Elizabeth stretched briefly, fighting the overwhelming urge she had to simply find a clear spot on the ground and lie down. Her eyes felt gritty and her head throbbed with the sound of the machines that clattered on and on.
This was not the job she had understood herself to be accepting when it had been offered.
She had known that she would be working a night shift and had resigned herself to having to readjust her internal clock to reflect a schedule that had her working from four in the afternoon until shortly after midnight. She had also known that there was a possibility – a possibility, mind – that she would have to help out "sweeping" if she ran out of data entry work.
But she hadn't realized how little data entry there would be to do. Or how demanding this sweeping business was.
After another week or so of pouting at Mr. Darcy's abrupt dismissal of her services, Elizabeth had been contacted by Blue Line regarding a position as an Encoder. Feeling vaguely guilty for living off her sister's goodwill, she had accepted the interview, learned a bit more about the position and upon it being offered to her, accepted it.
Blue Line specialized in pre-sorting mail. They had several major clients who printed their own mailings and delivered those bulk mailings – hundreds of thousands of letters all at once – to Blue Line. Using the most modern aldectric machinery, Blue Line sorted through thousands and thousands of them every hour.
There were five of the marvelous machines on the floor, each one roughly fifty feet in length. At the front of each machine was a conveyor belt. Mail was loaded by the tray full onto this belt by the machine's operator. From there, it fed into the machine, past some sensors Elizabeth did not understand, and was then shot at high speeds down the length of the machine to land with a clatter in a numbered bin.
There were two layers of these bins, one high enough that Elizabeth had to stand slightly on tiptoe in order to reach the mail and the other low enough that she had to bend slightly to reach it. The mail was sorted by Postal Code, usually only the first three digits of the five digit numbers. The purpose of a sweeper was to remove the mail from the bins on the machine and to place it in a tray that was behind the sweeper's back as they faced the machine. The trays were also numbered, each one corresponding to a bin number, and were also on racks that had two levels.
Each tray had a clear pocket adhered to its front, just big enough for a paper tag to fit into. The tags were printed with a barcode and the Postal Code, so that it was easy to tell from a glance which mail ought to be in that tray.
Sweeping was simple work from the standpoint of making certain one put the mail from the correct bin into the correct tray. But with two rows of bins, two sides to the machine and about two hundred bins where mail could shoot out in rapid fire at any time, it was a physically demanding job. There were three sweepers per machine and if each one were not on their toes with bulkier mail it was quite possible for a bin to overflow, for the mail to stack up inside the machine and to cause the entire thing to screech to a halt.
Unless the mail caught on fire first, which had happened once so far. That had been an exciting few minutes.
The rat-tat-tat sound of mail nearby caused Elizabeth to jerk out of her rather dazed state. She was on the operator's side of the machine. It didn't get as much mail as the opposite side, so in a sense she had the easier assignment. In another sense, it was more difficult because of the way the plastic doors had to be installed on this side. Elizabeth had to use her left hand to pull the mail free and hadn't quite learned the knack yet of doing so quickly and smoothly enough to prevent the mail coming in behind it from ricocheting out at crazy angles.
No sooner had she cleared bin 48 when mail started to pile up at the other end of her side. Breaking into a dash, Elizabeth reached the new bin – a top one with a shorter feed area – and stopped short. Standing on her tiptoes, she gingerly pulled most of the mail out and twisted to put it in the bin behind her. Another two handfuls had already built up, so she repeated the process swiftly, wincing as she saw one of the envelopes smeared slightly with blood.
Everything about this sweeping job was devilishly hard on her hands. Her nails were all hopelessly broken and the envelopes had torn at her cuticles until they bled. Her skin was perpetually dried out from handling the paper and the cardboard trays, while all the hard edges of the plastic trays had scraped at her knuckles and the tops of her hands.
No, this was not the job she had envisioned when she had been told she might have to help out with it when there wasn't much Encoding work to be done. Encoding was done sitting down, typing numbers onto a numerical entry pad so that the Encoding machine might spray on new codes to pieces of mail that had gotten too mangled or simply weren't printed well enough to be read by the Sorting machines.
For just a moment, Elizabeth thought longingly of Mr. Darcy's offices. The cool, plush and quiet offices. Closing her gritty eyes just for the moment, she rubbed at her temples and wished fervently for some peace and quiet.
Rat tat tat, came the sound of more mail nearby. Groaning aloud, since no one could hope to hear her, she forced her eyes back open and turned to deal with the mail.
