These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Nicole Clarkston

  Darcy halted and looked down, every feeling of justice conflicting in his being. The cretin deserved his punishment, but that hollow expression in his eyes—no, he knew that look, and it was not to be borne. “You need not fear mistreatment in my home,” he stiffly assured the fellow. “You will be under the guardianship of my footmen until transferred to the authority of the nearest magistrate on the morrow. I cannot speak for his judgment, but you will be made comfortable enough for the night.”

  Woods nodded mutely and began shuffling his feet along once more. It was true they had traveled far today, but not all of it had been thus. Darcy had allowed his tired mount to recover, leading him like a groom for a humiliating half morning and taking upon himself the same exertions as his captive bore. At a coaching station, twenty miles south, they had encountered a carter with his wares bound for Lambton. Darcy, wishing to hasten their travels, had paid for Woods to ride on the box, while he remained close to prevent an escape. All afternoon they had gone so, Darcy mounted and Woods reclining easily, until the carter had stopped for the night. And so, he reasoned, his unwilling companion had just cause for fatigue, but could not truly complain of harsh treatment.

  Darcy ground his teeth, relieved that soon he might relinquish his charge and rest himself. He swept his eyes over what remained of the horizon. He was on his own lands now, the trees and meadows of his youth shadowed comfortingly round him, and his own door now in plain view. He had thought at first of skirting the main drive to the house, thinking to elude any eyes that might be about, but pride had brought him up. Was this not his own property, and had he not every right to arrive as the master of the house ought? This was also the smoothest approach for the worn travelers, and so the main drive it was.

  Everything was growing brighter now, as the house advanced upon his path and dominated his view. Home, the only place he had ever known as such, but a place demanding more of its master than he might ever again be able to give. Even setting foot inside would draw the walls down around him as the prison he had escaped, pressing and suffocating. Within awaited his innocent Georgiana and his adored Elizabeth, but the flock were guarded by the wolf, and he must carry the battle the moment he crossed the threshold. He felt his stomach flip, and he closed his eyes to draw a shaking breath.

  All his discomfort and misgivings were forgotten in the next moment, for he thought—no, he was certain! Most of the windows were decorously shrouded, but from several transgressors there shone golden glow, and within one of them a slender shadow moved. It was on one of the upper floors—the guest quarters, naturally. His pulse quickened. Could it be she? It might just as well be one of the maids, but the knowledge that she was there, somewhere, lent him courage. Might she come below to greet him within a span of minutes, and might she even comfort and welcome him as… a friend? A desired lover? A disinterested acquaintance? What were they to one another?

  The horse’s feet crunched the gravel loudly in the still evening. Darcy halted once more, as the first raindrops pattered upon his shoulders. Another moment and his life would be his own again, his name once more spoken aloud, and authority returned to his hand. He flexed his stiff fingers, wondering if he were equal to the task, or if he ought to turn back to Lambton. One more night to think and plan, perhaps that was wise….

  A tall footman was now opening the door, a lantern in his hand and a suspicious expression upon his face. “Good evening, sirs. The house is in mourning, and my mistress is not accepting guests at present. May I ask your business?”

  Darcy’s mouth felt dry. He sensed Woods glancing up to him, but kept his eyes on the door. His mouth opened, but his voice faltered. “I…” he wheezed, then inhaled a great gulp of air. He wetted his lips. Words formed on them, but his chest tightened until he had not the breath to give voice.

  “Sir, we would not require an honest traveler to depart at this hour, but I must ask your business. I have my orders not to permit strangers to linger about the house at present, but I can see that you are in need of shelter for the night. If I may have the honour of your name, I shall call for the butler and the housekeeper to secure appropriate accommodations.”

  Darcy swallowed, his jaw working. With a rough sort of decisiveness, he nudged his horse forward, more into the light from the house. In those few steps, he cast his eyes up once more to the window above, then back to the footman. He examined the man closely, searching for a name.

  “O’Donnell, is it not? Do you not recognise your employer?” he queried, with a sharpness born of his own frustration.

