“If you want my opinion, which you hardly ever do, I should think that Reginald needs a wife sooner rather than later. Many gentlemen marry shortly after losing a wife, particularly if an heir is still required.”
“Are you certain the poor lad is up to the task? From the way you speak of him, he would faint of a broken heart if I suggested another marriage so soon.”
“Well, my dear, he knows Georgiana. It is not as if he would be wedding a stranger, and he would be saved the bother of a long courtship, trying to curry some lady’s favour. Speak to Reginald of it when he comes this evening,” she urged.
“Speak to me of what?”
The earl twisted his neck to observe his eldest son, resplendent in his black mourning garb. Reginald walked softly into the sitting room, his face lined with a mixture of emotions.
“Ah, there you are, my dear boy,” his mother crooned. “Come, Reggie, sit beside me. Your father had something to discuss with you.”
Reginald obliged his mother, clasping his hands in his lap and turning his respectful attention to his father.
The earl cleared his throat. “Well, er Reginald, how are you keeping, my boy?”
The young man closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “As well as can be expected, Father.”
“Yes, well… Reginald, your mother wishes me to speak to you about the future. Have you given it any thought?”
“The future? Why, yes, I had, but now it is all dashed.”
“Nothing can be done for the past, my boy,” the earl answered kindly. “We shall continue to mourn Priscilla, but we must think of the earldom. You are not getting any younger.”
“I am only three and thirty!”
“I had two sons and a daughter by that time,” the earl reminded him. “You must marry again soon, Reginald, and your mother and I think it best that you do not carry on mourning for long.”
“Six months is generally considered suitable to mourn a wife,” he replied, then blew out a sigh. “It would take far longer to forget her.”
“I would see you wed and settled again before then. Have you thought more on what I said about Georgiana?”
“Well, of course, Father, but….” Reginald stopped and a look of frustration passed over his face. His lips pressed together and the muscles in his jaw flickered for a moment.
“Reggie,” comforted his mother, “of course you do not wish to replace Priscilla so soon! No one is asking you to put her from your heart, my boy.”
His expression broke and he offered his mother a weak smile. “I quite understand, Mother. Naturally, you and Father are right, but I am not convinced that… Georgiana… will wish to marry a man… with a broken heart. There, is that fair to ask of her?”
“Fair? Well, what would be fairer, to saddle her with a lecherous old widower? You are still a fine specimen—a chip off the old block, eh? There are plenty of eligible suitors who will wish to stake a claim for her hand, but I know most of them, and they are either cads or puppies. With you, she would not even have to leave what family she has left. I think it a perfectly suitable idea.”
“I think…” Reginald leaned forward in his seat, steepling his fingers and pressing them until the tips were white. He sighed, ground his teeth, and swallowed. “Perhaps she might still be willing, regardless of… but it must be handled delicately. Is she to come to London… er… with Richard?”
“Your mother and I were just discussing that. I have heard nothing, but I would expect to soon.”
“You sent the note by express?”
“Of course.”
Reginald cast his gaze to the ceiling, his lips moving as if counting, then his eyes widened and he coughed violently. He rose hastily, upsetting his mother, who had been patting his arm. “Excuse me, Mother and Father. I am afraid I am suddenly not feeling well. I beg you would excuse me, I must return to my flat.”
“Reggie!” his mother protested. “If you are feeling poorly, you must remain here! Giles may see to you so much better.”
“No, no, Mother, I must go! I have… er, medicine for my cough at my flat. Do forgive me for rushing out so. Father,” he bowed briefly in respect. “I will call tomorrow.”
“Well!” ejaculated Her Ladyship. “I do hope he has not got what ailed poor Priscilla!”
The earl’s bushy brows knitted together as he watched his son race from the room. He said nothing, merely rose to adjourn to his study. A fine cigar and a glass were what his mind wanted just now.
~
London
Manuel Vasconcelos crushed the note he had just received, but that seemed insufficient to his wrath. He tore at the corner and shredded it into three or four pieces, then tossed them on the floor to stamp them with his foot. “More money!” he fumed in Portuguese. “As if the failure were not entirely his own!”
The manservant he had hired upon his arrival quailed at the door, unable to understand his words. “Do you wish to send a reply, sir?”
“A reply!” he stormed. “It is not worth the paper! He does not intend to give me my deed, he wishes only to extort what he can!”
The manservant squared his shoulders—that blasted English formality again—and affected a short bow. “Very good, sir.”
Vasconcelos resumed pacing. A week already he had been in this miserable city, and still he had no more answers. The horrible suspicion had long since taken hold—that this Englishman never had intended to keep his end of the bargain, was perhaps even intending to mine the Portuguese soil himself, and had used him for a fool.
He was not without his leverage, if he dared employ it. Certainly, it was true that the word of a foreign statesman would carry little weight against the reputation of his adversary, but it might be enough to trigger an investigation into his affairs. He growled, his fists balled as he prowled the hired apartment.
Darcy should have been apprehended by now! he snarled as he paced. Without Darcy, his own advantage disappeared! Surely the man had been taken somewhere, and he need only wait for word—but what if he had not yet been recaptured? No, certainly he must have been, for his man had been watching Darcy’s town house for months, sending back whatever information might be found valuable, and he had not been seen. And yet, surely, he could have gone nowhere else.
