These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Nicole Clarkston

  “You are well rid of him, Lydia,” Elizabeth assured her, though with a private smile.

  “I think so as well, until I recollect that in half a year I shall have his child. The worthless cad! Sometimes I wish I could have him sitting right here, just in front of me, so I could pull his chest hairs out one by one!”

  Elizabeth gulped, her eyes wide. “Lydia!”

  “What? Oh, did you not know that men had hair on their chest? They do, you know—a great thick pelt of it, from their necks all the way down to their—”

  “Lydia!”

  “Oh!” Lydia groaned and flopped backward on the bed. “Sometimes I forget that you have never loved a man, Lizzy,” she apologised. “In every other respect, you are so much better to talk to than Kitty or Mary, for you seem to understand something of what I feel.”

  “There are certain elements I do not wish to understand!”

  “Lizzy,” Lydia sat up, her face growing as serious as she was capable of making it, “do promise me one thing.”

  Elizabeth arched a brow. “Do I dare?”

  Lydia nodded vehemently. “When you do find a man you can love, let him love you without embarrassment. Do not try to play the modest, proper little wife like Jane, for it would never suit you. If he gives you his affections, you must return them with the same ardour. Oh, how it will make you come alive! That is the greatest blow of all, you know. I shared with George the whole of my heart, little as it is, and I thought he had done the same. What a fool I am!”

  Elizabeth had begun listening to Lydia’s advice with open scepticism, but her expression softened quickly to flattered tenderness, and soon after that to pity. “Perhaps you were a fool to believe his words, and certainly to be persuaded to his wishes, but you were not a fool to love, Lydia. You may regret being deceived and are now sorry to be alone, but you were honest with him and left him in no doubt of your own affections. In that, you may take some comfort.”

  “Such comfort as it is! Is it possible to hate someone as much as you ever thought to love them?”

  “I should think so. They are both the extremes of passion, are they not?”

  “Such a vast swing it is! Sometimes I do not know my right hand from my left, I am so confused. Oh, Lizzy, the nights are the worst!”

  “Do you think?”

  “Why, of course! It is then that I dream that he is still there, with his arms about me so….” Lydia stopped, her face crunching painfully.

  “… And he whispers your name,” Elizabeth supplied softly, her eyes strangely dark. “And his fingers tangle in your hair, and you can rest your head upon his chest, and there is such a sense of… of home. You may feel safe there, with the moon hanging over you and long shadows covering over your fears. For a few moments, you are in that life you hoped for—he is so real that you can almost feel his warmth and hear his voice, but…” her brow clouded, “… his face is dim, and growing ever more so with time. The only time you see him clearly is when he comes to you—you cannot recall him, no matter how your heart aches to, but the nights are when he is the nearest. The days—oh! the days are far colder than the nights!” Elizabeth swallowed hard.

  Lydia was staring at her, a hand on her hip and her mouth hanging open. “Why, Lizzy Bennet!” she gasped. “You do love someone, don’t you? Is he handsome?”

  Elizabeth stiffened. “No! I only imagine what it must be like. I read a great deal, you know.”

  “Those are the kinds of books that Kitty reads, not you. You cannot fool me, Lizzy.”

  “I have no secret lover hidden away, Lydia. You may save yourself the trouble of searching.”

  “Yet you cannot resist dreaming of him? Yes, that seems creditable.”

  Elizabeth favoured her sister with an intimidating scowl. “Do not you think there is some measure of peace, at least, when there are no other expectations upon you and you may think on the past as it brings you pleasure? I should think the mornings would be the hardest, not the nights.”

  Lydia frowned. “Or the afternoons, if your mood is any indication. I have never seen you so cross as you have been of late! You are like to fly into a snit at the least provocation. Why, I thought you would bite Kitty’s head off yesterday when she was coughing.”

  “It was maddening,” Elizabeth agreed, “but I have no desire to create such a scene. It would have felt more satisfying to go to some secret place and thrash something soundly, like a man would.”

