what confused, not by the reference for he recollected the person in question vividly, despite his one and only encounter with him, when he first learned of his friend's energy and interest in a certain young lady, but by the circumstances behind this person's fascination with his friend.

Bingley disappeared into his room to retrieve his coat, before proceeding to stock the pockets with a liberal supply of cigars and matches. "Yes. Sometimes the schoolmaster and the pupil are both abroad. Don't you believe me? Then I shall prove it to you now. Get your coat, we're going hunting."

Richard obliged, grabbing his travelling cloak and walking stick, which was a sturdy, useful weapon, concealing a fine sword within, an inheritance from a military ancestor, just in case the schoolmaster intended to do his friend harm.

Charles halted outside their lodgings, turning first one way then the other, studying the prospect each direction afforded, considering the streets both led into. "A fine night for the chase. Which way for the scent? East or west?"

"East," Richard decided.

They headed out together from the Temple Inn on to Fleet Street, where the Strand ended and Chancery Lane began, walking parallel with Holborn, the other main road that together with Fleet, Chancery and Dury Lane encircled Lincoln's Inn Fields and Temple.

"Now when we get to St Paul's churchyard," Charles remarked, "we shall loiter artfully and I shall point out our prey. Get your wind, for we'll be crossing the city tonight."

Charles set off down Fleet street and Richard followed. As they entered the churchyard of St Bride's, the parish bell struck nine. Silently they continued walking, passed the crossing for Farringdon Bridge, which led on to Blackfriar's, until Fleet Street turned into Lugate Street, widening into the circle for St Paul's and its Churchyard.

Here they paused, though Richard had glanced back earlier to catch sight of their quarry, until now seeing nothing but the inference of a trailing shadow. Now with Bingley he cast his eyes about the graceful surroundings, till they caught sight of the Schoolmaster in the full gas light, whereupon he resumed his swift pace, exiting St Paul's Churchyard on to Cannon Street. Only the master scholar was abroad tonight, a dark, ominous figure stalking their shadows with equally dark intent.

Richard shuddered at the vision of the scholarly stalking shadow before falling into step with his friend as they continued down Cannon Street, crossing Queen's, which led to a bridge across the river. Behind them he could hear the quiet deadly tap of the schoolmaster's shoes, in time with his and his friend's, together with his walking stick, which he was grateful he had thought to take with him, for he could not help but fear a sudden mortal confrontation followed by a potentially tragic end.

"Charles," he uttered quietly, careful that his voice did not carry to reach the ears of their stalker, "how long has this been going on?"

"Almost ever since a certain person disappeared," his friend answered in the same low tone, briefly glancing at his friend and their silent follower, before resuming the swift pace he had set from the beginning.

Reaching King William's Street, they continued on into Gracechurch Street, passing the crossings of Lombard and Fenchurch, then up Bishopsgate towards Shoreditch, passing the lane that reached the Old Lady of Threadneedle and St Mary's Axe.

Still the schoolmaster kept up with their swift pace, deadly and determined, silent and stealthful, an ominous mortal hangman, ever watchful for the rope with which to secure the scruff of his prey, who hounded him as he hounded them, desperate for news of the girl who unknowingly and unconsciously ensnared their hearts upon first encounter.

"Watch him, Richard," Charles uttered quietly as they passed first Houndsditch then Union, walking parallel with Moorgate and Aldgate. "Watch him. See how I reduce him. I lead him. I grind him. I expose him as a figure of fun."

Entering Shoreditch, they passed a beggar, into whose cap Bingley dropped a few coins, causing the pitiful wretch to speak his thanks and look hopeful to their faithful follower, who was so intent on not loosing sight of his quarry as to ignore the proffered cap completely.

"This is what happens night after night," Charles explained as they passed Church street which led into Bethnal Green. "I tempt him all over the city. One night westward, another north. Sometimes walking, sometimes riding." They walked on, past the crossings into Old Street and Hackney before Bishopsgate became Kingsland. "I plan my routes during the day, and execute them at night."

As Charles reached the end of Kingsland, he turned abruptly, looping round Kingsly Green and Richard followed, causing the schoolmaster to halt as they appeared to confront the scholar, before brushing past, turning into Ball's Pond. "I pass him by and refuse to even acknowledge his existence."

Picking up pace once more, the lawyers continued up Ball's Pond until it became Saint Paul's, passing by Highbury Park, whereupon they turned into New North Road into Canonbury Square, confronting the schoolmaster as they toured every side.

"As you see he is undergoing grinding torments," Charles commented quite composedly as they passed so close as for Richard to observe the schoolmaster's tormented countenance by the gaslights. "I goad him into madness."

