Amália was shivering from head to foot, racked with painful indecision. “Miguel, let her go! I will go with you, but please—” she shuddered, clenching her eyes.
Elizabeth had been all but ignored, but she had been slowly creeping her hands down toward the floor. Almost… there! Her fingers grazed the handle of the bed warmer. If she could reach but a little farther….
“You, there, wench!” Miguel spun upon her. He shoved Mrs Gardiner in the back with his free hand, pushing her tender throat against the tip of the knife. Elizabeth shrieked in fear, and her aunt closed her eyes to whisper fervent prayers. “I would have her throat slit before you were able to lift it!” he threatened. “Back away, over there… now!!!”
Elizabeth dropped the handle and skittered away, but not without a desperate sweep of the room. So many things she might have used as a weapon! But he was right—he would be faster than she. “I beg you,” she added her pleas to Amália’s, “my aunt has done nothing to you! Let her go! Surely something can be arranged.”
“Silence, witch!” he hissed to Elizabeth. “This does not concern you, but speak another word, and I will cut you next!”
Amália had taken advantage of his momentary distraction to grasp a paper weight, the closest thing she could find. She threw at his head with surprising accuracy, but he twisted at the last second and pulled Mrs Gardiner into its path. Both girls cried out in horror when the dear lady was struck in the cheek and wilted, dazed, to the ground.
Miguel snarled in fury as his captive fell stunned at his feet. “You would defy me? I will show you how a wife conducts herself!” He pushed at Mrs Gardiner’s inert form, shoving her out of his way, and snatched Amália’s arm. “Come, my dear, let me see if my treasure has been plundered,” he spat. “There would be no purpose in bringing a defiled wife back with me.”
He swung her body to the bed and fell upon her, then pressed the knife under her breast, with the tip angled toward her heart. His other hand ripped at her nightdress and then clamped swiftly over her mouth. “Only a moment,” he jeered into her terrified eyes, “long enough to remember the taste of you, then we board our ship. It has been too long, my sweet.”
Elizabeth’s hands were already grasping for the lamp, already reaching to swing it at his head, but he looked up and angled the tip of his knife more deeply into Amália’s breast, pointedly mocking her. “If you startle me into killing her,” he hissed, “you may be her replacement. Have you ever felt a man, English whore? You may enjoy watching.”
Amália was screaming under his hand, shaking her head with tears streaming down her face. She kicked futilely against his legs and both hands grasped at the knife, but she evidently feared snatching at it too forcefully, lest it spring back into her flesh.
Elizabeth was dancing from one side to the next, prepared at any instant to lunge at him. He was distracted now, ravaging Amália’s garments and trying to pin her struggling form. Elizabeth closed in with her heavy lamp, drawing it back with silent, deadly fury, but before she could slash it forward at him, his body was lifted from the bed and thrown against the wall.
Darcy stood over him, his expression more horrible than Elizabeth had ever seen. He had discarded his jacket somewhere, and his unruly hair fell low over glittering eyes. His hands were tensed into vises, ready to jab, punch, or grasp in an instant. “Touch her again,” Darcy threatened, “and I will forget I am a gentleman!”
Miguel sneered from the ground, with all the bravado of one who feels an idle threat. “Did you dally with my wench as well, Darcy? Or is the other your whore? She was a sweet morsel,” he licked his lips.
Darcy glanced quickly to Elizabeth, fear for her and rage at the prospect stiffening his body. Elizabeth shook her head, and he blinked his relieved acknowledgment. He grabbed Miguel by the collar and lifted him from his feet, then threw him against the wall again. His head made a satisfying crack against the paneling.
Darcy was reaching to lift him once more, since he still appeared conscious, when his cousin dashed into the room. He looked first to Amália, who was slowly raising herself, trembling and gasping in delayed panic. Elizabeth was already at her side and wrapping her in a blanket, cradling her head against her own chest.
Richard started toward her, but Elizabeth shook her head and gestured toward the other men. The agony of denial flashed in his eyes, but he relented and turned. “Darcy!” Richard bellowed and caught at his cousin’s arm. “Leave him for me.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes.
