These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Nicole Clarkston

  Vasconcelos shook his head wryly. “Gentility is a lie, Senhor—a cloak invented as a barrier to suspicion. Surely you know this by now, but if you choose not to make yourself agreeable today, I have little other alternative.” He gestured to Pereira.

  Pereira and the other two closed around him as Darcy wheeled against the wall in dread. His manacled foot kicked helplessly at the hard mattress and an involuntary cry of terror escaped him as they grabbed him and forced the brown sack over his head. Whether Vasconcelos and the younger man remained in the room or not he could not have told, for all his senses now focused on the rough hands seizing his arms, the sound of the water bucket sloshing toward him.

  He thrashed violently, shaking his head and flailing his hands until they were lashed together behind his back. The worst was his blindness, for even helpless as they now held him, to not know what lay before him stripped even his mind of the last vestiges of control. There could be no way to prepare, no bracing or drawing of breath, to protect himself from what was to come.

  Fierce hands now pushed him down—some roughly collaring his neck and head, the others propelling him forward. Desperately as he fought backward, they overpowered him. He attempted one last gasp of air, but before he had quite drawn it, his head was submerged.

  He tried to kick, to shake off the hands, to scream, but his strength failed. They pinned him until long after he thought his lungs would explode, and then held him longer. He tried to hold his breath, but his body demanded air and he could not prevent his lungs from inhaling great gulps of water. Even then, when his frame seized with his attempts to cough, the men held him for merciless seconds longer, until just before he would have gone limp in surrender.

  They released him then, not pulling him back or assisting his flight in any way, so it was with a lethargic sort of panic that he pushed himself back. He collapsed, coughing interminably. Every burning gasp was accompanied by more torturous liquid in his airways, and he could not draw breath but that he nearly drowned in the water he could not cough out. Slowly, excruciatingly, he gagged up the inhaled water, and after several minutes lay weak, sputtering, and dazed.

  Before he could even exert himself to discern whether he had been left alone or the real discomfort was about to begin, he found himself forcibly lifted into a chair. Still coughing, he instinctively wished to double over with each spasm from his lungs, but his torso was rapidly bound to the chair and his tied hands wrenched painfully behind his back.

  “Now, Senhor Darcy,” Vasconcelos was speaking from some distance away. “I wish to know about your estate. It all falls to Senhorita Darcy, this I know, but as my former ally has betrayed my own interests, I must seek another. A name, sir. I must have the name of one other than the colonel, whom neither of us should trust. It must be someone who knows intimately all the workings of your estate, and whose face may be known by Senhorita Darcy.”

  Darcy sagged against his restraints, breathless and still coughing. He shook his head weakly, though he could not see his inquisitor. There was some pause, but he did not take it for a respite. He continued tossing his head as he could, longing to detect what happened around him. If he could only see! No matter what traumas inflicted during these sessions, the horror was always multiplied by his blindness.

  A moment later a rough hand jerked aside the rude garment he wore over his shoulders, and Darcy stiffened. Next would come the hot irons—burning his chest hairs and singing his nostrils, but never pressing quite enough into his skin to deeply scorch his flesh. Still, they were always taunting, always painful, and always bore the threat of the damage they could inflict.

  Later, in his dark hours of solitude, he would scold himself for the terror they brought upon him. Clearly Pereira had been instructed to spare his life and to leave no crippling marks of torment. His knowledge was needed, after all, and what good was a man who died of infection? When the moment came upon him, however, and his fortitude had already been diminished by the water torture and his arm sockets savaged by the men holding him to the hot brands, he invariably proved as weak as his fears.

  He screamed. He writhed. He pleaded to Heaven for mercy, and groaned Elizabeth’s sweet name as a mantra… but he never compromised Georgiana.

  ~

  “Please drive around to the stable yard, Pedro,” Amália signaled her driver.

