These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Nicole Clarkston

He motioned for her to follow him, and bless the woman, she did so without making further objection. “Miss Bennet, forgive my pretence. I am in need of your assistance, but it is not with a book.” He gestured with his head toward the row of windows, and her eyes quickly followed. An expression of heartfelt pity crossed her face, then she looked back to him with a wordless nod. He sighed in relief. “Thank you.”

  The lady stepped away from him, and a moment later she slipped out the door to the balcony. Richard followed, then walked the length of the windows to find a seat where he could best see the couple. That seat, however, proved to be situated in a draught, and he left it to find another. The most comfortable seat in the corner had its view somewhat impeded by a shelf, but it was within a tolerable distance of the window. He could hear the hum of voices, and catch an occasional glimpse of Miss Bennet’s shawl and Darcy’s arm, and so that would suffice. Darcy could not claim that he was not acting as a chaperon.

  ~

  Elizabeth touched the glass, and her heart ached for him. He looked… broken. The proud Darcy she had first met had been only a façade for the kind, tender man who lay beneath, and that was the man who now bowed his head over the railing in near defeat.

  He turned when he heard the door open, and the look on his face, in that instant before it changed to welcome her, was one of deep anxiety. Then it was washed away, replaced by glad surprise. “Elizabeth! I thought you had retired.”

  “I finished my book,” she smiled. That much was true, for the short volume of poetry she had taken to bed had not sustained her for long. She drew to his side at the railing to gaze down at the shrubberies. His eyes, however, were fixed on her, and she felt the heat rising to her cheeks from her neck. She turned to meet his look with a teasing smile. “You seem to have found something interesting in the library as well, William.”

  He glanced back to the house, as if looking for something, and then nodded when he found it. “It was a contrary tale, full of scheming characters,” he murmured, then gave a short huff of mild amusement. He turned back to smile down at her. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

  She smiled and drew half a step closer. It was one of the warmest nights so far of the year, but she was not wearing outdoor attire. The heat from Darcy’s body was a beacon of comfort, and she could not help wishing that she could shelter under his arm. She suppressed a shiver—the last thing she wanted was to act the silly miss and beguile him into impropriety. She settled instead for easy conversation—something to take his mind off the present troubles.

  “I think,” she mused lightly, “this may be one of my favourite views from the house. One can see the hills, a fair prospect of the lake, a small forest just there to the left, and some of the fields off to the right.”

  “Elizabeth,” he was smiling faintly, “it is dark, and there is little moon tonight.”

  “I have enjoyed this vantage point often enough,” she retorted archly. “I think I could sketch it from memory, had I any skill at drawing. You are fortunate that I know my own abilities well enough not to attempt it.”

  His shoulder trembled slightly in a quiet laugh. “Perhaps we could concentrate on what can be seen in the dark. We have an unrivaled view of the stars from here.”

  She tilted up her chin. “Alas, I cannot name more than one or two. You have a remarkable book in your library, but I have not yet found the time to read it. I believe that is the Orion constellation there, is it not?”

  “No,” he answered in mild amusement. “The Hunter has gone south just now.” He took a moment to orient himself, then pointed at a particularly bright specimen. “There is Capella, in Auriga the Charioteer.”

  “Ah,” she answered with vague understanding. “I think I have never heard of that one.”

  “There are better known legends in the sky. Are you familiar with Perseus?”

  “He rescued the princess from the dragon. Yes, I know the tale. It is that one, the chain of stars that look like a long ‘w’?”

  “That is Cassiopeia, the queen. Perseus is just to the left—no, there.” He took the arm she had extended, cradling his hand below her elbow, and lowered his head near hers to share the same perspective. “It looks more like a bucket than a warrior, perhaps,” he admitted.

  She laughed, and sensed a shiver pass through his shoulder. There was a brief indrawn breath, and his attention seemed to have been shaken. He felt closer now, and recklessly she decided she was grateful for the warmth. A little teasing could do no harm, surely…. “And what of that one, the triangular shape?” She tilted her head back a little, so that it nearly rested on his shoulder. “That must be something with a name, is it not?”

