These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Nicole Clarkston

  “You believe that I ought to live at Netherfield with them?” she asked softly.

  “At Netherfield! No, I think that might be the worst of all for you. I never saw you so miserable as you were on Christmas Eve. No, Lizzy, I think you have grown beyond the humble walls of Longbourn, but I would not recommend that course. I think rather that a home and establishment of your own might suit your notions of happiness.”

  What life remained in her cheeks now pooled somewhere in her stomach. Elizabeth shook her head, her lips forming a silent “No!” Her fingers gripped the sides of her chair as though her father would wrest it from her that instant and insist that she make her own way in the world. In the next breath, she had stumbled from it to nearly fall upon her father’s neck. “Oh, Papa, please do not say that! I am not ready to leave Longbourn, there is no place I should rather go!”

  “Lizzy,” he grimaced, pulling her clinging arms from his shoulders and gently pressing her back. “Mr Bingley has made us an obscenely generous offer, one I feel honour-bound to refuse. However, when I look on you, I cannot bring myself to do it. He wishes to settle upon you five thousand pounds, in hopes that it may help you to make a better match than has so far been possible.”

  Elizabeth thumped back into her chair, dazed. “F-five th-thousand pounds?” she cried. “He cannot possibly! No, I cannot permit it!”

  “I have already accepted in your stead.”

  Elizabeth stared, the heat rising into her cheeks. “How could you, Papa? It is not right! Why, only think that after Mary and Kitty also claim their shares, he—”

  “The offer was made for you and you alone, Elizabeth. I do not doubt Mr Bingley’s continued generosity toward his new sisters, but he made no mention of the others. He is a kind man, it seems, and whether motivated by Jane’s concern or his own esteem for you, he wished to do you this service.”

  She shot to her feet. “I refuse it! I will not have him impoverishing Jane’s children because of my own past obstinacy toward suitors!”

  One grey eyebrow twitched. “’Suitors’ did you say? Indeed, you have kept some secrets from me, Elizabeth.”

  Her mouth failed to close as she blinked numbly back. “I—”

  Her father dismissed her excuse with a wave. “Oh, let us not trouble ourselves over the past, Lizzy. I ought to have made you accept Collins, but he was a disagreeable toad; I think we are of one mind on that. Whatever others have arrogantly presumed upon your inclinations, I have faith that you dispatched them only after proper reflection. You may have a romantic bent, as do most young ladies, but you are the most sensible of all my children. I trust that you would render due consideration to an agreeable and respectable offer.”

  Elizabeth cast a doleful look from the corner of her eye. “From whom?”

  “John Lucas. He came to speak to me yesterday.”

  The mantle clock bore witness to Elizabeth’s silent reception of this news. Mr Bennet’s fingers drummed occasionally, but he kept respectfully quiet as his daughter absorbed these tidings. After three full minutes had passed with no response whatsoever from Elizabeth, Mr Bennet cleared his throat. “Well, say something, Lizzy!”

  She blinked, her throat feeling too parched to speak. After one or two failed attempts, she whispered, “Do you mean to insist that I accept him, Papa?”

  “I mean to see to your well-being, Elizabeth. I think perhaps that might be best found with a husband of your own, and John Lucas is a decent fellow, after all. He has long fancied you, and a dowry such as Mr Bingley has offered makes it possible for him to form some more serious designs.”

  “So, you demand my acceptance?”

  “Demand? I think we need not speak in such stark terms. If what you want is for me to lend you a bit of decisiveness, then yes, I shall insist. Know, however, that I intend it for your benefit, not your misery.”

  A choking laugh rose in her throat. “There could be nothing that might make me more miserable, Papa! I beg you, do not undertake to accept John Lucas on my behalf. I may never find the sort of love I once desired, but it is too soon for me! I have no heart to give him—oh, Papa, it would be too unfair!”