"Devil take him anyway!" She said it aloud. Someone might be standing right next to her and never hear. Any communication that took place on the floor was done in shouts while standing close to the person with whom you were trying to converse.
Some time later, the shrill sound of a whistle tore through the air. Within about 15 seconds, every machine was turned off and a sudden silence gripped the large room. Elizabeth found it unnerving, no matter how happy she was at the break the silence signaled.
The sound of several conversations spilled into the quiet, filling it with a chatter that Elizabeth found all too cheerful for her tastes. No one engaged her in conversation. She was still new and had spent most of her first week Encoding. So far, she had always chosen her own table and taken her meals in a hurried silence. She hurried so that she could pillow her forehead on her crossed arms and close her eyes for as many minutes as possible before the whistle blew again, calling everyone back to work.
It had been her intent to follow the same pattern this night, but partway through her meal someone joined her at her table.
"Hello there," the newcomer said, taking a seat. "Mind if I join you?"
Elizabeth blinked, trying to recall the woman's name. "Go ahead," she at last remembered to say, rather belatedly since her companion was already settled in and preparing to start eating her own dinner.
"I'm Charlotte," the other woman said. "I don't know if you remembered that from the other night. You can tell me to leave if you want."
"No, it's okay," Elizabeth assured her, mostly out of politeness. "And I'm sure I would have eventually remembered your name. Sorry I've been so antisocial."
Charlotte grinned over at her. "It takes some getting used to the work and the hours. My first week, I got in trouble for sitting down and nodding off."
"How long have you been here?"
"About three months," Charlotte grimaced. "I'll be up for my performance review at the beginning of next week."
Elizabeth nodded. She had been told about the performance review when she had been hired. If she did well, she would get a decent raise and would be eligible for training in other areas of the department. If she did poorly, she would be out of a job.
"Are you nervous about that?"
Charlotte shook her head. "Not really. I was hired in a batch with several other people. They can't afford to lose us all at once, and while two people have already been let go, I figure I'd have to be doing very poorly to lose my job." She leaned in a little, her dark brown eyes darting a quick glance at another table. "That bald guy over there? If anyone loses a job it'll be him."
Elizabeth glanced over and studied the man for a moment. "Why do you say that?"
Charlotte shrugged. "A lot of reasons. He's slow – pray you don't have to sweep with him because you'll end up doing most of the work and your machine will jam all night long. He just doesn't hold up his end. His attitude is terrible. And I think he's on drugs."
Elizabeth's gaze swung back to Charlotte at that last disclosure and the other woman nodded seriously.
"So, how did you end up here?" Charlotte asked, dismissing the bald man and moving on to a new topic as blithely as though she had not just levied a charge as serious as the one she had. "You don't really seem as though you like it."
Elizabeth hesitated before answering. "I suddenly lost my previous job," she hedged. "And I was under the impression that I would be doing more numerical entry here."
Charlotte leaned in, eyes warm with sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear that," she exclaimed. "Factories have been closing everywhere, it seems. But I don't think Blue Line will be shutting down any time soon."
"Oh," Elizabeth replied and then trailed off. The other woman had obviously misunderstood the circumstances under which she had lost her prior job. Should she correct the misunderstanding and possibly open up herself to either pity or judgment? Of course, she had done nothing wrong and it was only fair that the common people knew that the vaunted Mr. Darcy was not as honorable as he appeared.
"Actually," she began, "I wasn't working for a factory…"
It had been three weeks since the future Mrs. Darcy had walked into Darcy's life. Three weeks since he had Seen their future happiness and three weeks since he had seen her at all. In the flesh, anyhow. She haunted his dreams like a beautiful ghost, and it was a ghost that he was starting to believe she had been in truth.
Mrs. Reynolds could not find the file she'd had on Miss Elizabeth Bennet – it had gone missing and after three weeks of all of his considerable resources not being enough to track it or her down, only the fact that Mrs. Reynolds still glanced at him apologetically for having so misplaced it convinced him that either Elizabeth or the file on her had ever existed.
He had grilled Mrs. Reynolds closely about everything she might remember regarding Elizabeth's contact information, causing that unflappable woman to give him looks that bordered on sharply questioning. But she did not inquire and he did not elaborate as to why he wanted so badly to know. In any case, the information hadn't been helpful. Mrs. Reynolds remembered her address as having been somewhere on the West Side, but if she lived there, Elizabeth was not listed in the public directory. Nor were any other Bennets, other than a Mark Bennet. He had looked into it, hoping that she might live with her parents. Mark Bennet had proved to be a widower of advanced years. He and his wife had never had any children and while he did have several nieces, none of them were named Elizabeth. No, not even any nieces with a middle name of Elizabeth.