  The footman seemed to flinch, and he hastened down three or four of the steps, his head tilted. He paused, lifted his lantern, and Darcy saw him gape in astonishment. “Sir…” the lantern trembled, the voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Mr… Mr Darcy, sir?” He shook his head and spoke aloud once more. “No, forgive me, my good sir, it is only that your voice seemed familiar.”

  “It is I!” Darcy snapped. “And I am quite ready to settle once more into my own house. Is there not someone from the stables to attend my horse?”

  O’Donnell nearly dropped the lantern, but a deft hand righted it at the last second. He held it aloft once more, revealing frightened eyes that seemed to look for a ghost rather than his master. He scrambled to collect himself, however, rather admirably. “Y-yes, sir, Mr Darcy! Only one moment, sir, and I shall have Mrs Reynolds called, and Mr Hodges!”

  “And Mr Jefferson, if you please. I have with me an individual to consign into his care. Send for two or three others, you must keep close watch that he attempts no escape until the magistrate can be summoned.”

  O’Donnell seemed at a loss for which way to turn. He looked to the house, as if to cry out for aid, then back to his master. A second footman appeared behind him, sparing O’Donnell the indignity of shouting. He expressed Darcy’s wishes in a rush of words to his counterpart, then fairly ran down the steps to take the horse. He trembled as his hand reached for the reins, perhaps recalling those old Irish superstitions and ghost stories from his forefathers. Peering anxiously in the light of his lantern, his cheeks seemed bloodless.

  “Sir—why, sir, it truly is yourself!” he cried after several seconds. He glanced to Woods and his face seemed to start once more in at least partial recognition. “Sir,” he breathed, turning back to Darcy, “how might I assist you, sir?”

  Darcy grunted as he stretched his protesting muscles and wearily mounted the steps. By this time, two more footmen were rushing down to attend him and to take Woods into their custody. Someone else stepped forward to take the horse, freeing O’Donnell to perform his office. He darted up the steps behind his haggard master.

  Darcy was standing in the entry by now, gazing quietly at the familiar sights. The scents, the lighting, everything was the same, and yet it seemed foreign to him. “Sir,” O’Donnell’s voice spoke at his elbow, “may I help you out of your wet coat?”

  Darcy made no answer, instead sweeping his eyes over the balustrade leading to the upper floors. No young lady had yet appeared to rush down to him and weep for joy in his arms. To whom ought he to go first—the one who needed him, or the one he himself needed?

  “Tell me,” he murmured to O’Donnell, “how fares my sister? Do you know where I might find her?”

  “I believe she is well, sir. She retired early, I understand she and Mrs Wickham took the evening meal in their rooms.”

  “And… the other lady? Is she—is Miss Bennet well?” He held his breath, still disbelieving that she was truly there.

  “Sir, Miss Bennet has gone out. I was watching for her, but she has not yet returned.”

  Darcy turned sharply. “Gone out? When? How? At this hour?”

  “Yes, sir, only a few moments before you arrived. She said she desired a walk about the gardens, insisting she would do well on her own, but sir, it is growing rather dark, and it is raining now. I was thinking someone ought to watch out for her, but she desired privacy. May I go search for her, sir?”


  Darcy stared blankly for just a moment. Yes, that would be something his Elizabeth would do. The notion seemed a capital one to him. What better place for a reunion than the cool open sky, far away from prying eyes and stifling propriety? A few drops of rain could not hamper such freedom!

  “Sir? Shall I go, then?”

  Darcy’s mind was already halfway around the lake, calling her name and gathering her into his arms. He blinked and shook the vague warmth from his voice. “Go? No, that shall not be necessary. I will search for Miss Bennet myself.”

  “But sir!” protested O’Donnell.

  “I do not recall asking your opinion! You would do well to remember your place!”

  “Yes, sir,” O’Donnell answered meekly.

  “See to that man I brought, and have the steward waiting. I shall return with Miss Bennet directly.”