  Mr Bennet’s lips—thinned and grey as his hair—pressed tightly closed. Elizabeth held his steady gaze as bravely as she dared, her lashes quivering and her eyes longing to dart away from his searching.

  “Then,” he mused, narrowing his eyes, “I shall put him off. Know this, though; I am not content to leave you as your sister’s caretaker. Lydia has her own troubles to chase and I will not see your life ruined on her account. I think perhaps you should return to London with your aunt and uncle next week.”

  She swallowed. “Do you insist on this, Papa?”

  He nodded slowly. “Unless you can convince your aunt otherwise—yes, I do.”

  ~

  Porto, Portugal

  “I insist, my dear,” Miguel carried his wife’s fingers to his lips, “do tell me what troubles you this evening. You have looked white as these linens all afternoon!”

  Amália jerked her chin in an empty gesture of casual flippancy. “Pray, do not concern yourself, my husband. I have only caught the sun.”

  He laughed as he turned her hand over and began to kiss her palm. “A lady who catches the sun has a distinct colour to her cheeks, my jewel. You have none at all. Come, you must not tell me your head troubles you again, for I fear I shall die of disappointment.”

  “It is not my head, but my spirits that trouble me, Miguel.”

  “Oh!” he turned her wrist up and began to knead it with his fingers. “And how may I soothe your spirits, my angel?”

  She squirmed her hand from his with an uncomfortable little huff, and wandered nonchalantly toward the window. “I suppose,” she offered slowly—carefully, “I am still not accustomed to such a large house as this.”

  “Is that all?” he laughed. He followed her and slid his hands over her hips, caressing her form through the thin gossamer of her gown. “I feared perhaps you were unhappy with other circumstances.”

  Amália spread her fingers lightly on the casement, the window frame defining the farthest extent of her retreat. She could have placed herself at no greater distance without creating an obvious scene, but perhaps her stiffness might put him off… but no, a dry, warm touch nuzzled the back of her neck. A heated flush stirred from her scalp down over her back, causing her to edge one shoulder up in an uncomfortable writhing arc.

  Miguel only took that to mean that she wished for him to nuzzle the other side of her neck. His hands had now crept round to the front of her hips, and his fingers trailed familiarly down the lines of her undergarments through her gown. Amália swallowed, clenching the wooden frame in a desperate quest for self-control. Her breath was coming in hot little gasps now, which surely he would mistake for desire, just as he must delight in the way the flesh over her arms and neck prickled in dread, and her body flexed as her stomach recoiled from his sensual touch. How alluring her unconscious distaste must be to one so willfully deceived as her husband!

  She coughed slightly—the only breath she could control—and attempted to laugh off his advances. “Come, Miguel,” she shifted her shoulder away from him ever so slightly, “did not your father remain for drinks this evening?”

  “He knows where to find the wine,” Miguel breathed into the hollow at the base of her neck. “I have a finer vintage here, and I intend to drink myself dizzy. Will you not retire early with me, my sweet?”

  “I only thought,” her voice trembled in her throat, “that perhaps he had yet some matters of import to discuss. He was here all day, was he not?”

  Miguel bent round to soothe the front of her milky throat with his lips, his hands trailing over her breasts and shoulders to hold her against him. “He often comes, for the house does still belong to him, after all.”

  Amália wriggled one breast a little away from his bold fingertips, drawing her shoulder back into his chest to do so. “H
e comes often, but I seldom see him.” She closed her eyes, swallowing her bounding pulse. She ought to submit to her husband’s caresses, she really ought, but the shock of her afternoon discovery and her growing aversion to Miguel’s touch only loosed her tongue, and she spoke in rapid, thoughtless little bursts.

  “As a matter of fact, I sought both of you when I returned today, before Ruy arrived, but could not find either of you. Are there by any chance parts of the house which I have not yet explored?”

  She felt more than heard a low rumble of laughter. “Secret rooms! My darling, you have been reading too many novels.”