“I will not kill him,” Richard promised in a low growl, “but he will wish I had. See to Mr Gardiner, for he is in a bad way.”
“Very well.” Darcy dropped Miguel. He returned to the ladies and knelt at the floor before them. “Are you unhurt?” he asked in a trembling, gentle voice.
Amália tried to respond, her head bobbing helpless gasps as she hid her face from him. Elizabeth pulled her closer, her eyes meeting those she loved so well with as much reassurance as she could convey. “We can walk, William, but my aunt!”
He bent immediately to Mrs Gardiner, who was beginning to moan. “Come, Madam,” he coaxed, “let us go below.” He gathered her in his arms and moved toward the door.
Elizabeth tried to urge Amália to follow, but the other woman’s eyes were fixed on Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had her husband by the lapels and was in the process of thrashing him senseless. He was alternately swearing and promising eternal damnation upon the other, but he looked back at them when they did not follow Darcy.
“Amália, go!” he commanded.
She stirred then. Weakly, she pulled her head from Elizabeth’s shoulder and struggled to the floor. Richard had halted his punishment of her attacker to see her safely away, and Miguel summoned his nerve. He cursed and threatened her in Portuguese, and whatever he said must have been truly vile, for it caused her knees to weaken.
“Not my father!” she whispered. “No, Miguel!”
“Even if your lover should kill me,” he warned, “my father will avenge me!”
“Amália,” Richard begged urgently, “do not listen. You must go now!”
“I have already killed once this night,” Miguel smiled through bloody lips. “I would not have hesitated to do so again, and nor would he.”
Elizabeth could not help a devastated shriek. Uncle Gardiner! She clapped a hand over her mouth and tears suddenly blinded her.
“Miss Bennet!” the colonel shouted.
Understanding, she and Amália clung to one another and made two steps toward the door.
“What of Ruy?” Miguel hissed. “My father will have him ordered to charge the canon! How many times must a man be shot with one of those balls before he dies?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam silenced the taunts with a dreadful blow, then threw the limp man on the ground. Amália, already more than sufficiently terrorised by her husband and fearful for her brother’s fate, staggered to her knees. Elizabeth tugged helplessly at her hands, but to no avail. It was the colonel who lifted her, drawing her into tender arms and murmuring words of consolation and encouragement.
Elizabeth gave way, taking a step back. The colonel could do what she could not for the poor woman. She turned to flee for the door, thinking only of her aunt and uncle, when her nightdress snagged on something.
She stumbled and fell, then was dragged back by her ankles. Kicking and clawing, she cried out for help, but was silenced when Miguel’s body crushed her. “If Fitzwilliam takes my wife,” he growled, “I shall have Darcy’s whore!”
Elizabeth wriggled one hand free, long enough to jab for his eye, but he caught her wrists and hoisted her roughly to her feet. He locked her arms up behind her back, wrenching them until she cried out in pain. William! The frantic plea shot through her mind. She could see his face, the fury at any who would do her harm. He was coming… but it was the colonel who now stood before them, pistol drawn and aimed at Miguel’s head.
“I will not miss, Vasconcelo
s!” he thundered. “There is no way from this room but through me. Release her!”
Elizabeth’s elbows were jerked backward, and she had no option but to comply. He dragged her, but she pushed back into him unexpectedly and tried to throw off his balance, at least enough to relieve his grip on her wrists. Unfortunately, he saw what she was about in time to prevent her. By way of discouraging further attempts, he twisted her and pinned both of her hands between her shoulders, pushing her body forward in a helpless posture.
“One escape, Fitzwilliam?” he taunted. Elizabeth cringed at the sound of shattering glass behind her. “There is always more than one escape. A military man should know as much.”
“Vasconcelos, let her go!”
Elizabeth felt herself jerked back to an upright posture, felt the hated man’s hot breath on her neck as he lowered his head behind hers… and felt herself take three reluctant steps backward.