  It was not an unusual request that she made of him, so rather than letting her down at the front of the house, he clucked to the horse and did as she had instructed. Safe now in the privacy of her own drive, she removed her shawl and stretched luxuriantly in the seat of her carriage. A long, tedious undertaking all these visits to the society matrons of Porto had been, but what luck that Senhora Rodrigues, her last intended stop, had been too ill today to receive callers! Her husband’s step-mother had returned directly to the governor’s house, freeing Amália to enjoy the rest of the ride home in solitude.

  She strained to see through the window of her carriage as it rolled around the house—such a hideous old building it was! Its face was large, ornate, and imposing, but its older wings were so dark and decayed that parts of it felt more like an abandoned ruin than a fine estate. The Vasconcelos family had fallen considerably in consequence over the last few generations, as she knew, and the older sections of sprawling property had rather gone to seed. It did boast unparalleled views of the river, however, and this quality alone redeemed the house in her eyes. Frequently when she could escape her formal duties as the mistress, she would disappear down one of the private walks down to the shore. Today she was not expected by her husband for at least another hour, and she intended to make good use of it.

  Pedro put down the step for her, and by unspoken custom a boy from the stables took up his post ten paces behind her as she set out. Breathing deeply, she wandered her little way along the sandy, rock-strewn path. It was not long, this path, but always restorative. She did not dare loiter, for Ruy was calling this afternoon, and she ached to steal a few private moments with her brother before Miguel joined them.

  She sighed, her shoulders drooping. Miguel! Did all wives find their husbands’ attentions as tiresome as she? To be certain, he was never anything but gentle with her, but he seemed to expect her to find as much pleasure in his advances as he apparently did. If only he did not insist on touching her quite so much! An involuntary shiver tensed through her shoulders. Reasoning that she had caught a brief chill and ought rightly to return to the house, she turned back.

  It was a nomadic, reluctant path she trod back to the house. When she had emerged once more into the courtyard, she slowed, glancing up. There was her favourite balcony overlooking the waters, and there, jutting below it, the ancient rambling wing she had never troubled herself to explore. Miguel had told her it was sealed up to all save the rats, but a few slitted windows winked down to her and sparked, for the first time, a longing to know more of them. Perhaps it was the work of her own natural curiosity, or perhaps she was more averse to returning indoors than she would confess, but surely there could be no harm in taking a detour about the exterior of the house before assuming her mantle of duty once more.

  Amália dismissed the stable boy and commenced a leisurely stroll about the lower level, to the rear of the house. The stone facing in parts was crumbling, and in other parts overgrown. There was an archaic loveliness about it; a touch of flavour from the bygone days of the house’s glory, and she could not understand why she had never before wandered this part of the premises. Well… there is that bit about Miguel searching me out whenever I am at leisure. Somehow, he never thought to look for her by the river, but he would have quickly discovered her here on the back lawn.

  She rounded a part of the stone edifice and spied an inset of the wall—unseen during much of the year due to the thick, creeping tendrils of buttercup that grew there in the warmer months. In summer they would flourish wildly, far beyond the modest powers of the gardener to contain. They had died back now, and only a patchwork of dark g
reen rosettes marked their foothold.

  She bent low to collect a handful of the clinging vegetation, impulsively lifting it to her nose. In the spring it would have been alive with fragrance, but no longer. What was that silly thing Richard had once said about it? “The buttercup starts out so fresh and full of hope, ready to bless the world by sharing its hardy sweetness, but then it finds the world has no place for it. It is attacked, reviled, and uprooted from the very place it once loved. It does not die, but becomes a mere shell of what it once was in its full splendour.”

  She pinched the withered green stem, staring without blinking or even truly seeing. Ah, Richard. You were speaking of quite another blossom, were you not?

  From somewhere, perhaps the moaning of distant sea against land, she almost thought to hear an answer. It was little more than a sob, really, but it sounded so distinctly human, and so remarkably male that it might have been conjured by her own vivid memory. She glared again at the little stem with a low, caustic laugh. You can summon the voice—why not the man? she mocked herself. She flicked the stem from her fingers with a rough sort of finality and turned to go, but the sound carried to her again. This time it was more of a piercing shriek, like a desperate prayer.