  “Oh,” she shivered, but forced herself to bear up. She first smiled, then affected a little pout, turning to face him and at last removing his blasted fingers from her breasts. “You must go and spoil all my fun, must you? There really is nothing of interest behind some sealed wall? No romantic fancies I might entertain about the old ruins at the western end of the house?”

  He spread his hands and shook his head, smiling. “None at all. I am sorry to disappoint you. Perhaps we may have some old chambers built, simply to satisfy your whims.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “By no means. Distasteful things, ruins. One never knows what might be lurking there without one’s knowledge. Do you suppose any rodents or larger creatures have burrowed into those walls?”

  He draped his hands over her hips again, but was not content to leave them there. He drew close to slide them down the curve of her backside, lowering his mouth to her ear. “Undoubtedly,” he mumbled. A moment later his fingers were hungrily clutching at her rear, pawing up the hollow of her back, pulling her tightly against him and pressing his firmness to her stomach. He groaned inarticulately as he drew her earlobe between his teeth and rocked her body against his.

  Amália shuddered. She could not help it. There was something about Miguel—had always been—and now she could put a name to it. He was lying to her. Lying about the house, probably about his father, and certainly about his own knowledge of both. The only thing about him which seemed genuine was his passion—no, his lust, for passion implied some deeper, genuine feeling and regard. Surely if he truly felt such for her, he would not lie!

  Her hands raised to his shoulders to push violently away, but she forced herself to still them, resting them instead on his chest as a reciprocating wife might. Perhaps he was only protecting her. Perhaps there was truly nothing of interest, and he did not care to bore her with whatever dull affairs of politics his father undertook. Perhaps she had imagined everything, and she was only robbing herself of whatever happiness their union might bring her with these fruitless and vile accusations rumbling through her mind.

  But that voice…. No, she had not imagined it! And they had not been the carefree tones of some wanderer lost in the ruins, or the laboured efforts of a mason working at the old stones. The cries had been anguished, bitter—tortured, even. And the inflections of the words carried to her—no voice native to her ears had it been! There had been a foreign, yet deliriously familiar quality to it; one that had thrilled to her core and breathed life into the memories of the girl she had been, just over a year ago.

  The gravity of these thoughts weighed her hands, and without intention or thought, she had pushed Miguel away. He stepped back, his expression mystified. “My precious? You do not fear some creature finding its way to your own room, do you? Be not concerned, for we are quite safe here from those older chambers. Moreover, I am here,” he grinned charmingly.

  “I was only wondering,” she gasped tremblingly as his lips bent to assault her décolletage, “if it was possible to walk through some day. Only as a point of curiosity, you understand. Are there still doors to the old stairwells, or have they all been sealed off?”

  “Doors! I should think they rotted off their hinges long ago. There would be nothing to see in any case, for it has been vacant for decades now. You know after the quake many houses lost such older halls, and most never rebuilt them in quite the same way. There were sadly not enough funds in those days to do so, but if it pleases you, we shall endeavour to rebuild it ourselves one day. A sunlit hall, set facing the river to please my flower. It would be a fitting legacy to pass to our children, would it not?” He emphasised his comments with a renewal of his ardour, claiming each of her curves for his own and tracing his mouth from the tip of her bare shoulder—when had he slipped her gown from it? —up to the base of her ear.

  Amália’s core clenched, sending a shudder through her being and permitting an audible gasp from her lips. She bent, curving herself away from him and capturing the hands roving over her most sensitive places. “Oh!” she cried hoarsely, then flattened her back against the casement.

  “My darling?” Miguel did not lower his hands, but held them aloft and twined his fingers through hers. “What is it?”

  She opened her mouth, gazing back into the face of the man she had married. So genteel, so proper. A veneer of sweet lies, palatable only on the first hesitant taste, then turning to bile when partaken of. “I—” she clasped her hand self-consciously over her stomach, pressing her weight more firmly back against the wall. How could she bear his attentions, now when she had finally begun to recognise the truth of her misgivings? She could not take him to her bed, forcing herself to lie sedately as he sought his pleasure, all while knowing some other wretch also endured misery at his hands!

