These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Nicole Clarkston

  Mrs Reynolds’ cheek flinched. “Of course, Miss Bennet.” Her brow clouded for only an instant, then she smiled once more. “I must say, Miss Bennet, we were all delighted when the Colonel wrote that you would be returning as Miss Darcy’s guest. You will do the poor child much good. Now, if you please, let us see to your own comfort!” The housekeeper turned away and marched with all dignity from the room. There was nothing for Elizabeth to do but to follow.

  23

  At Sea

  “Senhor? You are well?”

  Darcy spun toward the voice behind him. It was one of the ubiquitous ship boys, swab in hand, pausing about his duties because Darcy stood in his path. He stepped back to allow the boy to pass. “Quite well, thank you.”

  The lad paused to glance up to the foreign traveler. It was not his place to speak to any of the passengers, but this was not the first night of the voyage when he had encountered this same man, in the same attitude, leaning out over the bowsprit. One quiet evening, the boy had even caught Darcy lying down to rest behind the rope netting that was laid out at the fore of the ship, for the safety of the sailors. He moved along his duties, but then turned back. “Something is amiss with your bunk, senhor?”

  Darcy glanced down at the lad. “I prefer the open air.”

  The boy shrugged and continued on his way, leaving Darcy to himself. He watched the youth some while, warily attending as the boy’s progress in his duties carried him farther down the starboard side of the ship. Only when he was at a sufficient distance that his cheerful whistle no longer carried clearly did Darcy breathe easily again. A moment later, he realised that his hands were still knotted tightly about the railing and beginning to cramp. He forced them loose and wiped his sweating palms on a handkerchief. His hand still trembled faintly when he tucked the handkerchief away.

  What fear have you of a mere boy? He was twice the lad’s height and nearly three times his weight—or he used to be. Once just over fourteen stone, perhaps during his captivity he had lost something of his healthful vigour. Still… he shook his head at his own foolishness, but some part of his senses still reached behind his back to ensure that the boy might not surprise him again tonight.

  It was no better in his bunk—nay, far worse! Traveling as himself, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, he could have secured the finest private cabin aboard, though it would still have felt far closer and more suffocating that he could have borne. Even that comfort was not his, for as he was traveling as a Mr Stewart of London, he had been given a communal bunk in the forward regions of the ship. After months of confinement and the visceral aversion he had developed to most human contact, the accommodations for this passage were nigh inhumane to him.

  He closed his eyes and drew long, steadying breaths of the crisp night air. How delicious it was at last to breathe freely, and how glorious the stars! Each pinprick of light, a cosmic inferno made harmless and even peaceful by its great distance, winked down upon his way and bathed his path afresh with hope. How long since he had truly appreciated them as he had when he was a boy? He could count on one hand each night in the past ten years when he had truly paused to gaze up in awe and wonder at their majesty.

  The first was the night of the ball at Netherfield, when he had lingered on the portico—watching for her to arrive and berating himself for his helpless fascination with a mere country squire’s daughter. The stars had held vigil with him, perhaps even laughing at his fruitless attempts to deny what would prove to be an obsession bordering on madness.

  The second was one evening at Rosings, when clarity had sparkled upon him with the soft rays of moonlight, and he had at last made up his mind to propose to that same marvelously baffling woman… and the third was the following night, with that stabbing wound in his breast and his soul crying out for mercy. How those same joyously twinkling stars had suddenly grown cold to mock him!

  There was yet one more incident, one more moment of astonished reflection upon the nocturnal heavens. It had been the August evening she had stayed so long at Pemberley, enchanting him anew and exquisitely reminding him of all the reasons there could be none other like her—not for him.

  He had helped her into her uncle’s carriage and lifted his hand in salute when they drove away… and her own white-gloved hand had shyly returned his address. The motion had been discreet, likely noticed by none but himself in the moonlight, but to his hungry eyes it had been as a beacon to a lost ship. Had he not other guests to attend, he would have remained untold hours there on the steps, gazing after her with full heart and bounding fantasies of all that might follow.