  Alert now to the deception of her own fancies, Amália whirled to face the water. There was no wind today that could have tricked her ears, no lads from the stable yard at their sport nearby. Another piteous cry followed, and this time, she could but confess it for honest reality. It seemed to be coming from behind her, but there was nothing….

  She bent low once more, tilting her head as she stared hard at the little inset of the wall. Indeed, there was some sort of an opening there. It was partially obscured by the weeds, but there, near the ground, was a little hollow where the earth pulled somewhat away from the wall. Set into the gap of stones was a rusted lattice grate.

  She straightened in relief. Silly little fool! she chided herself. How dramatic of her to presume to hear a voice, when it was only the musty exhales of the old underground chambers. As if there could be someone trapped down there, like in some absurd Gothic tale! Breathing a little more easily, she turned for one last admiring look toward the river before she must go indoors to dress for Ruy’s arrival.

  She lifted her hand to the sun, shading her eyes where her hat proved insufficient. Yes, certainly it was time to put her wilder stirrings to rest for one day. So resolving, she set out once more, but another deep groan from within the wall caused her knees to tremble. She turned wide, startled eyes back to it, her mouth slightly agape. Was it… was it a name she had heard? It sounded for all the world like….

  “Elizabeth!”

  Gasping for terrified breath, Amália did the only thing she could think of. She spun and fled for the door of the house.

  13

  Longbourn

  “Ah, Elizabeth, you have returned from your walk. Please come in.” Mr Bennet greeted his daughter at the door of the house, standing back with a suggestive tilt to his head and his eyes flicking toward his study.

  Elizabeth cast a dubious glance toward Lydia, disentangling their linked arms. She caught a nervous breath, but acknowledged the request with a cheerful nod and smile. “Certainly, Papa.” She removed her cloak and bonnet in the hall, then followed him dutifully to his desk, noting with what deliberateness he closed the door behind her.

  Mr Bennet sighed wearily, tugging at his cravat and tossing aside a stray book as he found his chair. “Sit, Elizabeth.”

  Her brow edged upward. “Are we to have a serious conversation, Papa? Perhaps I ought to call for tea, for I think I could do with the fortification.”

  He returned a wry smirk. “I have just imbibed something a mite stronger, but you may feel free if you wish.”

  “Oh! If it is that serious, I think I should not. My imagination as I wait would be sure to cause me far more distress than simply hearing what you wish to say.”

  He had draped himself in a leisurely posture over his chair, but his whitened knuckles laced tightly over his abdomen as he smiled at her. “Lizzy, you…” he stumbled, then appeared to amend his approach. “Your father is a foolish old man. I am heartily ashamed of myself.”

  “Ashamed? Papa, you have no cause to be. Is it because of Lydia you say this?”

  “I wish I could say it was. In truth, I first sensed the gravity of my own oversights when Jane’s first brush with a suitor came to nothing.”

  “Papa, she was but fifteen! Surely you would not have wished her to marry and leave us at such a young age.”

  “Not at all, and doubly so because she wielded such a sensible influence over her younger sisters. But it is not that, Elizabeth, and do not play coy with me. You are too intelligent to feign ignorance of my failings as a father.”

  She nibbled her lip and looked uncomfortably away.

  “Aye, you may speak freely, Lizzy! Had I set aside over the years some small independence for you and your mother and sisters, you would certainly have attracted a suitor by now. It was shameful that Jane with her great beauty should have been nearly twenty-three before she was wed, and it was all the fault of my own inability to manage my funds more wisely.”

  “Dear Papa, Jane could not be happier than she is now. If she had attracted another before, only think how miserable she would have been. She and Mr Bingley were smitten at their first conversation, and what a tragedy if she should have already been married to another!”