  He was staring at the tendril of hair curling about the base of her ear, having lost all interest in the stars. “Hmm?”

  She tipped her gaze up and around to offer a playful pout. “Really, Mr Darcy, if I am keeping you from slumber, you need only say as much.”

  “I simply am not clear about which group of stars you meant. Perhaps if you showed me, very patiently?” He slipped behind her, leaning down a little nearer to her cheek. Wrapping an arm about her shoulders, he supported her pointing arm with one hand and cradled his other in her grasp. “Now,” he spoke low in her ear, “which stars did you mean?”

  Elizabeth felt a sharp tingle down the back of her neck. The only stars she could see now appeared hazy, pirouetting euphorically about the horizon—and everywhere else she looked. “I think…” she blinked several times, but her vision was no clearer. “Those just above—” she attempted again, but he turned his head very slightly and she felt a whispered brush of his beard against the tip of her ear.

  She closed her eyes tightly and tried to draw breath to speak again. Her arm wavered, her fingers now no longer pointing his, and slowly it dropped. His breath was hot upon her neck. “The stars to the left of—” she gestured feebly, and then his warm lips touched the very edge of her earlobe. A rush of air left her lungs, and she sighed, “Oh, bother with the stars.”

  She felt his chest rumble, and then his arms dropped around her waist. The cool evening was long forgotten now, as every nerve in her body seemed to be on fire. His hands remained fixed, his fingers laced with hers, but she felt as though he were caressing her everywhere. Shivers raced over her skin, prickling down her back and through her core, as his lips slipped down the curve of her ear to the back of her neck.

  Even could she have opened her eyes, she would have been blind. She felt his arms tighten, and his cheek was gently pressing against hers, nudging her head to the side and begging for more—just a little more of her to nuzzle. It was all she could do not to groan aloud and collapse entirely into his embrace.

  “Elizabeth,” he whispered hotly into her ear, “do you wish for me to stop?”

  She should say yes. She should push his hands away and affect indignation that he would presume upon her, when she had merely come to offer him company. She should leave the balcony at once, and refuse to see him again until morning light had rendered them both rational creatures once more! Instead, all she managed was a garbled denial, and she arched her shoulder into his chest as her head tilted to the side.

  A pleased growl rattled in his breath, and she felt his mouth open to nibble at the sensitive part of her neck, where her heart beat the strongest. This time she did groan, very softly, but her neck cooled suddenly as he pulled back.

  She opened her eyes in dismay, and found the explosions of light that had blinded her had faded again to distant pricks of starlight. “William?” she mumbled unsteadily. “Forgive me, William, I did not mean to behave so wantonly. I—”

  He silenced her by cupping her chin and pressing a tender kiss to her apologetic mouth. “Elizabeth, you are magnificent,” he whispered, “but I fear our chaperon has caught a cold. Did you not hear him coughing?”

  She darted her eyes to the window and felt an embarrassed smile grow on her face. “I had forgotten about the colonel! Oh, I should go.
”

  “I had forgotten about him as well,” confessed Darcy. “But I think his health will improve with a little more fresh air. Stay with me here a few more moments, Elizabeth,” he pleaded. “Just stand beside me, and keep me company for a while. I promise to behave the gentleman this time.”

  She relented easily, allowing her head to fall against his shoulder as one of his arms draped gently round her. “Now, then, Mr Darcy,” she sighed against his arm, “are we to talk by rule, or remain silent?”

  He pressed a kiss into her hair. “Whichever gives you the most pleasure, my love.”

  55

  Darcy spent most of the following day in seemingly useless pursuits. His cousin had departed early, with his protesting captive and four armed footmen. Richard had also carried with him a letter from Elizabeth for her aunt and uncle in London, and Darcy had included a note of his own regarding his intentions toward both of their nieces. All had judged the Gardiners the most sensible individuals to be found when discussing plans for Lydia’s likely future without a husband, as well as Elizabeth’s engagement to a man presumed to be deceased.

