Elizabeth gathered her skirts in gleeful fists and ran up the nearest little slope. Breathless, she spun slowly from her vantage point, taking in the distant house, the gardens, the little chapel, the rolling fields. Why, he could be anywhere, even Pemberley, at almost any moment! Wickham’s warnings of danger she pushed aside—they could be managed, surely. No fear could shake her now, for no longer did she rail against the grave itself. William was alive! She would relish this joy for one delicious hour, opening herself to what had been lost to her. No matter the obstacles, now there was a breath of hope.
A shiver trembled down her spine, and she could not contain an almost girlish cry of delight. She spread her arms and twirled on her little knoll, eyes closed and confident that if the world could see her, they would only join in her happiness. If William were free, he would naturally want to assure himself first of Georgiana’s safety, and that would lead him back home.
And then, there he was. Elizabeth caught her breath as she spun to a halt, her eyes fixed on the lone horse and rider making their weary way up the road. She need not see the face from this distance. No other was so erect, so powerful, even in fatigue. Her gaze never left him as she tripped lightly down to the path before him, a welcoming smile warming her features.
The crown of his hat flicked upward, and she could tell the moment that his eyes set upon her. The tired horse leapt immediately to a gallop, closing the distance until she could see the desperate longing in his eyes. They locked with hers, an unspoken accord, and in a moment, he was vaulting from the back of his moving horse. “Elizabeth!” he breathed, and caught her up in his arms.
His hands laced round her waist, up her back, and into the base of her neck, just as they had so many times in the dark of the night as she had cried herself to sleep. She tried to speak, to whisper in answer, but he had claimed her mouth. She breathed in sharply, but it was him that she inhaled. His name bubbled in her throat, but for a delicious moment, he only groaned and pulled her closer.
After a moment, he drew back slightly, resting his forehead on hers. “My Elizabeth!” he whispered. He nudged her nose, his body shaking in her arms.
Her eyes brimming, she reached to brush his cheek, but her fingers chilled in the empty air. Elizabeth shivered and drew her thick cloak more tightly about herself. She slowly turned once more, taking in the vacant road to the house. No horse grazed nearby, and no Darcy cradled her in his arms.
She sighed and put a hand to her forehead. Either she was delirious, which was possible, or some sense had bound her heart to his, and each pulse was bringing him closer, making him more real. She could have sworn to the softness of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the strength of his hands, though never in her experience had a man actually held her so that she might have another means of knowing such sensations. It was he, and yet not.
The fingers with which she had kneaded her brow now flattened as she shaded straining eyes to gaze longingly down the road. Not even a drayage cart laboured along its distance. He cannot be far, hope whispered to her.
If word had reached Wickham and he had found his way to Pemberley, surely Darcy could not be far behind! Unless… her thoughts darkened… unless he had, indeed, remained in London to search out his persecutors. Angry, battered, and without proper information as he must certainly be, she had no means of knowing his thoughts or actions. The Darcy she knew would have looked first to his sister, then to any thoughts of justice or revenge, but Mr Wickham had hinted, had he not, that Darcy was somewhat the worse for his captivity? Might he act rashly and walk back into the hands of those who would do him harm?
She squinted her eyes, standing on her toes as though it would afford her a better vantage of the road. If only he would come to Pemberley, he could be safe! Oh, William, where are you?
~
Darcy jerked in the saddle. Had he truly fallen asleep, or had some vision just shaken him? He could still feel Elizabeth in his arms, smell her hair, and sense her warm breath on his cheek. She had been searching for him, he was certain of it!
He shook his head to rid himself of the feeling. Oh, she lay ahead of him, of that he was assured, but it would be difficult to imagine the Elizabeth he knew falling into his arms upon first sight. He would have been satisfied with a smile and a raised brow, and a light of greeting in those fine eyes.
Would she even be pleased to see him? They had become friends, he thought, though only tenuously so. Surely there was enough goodness in her heart to rejoice that an innocent man was not dead, but she had not loved him before. Why ought that to be different now?