  I am coming home! he whispered, calling out to her and declaring to sea and sky alike that they alone stood in his path. Did she wait for him? Did she see him in her dreams as vividly as he had come to know her? He closed his eyes and prayed fervently that somehow, some sense had checked whatever grief she might have felt at his loss and kindled the hope in her that he yet lived. Let her not already belong to another!

  All his fear and worry for Georgiana, all his recent doubts toward his own family, and all his indignant wrath at his yet unknown enemy, he had diverted to this single purpose: he needed Elizabeth at his side to combat whatever evils came his way. What courage he had come to lack, she possessed in spades, and whatever assurances or comfort his sister required, his efforts would be hollow unless joined in concert with hers. Please God she would receive him, as his last moments with her had taught him to hope!

  He leaned over the rail for two more hours, so loath was he to return to the bunk room. Instead, he shivered in place, his knees frozen stiff and his fingers numbly helpless against the night cold. He gazed quietly into the northern heavens, but he saw only a face, sweetly pillowed on his arm, a crown of chocolate silk furled about her. Thick lashes twitched in dreams, then those glorious eyes opened to smile upon him. Luscious lips curved, then parted to speak his name, as she had so tenderly in his dreams. William.

  ~

  Pemberley

  “William!”

  Elizabeth had flown from her bed. and was standing erect and barefooted in the centre of the room before she realised that she was no longer asleep. Where…? She turned slowly about, reacquainting herself with her surroundings. Her panting breathing began to slow. Ah, yes… Pemberley. Little wonder her visions of him had been so brilliant and powerful!

  She drew a long breath and tremblingly loosed it as she seated herself once more on her bed. Every night of late she spent in a writhing, futile quest for sleep. Even the sweet wine she had imbibed a little too freely last evening had not relaxed her, but seemed only to make her the more vulnerable to her visiting dreams.

  Hissing in exasperation, she collapsed backward atop the counterpane, staring at the darkened ceiling. What a fool she was! He was not hers; never had been, and never could be! Why, then, this obsessive fascination with him in her sleep? And why was it not fading as it should with the passing of time, but intensifying?

  Abruptly she sat up, pressing her fingers into her forehead. Was there some task she was meant to accomplish in his honour, and would her conscience continue to smite her until she completed it? Yes, perhaps that was it. She must see that Georgiana made her way into the world, as he was never permitted to. She must fill the role of sister and guide, as he had once intended for her to do. The task would have been daunting even with his wise and loving support, but without him….

  She rolled up to her feet again and restlessly paced the room. She had been two weeks already at Pemberley, and she still felt herself to be lost. Her uncle’s plans continued to alter, and he had departed in less than the fortnight he had originally intended. “The steward has matters well in hand, and you are all more comfortably established here than you could possibly be anywhere else,” he had assured her. “I’ve a new contract requiring my attention, and your aunt and the children to consider as well, you know.”

  She could not fault him, but she sensed that the task laid before her feet wa
s a deal grander than she could yet envision. Lydia and Georgiana had proved a surprising source of cheer and consolation for one another, but both yet lacked the true force of courage and motivation that could carry them through their troubles. Mrs Annesley, to whom Elizabeth had once looked for assistance, was nearly absent. Mrs Reynolds’ coolness toward the elder lady was no longer a mystery, but Elizabeth had yet to understand why a formerly loyal and attentive lady’s companion seemed frequently unwell or withdrawn.

  Elizabeth halted by her window, nibbling in frustration at the tip of her finger. There was naught left to do but to dress herself and return to her self-appointed task in the library, for sleep had failed her again this night. She set about it with a briskness born of long habit—she was not unfamiliar with rising early and alone, though in former days it had been her desire for solitary exercise rather than an inability to sleep that brought her out.

  The familiar fragrance of the library soothed her almost at once, and her tension began to dissolve as she lovingly circled the crates of newer books that were to be brought back to their places of honour on the shelves. At least here, she felt herself to be of some use.

  Now, where was it she had left off? Ah, yes, Mr Darcy’s scientific texts. His purchases were nearly the only examples of such material to be found in Pemberley’s collection, but it seemed he had set about to remedy the library’s lack of them with a vehemence. She had already sorted over forty such manuals on a variety of both theoretical and classical topics, and several more crates awaited.

  Elizabeth seated herself on the floor amid the unsorted stacks and lifted the topmost book for inspection. She thumbed it open to a random page and found an astronomical depiction of the constellations of the Northern hemisphere. Smiling, she tilted the page more into the candlelight and turned it, so as to orient herself properly. She had never learned the names of the stars, with a few notable exceptions, and she determined that one day she would take that book down from the shelf and study it again. For now… yes, there.

  She slid the volume on sea navigation to one side and the book on Continental weather patterns to the other, and nestled the astronomy book between them. She had no idea how Mr Darcy had once organised his library, but certainly it had been for the content of the books, rather than by their external appearances. Had he not been one to delve below the surface, searching for qualities not readily seen at first glance? Surely, he was more incisive in that regard than any other she had known. A tear pricked her eye as she reached for the next book.

  She worked steadily, taking but a few intermissions to stretch her back or refresh her candle. Slowly, the array of sorted books grew until they stretched over twenty loosely compressed feet along the floor, from the base of one leather chair to the window. She sat back in satisfaction, her hands resting lightly on her knees. This set was nearly ready for shelving, a task for which she would require a second pair of hands. Perhaps Mr Hodges would permit her the services of that tall footman, O’Donnell, if he were not required elsewhere. She could scarcely wait to show Georgiana the completed library!

  Elizabeth rocked back on her heels and tried to stand, but another volume she had overlooked fell against her ankle. She paused and took it up. It was heavy, and fairly old, with a stained leather cover. A glance inside revealed it to be a personal journal belonging to a Lady Georgina Darcy—some feminine ancestor of the current Georgiana Darcy, she supposed. Elizabeth cast a puzzled look about herself. How came such an heirloom to be with the books marked for disposal? Some mistake of the maids, surely!

  She flipped to the first recorded page and discovered the words to belong to a young bride, just returned from her wedding tour. Elizabeth could not help a chuckle at the lady’s tartly phrased comments regarding her somewhat older husband and their adventures while abroad. She blushed at more than one frank observation on the couple’s activities in the bedchamber—certainly the journal belonged to an era when such speech from a lady would not have drawn so much censure as in the modern day, but Elizabeth found herself receiving an education of sorts. The words penned by the distant mistress of Pemberley were only slightly less vulgar than those spoken by Lydia, and expressed with decidedly more descriptive eloquence. Perhaps it had not been an accident that the volume had been placed in the crate of discarded books!

  Her cheeks burning guiltily, Elizabeth tucked the journal under her arm. A little quiet reading in her bed could do no harm, could it? Perhaps if she could not sleep without constantly seeing him in her dreams, she could indulge her internal obsession with the Darcy family in some more pleasurable manner.

  24

  Porto, Portugal

  “And still, you do not tell what has happened?” Senhor Noronha lodged his hands at his hips, pacing in agitation. “I cannot accept my daughter back into my home and keep her husband from her for no reason!”

  Amália crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “My reasons are my own, Father. I have shown you what he did; let that be sufficient.”

  “I cannot, Amália! Vasconcelos—both of them, in fact, father and son—have been at my door multiple times, proclaiming his innocence and your own deplorable lack of regard for your husband. Miguel even claims that you sustained the bruise to your cheek when he tried to push you off him after you flew into a temper! How am I to know the truth?”

  Amália turned her incensed gaze toward her pacing father. “He claimed what?” She laughed outright at the utter idiocy of the suggestion. “And you thought it even vaguely plausible? Father, have you never known me at all?”

  Noronha whirled. “I have, Amália, and that is what causes me to question your words.”

  Her features froze, her eyes hard. “You wish me not to dishonour my husband? Then do not insist that I tell you more than I already have, for I assure you, you would find it slanderous.”

  Her father raged about the room, sputtering in fury. “A woman cannot simply leave her husband without cause! He can force you to return, and I can do nothing about it!”

  “Ruy would stand as witness for me,” she insisted. “He knows what happened.” She leveled an icy gaze at her father. “All of it.”

  “Ruy has been sent back to his regiment!”

  Her eyebrows arched. “At Senhor Vasconcelos’ request, I understand.”

  “He is the governor. He is not without his rights, and just now he has sufficient reason to wish all officers to be at their duty!”

  A sly twinge fluttered about her lips, but she quickly dismissed it. “If Senhor Vasconcelos is distressed of late, it seems that a wayward daughter-in-law ought to be the least of his concerns. He has experienced some sudden misfortune in his business ventures, has he not?”

  Her father peered carefully at her. “There has been… an unforeseen obstacle. You must know, daughter, that the timing of your defection has caused him some marked unease.”

  “He cannot suspect a woman of such intrigue!” she protested. “If he suspects anyone of betrayal, he ought instead to look to his son. It would not surprise me if my husband’s temper were the result of some other affairs turning out badly.” She gazed evenly back at her father, arms still crossed and one brow quirked in challenge.

  Senhor Noronha narrowed his eyes and strode close. “You do not fool me, Amália,” he whispered harshly. “What have you done?”

  “What was right, Father,” she retorted flatly. “What you ought to have done before, but you are too much the coward to defy Senhor Vasconcelos.”

  He spun away, snatching locks of his own thinning hair through his fingers as he howled in frustration. “Amália! You meddle in affairs far beyond your understanding! Do you know in what danger you have placed us all? Can you even imagine what will happen to you when Vasconcelos learns what you have done?”

  She pursed her lips. “And you wished me to return to my husband’s house!”

  He spun about. “I cannot protect you even in my own house, if Vasconcelos discovers your involvement. You do
not know how dangerous, how long his reach—”

  “Long enough to pluck a wealthy Englishman from his own land and lead anyone concerned for him to think him dead?” she observed drily. “I have an inkling, Father. Frankly, I do not care any longer. He may do to me as he likes.”

  “You are so free with your own life! Hear you nothing I have said?”

  Amália slammed her fists down on the wooden arms of her chair and shot to her feet. “You hear nothing I have said! I would take the veil rather than go back to Miguel! I should never have married him, even to please you, for the man is a beast and a scoundrel! Because of him, I have flung away my life already!”

  “Amália, come back!” Noronha cried, but he was too late. His daughter stormed from the room, slamming the door behind herself like a petulant child.

  She ran then, down the long corridors of her youth, past the maids who had watched her grow and dressed her in her bridal array. Outdoors she sped, not slowing until she reached the garden behind the house and had flung herself down at the feet of the naked rosebushes. Great sobs racked her, and she rose up to press her fists to her forehead, heaving her torment aloud to the stoic greenery.

  She would not return to Miguel, though it cost her life! He had stolen enough from her already; she would not give him more years, and she certainly had no intention of giving him children. A son or daughter, for a man such as he! Her chest burst in a rancorous cry of loathing. Never! She shook her fists to the heavens and shrieked her contempt aloud. Not for him! she swore in incoherent cries.

  “Pardon me, senhorita, is something the matter?” a gentle voice interrupted.

  Amália’s jaw dropped in stunned disbelief. That voice! A chill washed through her, and she closed her eyes, then opened them again. Slowly she turned to her left, to that secret gate in the garden wall to which only a few had ever gained access.