  Darcy was off like a shot, his long legs nearly breaking into a run. This was all better than he had dared to dream! This first meeting with Elizabeth would be no stiff greeting in a sitting room, a dozen others all about, but a private moment he would cherish all his life. He could almost see her already, wandering and distraught, longing for a few moments to herself. Did she think of him? Grieve for him?

  He nearly staggered as he hurried toward her. O’Donnell had said she walked the gardens, but did not know which gardens. Perhaps it was ridiculous, blundering out in the dark, searching for a lone woman among hundreds of acres, but his feet seemed unerringly pulled toward the open fields. Elizabeth could very well enjoy the pleasure gardens during the day, but if it was solitude she had sought—yes, she would have taken herself to the peace of the meadows that reminded her of her home.

  What would her eyes hold when she turned and saw him at last? Would she cry out in relief and joy? Would she run to him in tears, as she had in his imagination? Or, perhaps even better yet, would she smile and tease him for being late? That realistic possibility might be the best of all, for he did not think he could bear witnessing deep grief and regrets just now. Her laughter was what he craved the most, the balm that could cheer his anxious heart.

  Crashing through the stand of trees, he surged forward. Had she gone this way? This was nearly the very spot where he had stumbled upon her last summer, his shirt dripping wet and his hair disheveled. How those fine eyes of hers had sparkled with amusement, though in manner she had been just as discomposed as he! That image of her—the sun soft upon her shoulders, her nose faintly dusted with freckles, and her guard lowered, he had carried as his talisman these many months. An expectant smile warmed his face, wondering what new vision of her was to replace it.

  He emerged from the little grove and his heart lifted. There she was! Elizabeth, his Elizabeth, real and alive and not thirty paces before him. It was no dream—not this time! He could hear the whisper of her feet over the ground, count the rhythm of her breaths, and he never could have imagined that rich cloak she wore, for he had never before seen it.

  Even unaware of his presence, she captivated him. Her steps were quick and light, her course in the dark unflagging. No other was so bold, so free and unaffected. But he must call out to her now, he must draw her attention, if his fantasies were to be realised. All his hopes trembled in his chest. “Elizabeth?” he called softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Her shoulders drew back, her steps halted, and she glanced to her left. She seemed to have heard him, then appeared to shake off the feeling. She hesitated another moment, glancing out to her right, and then walked two or three more steps away from him. She looked to be peering ahead, as though she were searching for someone. Perhaps she had even fancied him there, just as he felt he would have sensed her presence anywhere.

  Her steps now straightened with determination, her eyes fixed solemnly before her, as though she had found what she sought. Did she not know that he was just behind her? He clenched a fist over his heart, joy breaking forth upon his face, and for the first time in months, a word flowed easily from his mouth. “Elizabeth!”

  Her body shook violently, then grew very still. Slowly, she turned, her skirts gathered in her free hand. She was looking at the ground, as if fearful to raise her eyes and fail to see what she longed for.

  “Elizabeth!” he cried again, then remembered that she had never heard him speak thus. Perhaps it was too much, this intimacy, when their last real meeting had been of such a different nature. How could she know that she had been his constant companion, the voice in his heart, these many months? “Miss Bennet,” he amended gently, “do you not know me?”

  Her eyes were upon him now, shining in a way he had never known. Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged—no, she was smiling widely, nearly laughing with that jubilance only she possessed. She took a step toward him, and he hastened to reciprocate. Would she come and nestle in his arms, where she belonged?

  An instant later she froze, an expression of horror crossing her features. He halted in confusion as she turned to look back over her shoulder. Her body seemed to cringe now, shrinking from whatever dread lay behind her. She looked back to him, her eyes full of pleading and remorse, and then he heard the even tapping of hooves.

  “Well, Darcy! I see you have managed to find your way home. Jolly good, old boy! I say, bygones and all that, what say we have a civilised little chat in the drawing room?”

  His eyes never left Elizabeth. There was no need to look at the horseman who now stood behind her, for the voice—and her miserable expression—told it all. Wickham!

