Chapter 60 Return to London 22 They are the same kind

"ah!"

For some reason, Heather didn't want to hear Lancaster continue. She looked up at the sky, intending to praise the sunset to lighten the eerie atmosphere, but she stumbled upon Darcy and Elizabeth, alone together on the second-floor balcony, separated by a gap between them. "...Wow, look at them. They look quite a good match, don't they?"

Lancaster knew that she was just trying to make conversation, but he always made others feel awkward and was not good at improving the atmosphere.

"Well, is it Mr. Darcy and a certain Miss Bennet? How is that a good match?"

He changed the subject according to her words. Heather felt a little bored again. Just as she was about to think of a way to change the subject, Darcy and Elizabeth on the second floor seemed to sense something and looked down.

"Let's go!" Without thinking, Heather pulled up Lancaster's sleeve and turned to hide in a small alley next to him. She didn't even have time to think about why she was hiding.

By the time she realized what was happening, they had already walked out of the short alley and onto a new street. Heather stared at the scene in shock, momentarily forgetting to let go of Lancaster's hand.

"Oh my God, where is this?"

At the end of the alley, the road suddenly changed from smooth granite to potholed dirt. The entrance to this new neighborhood had no official street name, only a crooked wooden board with the words "Fishmonger's Road" scribbled on it. This was the back of the commercial and wealthy area, a world belonging to the common people.

Since crossing over, Heather had either stayed in middle-class commercial districts or aristocratic areas. Even Longbourn was a relatively affluent village. Perhaps it was because London's coachmen were so experienced that she had never even glimpsed a street like this from inside a carriage. However, it was more likely because these streets were too crowded to accommodate carriages.

Lancaster moved closer to her intentionally or unintentionally, in a protective posture, but did not interfere with her forward direction. He just fell slightly behind and let her continue exploring aimlessly.

Hessel walked slowly along the street. It felt like a village in the city, lingering in memories, awaiting demolition. The mud on the ground, mingled with cabbage leaves and fish scales, made one dread the thought of stepping into the murky water and getting their skirts soaked. Around five in the afternoon, the time for the nearby factories to close, the streets were filled with men with dark hands and women in grimy aprons. Street vendors were loudly selling the last half-crust of muddy potatoes, while women were shouting and angrily cursing their husbands, who had sneaked into the beer hall to buy some.

This was a world both familiar and unfamiliar. Heather felt dazed, as if just six months had washed away all the marks of her past, transforming even her blood into the innate rich blood of her birthright. Her father was a respected lawyer, her ex-husband a true aristocrat, and now she herself had become a true lady of wealth.

"But something seems wrong." Heather murmured to herself. It was too fast. Did the ordinary girl from the past twenty years really exist?

"What?" Lancaster frowned, took a step forward, raised his hand to protect her behind her, and looked around vigilantly.

Heather noticed by then that their attire had attracted considerable attention on the street. Numb and weary people, their features blurred, gathered in groups of two or three, pointing and commenting. Perhaps with envy, perhaps with hostility, their attitudes were clearly divided. In this world, she and Lancaster were the outsiders who didn't fit in.

An indescribable strange feeling welled up in Heather's heart. Here, they were the same kind.

Lancaster felt that the atmosphere on the street was a little strange. He observed his surroundings calmly while trying to distract Heather's attention as if nothing had happened.

"You haven't answered yet, why are Mr. Darcy and that lady so well matched?

"Ah..." Heather didn't expect that the topic had not yet ended, and subconsciously said: "Because they are the same kind."

"The same kind?" Lancaster was puzzled. Even putting aside the vast disparity in wealth, it would be hard to consider them the same. They had different personalities, different upbringings, and most importantly, different goals. He was familiar with Darcy's ambition, instilled by his family elders, to strive for the family's glory.

Lancaster doesn't believe Darcy can achieve his goal on his own. Rationally, leveraging his appearance to find a good marriage is a more likely option. Darcy could also, like a certain duchess, abandon his mission and responsibilities for love. He and Miss Bennett essentially belong to the same class, and his outcome would surely be much better than Miss Lancaster's. However, this would completely deviate from his goal.

Heather turned her head to look at Lancaster, and also noticed his arms across his back.

"Are you one of those feudal patriarchs with deep-rooted ideas about family status? Do you think my niece is not worthy of Mr. Darcy?"

Lancaster said in a deep voice: "Of course not, I'm just curious how you judge whether two people are of the same kind?"

Heather retracted her gaze. "People of the same kind often don't judge based on wealth, class, or even knowledge. Marriages between nobles have resulted in many unhappy couples, and commoner couples may not always be able to share joys and sorrows, and vice versa."

