Page 41 of The Winter of Our Discontent (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
FITZWILLIAM DARCY, MANCHESTER
The human misery I have seen in Manchester has astounded me.
My own misery fades instantly into the background to witness the grinding poverty and violent scrabbling for the meanest work.
I stay with Harold Greenly in a townhouse on the high side of the town.
He came here after Cambridge and set to work, becoming elected at a young age as MP for his father’s borough.
Harold, being political, knows everyone from the lowliest lamplighter to the Duke of Manchester, and he mixes with all.
Through his connexions, I soon found the displaced farmworkers I sought—a small group who came down from Durham where crops have failed two years running from flooding rains.
This mixture of society is utter chaos to me.
Last night we dined with the returning Governor of Barbados, and tonight we go to the lecture hall to hear a tradesman talk of importation and exportation.
I am an anonymous figure here. The established norms of hierarchy are purely abstract, tended to when in London, but lost in the frenzy of industry and the clashing of those who eat against those who starve.
This is the war I feel coming on, the premonition of change that haunts me.
Of all times to be driven up the aisle by a mercenary woman!
The crowd at Liberty Hall was not fashionable.
Before me sat a sea of identically clad men, dressed in the uniform of merchants, mill owners, tradesman, bankers, and agents—black coats, simple cravats, woollen waistcoats—all decent, functional, and efficient.
There was an air in the room of great urgency, a drive to innovate and to catch the oncoming wave, whatever it may be.
Perhaps that is why I, too, was there. We are ‘the workshop of the world’, claimed one speaker, and we must begin to harness and develop the power of our labourers to stay dominant.
Wishing to engage this man in a direct conversation about my ideas for diversification from my estate’s purely agricultural income, I whispered to my friend Greenly.
We proceeded to an informal reception and mingled with men of business until the opportunity arose for an introduction.
“Mr Gardiner,” Harold said, “may I introduce my friend from Cambridge, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.”
The strangest look crossed Mr Gardiner’s face.
He met me with a searching look and a stiffness that took me aback.
He seemed neither friendly nor hostile, but I sensed he was taking the measure of me.
I spoke to him at length, and he listened to me, responding with his opinions, which seemed very knowledgeable, and I began to wish for something more from him.
Mr Gardiner, however, did not give the impression of openness.
Greenly was pulled away to speak to someone I did not know, and sensing he was unlikely to invite me to a club for drinks and a continuation of our conversation, I thanked the man in preparation for taking my leave of him.
“Mr Darcy, do you have any idea who I might be to you?” he said abruptly.
If I had not known better, I would have thought his tone rather confrontational. “To me, sir?” I replied coldly.
“I am Elizabeth Bennet’s uncle,” he said in a slightly victorious manner. “I bid you goodnight, sir.”
Greenly returned to see me standing alone, facing a wall. “Are you well, Darcy?”
I mumbled a reply, and we departed the lecture hall.
“Are you sure you are well?” After the fifth time my friend asked me that question, I was tempted to be candid and admit that no, I was not entirely well.
Instead, I assured him in a deadened voice that I was perfectly well but perhaps a little tired.
I wished for a month to ponder what had just occurred, but an evening alone in my room had to suffice.
I could not understand why I felt ashamed and found wanting.
The conversation ran in a continuous loop around my head.
Apparently, I was not well regarded by my wife’s uncle, though in truth I should have been.
I married the woman, did I not? I was a gentleman, and he was a tradesman.
I could have squirmed my way out of Meryton and left his niece to her ruination, for God’s sake. She compromised me!
Instead of absconding, I had elevated her to a position she could hardly have aspired to without resorting to treachery.
She was not mistreated, she was allowed to associate freely with my sister and my people, she was given every advantage, including generous pin money.
By rights, Mr Gardiner should have been the one feeling the hot flush of embarrassment, yet I felt my face alternate between the pallor of shock and the heat of mortification.
Days ran together. Not knowing where to turn, half fearing a chance encounter with the offended uncle of my unwanted wife, I was almost relieved to receive a note from Johnson asking me to return to Pemberley to consult on a ‘delicate matter’ that had arisen.
My refuge in Manchester no longer appealed, but I would rather not have been summoned to Pemberley.
What has she done now? I thought to myself as I grimly issued instructions for travel.