  Her fingers tightened over the bodice of her gown, and they lent her the inspiration she wanted. “Oh, do forgive me, Miguel. I… it was a sudden pain in my stomach.”

  His eyes kindled. “Dare I hope, my flower—”

  “No! I fear it is a pain of quite a different kind. It sometimes transpires so abruptly, I… oh, forgive me, Miguel, but I believe my courses have come upon me. I do beg your pardon, but I believe I shall be indisposed this evening.”

  He drew back, his jaw tightening and a flint sparking in his eyes. “Not at all, my darling. You have no control over such matters, of course.”

  “You are most forbearing, my husband,” she sighed in relief.

  He backed away, his displeasure evident despite his easy reception of her dismissal. “A man with a treasure such as you, my sweet, need not be concerned for some small delay to his pleasures. What matter a few days? I shall bid you a pleasant evening then, my angel.”

  Amália sagged against the wall as he left. This reprieve would be but brief, though her quick thinking had purchased her a few days, at least, to sort out her fears. Was her husband possibly unaware of the doings in the underground chambers? Was this captive a justified prisoner of war, and his presence a necessary secret? There might yet be some perfectly innocent explanation. As she was bound to Miguel for life, she desperately hoped so.

  ~

  Longbourn

  It was with a weary heart she trudged to her bed that night. Alone—so mercifully alone! —Elizabeth retired to her room as the weight of a thousand solitary nights dragged at her shoulders.

  For all of six seconds she had tossed about the notion of wedding John Lucas, at her father’s suggestion. He was a good enough sort—respectable, tolerably good-looking, standing heir to a modest property and possessed of a well-regarded family… but ignorant as a post.

  His only claim to familiarity with Elizabeth had been his relationship to Charlotte, for the simple reason that she had always found him exceedingly dull. There was no quality worth admiring, no folly worth teasing. He was simply there; an object of polite discourse, a warm body that occasionally led her about a set at the Assembly. To marry such a man! Elizabeth’s entire soul shuddered at the blasphemy of surrendering her hand and future when she could not also give her mind, her heart, nor even her sincere respect.

  Elizabeth pulled the blankets to her chin and stared upward. No, she would marry no man she could not love as she had loved Darcy, and as such a man did not exist—none could ever hope to compare—she would remain alone. A deep sigh filled her lungs, and her eyes drifted closed
… and as always, he was waiting for her.

  A tendril of her own hair drifted across her cheek, a whisper of breeze tickled her brow, and then that comforting warmth caressed her eyelids, brushing lightly over each. “Elizabeth!”

  She lifted her chin, tipping her face into the soft touch. Her lips curved faintly as she mouthed back, “William.”

  “Oh, my dearest Elizabeth! What grieves you, my love?” The words in the dream curled round her ears, piercing and echoing until she heard them spoken in truth—low and trembling.

  She attempted to smile, raising hesitant fingers to brush his roughened cheeks. “William,” she whispered, “you are so thin, you look to have endured hell itself! Why do you ask what grieves me? Do you not know what I would give to hold you and to be your comfort?”

  “You already are, my love. No darkness could prevent your face illuminating my way. But oh, my Elizabeth, if I did not have to leave you the moment I awake!”

  She breathed in his scent—strong and masculine—and threaded her arms about his neck. “Then never wake! Let us remain always so. I can be content here.”

  She felt his breath catch, sensed the weight of his arm tightening round her back as he pulled her close, but then he was pushing her away.

  She lifted her face from his chest. “William?”

  He was shaking his head, sliding his arms from her to capture her hands. “’Tis not fair, Elizabeth.”

  She shuddered in reply. “Fate has been too cruel to us! Could I only have known that I would lose you—”

  “No!” He touched a finger to her lips, his dark eyes hooded with grief. “No, that is not what I meant. It is not fair to you, Elizabeth.”