A young couple walked past them. The wife handed the child to her husband. The husband wiped his hands, which were stained with kerosene, and proudly took out the cheap bread he had just snatched from his arms, making his wife smile. Heather followed them with her eyes, not turning back.

"At least in my opinion, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth are both smart people among the crowd. They sometimes feel complacent about their own intelligence. Perhaps it is their common hobby to discover the other side of people's duplicity. They are both unwilling to go along with the foolish and confident majority, but they express it differently. One expresses alienation and dislike openly, while the other is more tactful, but in fact, he has already formed a judgment in his heart." So Heather always felt that they were the chosen ones who could know what the other was thinking with just one look after marriage, and could go home and share similar views with each other, because there were very few people who shared the same traits as them.

What Lancaster wanted to know more about was Heather herself: "What about you? What kind of person are you?"

"As for me..." Heather had long struggled to clearly describe herself on her resume and in interviews. The routine of completing each task often left her feeling like a vague NPC. But things had changed. She was gradually gaining autonomy, and with it, a genuine desire to do something. She had people she wanted to get to know, and she was no longer passively filling her time with things she had no interest in.

“I may be someone who is gradually discovering my desires and goals, but because the time is so short, I can’t clearly see what kind of person I will become.”

Lancaster looked at her deeply, and suddenly wanted to reach out and tuck the fine hair that was blocking her face behind her ears, as if that would allow him to see her face more clearly.

"Then I think we are the same kind of people. We are not just the common kind of people, but the precious kind of people."

Heather remained silent. Lancaster knew too many things about her and her thoughts, but he rarely mentioned himself. He was like a puzzle that was reluctant to provide clues.

They planned to turn from the bend ahead, leave the street and return to the main road. When they were approaching the last two hundred meters of the intersection, a fierce argument suddenly broke out in front of them, followed by chaos.

Before Heather could figure out what was going on, Lancaster grabbed her hand and led her back.

"It's too dangerous. Let's find another way to leave here."

They walked back against the flow of people, the roars and the clashing of instruments chasing them like waves from behind. The sun had completely disappeared, the sunset glow replaced by a damp, cold mist.

"You vampires! You deserve to go to hell after you die!"

The man's raspy shouts mixed with the woman's painful wails made Heather look back uncontrollably through Lancaster's arms. Thick smoke was rising from the intersection, and in the blurry chaos, people with bloody faces were squeezed out from the inner circle. It made her heart stop for a second.

A little further ahead was the previous intersection they had just passed. Turning here would require a detour, but it would quickly return them to the main route. The entire street seemed to have gathered in the center of the chaos, so much so that as they ran, only a few people remained. Heather didn't dare to let her guard down; her pounding heart hinted that it wasn't over yet.

Sure enough, a young man holding a shovel suddenly rushed out from the intersection. His target was the same as everyone else's, but he happened to run into these two rich men who were alone and dressed conspicuously.

Rich people, they are all rich, there is no difference, they are all targets of revenge.

He rushed towards Heather without wasting a second, his eyes as red as red-hot iron. Heather was so scared that she held her breath and instinctively wanted to step back, but the shovel was already close at hand.

The young man's hand that was about to swing the shovel hesitated for less than half a second because of the pair of frightened clear eyes in front of him, but it was only half a second, because half a second later the heavy velvet coat flew towards him and hit his shovel. With a dull "clang", the force of the shovel slipping out of his hand made him stagger.

But he reacted quickly, drew out the rusty dagger from his waist and rushed forward again, this time without hesitation.

The next moment, he groaned in pain, his arm unable to move as if it was welded to an iron frame.

Heather leaned against the wall, exhausted, watching Lancaster's thumb slam down, sending the dagger crashing to the ground. Splashes of mud stained the hem of his shirt. Lancaster's sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and bulging veins ran from his wrists to his forearms, throbbing beneath his pale skin with a sense of almost brutal power.

Lancaster didn't continue. His gaze, heavy with oppression, swept across the young man's still unwilling face. "Look carefully, your enemy is ahead. Indiscriminate attacks will only lead to you being buried in your own anger."

He loosened his grip, and the young man staggered back, trembling and clutching his wrist, looking at him as if he were a ghost.

Lancaster bent down and picked up the gloves that Heather had dropped from the wall. He ignored the coat wrapped around the shovel and pressed her trembling hands tightly with his warm palm.

"Leave."

They quickly left the dark, dark alley and returned to the main street. It was still as peaceful and tranquil as it had been an hour ago, filled with the relaxed joy of the new year. Heather looked back. The narrow street behind her was clean and empty. Everything that had just happened, the blood, violence, and resistance, seemed to be left in some isolated world, unable to affect anyone more than a block away.

Lancaster released his grip on her hand, and a carriage stopped in front of them.