  Darcy had decided against riding to Rush Hill to apprise Duncan of Jefferson’s suicide. Instead, he sent a note asking the magistrate to come to Pemberley at his earliest convenience so that Elizabeth’s testimony might be heard, for her words were the only remaining evidence of the faulty account books. Another carriage was dispatched to collect Mrs Annesley, dying brother or no, for he would have the woman present to offer her confession when the magistrate arrived.

  Next, he spoke with his head stable groom, inquiring how the stolen horses might have been taken and not accounted for until—according to Georgiana—two or three days had gone by. The answer, that Jefferson had personally ordered the use of the horses, left him more puzzled than before.

  He had nearly settled with himself that Jefferson had been employed by the yet un-named relation of his, but the stolen horse had been ridden by the very rogue who had helped to capture him, and set him aboard a Portuguese vessel. Had Jefferson, in fact, taken money from both parties? Or perhaps had the mercenaries switched their allegiances? If that were the case—Darcy felt a prickling along the back of his neck—were there yet more individuals in the shadows?

  On his way back from the stables, he decided to detour through the pleasure gardens for some time to think. He found it far more peaceful to be out of doors, and the recently returned master of an estate ought to at least appear to take some interest in its management. He spent some while in close contemplation of the tiny beginnings of the rose buds, the promising lavender, the proud spears of lilies. He nodded at the gardener at his work, noting how the man’s gaze lingered on him slightly longer than was usual. It seemed he was to remain a spectacle for some while.

  Desiring a few more moments of privacy before he returned to the house, he bent his steps toward the garden maze. He knew its paths intimately, and was well along the direct route out again when he heard quiet sobs. He paused, turning about to discern the direction.

  It sounded for all the world like Elizabeth, and his heart beat more quickly. Had he caused her some grief? Did she regret coming to be with him? All manner of doubts raced through his mind, and he hurried to find her out.

  His steps carried him round two or three corners, and he drew up in surprise when he found not Elizabeth, but Lydia Wickham among the hedges. She was doubled over as far as her growing belly would allow, her fingers curled round her face and her body trembling with high, keening gasps. Her bonnet lay beside her, granting him a full view of tousled hair and reddened cheeks.

  “Mrs Wickham! Have you lost your way in the maze?”

  She scrambled to her feet, a task that required some effort, and he was not quite prompt enough to assist her. She gathered her elaborate bonnet and used it to brush self-consciously at her skirts. “No,” she mumbled, looking anywhere but at him. “I know my way out.”

  “Are you unwell? May I bring something for your present relief?”

  She shook her head, biting her lips together. A tear streaked down her cheek, and she brushed it quickly away, then was required to do the same on the opposite cheek.

  “Mrs Wickham, I can see you are in distress. You must allow me to accompany you back to the house.”

  She turned away from him, a hand touching her mouth, and her shoulders began to shake once more. Darcy felt utterly helpless. He strayed a few steps in either direction, thinking perhaps that Elizabeth would soon happen upon them, but she was not near at hand, and he did not dare leave the girl crying in the maze. “Mrs Wickham, I—”

  “Will you stop calling me that?” she lashed out over her shoulder. “Everywhere I go, it’s ‘Mrs Wickham’ this, ‘Mrs Wickham’ that. Doesn’t anyone know I’m as good as a widow?”

  He blew out a steadying breath. “The appellation is one of respect, madam. Even widows retain their husband’s name, but your husband is not deceased.”

  “Well, he deserves to be!” the girl shot back. This angry statement was followed by a stifled shriek, and she clapped her hand again over her mouth. She remained turned away from him, but her posture seemed to crumple before his very eyes. “How could he do this to me?” she wailed.