So that had been a dead end, as had every other avenue Darcy had thought to try.
All of this was more than enough to put him on edge. Worse, so far as he was concerned, was that Bingley wanted him to meet that Jane woman. The aspiring author. The sharer of the cab. The beautiful, divine, angelic Jane.
As if in his present state of distress at having quite lost his future wife Darcy wanted to meet the latest scheming woman to ensnare Bingley with her figure and face.
Nevertheless, he was waiting at the restaurant where he had agreed to meet them for dinner. Early, as was his habit, he sat at the bar and slowly nursed a glass of whiskey, neat. He was hoping to take the edge off his mood but not so much that he wouldn't be able to watch this Jane person closely and give Bingley an unbiased opinion of her later. Bingley would ask. He always did.
Sighing in frustration, Darcy checked his pocket watch and then glanced towards the door. In equally typical fashion, Bingley was running late. It was several minutes past when they were meant to meet and if history was any guide, Darcy could expect another quarter hour's wait at the very least.
Almost he tossed the whiskey back in one swallow. But it wouldn't do to indulge, simply because he was frustrated at having lost Elizabeth.
The door to the restaurant banged open behind him and he half-turned to eye the couple that came inside, laughing uproariously. They were both bent over in their mirth, and he staggered just slightly, tugging the woman along with him a few hasty steps as he sought to keep his balance. Darcy rolled his eyes at the spectacle and stood, tossing the whiskey back after all.
It left a pleasant sort of glow behind as it hit his stomach and so it was with only a somewhat forced smile that Darcy went to greet the happy couple: Charles Bingley and his Jane.
Jane seemed to sober up quickly upon seeing him approach and she turned to Bingley, saying something urgent and under her breath. Bingley glanced his way and then smiled reassuringly at Jane, murmuring something too low for him to hear. And then he was upon them and they were recovered from their fit of hilarity and Bingley was proudly introducing Jane to him.
What followed was the most bizarre quarter hour of Darcy's day. They were seated swiftly, Darcy's name enough to conjure a good table at even the most exclusive of restaurants on the busiest of nights. Jane at first seemed slightly overawed on meeting him (You didn't tell me he was your particular friend I had to meet, Charles!) and then grew subtly aggressive, asking him his views on employing women in an office environment when women were still having difficulties in obtaining anything that wasn't a traditional role for them in the workforce, other than menial labor.
He had no idea to what end her questions tended, but he answered them as honestly as he might, referencing Mrs. Reynolds as a prime example of how he depended upon the organization and gentleness she brought to his work environment and then Jane seemed to soften towards him. He couldn't help but wonder if this Jane Marchrend was intending to try to wrangle a job out of him, but the rest of the night passed pleasantly enough and covered any range of topics, none of them anything to do with jobs or novels.
Still, Darcy would reserve judgment on Jane until he could see her in a more casual environment. He was not at all convinced she wasn't a mercenary out to ride any rich man's coattails to a life of leisure and Bingley seemed worryingly besotted.
As he readied for bed, Darcy put all such thoughts out of his mind in favor of contemplating what he might try next to find Elizabeth. She couldn't be a specter and if he was to marry her then it only stood to reason that he would eventually find her.
His eyes drifted closed on a remembered vision of her turning her lovely face to his as if seeking for a kiss. Almost calm, almost happy, Darcy went gently into sleep. Dreaming of her.
Author's Note: I would first like to thank everyone who reviewed the first chapter and those who added this as a favorite. I deeply regret any reply I might have made to a reviewer that implied this second chapter would have been out sooner. Real life did its thing and I got caught in a string of interviews and horrible temp jobs. Still am, really. I hope I am over the worst and can update more regularly in the coming weeks and months.
Secondly, I would like to make a note about the setting for this story. It takes place in a purely fantasy city of my imagining, which may not ever get a name. Think of it as a rather Steampunk London. References to "aldectric machinery" should be viewed in this light. And pocket watches. And coattails.
Ahem. I'm hoping to get more into Darcy's mindset in the coming chapters. This last was a high overview and shorter than I wanted, but I am also anxious to bring them back into contact with each other. Thanks again for reading and in advance for any reviews. They warm my heart.