No, it was Richard who had at last persuaded her to leave Longbourn! Richard, with his careless ease among women, as though he were immune to them all and only enjoyed garnering their favour as a social exercise. Richard, who wore the damned Regimentals all the Bennet ladies would swoon for, and now dangled the keys to Pemberley as a remedy against his poverty. Richard, who seemed so honourable and trustworthy that even Elizabeth and Georgiana, who had learned to see through Wickham, could not have perceived his duplicity!
Darcy’s jaw clenched and his fingers tightened on the reins. And Richard, no doubt, who had found an ally in Edward Gardiner. Two men upon whose fidelity he would have staked his very life, and both had proved false. Might he not also be wrong about Elizabeth, who seemed to have been the link between them?
Had Richard made her his mistress, as well as trying to trap his sister in marriage? He would not be the first man of Darcy's acquaintance to keep more than one woman, and he would have to be blind to miss the attraction sparking between them at Rosings. It had seemed innocent enough at the time, but now…. But Elizabeth was a lady! Surely, she would not—unless her family circumstances after Lydia’s embarrassment had become so desperate that she would have accepted such a promise of security. Or did she love the bounder, as she had never loved him?
Maddened with helpless questions, he nearly slapped his own face as he tried to rid himself of the tormenting ideas. Elizabeth would never have been party to any scheme that might have harmed Georgiana! Yet, if she had been convinced of a lie, led to believe that Richard and her uncle meant matters for the best, she would have thrown herself wholeheartedly into the affair.
Darcy growled, sensing his body coiling in vexation once more. His horse sensed his tension and increased its pace, sending hot breaths down the neck of Darcy’s unprepossessing captive.
The fellow, who claimed his name was Woods, yelped and ducked from the horse’s path. “‘Ave a care, suh!” he protested. “’Tis still too foggy to see aright!”
“You saw the ditch by the roadside well enough to run to it an hour ago,” Darcy retorted. “I would be obliged if you would remain on your feet.”
“Walked a’ night, we ‘ave! Din’na yew plan to rest the ‘orse, suh?”
“Indeed, he shall be well baited at the next inn, and I shall depend upon your amiable company to entertain me whilst we refresh ourselves. Have you any good stories? I fancy a truthful one this time—perhaps one of your adventures.”
“I’ve told ye a’ I know, suh! Jakes it was ‘o knew it a’!”
“You have mentioned this fellow on more than one occasion, but you have thus far failed to procure him. I believe you so far as to credit his existence, for well do I remember the foul flavor of his boot in my teeth. Moreover, I could not think you alone capable of carrying out any scheme more complex than the picking of pockets. Where have you left this estimable companion of yours?”
“I to’d yew, suh, the fancy bit, eh? I saw it a’, she drove ‘im down a-purpose! The wench is a devil!”
“Speak so again of any of the ladies at my home, and your friend shall not be the only one with hoof prints upon his person!” Darcy warned, spurring his horse to roughly bump the man for emphasis.
Woods stumbled, then glared sulkily up at Darcy while rubbing his shoulder. Darcy glowered back, intimidating the other once more into obeisance. They walked on in
silence for a moment, then Darcy asked, “Which lady?”
Woods glanced up. “What run down Jakes? The wild one ‘erself.”
“Describe her!” Darcy insisted.
Jakes held a hand up to indicate the lady's height, which was no great help. “Dark ‘air. Not the one in th’ family way—Jakes said I was to get that ‘un. T’other, the sassy piece wha’ wandered off by ‘erself. A demon she was, suh!”
Darcy had temporarily forgotten his vow to silence the insults with iron hooves. Rather, he was smiling to himself, taking one small moment of comfort from the man’s revelations. A lady of medium height with dark hair, and not with child… Georgiana was fair of complexion, Mrs Annesley was quite short, and Bingley had described something of Lydia Wickham’s plight. It must be Elizabeth who had defended his sister with such determination! A demon indeed… more like an avenging angel!