Vasconcelos stopped to stare at a correspondence on his desk, calculating again the necessary time for travel. He had left Portugal himself two days after Darcy had vanished, but on a ship built for speed. He had checked with the docks the instant that he had arrived, and he had only missed the passenger ship by half a day. Surely Darcy must not have been aboard that ship, or if he had been he had not arrived in London without some sort of mishap. Such a man did not suddenly reappear without creating a stir, nor did he attempt to travel to his estate in the north by public means. He would have taken his carriage, but the stables at Darcy house had been quiet.
Perhaps Darcy had gone to some friend for assistance, but even if he had, eventually he would try to make his way to his estate and sister. Vasconcelos drew a steadying breath and slowed his strides. He had men there, as well, though Fitzwilliam Darcy had not been their target. Whichever Darcy they captured, if they were successful, all was not lost. He need only wait.
He resolved to make some cheeky reply to this recent demand, but the manservant re-entered just as he was seating himself at the desk. “Excuse me, sir, but you have a caller.”
Vasconcelos glared up at him. Useless Englishman! “Well, who is it?”
“He declined to give his name, sir, but… er….” The manservant stood back and a figure brushed past him. The fellow’s expression assumed the wretched complacency of his countrymen as he withdrew and closed the door.
“Pai21!” Miguel pushed his way into the room, his face white.
“Miguel! Why did you come? You were to remain in Porto!”
“Senhor Noronha has betrayed us! Amália has left his house, and I cannot find her.”
Vasconce
los hissed in disgust. “You came to London to report a missing wife to me? I left you with duties to attend!”
“It is not merely my wife,” Miguel dropped into a chair. “Did you not hear me? Noronha no longer answers to you. He refused our demand to have her returned! I called every day after you left, long after she ought to have recovered from that supposed ‘indisposition.’ At last I found a maid who was willing to part with information. She told me that Fitzwilliam had been there two days before, and that he had taken Amália away alone, in a hired coach. Noronha said nothing of this. He lied to us, and gave her to Fitzwilliam!”
Vasconcelos’ hand tightened until his pen bent. “Fitzwilliam? Richard Fitzwilliam?”
Miguel’s only answer was a spitting curse.
“But you do not know for certain where they have gone?”
“Where else would they go? No, I am certain that he brought her to London the instant he had her in his possession.”
Vasconcelos slitted his eyes. “Captain Noronha remains with his regiment in Lisbon?”
“That was the last word I had, but I sent Pereira to investigate before I sailed. Pai, Fitzwilliam has brought her to London, I am certain of it!”
“We have been betrayed by more than one party,” Vasconcelos mused bitterly. “Fitzwilliam would not have gone to Noronha at all, unless someone else had leaked information.”
His son snorted. “Are you certain those men you hired kept your secret? Like enough they took money from more than just yourself.”
“Someone would have to know to look for them before they could be bribed. London is filled with rats such as they.”
“Do not underestimate Fitzwilliam! For four years, I have heard little else but his praises, and he is known for a short temper where his comrades are concerned. Surely, he would have sought revenge for his cousin, and it would be the work of a moment for him to have those streets and docks searched and the sailors followed.” Miguel raked his fingers through his hair and ripped open his neck cloth. “He has my wife, and I want her returned!”
“Whatever for? Her connections were useful, but I never understood your obsession with her. It seems that even her father is of no use to me now, and she is likely compromised by the Englishman. Your first son might well have blue eyes! You would be a fool to take her back.”
“Fitzwilliam has brown eyes. I know, for she told me once.”
Vasconcelos shot his son an incredulous glare. “You should have taken a firmer hand. What wife dares describe her former suitor to her husband? It sounds as though you cannot manage a woman!”
“She always claimed he was nothing of the sort, that he was no more than Ruy’s friend,” grumbled Miguel. “What does it matter, he has no right to take her! The law, even English law, recognises her as my wife!”
“That may be, but I am not interested in your whore just now. I will have dealings with her father when I return to Porto, but I must have that deed! Without it, everything else is useless.”
“The deed!” Miguel rolled his eyes. “We ought to have drawn up a new one long ago, and to the devil with all this foolishness. Who would have been the wiser?”
“No!” his father snapped with a sudden heat. “The Darcy and Fitzwilliam families must pay for the disgrace done to our name! I will have it from Darcy’s hand, and see my father’s honour vindicated!”
Miguel sighed and threw his arm over the back of the seat. “Well, you may bother with that. For my part, I intend to search for my wife.”
“Fool! Hear you nothing I have said? If Fitzwilliam has Amália, we will recover her when we force them to give us what is ours!”
“And I am to leave her to be his mistress until then?”
“Do you honestly think one week will make a difference?”
Miguel looked away from his father, staring in blind anger at the wall of the rented flat. His teeth were clenched and the thumb of the hand resting on the chair back worked furiously against his fingers.