  He snorted lightly. “You think to comfort me by this, but you have, in fact, poured salt upon the wound. Lizzy,” he chewed his inner cheek thoughtfully before continuing. “I know it was wrong of me to feel thus, but you have always been my favourite child. With your sharp wit and your easy way of laughing off your troubles, I loved you the best, I do confess. You are the most like myself, I suppose, and so it was my joy and delight to impart to you those hours and little bits of wisdom I might otherwise have reserved for a son. Aye, blush, my girl, but you know it for the truth.”

  “I was only thinking,” she murmured to the floor, “that perhaps I received too much of your attention.” She raised those dark eyes to her father, glistening with feeling. “Lydia is rude and coarse, but that is only for want of training. She is quick, Papa, and eager for someone to invest in her. I am ashamed of myself for not seeing her more clearly.”

  He studied her, his expression soft, and swallowed hard. When he spoke again, his voice was husky. “You may be right, my dear. Perhaps we shall see what her future holds after… well, after…. Ahem, well, today I speak of you. I would not see you injured by my own follies if I can help it, my Lizzy.”

  Her lips tugged slightly upward. “Do you presume that I have some disappointed suitor who pines for my lack of fortune? Oh, if only I had thirty thousand pounds to my name! Perhaps then Mr Perfect would at last ask me for a set at the Assembly!”

  He chuckled. “You have never wanted for dance partners, for men are not blind, but neither are they largely without sense. Many ask for your hand for half an hour, but few can afford to ask for a lifetime.”

  This little speech of Mr Bennet’s cast a sudden pall over his daughter’s expression. Her mouth set gloomily and her features seemed waxen as the blood left them. The father narrowed his eyes in concern. “Lizzy, has your lack of fortune already caused you some disappointment?”

  She jerked her gaze back to her father’s face. “No! Certainly not, Papa.”

  He nodded faintly. “Yet you nurture some manner of regret. Was it due to Lydia’s escapade?”

  She shook her head vigourously. “No!” but her breath caught as she uttered the word. At her father’s arched brow, she was compelled to make some explanation. “I was told—only once, mind you—that our family’s respectability was…. That is to say, that when Kitty and Lydia—and when Mama—”

  He held up a hand. “You need say no more, Elizabeth. Again, I have evidence of how I have failed you. I give no credit to a man who could think poorl
y of you on your mother and sisters’ accounts, but—”

  “Oh, he did not think poorly of me!” Elizabeth defended quickly.

  “Did he not?” Mr Bennet drummed steady fingers on his desk, waiting, but Elizabeth was suddenly reluctant to say more. “I see. Or perhaps I do not, but it does not signify, I suppose. Lizzy, what I called you in for today was not past regrets, but a hope for your future.”

  She shook her head. “What can you mean?”

  His fingers tapped uncomfortably again on the desk. “It seems, Elizabeth, that you have a knack for winning men’s respect. I commend you, my girl, for I know few ladies—true ladies—of whom that could be said.”

  “I do not understand, Papa.”

  He rose abruptly and walked toward the window. Gazing out, he raised an arm to brace his weight against the glass as he spoke. “I have been concerned for you, Elizabeth. You have ever been of a hardy constitution and an easy temper—not as easy as Jane, but your good humour was more than sufficient to offset any complaint I might have. Yet that has not been your way of late. You are troubled by headaches, see as few people as you can, and nearly every second or third night since Christmas you have awakened us all with some horrid nightmare. Have you any notion of what has troubled you, Lizzy? Ought we to be sending for Mr Jones?”

  “No! Oh, Papa, I do not know the source of my melancholy, but I am sure there is nothing Mr Jones could do.”

  He turned to look steadily at her until she blushed, glancing down at her hands. “You have no ideas?”

  She swallowed and shifted her toes inside her slippers. “None.”

  He sighed and turned back to the window. “Your altered demeanour has been noted by more than myself. Oh, your mother dismisses it as concern for Lydia or some nervous sympathy for Jane, but others are as troubled as I. Mr Bingley…” here he paused and looked again to his daughter. “I do not know what I might have done to deserve such a generous man as a son-in-law, but I am inclined to impose upon his good nature where you are concerned.”