These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Nicole Clarkston

  “William! There you are, my love. I thought you would be downstairs already.”

  He did not turn, but he looped his arm back to capture his wife and draw her near to their son’s cradle. She came willingly, although not without a teasing accusation of brutish handling. He tugged her close and rested his chin on her head as they gazed in rapt admiration upon their child.

  “He has grown so already!” Elizabeth lamented. “I shall have to have another soon, for it has only been a month, yet my lap is not quite large enough for him.”

  “Mine is large enough for the both of you. Would you care to see?”

  “Perhaps later,” she lovingly squeezed his shoulder. “Our final guests have been sighted, and Georgiana is absolutely demanding that you receive them properly.”

  “I presume, then, that we do not have time for you to…” he grinned, and there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “…straighten my cravat?”

  “Not if you wish to preserve your dignity. Georgiana would not be above searching the house for you.”

  “It was a noble cause, even if thwarted,” he sighed.

  “Come, William, it is your house party, after all. I think we should make this a summer tradition, but no one will return next year if you do not trouble yourself to greet them.”

  “And if I show myself too amiable, I shall be over-run with guests.”

  “Oh! How you tease me, sir! Have you no compassion for my poor nerves?”

  “I thought your parents had remained in Hertfordshire,” he arched a dry brow.

  “My father might determine to arrive at any time, for that is his way. Come, William,” she smiled temptingly, then stood on her toes to kiss his freshly shaved jaw.

  He smiled in cheerful defeat and offered his wife his arm, and they descended the stairs just as a carriage drew up to the door. It bore the crest of Matlock, with a fine team of matched bays and what seemed to be an entire battalion of liveried footman.

  Darcy could not help a chuckle at his independent cousin, the affirmed bachelor and former battlefield commander, squiring his new bride about the country with all the trappings and opulence of a duchess. A clever strategy, Darcy allowed, for Richard had embarked upon a mission to see all of London pay homage to his viscountess. A voucher for Almack’s was not to be hoped for, but one aging countess had ventured a morning call, and two noble ladies had deigned an invitation to dinner for the new bride. It was a beginning.

  “Ah, they are arrived!” Bingley came to his right, smiling with all the heartfelt delight that was to be expected of him. “I say, Darcy, having Fitzwilliam near at Matlock adds incentive to my decision to buy an estate in Derbyshire. I can think of no more agreeable neighbors. I should think, however, that he might have taken a longer wedding tour.”

  “Lady Matlock desired for her father and brother to see her new home before they returned to Portugal. I believe her brother must sail soon to attend some pressing business with the new mining operations, so they travel north now.”

  “I am greatly looking forward to meeting them,” Edward Gardiner spoke from his left. “I understand the elder Noronha has a large shipping company, is that not true, Darcy?”

  “I do not know how large it is, but it is true, sir.”

  The party stepped from the carriage, with Richard proudly escorting his lady up the steps and into the waiting arms of their decidedly informal hostess. Elizabeth embraced Amália with joyful welcome, as the new husband beamed in satisfaction. Jane Bingley and Madeline Gardiner offered their warm greetings as well, and rather quickly the ladies had left their husbands behind.

  “Darcy,” Richard gestured, “I do not think you have yet met my father-in-law, Senhor António Moniz de Noronha. Senhor, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

  Noronha, his face awash in meekness, bowed before his host. “Mr Darcy, sir. I am humbled to be received in your home.”

  “The honour is mine, sir,” Darcy bowed in return.

  “And,” Richard continued, “I believe you remember the former Captain Rodrigo de Noronha?”

  “Indeed,” Darcy smiled. “Sir, it is a very great pleasure to see you again. Gentlemen, may I present my friend, Charles Bingley; Mrs Darcy’s uncle, Edward Gardiner; and my sister, Georgiana Darcy.”

  Senhor Noronha bowed to each, with an extra measure of courtesy toward the young lady. His son did likewise, until he stepped before Georgiana. His eyes widened, and he seemed to catch himself.

  A pretty blush stained Georgiana’s cheeks. “Sir,” she raised her hand to him, suggesting a courtly greeting, and offered a demure curtsey. The young retired captain was quick to respond, bowing gallantly over her hand.

