Two Worlds and One Love Read online

  Two Worlds and One Love

  An alternative Pride and Prejudice story

  T. L. Northwood

  Copyright 2017

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  London, 1906.

  A young man raised his camera, framing the children playing bat-and-ball. The ruddy-faced boy with the stick in his hands would be the central figure, but the man wanted them to get the ragged girls on the stoop in the shot as well.

  A dark-haired boy held the "ball" aloft, tightly wrapped rags around a stone. He wound up the pitch and the photographer depressed the button on his pocket Kodak.

  "What yer doin', Mister?"

  The boy stood on the sidelines of the game, his legs badly bowed by rickets. The man had captured this child in the picture too. In fact, though the batter was the central figure, this boy was the focus.

  "I'm taking your photograph," he replied.

  "Ain't that Turkish!"

  The man smiled. His subjects were not always so easy to impress.

  "I'll bring you a picture next time I'm here," he promised.

  "Golly, thanks, Mister."

  "What's your name?"

  "Ben Jones. What's your name?" It sounded more like, "Whatcher name," but the man’s ear had gradually become tuned to the argot.

  "William Turner."

  When he first stumbled onto this exotic pocket of the city called the Darkest London, William had been overwhelmed by the noise and stench. Since then he'd gained a fascination for the languages, the foods, the people themselves. He strolled the teeming streets, camera at the ready. He watched, he listened, and most of the time he was ignored.

  In a narrow alley, a girl was pulling laundry from a clothesline and bundling it into a basket. He wondered if she was a laundress but quickly abandoned that thought. Laundresses were never as fresh and lithe as this girl. Hot water and lye aged them early, scrubbing gave the women enormous forearms and blistered red skin. This girl's hands were delicate, her arms slender.

  Daylight was fading, but the photographer unfolded his camera and checked the view.

  There's an element of chance in photography. You don't always capture what you want, and sometimes you catch what you didn't see at all. The girl wore a plain white shirtwaist and a trim blue skirt. He watched as she struggled to fold the sheets into halves, then quarters, then eighths before she piled them into her basket. He clicked the shutter and then wound the film forward for another shot.

  Perhaps one of these would come out. He'd learned a few tricks in the darkroom and he hoped for the best. The girl turned to face him, and he lowered his camera at her approach.

  "I beg your pardon. I only wanted to take your photograph," he explained.

  "You might have asked me first," the girl said. "Do you always go about taking people's photographs without their permission?" She held the basket against her hip, leaning a bit to counter the weight.

  "Yes," he answered, too surprised to lie. The people he'd encountered in this neighbourhood were rarely so well spoken. Her voice was melodic; he picked up the slightest lilt hinting at an Irish birth.

  "How rude," she pronounced. Good heavens, she was beautiful. Her skin was creamy white, the cheeks pink by exertion. But it was her fine eyes that left him almost speechless, so blue and clear a man could almost swim in them.

  "Please forgive me and let me explain. I'm not trying to make portraits for a gallery. I want real photos of people doing the things they do."

  "And so you skulk about like a thief." She wasn't angry. She sounded like a tutor correcting backwards pupil.

  "Please accept my apology."

  The girl nodded and started up the steps of the stoop. He watched her balance the basket against the door until she could open it, then watched her disappear inside.

  He should have offered her a print, he thought. He should have offered to carry the basket.

  Twilight was approaching and now the streets were filled with men and women, boys and girls, returning from the factories. Barely time to stop in at Parkes' grocery store before he headed home.

  Fresh ground coffee scented the air in the grocery and William took a moment to inhale and enjoy. Parkes nodded at him from behind the long, cluttered counter as he turned the handle of the large brass coffee grinder. A little girl stood on a milk box, dusting cans of pickled beets and evaporated milk.

  "Mr William the photograph man!"

  "Hello, Julia! You're more beautiful than ever!"

  The little girl was always happy to see him or to pose for him. Her father grunted a greeting.

  "Show me the picture again," Julia begged. The father gave her a little frown and shook his head.

  "It's all right," Mr Turner said. The photo was worn and bent although he always treated it with care.

  He'd taken the photograph himself five years ago. Unlike his current subjects, the young girl in this picture was dressed in ruffles, her blond, curly hair tied up with ribbons.

  "Georgiana, the beautiful lost girl. Maybe she's locked in a dungeon, or under a spell," the little girl said. If only this was a fairy-tale, William thought.

  "Maybe she is," he responded as he slipped the snapshot back in his pocket.

  "Don't be sad. One day you'll find her," Julia said.

  "Perhaps, one day," he whispered. "So, young lady, how is school?"

  "Very good. I'm the only one in the whole class who can do the seven timeses. Want to hear me? Seven times one is seven, seven times two is fourteen--"

  "Julia," Mr Parkes interrupted as he bagged a customer's purchase. "You bother Mr William too much. Your mama will be wanting help to make the supper."

  Turner glanced at the clock behind the counter and realised the afternoon was all but gone and he needed to get home.