  Lydia’s eyes widened. “Why don’t we? Lizzy, stand up!”

  Elizabeth complied, watching with astonishment when Lydia picked up her pillow. “This,” Lydia held it up between them, “this is for lying to me!” She drew back her hand, making an awkward sort of fist, and slammed it into the pillow. The hapless article landed inoffensively at her feet, but she was upon it in an instant. “This,” she cried with growing excitement, “is for tricking me into loving you, and this,” she threw another wild swing, “is for lying to me!”

  “You already said that once,” Elizabeth objected.

  “He lied to me more than once. In fact, I am not so certain the man ever spoke a word of truth! Here, Lizzy, give it a go.”

  Elizabeth bit her lip, glancing askance at the lumpy pillow—now made somewhat softer for Lydia’s abuse. She blinked rapidly, catching her breath. Her hesitation spoke well of her feminine delicacy, but Elizabeth knew something of men’s fighting from watching the young stable hands roughhousing in the yard. She curled her fingers, tucking her thumb securely over the top, and drew back her fist as far as it would go.

  “This,” she clenched and unclenched her fist, “this… this is for—for wronging the very best of men!” She lashed out with every drop of her pent-up fury, thrusting so hard that the pillow proved insufficient to deaden the force of her blow, and she stumbled against her bed. She caught herself, panting with wide eyes.

  Lydia stood back, her arms crossed and her brows arched sharply. “Well… that looked satisfying. Again?”

  Elizabeth nodded, gasping. “Yes, indeed!”

  ~

  Porto, Portugal

  António Moniz de Noronha was a man who felt every reason for pleasure this evening. Word from France brought glad tidings of another Allied victory at Nivelle, his son Captain Rodrigo de Noronha—known to most as Ruy—had returned that very day from Brasil, and his house was full of dinner guests to celebrate.

  Noronha now entered the hall, flanked by Ruy dressed in his brown caçador4 uniform. Such a mark of distinction! How proud was this moment. If only his adored Maria Constança could see her son, a man grown—and such a strapping lad! Three years serving with the English soldiers in the elite Light Brigade and nearly two as a special aide at the Prince Regent’s court in Brasil had sharpened his training and honed his mind until now he was a clever and thoroughly modern-thinking young man. An able administrator and a resourceful strategist would he be—perfect for the niche his father had designed for him once the war had ended.

  “Is Amália to come tonight?” Ruy wondered as they surveyed the guests. “I do not see her, but there is Miguel Vasconcelos.”

  “There he is, indeed! But he appears to be alone.”

  “I do hope she has come, for I have not yet congratulated her on her marriage. Think of it; my little sister wed to the governor’s son!”

  “Of course, she came. She has been longing to see you.”

  Ruy continued searching the faces in the room, noting that ladies in general made up a distinctive minority. “Perhaps it is only the very dullest of us who linger still in the hall. The most interesting company must be found already dancing. I wonder that Miguel has not joined his wife.”

  Noronha made some noncommittal noise in his throat as the very young man they discussed approached, a drink in his hand. “Miguel!” he greeted his son-in-law warmly. “Where is your father, the old devil? He promised he would be in attendance.”

  “I believe he shall, senhor,” the younger man
glanced about. “He was to ride with Senhor Corte-Real, but I fancy it is my madrasta5, not the old priest, who causes the delay. Captain!” Miguel quickly greeted his brother-in-law, “I am glad to see you safely returned. How did you find the voyage from Brasil?”

  Ruy made a quick bow. “Tedious and wet and far too long for my taste. I also am glad to be home, and I find I have a brother! May I wish you every joy with my dear sister.”

  Miguel’s forehead rose. “I am grateful, I am sure.”

  “Where is Amália? Did she come with you?”

  Miguel looked vaguely about. “She is here somewhere. Like as not she is talking to some of the other ladies, or perhaps she is already on the dance floor.”