“Which shall it be, Fitzwilliam? My own woman, or Darcy’s? She will never be yours, no matter how nobly you save her! Give me my wife, or watch this one fall. Which shall it be?” Miguel’s voice rose to a shrill, mad pitch.
“Elizabeth!” Amália screamed. “Miguel, não26!”
Elizabeth should have been begging for her life. She should have been blinded by tears, heaving desperate pleas, or trying in vain to cast herself on the ground and out of his power. Instead, an eerie calm settled over her. She would take one final step backward, through the window into darkness, would fall into the embrace of evil but rise to the light. William!
She closed her eyes, strained one more time against the hands that locked her so savagely, and felt herself being pulled back. Then, the crash of a fist sounded, followed by defiant shriek. The painful grip fell away, and there was nothing but William’s arms catching her, drawing her securely to his chest, William’s voice murmuring calm reassurance, and his hands covering her ears, blocking out the death scream of the falling man.
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Darcy carried Elizabeth below. She was more than capable of walking, but he would not release her for a second, nor did she seem inclined to be put down. He had almost lost her through that dark window, and he did not think he would soon erase that horror from his mind.
Behind them, Richard followed with Amália—shaken and pale from her ordeal, but determined to move. Darcy wondered if it had yet occurred to either that she was now a widow, and therefore free. Certainly Richard had already taken note of the fact, but what could come of it, he would not venture to guess.
Gardiner’s butler and housekeeper had been roused, and someone had already gone for Darcy’s own doctor. Mrs Gardiner was fully conscious now, and laboured in both medical aid and prayer at her husband’s bedside. Elizabeth went instantly to her aunt.
“It is bad, Lizzy,” she choked through her tears. “He was wounded in both his head and his chest, and has lost a deal of blood!”
Richard nudged Elizabeth aside. “Madam, I am no medic, but I have treated wounds on the field. May I assist until the surgeon arrives?”
She nodded with a wordless sob, and turned to weep into her niece’s arms. Darcy watched as Richard peeled back the makeshift dressing and poked gently about the wound. “It is deep,” he mused, “but not in his lung. I believe the knife slipped instead along his rib, but I cannot be certain.”
He looked up. “You have good reason to hope, Madam. He is bleeding as much from the wound to his head as to his chest. I expect Vasconcelos came upon him in his sleep, and your husband wakened just in time to fight back some little.”
Mrs Gardiner nodded, her hand over her mouth and tears clouding her eyes. “Edward was protecting me!”
Darcy glanced at the side of the bed and saw a second pillow, still rumpled from the lady’s presence. He then gazed at Elizabeth, imagining Mr Gardiner’s righteous fury and impotent terror as he tried to defend the woman he loved. He also decided in that instant that he would rather be there than not. His wife would never sleep elsewhere than at his own side, if the matter were left to him.
“Just so. Your husband is a noble man,” Richard was answering. “Has he responded to you, Madam?”
“Yes, he groaned when I first came in, but since then nothing. I do not think it an accident, for it happened when I spoke his name.”
“That is well,” Richard assured her kindly. “It speaks for the severity of his head wound. Madam, if you will, please keep speaking while we wait.”
Darcy longed to tear Elizabeth away, but Mrs Gardiner clung to her hands. It was Amália who stood in the corner, shivering and alone, and he stepped from the room to summon a maid. When he returned, he moved quietly to her.
“Madam, fresh garments are being brought below for you. Perhaps you would like to retire to the study in the next room, and it will be made ready for your purpose. Are you well enough to manage?”
She bit her upper lip and nodded. “What of the…” she hesitated, then pointed to the door. “In the street?”
“I have already had the body collected, and I have sent word to the ship on which Senhor Vasconcelos intended to sail, to inform the father of his son’s actions. We will be required to speak with Bow Street Runners, but there will be no question of guilt assigned to any but the dead man. His attack on Mr Gardiner will vouch for his intentions in this house.”