  He bid the family farewell and left the store. William knew he should catch the tram to save time, but he enjoyed walking.

  Less than five miles separated Great Eastern Street and Grosvenor Street, but it might as well have been a thousand. As he walked down Old Street, the sights sound and smells changed with every block he walked as the Jewish neighbourhood gave over to the Italian and Polish.

  Gone were the pushcarts as he moved to Mayfair. The streets were lined with elegant shops; milliners, florists, stationers. Smartly dressed patrons moved between the stores like bees around flowers. Businessmen exited the great stone buildings and walked purposefully on their way home.

  A voice rang out above the din of horse hooves, cartwheels and motor cars.

  "Paper! Paper! Daily Mirror evening paper here! Get the World for just one shilling!"

  From his vantage point across the street, William pulled out his camera. He usually restricted his photographs to the poorer sections of the city, but he couldn't resist an interesting shot. Against the background of the miracle of modern construction, the newsboy seemed dwarfed.

  The boy looked familiar, and Mr Turner
realised he'd seen him around Great Eastern Street playing with the other children. Then as now, the kid wore a battered old fisherman's cap. It covered his head down to his ears, giving him a raffish look.

  The streetlights had turned on against the grey twilight, and the boy stood silhouetted against the modern glass entrance with its warm-toned electric light. The photographer waited until the boy's arm was aloft, newspaper waving before he snapped the picture.

  Pocketing his camera, he crossed the street and approached the boy.

  "Keep the change," he said, tossing the kid a one pound coin.

  "Thanks, Mister," he gulped, surprised by such a bounty from the shabbily dressed man. William tucked the evening news under his arm and waved goodbye to the still stunned child and headed to Grosvenor Street.

  He shook his head as he walked. He'd given in to the urge to be generous, but he needed to be more careful to maintain his disguise.

  Finally, he arrived at the imposing house of Neo-Georgian architecture that he called home. The young man bypassed the steps leading to the front door; he slipped in through the servant's entrance. Taking the stairs two at a time, he raced up the second floors. Luck was with him, and he arrived, undetected sneaking up the back stairs.

  "William Turner. And late as usual."

  "Quiet, Richard!"

  "Oh, I quite forgot. You're really Fitzwilliam Darcy and if your mother learns about your forays into the demimonde, you'll be a very sorry Fitzwilliam Darcy."

  The young man set his jaw but didn't dare argue. Technically Richard Fitzwilliam was his personal secretary, but in fact, he was part friend, part co-conspirator, and part a cousin, illegitimate child of Fitzwilliam's uncle. Mr Edward Fitzwilliam never acknowledged his son and the boy had to depend on his aunt's generosity.

  Darcy shrugged out of the peacoat he wore on his photographic excursions, mainly because the deep pockets easily concealed his cameras.

  "I'll just take this coat and burn it."

  "Hilarious," Fitzwilliam replied. He watched Richard hold the coat at arm's length as he carried it to the dressing room. Hidden behind the elegant suits, starched shirts and polished shoes was a small cache of shabby trousers and shirts. It was important that the subjects of his pictures didn't see him as an outsider.

  "I'll draw you a bath," Richard said, wrinkling his nose.

  "There isn't time. I'll be late for dinner."

  "You'd best make time. Your mother will faint dead away if she stands downwind of you, Darcy."

  "Well then, you're wasting valuable time insulting me."

  "Did you get any good shots?" The older man called out over the rush of the water as the tub filled.

  "A few. I want you to take the film over to Miles later. He'll do a better job of developing them than I will. One, in particular, may be... special."

  Richard nodded, his gaze shrewd. "What are you up to, Darcy?"

  The man smiled but didn't answer. To be honest, he didn't think he could explain what about the girl had captured his attention. She was beautiful, without question, but beautiful women could be as dull as dust. There had been something special about this girl. A spark, a force, a strength.

  Richard left him to his bath, taking the camera with him. He'd carefully remove the film for processing as Darcy had taught him. At thirty-three, Richard Fitzwilliam was six years older than his cousin. He'd seen Darcy through myriad adventures and more than a few scrapes. He kept his life in order, and more importantly, kept Fitzwilliam Darcy's secrets.

  He stripped out of his clothes and stepped into the bathtub, groaning happily as he sank into the hot water.

  His suite comprised a bedroom, dressing room, private bath, and sitting room. Georgiana's rooms were across the hall, all decked out in pale blue and cream, and untouched since the day she left.

  His sister had been gone for three years and he still dreamed of opening the door to her room and to find her calmly brushing her blonde hair at her dressing table.

  By the time she was sixteen, his sister was an extraordinary beauty. She began to attend balls and parties and was attracting more than a few suitors. When three years ago Darcy was in Germany, he and Georgiana had kept in touch by letters. At first, they were full of the excitement of being allowed at long last to go to dances. She was, of course, the "belle of the ball." Soon, however, unhappiness crept into the letters.