  “A man with such a prize ought to guard her more carefully!” Ruy laughed. “Another may come to take your place, my friend.”

  “If I took your advice, my wife should tire of me rather quickly. She seems to amuse herself better in feminine company.”

  Ruy’s easy smile cooled slightly as he caught the nuances laced beneath the other’s speech. He glanced to his father for confirmation, but Noronha’s careful mask revealed nothing. “Well,” he straightened, “I think I shall try to interrupt her happiness all the same. It has been nearly two years since last I saw my sister. Father,” Ruy dipped his head respectfully as he went away.

  Miguel glanced down to his drink, and soon Noronha was likewise suited with a refreshment as the servers passed. The two men remained in seemingly companionable quiet as they tipped their glasses, both casting watchful eyes about the room. At last, it was Miguel who broke the silence.

  “He does not know yet, does he?”

  “Ruy? What does he not know?” Noronha groused obtusely. “About your marriage to Maria Amália?”

  Miguel’s eyes hardened. “Amália is none of his concern. She appreciates the advantages I have brought her, and Ruy will naturally do the same. I speak of the ore mine in Braga. Have you told him of our efforts to reclaim it?”

  Noronha swirled his drink. “He has only returned today. No, he knows nothing of it, but if matters in Rio de Janeiro are as he says, we must not delay. Our exiled Prince Regent thinks of Brasil as quite his own home now, and it is to be feared that we shall remain a colony of that state if the war should continue.”

  “It will not continue! The English general has pushed the Corsican nearly to Paris. We shall not see him on our lands again, and the Spaniards are softening as well.”

  “Our best hope,” sighed Noronha, “is a complete severance with Brasil. She shall never again hold us her liege, but we may well be obliged to continue giving her homage. If we are to rebuild any sort of economy after Napoleon is defeated and the English leave our shores, we must become a nation of industry, as England has done.”

  “And factories must be built of iron before they may return the first real,6” Miguel smiled. “You needn’t persuade me, senhor, for my father has already done that work for you.”

  “Has your father any word from England? We cannot turn over a single spade without that deed.”

  Miguel nodded in the direction of the door, where entered the prestigious entourage. “You may ask him yourself, senhor. I only advise that you postpone your questions until my step-mother and Senhor Corte-Real may not overhear.”

  “António! You are looking well, my friend!” Corte-Real bobbed his head in a gentle bow, a broad smile illuminating his kindly features.

  “And you, Senhor,” Noronha replied.

  “Tell me,” Corte-Real held up a finger, “I am to understand that our own soldador7 has returned to us. Does he come home with new honours from his assignment at the court?”

  “If he does, he is too modest to wear his medals,” Noronha laughed. “They do not suit his uniform, he says. I think he was never given them,” he winked, but his voice was swelled with pride.

  “And I think,” chuckled Corte-Real, “that any son of yours could not help but win such honours. I understand you have recently persuaded some of the merchants to continue in business about Porto, against their inclinations.”

  Noronha frowned. “I only hope I have done them no disservice. The port does brisk enough business, but even that shall suffer if the greater infrastructure of Porto’s trade with the inner districts should crumble. The war cannot be concluded soon enough for my purposes, senhor.”

  “I believe we all feel the same,” concurred Vasconcelos, speaking for the first time. “I say, Noronha, where has our guest of honour gone to?”

  The younger Vasconcelos was quick to respond to his father’s hint. “He is entertaining the ladies, but if Senhor Corte-Real does not object to my interference, I think there are enough pretty faces to spare.”

  “Object! I may be a man of the cloth, but I am still quite young enough to appreciate a pair of fine eyes and a merry smile—particularly if your lovely bride’s are among them. By all means, young man, lead the way.”

  Noronha and Vasconcelos watched them go, smiling their felicitations to any familiar face across the room, so they might not be considered to be sharing some secret—which, naturally, they were. “It has been two months,” Noronha observed quietly.