Perhaps matters were not as bleak as his fears led him to believe. At least she had retained her fighting spirit and ferocious loyalty. Perhaps her regard for his sister might also extend in some measure to himself. With any luck, she would even believe the horrible truth of what he must tell her regarding her uncle and his cousin!
His face fell. So long as he was dreaming, he might as well imagine her heart over head in love with him, and watching for his return with open arms. But no, she still believed him buried, and would have heard all manner of untruths to justify the dishonourable circumstances of his “death”. Richard, ever the strategist, would not have overlooked that detail.
A pessimistic frown deepened upon his face as he glared at the road before his horse’s feet. His sentiments vacillated wildly between hope and despair, setting his heart to race one moment and leaving him thrashing in helpless fury the next. It seemed every person who stood to gain something had found a way to do so! His mouth puckered as though he had swallowed something foul. Like as not, Wickham was somehow involved as well!
Woods had watched the distant introspection reign in Darcy’s eyes, and was tired enough to attempt to exploit it. He began to bend his steps from the horse’s side, gradually opening the space between them, until they approached a hedge by the side of the road. Only an errant branch scraping along his arm alerted Darcy that something was amiss with his prisoner, and he was quick to recapture the fellow.
“Attempt another such escape, and I will find that prostitute of yours to learn what I need!” Darcy growled. “I can make her situation rather less comfortable than it presently is.”
Woods gulped audibly. “Yew wouldn’a, suh! She’s a girl, she is!”
“And your sister, is she not?”
Woods stopped walking and stared. “‘Ow’s yew to know that?”
Darcy leaned down from the saddle. “I also seek to protect my sister. Believe me when I say that you and she will both be better served if you cooperate. There is a coaching inn not a quarter mile ahead. We shall take a fair rest and see that the horse is recovered. I am in no humour to search for you among the local farmhouses.”
Woods nodded half-heartedly. “Aye, suh.”
36
Lisbon, Portugal
Amália picked at the drab cloth she held, an unconscious frown creasing her brow. The thick weave of Ruy’s uniform warmed her lap, save for a gaping hole in the sleeve where he had been nearly wounded during exercises. She fingered the hole. Had the sword struck an inch to the left….
She let go a sharp sigh, and bent to her task just as the other women in the room did. All were camp followers—wives, some children, and even a few widows with nothing left for them but what could be gleaned from the attentions of the regiment. These women bore hardship for the love of a soldier—like her, and yet not. Portuguese sisters, all, but their eyes had seen a different sort of suffering than had hers.
They had sheltered her, as Ruy had predicted they would, but not welcomed her. Oh! She was not deaf to the whispers—hands cupped and eyes darting in her direction as her great scandal was pronounced. Even her family’s ancient title purchased her no respect in this room. Aristocrata18, the kinder ones called her; a woman of means and standing, running away from an honourable marriage and pretending to follow the drum. Pretending to be one of them.
Her eyes burning, she stabbed a needle through the cloth. Ruy would need this uniform again by the morrow, and if she were to shelter here under his banner, the least she could do was to look after him as the other women cared for their men. Her fingers seemed somehow less capable than theirs, just as her right to take a place among them seemed less secure.
She could not remain much longer—that much she knew right well! Ruy had employed his connections, but there was no place for a soldier’s sister, nor was there meant to be an allotment for her rations. Wives—and women with somewhat less dignity—were always sought after by the regiment for companionship, but she could not be counted among them. Useful women who could cook and sew and nurse wounds were grudgingly accepted as a necessity to the camp, but there was no shortage of those, and her skills were more genteel than practical. She blinked back a tear of frustration and tried to stitch more quickly.
Was this the life she would have known if she had married Richard? Waiting for him at camp, praying that he was among those fortunate ones to ride back from the fire and smoke? Of course, as a true soldier’s wife with a right to her portion of his pay and an acknowledged place among the followers, her status would have been somewhat higher—unless he were killed.