  Darcy cast another desperate glance around, hoping against hope that Elizabeth might come to search for her sister. “Madam,” he fumbled, hoping he might say something soothing to the girl, “it will avail us little to wish ill upon another. Mr Wickham may, indeed, pay for his crimes, but you are in no danger for your own future. I assure you, when Miss Bennet and I are wed—”

  “I don’t want your ‘assurances’! I don’t want your money or your fine manners or your pity! I only ever wanted him!” Lydia gave up trying to hide her face in her hands, and turned to bury herself within the hedge as her bonnet tumbled to the ground.

  Darcy groaned silently. What was he to do about such a statement? If the girl still wanted that worthless cad, she was clearly without sense. Had Wickham not sufficiently proved himself undeserving of any lady’s regard?

  “Madam, please allow me to escort you to the house. I will ask Miss Elizabeth to attend you.”

  “Elizabeth! She knows nothing of it. I cannot talk to her, and Georgiana is just as bad. Leave me be, Mr Darcy.”

  “Forgive me, madam, but how can you not think the company of the other ladies might give you comfort? Has not your sister ever brought relief in these months?”

  “Oh! She did, but she is too happy, now you have come back. Please, go away!”

  Darcy cast his eyes to the heavens and tried to count three long breaths to control his tongue. “Miss Elizabeth is not a stranger to grief, madam. Nor, for that matter, is my own sister.”

  Her only response was to clutch the branches and try to wedge herself more deeply into the maze row. “Certainly,” he made another hesitant effort, “if it is a confidante you desire, either of them would prove wise and understanding.”

  “You are not listening!” Lydia spun around at last, facing him with streaked visage and blurry eyes. “They got what they wanted! The impossible happened for them, and you came back. What of me? My husband was found at last, and now he is to be hanged!” She wrapped one arm protectively over her stomach and braced the other upon it to shield her face again. “He never even asked about me!” she gasped.

  Darcy closed his eyes and swallowed. Misguided as the girl’s affections were, she was clearly still attached, or believed herself attached, to her husband. He knew something of unrequited love and lost hope. In those dark months after Elizabeth’s refusal, he had felt that none could ever care for him. He had wished to vanish from all humanity, desiring that none could see him to pity him… but then she had come back into his life, for an exquisite few days. Never would he forget the soul-wrenching ache of finding her once again, only to be torn from her for what he thought might be forever!

  “Madam,” his voice faltered, but his words tumbled almost effortle
ssly from his lips, “you must not allow your worth to be determined by another’s affections, or lack thereof.”

  Lydia’s sobs quieted at his words, but she did not lift her head. “It is all a waste,” she muttered. “I wasted myself on him.”

  “Love is never wasted,” he offered. He felt deceitful, somehow, even acknowledging the feeling she held for that rascal as love, but in her eyes, that was what it was. She had given of herself, and Wickham had left her nothing in return. “Love is invested, not spent,” he mused quietly. “It has wrought some good in my own life, even when it was not returned.”

  Her head had lifted and she was staring at him. “That is the silliest thing I ever heard. What good is love without being returned? It is thrown on the ground and trampled, that’s what it is.”

  “Cannot both parties benefit from the expression of love? Even if it is not willingly received, it might not be considered a waste. Mr Wickham had the opportunity to employ your gift wisely, and we do not know that your affections have not had some positive influence upon him. He did—” Darcy almost choked on his next words— “offer his services to the benefit of another. Perhaps his motives were not… entirely mercenary.”

  Lydia shook her head. “He will never change.” She sniffed. “I know that. I shall have the child of a worthless man, and he shall be long dead by the time his son is born. He will never know—” Another helpless cry interrupted her words, and she covered her face with both hands now. “Please,” she begged, “there is nothing anyone can do. Just leave me alone!”

  “I am afraid I cannot do that, for you are dear to one who is dear to me. You must learn, madam, that love never leaves another to suffer alone. Nor does it tolerate false reticence for the sake of self-pity. I must see you comforted and attended, and I cannot allow you to make a martyr of your feelings. Perhaps the future is not what you would have wished it to be, but you cannot isolate yourself from those who would comfort you.”