They exited Canonbury Square via Cany Lane, entering into Upper Street, the tormented schoolmaster still doggedly following them. He stalked them all the way down the road, as they passed Barnaby then Cross Street, Church Street then Theberton, until the route rounded Islington square. Upper Street became High Street, dividing into Pentonville, Goswell and City Roads.

They took the second of these three, the schoolmaster following them still, even as they continued down until Goswell became Aldersgate, reaching the crossings of Cheapside and Newgate, whereupon St Paul's Churchyard came into view once more. From there it was a short walk into Lugate and then Fleet, before they returned to their lodgings at Temple.

Richard clasped his friend's arm as they reached the grand entrance, pausing their hunt by the sign of names assigned each flat. The schoolmaster was out of sight now, but Fitzwilliam could still feel him loitering in the shadows, waiting to see if they truly meant to go back inside, or were merely tricking him only to take another tour of London. "Charles, don't you think you're running a terrible risk goading him like this?"

Bingley sighed. "Richard, listen. Listen. Jane's gone. She's gone. And these night chases are my only solace. They give me an expressful pleasure."

"And what happens if your foul method is telling the truth?" Richard asked. "Will you allow the schoolmaster to dog you all the way to Lambton? Will you be solaced if he sees Miss Bennet and does her harm?"

"Of course not," Charles retorted. "But how will he afford to do that? And how can he when he has children to teach during the daylight hours?"

"I don't know," Richard conceded, "but I ask you to take care, Charles. If not for your safety, then at least for hers."

"Very well, Richard. If it puts your mind at ease, I shall take care to loose the schoolmaster before I go to Derbyshire."

Richard let his friend go to bed and tried to do so as well, but his mind would not let him settle, the schoolmaster continuing to haunt his thoughts as he had haunted his figure during the long walk through the city streets. Two or three hours of restless turning later, he entered his friend's bedroom and glanced out of the window into the approaching dawn warily, fearful to see the schoolmaster still watching their lodgings.

"What's the matter, Richard?" Charles asked as the creaking floorboard woke him to the sight of his friend, leaning cautiously by the wooden frame of the sash window.

"Nothing," Richard uttered absently, his focus and his gaze still on the street below, as he watched the alleys and corners by every lodging, afraid to see the schoolmaster lying in wait of the next venturing from their rooms.

"What the devil are you doing sleepwalking then?" Charles remarked, with barely a concern or a care directed at the reason behind his friend's disturbed stance.

"I'm horribly awake," Richard confessed as he continued to stare out at the gradual approaching dawn. "Charles, I cannot loose sight of that fellow's face."

"Which fellow?" Charles asked as he rolled over to face his friend.

"The schoolmaster," Richard answered.

"Odd," Charles laughed. "I can." He rolled over and returned to sleep.

Richard sighed, turning his face from the window to gaze at the unconcerned slumbering figure of his friend. Charles seemed to have few cares in life, save what related to Miss Bennet, and those only on her disappearance, not how the schoolmaster might be connected to that, as his stalking had begun when she disappeared, leading Richard to be of the opinion that the schoolmaster believed Charles knew her whereabouts, and would eventually lead him to her.

But Charles had been in ignorance until now, and knowing that, capitalised on the schoolmaster's nature, goading him into madness, a solace to one, a torture to the other. He appeared to possess no conception of what this would goad the schoolmaster into, the possible injury he might visit upon him or Miss Bennet.

Richard however, could speculate such consequences all too well, and he did not like any of them.

Collins did not sleep well either; his mind indulging in a perverse mood, one which finds joy in plotting cruel and unusual ends to the life of the man he trailed each night. An intelligent Christian, he knew well the sin of this thought and the consequences when he carried such a violent deed out, but he was long since passed the point of caring. Bingley had to know the whereabouts of Miss Bennet, or if he was still in ignorance, he would find out from the Reynolds's in Society circles soon enough. He had no other means of tracking her down, not with his limited resources.

Rising from his bed to greet the new day after a short respite from stalking the lawyers all over London, Collins splashed water on his face, the haggard creature that was his reflection in the mirror causing him no concern. It had been his appearance for awhile now that even the pupils dared to hazard about it no more.

Charlie Philips had passed his exams awhile ago and was established in his apprenticeship in another school. There was no need for him to save Miss Bennet for her cousin's sake, for Charlie could now care less. Collins could give up this care without a consequence to anyone save himself and Bingley, doubtless causing the both them some eventual beneficial ease.

Yet he could not erase her beautiful features from his mind, nor the passion with which he cared for her. He had to see, her reason with her, persuade her to return his feelings.

If not for her sake, for Bingley's, else fear what his passionate nature and violent thoughts would drive him to commit.