Her wondering gaze raised from Ruy’s coat to the grizzled widow sitting across the room. No more than thirty-five or forty was she, but her life appeared to have played out twice that many years. Amália shuddered and looked back to the coat before her stares could be noticed. That was the fate Richard had tried to spare her from—and just now it seemed a finer one than the one she had fled.
Her eyes fixed on the olive cloth, so lost in contemplation that it was a full minute before she noticed the bright red flush staining the edge of the hole she attempted to mend. Several seconds more passed before she recognised the blood for her own, but then she hurried to blot the well from her pricked fingertip.
She glanced nervously about, hoping her blunder had gone unnoticed, but it had not. Two knowing smiles mocked her from her right, and the whispers began anew. Amália clenched her teeth and rose hastily, snatching the uniform coat from prying gazes.
Mumbling her excuses, she escaped their presence, and a moment later was outdoors. An English officer happened to be walking nearby, his lady on his arm. Amália watched the couple as they strode past, sensing a thrill when the English lady’s kindly blue eyes smiled briefly back into hers. She stood a moment after they had gone, wishing there were more such women in Lisbon. Only the higher ranking foreign officers tended to bring their wives abroad, and often these remained only a few months before returning to England. It was a pity, for the English women seemed to see her with different eyes. Perhaps there was nothing remarkably gracious about the ladies of that country, but the mere fact that they were here, displaced as she, made them somehow more kindred than women who hailed from her own home city.
Amália walked slowly to the old building where she and some of the young wives of the regiment had their lodgings. The light in her room was dismal, and the row of beds seemed both cramped and empty at the same time, but she determined it the best place to complete her task. She sat on her narrow bed, squinting her eyes until they ached, and fumbling with sore fingers until the hole was mended. Just as she was beginning to contemplate the best way to remove her blood from the coat, a disturbance rose from the main door of the house.
Curiously, she moved to the door of the hall where she slept, and the heat surged into her cheeks as she heard a masculine voice demanding entry to the house. Oh, no. No, no, no!
Against the protests of one or two matrons and officers without, someone had forced their way in, and Amália did not need to see the face to comprehend her danger. She spun about, dropping Ruy
’s coat and wondering if she could wedge herself into the small window above one of the beds to escape.
She heard a hated voice demand, “Where is my master’s faithless wife?” and then the voice was answered by the ring of a steel sword leaping from its scabbard.
“Leave these quarters at once, Pereira!” ordered Ruy’s tones. The rage simmering in his voice prickled the back of her neck. Ruy was an officer, a man used to command and not one to be ruled by passion, but he sounded to her as though the situation was far from under his control. Amália was reeling back into the depths of the room, searching for a dark bed under which she might hide herself, when the door burst open.
“The whore herself,” snarled Pereira. An instant later, Ruy’s sword was at his throat.
“You must be thinking of your own relations,” Ruy hissed. “Take another step or speak another word, and we will see the colour of your blood!”
Pereira made a face. “You cannot afford to harm me,” he answered nonchalantly. “I have a letter from the bishop and another from the governor, both denouncing her,” he gestured flippantly, “as a deceitful woman. Happily, her husband has offered to take her back, under certain conditions.”
Two of Ruy’s young soldados finally rushed in, taking their cue from him and drawing swords. Amália watched Ruy’s fingers work along the hilt of his sword, readjusting his grip and drawing furious breaths. “She goes nowhere!” He jerked his head to his companions, and by prods and shoves they forced Pereira back.
“You have no legal right!” Pereira objected. “I have the power here,” he shook his letters, “to force her to accompany me. Your general cannot even interfere!”
“And I have the power to see that you never draw another breath!” Ruy shot back. “Go back and tell Miguel Vasconcelos that he is unworthy of a wife. Tell him that she has taken holy orders or tell him that she has died of dysentery, I care not! But if you step into my sword, it will not fall back.”
These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 40