  “Indeed,” Vasconcelos raised a hand in answer to a similar wave, then turned his smile slowly about the room.

  “You have heard nothing more?”

  Vasconcelos accepted a drink from a passing server and lifted it to his lips. “Some, but the deed has not yet been recovered,” he returned shortly.

  “Does this not concern you? Your man has had ample now to perform his search and send us word. We could have traveled to England and back several times!”

  “Patience!” counseled the other in a low voice. “These things must be done discreetly. The English have such formal ways, one does not simply arrive on another’s doorstep and ask to see within his private quarters.” Here, his tone lightened. “Senhor Lopes! Delighted to see you this evening.”

  Noronha spared the other a genial greeting of his own, then doggedly returned to his point the moment the man had passed. “We cannot simply bide our time! Is there not some corner of the suitable land not belonging to this deed where we may begin?”

  “Not if you wish to return enough profit by your efforts to continue on after the first year,” Vasconcelos drew another sip of his wine. “And do not think of beginning without the proper papers, for the governor of Braga has a record of the transfer and full knowledge of the matter. He will fear offending some prestigious Englishman, particularly now as his district is only just recovering from the French invasion. He is most fond of British aid. No, he will wish to remain very good friends with the English, and it will matter little to him that a promising ore reserve has been discovered until it begins to turn a profit.”

  “And what of this poor devil you have taken as your ‘guest’? Have you even spoken with him to discover what knowledge he has?”

  Vasconcelos shrugged. “It matters little if I do. He cannot retrieve it, and I already have another invested in helping us. We have him at our disposal, should the need arise.”

  Noronha shook his head. “I still do not understand what this mysterious partner of yours has to gain.”

  “Money! Do you not understand who that man is?” scoffed Vasconcelos. “His wealth alone could buy all of Porto, and half of Braga.”

  “Surely you exaggerate.”

  “Not to a great degree. His great-great-grandfather was a marquess, but he died with no sons and strangely—for the English, at least—left all his lands and fortune to his daughter. That lady became the mother of the very Darcy who later performed such a favour to our King José, and a wealthy fellow in his own right who likewise married the daughter of a noble.” There was the faintest sneer to his voice as he spoke, his cheek flickering just under his eye as though his drink had turned sour in his mouth.

  “If this man has such wealth, why should he have quibbled over a piece of land that could mean nothing to him
? What need for such subterfuge?”

  “Calm yourself, my friend. You will see; we will be far better served by our present arrangement. Come, we must make ourselves sociable. It is your house, after all.”

  ~

  “Amália, my dear!” Ruy paused and opened his arms expectantly.

  At his voice, his sister turned from her dance partner and her expression lit with sheer joy. “Ruy! Tive tantas saudades tuas8!” She rushed to him, clasping his hands and allowing him to twirl her about for his inspection.

  “You look lovely, dearest! How elegant you are. And married! I always thought you would wait for me,” he pouted. “Is that not what you promised when we were children?”

  “Ruy,” she laughed, squeezing his hand. “Such a tease! Oh, you must tell me all about Rio de Janeiro. Is there really gold just lying about in the streets?”

  “Indeed, there is, and I brought you back an entire chest of it. You may purchase yourself anything you desire.”

  Her dark, perfectly defined brows quirked. “Would that it were true! I would buy a house—yes, that is it.” She sighed dreamily. “Nothing too pretentious, you understand. Just some sweet cottage of my own, overlooking the ocean.”

  “Is your husband not invited?” he lowered his face, gazing more closely into hers.

  Her lips pursed. “Miguel does not care for the sea.”

  “Ah.” He glanced furtively about, ensuring himself that the music and the general hum of other conversations would afford him a few words of privacy. “Are you happy, dearest?”

  She tilted her head, her lovely smile distorting and reforming itself upon her lips until it looked less cheerful than brave. “I am happy to see you,” she answered. “Tell me, did you see the Prince Regent, or Carolota Joaquina9?”