She was staring at the floor, in the attitude of one who can scarce comprehend all that she was hearing. Nevertheless, she nodded when he had finished, drew her shoulders back in a show of courage, and followed the maid.
He returned to Elizabeth’s side to convey the same message to her, but the doctor arrived and was shown in before he could speak. “Ah, Mr Darcy, sir, I am glad to see you! I have just come from your own house.”
“Mine? For what reason?”
“You have not heard? Oh, sir, several messengers were sent in search of you. It seems a number of men, at least ten, had been hired to attack you in the night. They were repelled after some trouble, but there were quite a few hurt.”
“Attack… my house?” he repeated incredulously. “You say there were wounded?”
“Yes, sir, a number of your footmen were knocked about. One broke an arm, another had his ribs cracked. They captured several of their attackers, and all those men were somewhat the worse for the affair. The most grievously wounded, however, was Mrs Wickham. There’s a noble lady and no mistake, sir, but I fear it may go badly for her.”
“What is this?” Richard demanded, loudly enough for Elizabeth to overhear. “A lady was wounded?”
“Yes, Colonel, Mrs Wickham has been shot in the shoulder,” the doctor answered matter-of-factly. “I've removed the bullet and dressed the wound, but I fear infection, particularly in her condition.”
Elizabeth pushed to Darcy’s side and grasped his hand. There was nothing she needed to say. “Richard,” Darcy kept his eyes on Elizabeth as he spoke. “See what can be done here. Elizabeth and I must return home.”
~
Darcy House, London
The house looked like a military encampment when they arrived. Task forces of maids had been deployed to set right the house, a neat line of footmen stood before table moved from the dining room, bandaging the last of their wounds, and two officers from the nearest militia questioned four bound men in the drawing room. Orchestrating all of it, with eagle eyes and quick remonstrations, was Georgiana.
“Fitzwilliam!” she cried at his entry. “Oh, I am so relieved, we feared someone else had got to you! Where have you been?”
“Another time, Georgie. What happened here?”
Georgiana proceeded to tell of the attack on the house, not failing to mention that she herself had been barred in her room, and did not see all. “But Lydia!” she cried and grasped Elizabeth’s hand. “Oh, she was so brave! Elizabeth, you must go to her, she was asking for you earlier.”
“Georgiana, how badly is she hurt?”
“Oh, well, that I do not know. She was aslee
p when I last looked in on her. The doctor operated on her, but he said very little to me. He feared using laudanum because of her child, but Mr Wickham suggested that she take a little brandy—”
“Wickham!” Darcy interrupted. “I should have thought he would escape in the mêlée.”
“Why, no,” Georgiana sighed impatiently. “Mr Wickham tried to defend us. He is sitting with Lydia now.”
Darcy glanced at Elizabeth. “He is? Who granted permission for him to be out of his chamber?”
“You did, of course, that was why he was out earlier. Permitting him to remain with Lydia,” she crossed her arms and stared at her brother, “that was my idea.”
Darcy arched his brows at the mild scolding by his younger sister. “Indeed. Elizabeth, I believe I will attend you. Georgie…” he glanced about the orderly arrangements she had set into motion. “You look to have matters well in hand.”
She beamed softly, smiling at the confidence he placed in her. “I am glad you are returned, Brother.”
He stepped near to caress her cheek briefly, as their father had done so many times, and then followed Elizabeth as she raced up the stairs to her own sister.
Lydia Wickham may have suffered for wound and drink, but there was a dazed sort of contentment gracing her youthful features. Her eyes slitted at Elizabeth’s entry, and she groggily lifted her head from the pillow to extend her right hand. Her left, with its bandaged shoulder, remained firmly twined with her husband’s. Darcy noted that Wickham was looking anywhere but at him as he fetched another chair for Elizabeth.
Lydia slurred a cheery greeting to her sister. “Lizzy, I think I shall need a red coat now! George promised to teach me to shoot back. What do you think, shall I not be an excellent officer?”
“The very bravest,” Elizabeth assured her with a chuckle.
These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 67