  His lips were curling into an unconscious snarl, his fists balling. Elizabeth, the light of his life, plotting a clandestine meeting with one of the men who had conspired to betray him! Bile surged into his mouth, and it was all he could do to stand erect. His teeth clenched and his breath quivered with baffled rage, racking his entire body in uncontrollable spasms.

  “Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth spoke hesitantly, extending a hand. She was nearly close enough to touch, close enough to clasp to his breast and drag away from Wickham. She drew yet another step nearer. “Please, sir….”

  “Do not!” he roared. “Do not approach me, madam, for I shall not vouch for my temper!”

  “Oh, come, Darcy, is that any way to speak to a lady—and my sister, lest you forget! Be reasonable, old chap, and let her speak.” Wickham sat smugly atop his mount, his face barely visible from Elizabeth’s lantern, but Darcy could hear the sneer in his voice.

  “I shall hear not a word!” He clenched and unclenched his fists, staring at Elizabeth—daring her to deny what he saw.

  She said nothing. Her eyes were cast to the ground, silver beads dropping from her cheeks. Her shoulders were hunched, trembling under her cloak.

  He glared another moment, but she did not lift those glorious eyes to him again. “Get off my property!” he hissed. Then he turned and marched back to the house.

  40

  Fitzwilliam leaned forward in the saddle. The rider must have gained the house, for he could see the silhouette against the light from the open front door. A guest? His father, or someone less welcome—the solicitor perhaps? His pulse beat thickly with unease for Georgiana. So long he had left her with little protection—Darcy would never forgive him if he did return!

  He urged his horse to pick up pace again, thinking he must investigate this irregularity about Pemberley. As he drew closer, he could now clearly make out the form of the riderless horse being led away to the stables. Several persons milled frantically about the door, all proceeding inward toward the house. This late arrival must be welcome, and apparently someone of import, given the number of footmen. Darcy? Oh, why was the blasted drive so slick? Richard pulled his horse to the turf at the side of the drive and spurred him yet faster.

  Before he could close the distance enough to recognise anyone, someone had rushed again from the door and down the steps into the darkness. Richard paid him no mind, thinking it likely that a message was being carried to the stables or elsewhere. Another moment,
and he himself was panting at the bottom of the step, scarcely even waiting for someone to take his horse before he mounted the stairs two at a time.

  “Colonel!” the footman greeted as Richard raced by him into the house. “Sir, it is a right good thing you are returned. Sir—Mr Darcy has just arrived!”

  Richard whirled. “Darcy! So, it is true! Thank heaven! Has he gone to Miss Darcy already?” He started for the stair himself, heedless of his dripping coat, hat, and gloves.

  “Sir, he has gone directly in search of Miss Bennet.”

  “Miss Bennet?” Richard halted on the stair. “Why would he not—oh, never mind that now. Where is she that he has gone after her? I trust no one has yet spoken to Miss Darcy?”

  “Miss Darcy’s maid was sent, sir, unfortunately before Mrs Reynolds could speak. I regret, sir, that the matter was handled so.”

  “’Unfortunately,’ you say! Why, I should think the dear girl will be rejoicing that her brother has come back!”

  “It is only, sir, that he seemed not at all himself. We all tried to stop him from going back out, but he would not hear of anyone restraining or following him. Sir, he looked and sounded like Mr Darcy, but I should not like to trouble the mistress if the man is an impostor. The master was killed, or so we all thought, was he not?”

  Richard laughed. “So we did, but it was blessedly untrue, O’Donnell. I learned as much while I was away. We have nothing to fear. The man was, indeed, Darcy, and I am all the more certain of it as you tell me that he has gone in search of Miss Bennet. Now, in which direction was that?”

  “The gardens, I believe, sir. Miss Bennet had taken a walk just before dark and had not yet returned.”

  Richard’s brows lifted and he emitted a low whistle—a bad habit from his days on the field. “In the rain, even!”

  “Shall I send someone out with an umbrella, sir? I think the master must have feared for Miss Bennet’s welfare.”