  Richard quirked a brow at his cousin. Darcy was absolutely speechless, gaping at his formerly bashful sister, and calculating in his mind all the trouble this house party might cause him. Surely, it was not too late to call the whole affair off….

  The party adjourned to refresh themselves, and as it was still early in the day, the mistress of Pemberley had planned an alfresco luncheon. Their party was too large for the upper stream in the mountains, favoured by the master and mistress for private outings, but a capital situation was found for them all by the lake near the house.

  The afternoon was perhaps the finest yet that summer, and the meal consumed in a leisurely manner. Afterward, Gardiner took it upon himself to introduce the elder Noronha to the joys of pike fishing. Ruy approached Mrs Gardiner—who happened to be seated near Georgiana—and politely asked if he might have the honour of the ladies’ company for a short walk about the lake.

  Darcy watched them go with no small degree of angst, but Richard seemed not at all troubled by his ward’s activities. He stretched upon the blanket near his cousin, one hand resting affectionately in his wife’s gloveless hand. He smiled up at her through the sunlight winking round the flowers on her bonnet, his expression one of purest contentment.

  “Darcy,” he enquired at length, “I have been away, and had quite forgotten. Was not Wickham to be released about now?”

  “A fortnight ago,” Darcy replied. “Mrs Wickham and her daughter removed to London to join him.”

  “Ah! And how is our little Eliza? She must be walking and talking by now.”

  “With utter confidence,” the child’s aunt laughed. “She has already made Mr Darcy blush.”

  “I did not blush. I merely asked her not to wander into my library without notice, nor to inquire so loudly about my activities therein.”

  “Was Mrs Darcy with you at the time?” Bingley grinned.

  Darcy ignored the comment—though not without a faint darkening to his cheeks—and glanced to his wife. “We received a letter from Mrs Wickham when they settled in to their apartment.”

  “How much money does the rogue want now?” Richard asked, as if it were a matter of course.

  “Surprisingly, none at all. Mr Wickham has found work, but he is in search of better employment. Mrs Wickham then pointedly observed that we have not yet found a proper replacement for Mr Jefferson, and that Eliza greatly misses her aunt.”

  Richard sat bolt upright. “Darcy, you wouldn’t! Tell me you would not!”

  Darcy picked up a long blade of grass, running his fingers thoughtfully down the length, and gazed at his wife. “Not immediately, at least. A man can change, Richard.”

  “But snakes cannot. You would be a mindless dolt to trust him again.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “If you hire another deceitful steward, I’ll not run over half the country trying to save you again.”

  “How was it you thought to look for him before?” Bingley asked. “We all thought him dead. Why, you told me you buried him yourself.”

  Richard lifted his shoulders. “It looked like him. I cannot answer, truly, but something troubled me until I had the body exhumed.”

  “You did what?” Bingley shuddered. “What a dreadful task! And how was it that you were able to confirm your suspicions
?”

  Richard glanced at his cousin, smothered a private smile, and answered casually, “I have an excellent memory for details.”

  “Details? What sort of details could you find on a corpse that were not apparent at the burial?” Bingley wondered.

  Darcy glared in warning, and Richard cleared his throat. He was spared the trouble of a response, however, for the man’s wife rescued him.

  “Surely, Mr Bingley, you know that some individuals have distinctive characteristics. A man might have a mole on his chest, for instance, or a scar on his shoulder, or,” Elizabeth smiled at her husband, “a birth mark in the shape of a heart on his lower extremities.”

  A choking noise sounded in Bingley’s throat, and his face turned red with the strain of containing his laughter. Darcy rolled his eye with a baleful look toward Elizabeth, who merely chuckled and whispered under her breath to Amália, “I shall be made to pay for that remark later!”

  Amália laughed—not the trembling, hopeful response of an outsider now, but the hearty joy of one who has found her home. “It is fortunate for you that Mr Darcy is a forgiving man.”

  “Oh! I hope he is not too forgiving, else how shall I provoke him?”

  “I am certain you will find some way, Lizzy,” Jane Bingley smiled. “Come, dear, I was hoping to take some exercise this afternoon. May we walk the shorter path round the lake? