These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Nicole Clarkston

  “And what was your share to be?” Fitzwilliam asked coldly. “No—allow me to guess. Vasconcelos was to bring industry to your city. Refine the ore, build mills, ship everything from Porto—that was it, was it not?”

  The older man sighed. “It is not wealth I seek, Fitzwilliam, but our city’s very survival after the war ends. Our economy will never recover if we do not begin to modernise! We have few enough raw materials, and we cannot afford to lose years before this source is developed.”

  “Darcy is a reasonable man! Even if he does hold the deed—which I find doubtful—why the devil would you not simply ask him to sell it?”

  “I asked the same thing, but it was done before I could object. Vasconcelos has a long history with Darcy’s family, and did not believe it would be so easily done as you claim. I do not know the details, but he knew of one other who promised greater aid. This party, for I do not know his name, guaranteed that he would procure the deed in exchange for… well, to put it bluntly—”

  “Someone wanted Darcy dead, but Vasconcelos kept him alive as insurance.”

  “Y-yes. I believe this party was a relative and intended to keep his hands clean, hence his desire for Vasconcelos’ involvement. I understand a deal of money exchanged hands; money Vasconcelos claimed to need for his venture.”

  “Did you ever see him?” Fitzwilliam’s voice was lower now—still dangerous, but not snarling as before.

  “Senhor Darcy? No. I never spoke with him,” Noronha confessed. “Vasconcelos did, a number of times. He claimed your cousin was… uncooperative.”

  Fitzwilliam slammed his fists down on Noronha’s desk. “After such treatment! Amália told me precisely where and how she found him. The Darcy I know would have sealed his lips out of pure obstinacy! ‘Uncooperative!’ I shouldn’t wonder! I doubt he even knows of this deed you claim, for I never heard him speak of it, and I am familiar with nearly all his affairs. How dare you, sir, remain party to the mistreatment of an innocent man and the cousin of one who saved your own son?”

  Noronha was shaking his head in denial. “Vasconcelos kept him as a guest in his own house! Oh, he was not free to go, but he was treated—”

  “As a prisoner! You thought Vasconcelos set him up in his finest guest chamber? Did you even bother speaking with your daughter, or did you dismiss her words when she came to you for help?”

  Noronha’s lips parted and he began to blink, lifting a shaking hand to his eyes. “Amália….”

  “She cannot return to her home, Noronha.” Fitzwilliam’s tones were hard, and his eyes harder. “Vasconcelos is nothing that you have persuaded yourself to believe. If she goes back to her husband—damn you that I had to say that! —she will never be safe. You know this too well!”

  Noronha was covering his face now, nodding weakly. “Sim, I know, but I cannot protect her! Miguel can go to the church and force her to return. If she had only stayed out of the business, left well enough alone—”

  “You know her too well for that!”

  Noronha lowered his hand to reveal tears glittering in his eyes. “Forgive me, sir! I know not what to do!”

  Fitzwilliam frowned, evidently displeased that Noronha’s humility had disarmed his own anger. “She must go elsewhere, out of the city. Out of the country entirely would be preferable.”

  Noronha looked up suspiciously. “If you mean to suggest that she accompany you to England, sir—”

  “I would give my right arm if she could!” he vowed fervently. “But that is impossible, I know right well. Damn you!” he swore again, slapping his formal hat down on the desk. “The same obstacles exist now as three years ago, and more besides. I have my cousin to protect as well, for if what you say is true, Darcy will be giving someone a rather unpleasant surprise when he returns alive. No! She cannot come with me.” He chewed his lip in frustration and began to pace.

  A moment later, he stopped as if pricked in the back. “I think,” he mused softly, “that I can keep both of your children safe for the present.”

  Noronha lifted his head again, his dark eyes glowing with hope. “Ruy? You can have him recalled from the front?”

  Fitzwilliam was nodding, still facing the wall. “I know General Cotton—was his personal secretary for some while. I presume that Vasconcelos has his contacts as well, but Cotton is not a man to be bought. I will ask him to grant Ruy a temporary leave, send him somewhere else where Amália may accompany him.” He turned and narrowed his eyes. “You will not know of their destination, sir, not until we can be assured of their safety. I will not risk it!”

  Noronha swallowed and blinked his acknowledgment. “Sim16, senhor. I understand.”

  26

  Matlock House, London

  “What do you mean, Georgiana has returned to Pemberley? Why was I not informed of this weeks ago? James Fitzwilliam, I am ashamed of you! I will no longer tolerate this nonsense!” Lady Catherine raised her cane—more a prop with which to deliver lectures than a walking aid—and aimed it at her brother. “What madness possessed you to let that son of yours return my niece to Derbyshire without proper escort?”

  “I was not even in London at the time!” the earl protested. “Besides, why would I object against her being taken back to her home? She had best learn her duties, and Richard as well.”

  The lady’s cane reared itself again. “Pemberley is not his chief concern! He is to marry Anne. It is all settled. Why, he even agreed to it himself! I will not have him distracting my niece’s affections and allowing himself to be led on by her allurements. He is for Anne!”

  “Anne, you say! Can you not find some other fellow in need of a modest fortune for her? There are always such men sniffing about, and if you would only let Anne out of Kent once in a while—”

  “You know very well that her health would not endure a Season in London,” the lady snapped. “She must be preserved for childbearing. I will see her wed to my nephew before her head begins to turn grey!” The cane stabbed the air once more for emphasis.

  “Put that thing away,” her brother waved in disgust. “You have none to thank for this circumstance but yourself. How many years did you waste chasing Darcy? No man in his senses would risk his own estate on a bride who might never be healthy enough to give him an heir. You should have found some second son for her years ago.”

  “And I have done so now!”

  The earl placed his hands flat on his hips and leaned forward. “No.”

  “You are so determined to have Pemberley’s wealth for your own! I see what you are about, James. You send them practically unchaperoned back to Derbyshire—why, it will be just the thing for you if some disgrace takes place and a wedding must cover it all up! You think to control the estate through your son!”

  “No more than you seek to control it through your niece,” the earl huffed. “And I understand they were not at all unchaperoned, but that Georgiana was accompanied by some young ladies of her acquaintance when they returned.”

  Lady Catherine threw her hands in the air. “And who are they? Mindless influences secured to serve your interests, naturally!”

  “As a matter of fact, I have never met either of them. They were not of the ton, but Richard informed his mother that they were young ladies of the highest character, and that Georgiana finds their company encouraging. I have only been returned from France a few days, and I have not yet learned much of their backgrounds. You may be assured that I have made inquiries.”

  “Meanwhile, Georgiana has been impressed upon by these chits, and has likely already surrendered to a compromise!”

  “Do my son some justice. Pemberley has a chapel—he would have married her first.”

  The cane slashed through the air. “He cannot marry her, for is engaged to Anne! Now, what do you have to say to that?”

  “If he is so,” the earl shrugged, “then you have no cause for concern. Has he ever proved faithless?”

  “He is a man, and you have purposely
sent a young girl into his sole care. You have led him on, James!”

  “Indeed, I have. I do not believe for a moment that he agreed to marry Anne—and, why would he? What man would not prefer Georgiana’s charms to Anne’s, or Pemberley to Rosings? I do my son a kindness in shielding him from your clutches.”

  “And what then of Anne? Is she to be left on the shelf?” She rapped her cane on the floor, but as her brother only lifted a brow, she changed tacks. “Do you overlook the influence, the interest that might be gained if Georgiana were to marry into nobility? It was our sister’s wish that both her children would join the estate to the finest families in the kingdom. Georgiana was always destined to marry a lord, that our own family consequence might be better served!”

  “I will not lose Pemberley to another family!” the earl bellowed. “Catherine, I have done with you. Go on back to Kent and find another husband for that daughter of yours.”

  Lady Catherine’s face puckered into a terrifying scowl. “Then I shall know how to act. I take my leave of you, James Fitzwilliam! I give no compliments to your wife; you are beneath my notice!” She whirled in a swish of black crepe, her cane gesturing vehemently for her footman to attend her to her carriage.

  The earl spun away in a rage, his hand sweeping an array of curios and notepaper from his desk. “Confound the woman!” he roared to no one in particular. He drew back his hand in another display of temper, but stopped short of his inkwell and pen. He pursed his lips as inspiration struck, and quickly slid into his chair to follow where it may lead.

  “Duncan!” he called a moment later. When the man appeared, Matlock extended the folded missive with a shaking hand. “I wish to have this announcement run in tomorrow’s papers. Will you see to it, please? And send someone for her ladyship. She will wish to hear that her son is to be married.”

  ~

  London

  Darcy stood, quivering and anxious, at the bow of the ship as it drew majestically up the Thames. He closed his eyes and drew deep, luxuriant breaths of loamy English air. Never again would he slight the fetid aroma from the riverbanks, the unsightly vista of slums cobbled together near the water, or the rough, spittle-laden dialect of the lower ranks of sailors. Each was as dear and precious and marvelously familiar as the sparkling cliffs of Dover, and now made far more unforgettable by their pervasive nearness. Darcy drank it all in, filling his lungs and throwing back his head in exultant triumph. He was home.

  A number of passengers were milling about him now, each jockeying for a view of the shore. Some were waving to a sweetheart on the docks, others trying to secure the services of a porter to take their luggage before that of the other passengers. Darcy lowered the crown of his hat and withdrew, content to be unseen among the throng. His beard was now long enough to tuck into the coarse scarf given him by the Portuguese army captain, and he took some comfort from the combined shielding effect over his face. In less than an hour from now, he would have the luxury of disappearing wherever he pleased.

  Where that place was… he sighed and hunched his shoulders still further. He longed to race to his house in Grosvenor Square to hear word of Georgiana and even embrace the dear girl if she were there, but perhaps that must be done with some circumspection. Such a shock he must give her! She would have borne more grief and hardship than any other, and though physically strong, she carried some trace of their mother’s emotive frailty. Better that someone she trusted should first tell her that he had come back from the dead, even if it meant leaving London without attempting to see her.

  He might go to his Fitzwilliam relations, but the hair stood on the back of his neck each time he thought of them. Surely it was all an irrational fancy, a baseless fear, but too much unease troubled him still. He set his teeth and determined that he would carry out his prior resolve, to go to Hertfordshire. There, surely Bingley had resumed his abode and likely married, if he knew the man at all. He could secure his friend’s assistance in reestablishing himself, learn something of his sister’s circumstances, and—most urgently of all—discover whether the hope of love that had grounded him to sanity might ever truly be his.

  His chest convulsed in a great, palpitating ache. He was so close! Elizabeth had for months remained his one bulwark against despair, so much so that she had almost taken an ethereal place in his heart. In her, he hoped to find the lover and comforter who could face his trials beside him and soothe his fears when they threatened to smother him. Yes, he assured himself, as he at long length strode down the plank to sweet English soil once more. I must see her!

  Surely, too, it was better to avoid any London contacts just yet, which extended—most mortifyingly—to his personal servants. The clothes on his back were his only vestment and were once again in need of laundering. He carried no luggage save a small bag given him by Noronha for appearance’s sake. As a consequence, he needed tip no porter nor wait on any man, so he rounded his shoulders and walked as briskly from the ship as he could, carrying his own small satchel like a common tradesman.

  As Darcy walked alone from the port, fleeing the press of humanity all about, he found himself on Thames Street. There he stopped, glancing about for some familiar landmark and finding none. He wandered a block or two in each direction, seeing only thriving commercial buildings and men transacting business—nothing and no one he could recognise. It was not, he realised, so simple as he had once thought it might be to make his way through London on foot. There was still in his purse a quantity of coins—and once again, he made note to somehow repay that brave Portuguese girl and her brother. Jingling the purse nervously, he weighed it and raised his hand to hire a chair to take him to the nearest post station.

  Just as he had lifted it, a private carriage blocked his path, stopping to let its passenger down on the street. Darcy gaped, his whole body alive and tingling. Was that… why, yes, it was! Edward Gardiner, that blessed man who had brought his Elizabeth to Derbyshire, stepped from the coach. What serendipity could have brought him directly to one of the most trustworthy men of his acquaintance, just when he desperately needed such a friend?

  Darcy opened his mouth and began to step forward, but other men pushed round him and that old panic rose in his gorge before he could speak. Gardiner glanced his direction, sensing a man whose path intersected directly with his own. He did not, much to Darcy’s disappointment, respond with welcome or even recognition. He touched his hat as if to a stranger—a politer gesture than many others might have offered—and continued on his way.

  Darcy was left to gaze helplessly after him. Gardiner was clearly about some business he did not wish to delay, but perhaps he could be diverted once he had completed his task. So hoping, Darcy followed at a discreet distance.

  Gardiner did not have far to walk and soon entered what appeared to be a shipping brokerage firm. A moment later, Darcy too had entered, but he seemed to have lost his man among the throng. There was a queue—if it could be called such an organised thing—men pressed against one another as one mass, many of them holding manifests or ledgers. Gardiner did not appear to be among them.

  Darcy was tugging at the weedy little cravat about his neck, his forehead beginning to sweat with the breath of other men bearing suffocatingly down upon him. His eyes darted to and fro, fearing that Gardiner had somehow already slipped from the building and he had missed his opportunity. He was already fainting back, his hand searching behind himself for the door again, when Gardiner’s distinctive laugh rang out somewhere over the heads of the others. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth against the discomfort of the large crowd, Darcy dove into the mass to follow the sound.

  “Gardiner!” another voice joined in laughter, “I had thought you still in Derbyshire!”

  Darcy froze. Gardiner had returned to Derbyshire? When? How?

  “No,” Gardiner replied, smiling. “I was there less than a fortnight. Some pressing business, you understand, but it has turned out most satisfactorily.”

  “I s
hould say it has! What is this new venture I heard rumour of? You have been busy, my good fellow. Did you really buy two of your own vessels? Why, you will not much longer need my services!”

  “Indeed, I did! My business on the Continent has proved a lucky success. I happened to meet with just the right man who needed precisely what I had, do you know. A shame about that other fellow, but I suppose it could not be helped.”

  Darcy’s pulse was hammering in his ears and his mouth had suddenly gone dry. A man from Continent. A sudden success. Another man the loser….

  “Aye!” the other was answering. “But what of that other business? Did you not say in your last note that your presence might be required in Derbyshire periodically? That is a deal to manage, old man, with all that traveling back and forth.”

  “Oh! It is not so dreadful. It is all a matter of seeking the right people to suit one’s purpose, is it not? I’ve a most reliable and capable correspondent there to see to whatever may need doing, though there is a vast deal more to manage than has been their previous experience. Still, I’ve no doubts that it shall work to the advantage of everyone.”

  Darcy’s knees began to weaken, and he found himself nearly stumbling back against another man as the room spun all round him. Gardiner… one of the only people who had knowledge of his planned visit to Wickham that last night…. He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, trying to stop the disconcerted reeling of his stomach.

  “That’s what it is,” the other man agreed with Gardiner. “The right people, you have it there. A man stepping into such fortunate circumstances as yourself must search out men upon whom he can depend, or he will find it all yanked from him like that other fellow.”