  A certain German Baron began to call on Georgiana. Mother and Father were very much in favour of the match. Making a brilliant marriage was the most important thing an heiress could do.

  The young Miss Darcy was miserable. The Baron was forty and obese. Her letters became more and more frantic.

  When he came back to London, Georgiana was already gone. She'd left in the night with the help of one of the footman. Mother and Father chose to handle her disappearance privately and had not called the police. They preferred to escape the scandal. Instead, they hired a private detective who determined that Georgiana and George Wickham, the young footman, had slipped out of the house and vanished into the great London or another big city. The parents paid the detective and seemed resigned to the loss of their daughter. It was almost too much to imagine, but sometimes it seemed to Fitzwilliam as if Georgiana was no longer marketable and thus not worth his parents' further effort.

  The brother would not give up, however, but without his parents' support, he had to find his own way to search his sister.

  Fitzwilliam Darcy's second life, that of slum photographer, took shape. Dressed in a common man's clothing, he made his way through the streets, taking pictures and asking if anyone had seen Georgiana. Though there were sightings of an out-of-place pretty, blonde-haired girl, his sister remained tantalisingly beyond reach.

  A sharp rap at the door startled him out of his reflection.

  "Hurry up, Darcy. Its quarter past seven," Richard called through the door.

  "You worry too much," the man shot back. His cousin was right, however. He was to accompany his parents to a dinner party and they would not be amused by his tardiness.

  Rising from the tub, he dried himself briskly with a towel. He wrapped it around his waist and walked into the dressing room where his formal clothes hung, brushed and ready.

  "I wonder what thin-lipped eligible heiress my mother has on hand tonight," Darcy said as he extended his wrists so Richard could fasten the gold and diamond cufflinks. "Some vapid young woman, no doubt, unable to discuss anything beyond the weather and the latest styles."

  "I believe Mrs Bingley is attending," Richard replied. He held the waistcoat out for Darcy to shrug into. "She's hardly vapid, I should think. And such a young widow..."

  "Caroline," Fitzwilliam mused. "She's certainly not dull."

  His wing collar was already cutting into his neck. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable evening. Richard eased him into the swallow-tail coat and surveyed him with a careful eye.

  "The maidens will swoon," the elder man said dryly.

  "You should take that act to vaudeville," the younger replied as he exited in search of the rest of the family. He found his mother in her sitting room.

  "You look lovely, Mother." Anne Darcy wore blue satin overlaid with silver lace, which did remarkable things for her white hair.

  "Thank you, dear," she replied, rising from her chair. "I'm afraid your father is in high dudgeon tonight. You know he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

  "Where is he?"

  "I believe you'll find him pacing the foyer and grumbling to himself."

  Fitzwilliam and his mother descended the main staircase to find George Darcy exactly as his wife had predicted.

  "So glad you graced us with your presence, Fitz."

  "Forgive me, Father. I lost track of time this afternoon."

  George Darcy glared at his son. For as long as Fitzwilliam could remember, his father had been almost impossible to please. Still, he could never stop trying to achieve that elusive acceptance.

  "The carriage is waiting, Sir," Edga
r, the butler, said, entering the room. The family exited the house, descended the front staircase and climbed into the vehicle. Mrs Darcy did not approve of motorcars, believing them to be noisy and undignified.

  "Where were you all afternoon, Fitzwilliam," she asked.

  "Oh, just wandering about," he answered. "Looking at some pictures."

  "At a gallery?"

  "You might say that."

  "Damn fool waste of time," George Darcy said. "A business doesn't run itself while you stroll around gazing at paintings and consorting with chorus girls. You need to take the work more seriously, Fitz."

  "Father, I do take the work seriously. You said yourself that I'm astute when it comes to choosing investments."

  "That's not all it takes to succeed. You can't just drop in at the office now and then."

  Further discussion would have to wait as they'd arrived at the Walker’s home. It was less than half a mile between the two residences, but it wouldn't have done to walk.

  The Walkers had made their money in steamships and had done it a generation or two before everyone else. That gave them a certain eminence in society. Martha Walker was considered the grande dame of the social scene, in large part determining who was worthy of inclusion in the cloistered world.

  The dinner party this evening was small and intimate; only thirty or forty attendees. According to Anne Darcy, Mrs Walker felt a calling to provide opportunities for young people to meet and mingle. She apparently believed it was her responsibility as a society leader to foster what she considered "suitable matches."

  The Darcys were admitted into the marble and gilt foyer, dominated by a magnificent curved staircase. The foyer and the adjacent rooms were ablaze with electric light. Darcy smiled, remembering how his mother harrumphed with annoyance when Mrs Walker had electric lights installed in her home. "They make everything look ugly and stark," she'd said. Fitzwilliam thought her biggest concern was how much less flattering electric light was than candle or gaslight.

  The guests milled around the foyer and library, the ladies in elegant gowns, adorned with their best jewels and the gentlemen in formal dress. Now and then, laughter could be heard above the conversation as someone told a joke.