Manuel Vasconcelos watched his son narrowly. The last complication he needed was for Miguel to do something rash and selfish over that tainted woman, just when he was stretching to pull all the threads together at last! He growled in frustration and returned to the note he had been starting to pen, but it was some while before he could again find the proper words.
~
Pemberley
Darcy paused and turned about just before he ducked through the door of the housekeeper’s room. “Mrs Reynolds, I thank you for your generosity, and for explaining my aunt’s letters in detail. I behaved unforgivably, and I am honoured by your goodness.”
The housekeeper—now reinstated to her duties and endowed with a healthy increase in her salary—dabbed misty eyes as she saw him out. “Gracious, Mr Darcy, but t’was naught but a misunderstanding. Pay it no mind, sir!”
“No, I am afraid I cannot simply put it aside. I had no right to speak as I did to you, nor to anyone else. It is clear you have been more faithful than I, and I am rightly humbled.”
Her mouth dropped somewhat at this unexpected statement from her dignified, private master. “Laws, Mr Darcy,” she simpered somewhat, embarrassed at this confession of vulnerability. “If a gentleman were not a bit wary after all, one might wonder what he was about! I’ll have no faithless servants in the house though, sir. You have always been kind and generous to all, and I know of no one here at Pemberley who would wish you ill, sir.”
His fingers rubbed one another uncomfortably. “I appreciate the sentiment, Mrs Reynolds. I might also thank you for your diligent care of my sister while I was… away.”
A motherly pride shone on the housekeeper’s face. “Dear Miss Darcy! But it was not I, sir. Miss Bennet took prodigious interest in the young lady.”
Darcy had been about to end the conversation to take Georgiana her tea, but this statement piqued his interest. Unless he asked pointed questions, Mrs Reynolds would never reveal more, so ask he would. “I am to understand, then, that Miss Bennet proved an asset to my sister, and to the household?”
The woman’s cheeks pinked and she hid a smile. “Aye, sir, Miss Darcy was a sight more cheerful when she came, and she is well-liked by all the servants.” She sealed her lips then, not daring to offer a more personal opinion unless it were invited.
“You found her capable and amiable, then? I should hope that the… experience of aiding my sister in her affairs will be of use to Miss Bennet in her future endeavours.”
A knowing twinkle appeared in the woman’s eye. “Mr Darcy, sir, if the young lady marries well, she will be a credit to her husband.”
He permitted a twitch to his lips, barely perceptible beneath his beard. “Thank you for your candid appraisal, Mrs Reynolds. Good evening.”
She beamed proudly and dipped him a happy curtsey. “And a very good evening to you, sir.”
Darcy turned around, concealing the broad grin that now dominated his admittedly unkempt face. His Elizabeth had charmed the house! Now for the relatives. His face fell only somewhat, but a renewed sense of hope drew his shoulders back and made him lift the tray he held. If Georgiana were not impressed by a personally carried tea tray, delivered by his own hand and enjoyed in quiet communion, then he was at an utter loss.
He ignored the household staff as he passed by. Each discreetly averted their gaze as the master himself carried the small tea tray, and he expected he would be the subject of much speculation below stairs. He would be counted mad, after his imprisonment, or perhaps a changeling by the more superstitious among them. Well, no matter, for Mrs Reynolds was back in authority, and she would quell any unseemly talk with little more than a stern glance.
He arrived at Georgiana’s door and tapped gently. “Georgiana? May I come in?”
He was too proud, too cultured to listen at the keyhole, but he would have to be deaf to miss the buzzing of low female voices behind the door. He waited patiently, and could hear the conversation move in his direction. A mom
ent later the door opened, and he found himself confronted by the rounded figure of Lydia Wickham.
He winced, then forced a stately bow of his head. “Mrs Wickham,” he greeted.
She bestowed on him a saucy wink and dipped a flamboyant curtsey. “Good evening, Mr Darcy!” She turned her head to glance back over her shoulder and, if his eyes were to be believed, she actually blew Georgiana a kiss. “Good evening, dear Georgie!”
He stood back, aghast, as her ample form squeezed by him. He then watched in dismay as she sashayed merrily to her own door, humming a bright tune and allowing her arms to swing in a most ill-mannered way. It was all he could do to prevent an audible groan. And this woman was to be his sister-in-law!
Georgiana was standing inside the door still, her hands clasped, and a wary smile upon her face. “Fitzwilliam, why are you carrying a tea tray?”
He shook himself from his chagrin. “I thought you might enjoy a cup. May I come in?”
Her brows arched. “Of… of course!” She held the door as he entered, then moved behind her writing desk to assist him with the serving. Once they were each furnished with a cup, Georgiana offered him a seat. Her lashes were lowered, as if she were afraid to look at him.
He had little better notion of what to say. What did she expect of him? The same sort of freedom he shared with Elizabeth, who had somehow been his companion in suffering? That would be impossible. The same brother and master of the estate he had been in former days? Perhaps one day he might feel himself, but….
“Fitzwilliam?” Georgiana leaned forward suddenly and placed her hand on his arm.
He cringed, shuddering visibly and shaking his tea cup until it spilled. Georgiana was staring in shock at the splattered drops on his saucer.
“Forgive me,” he stammered, and rose to the tea tray for a napkin.
These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 52
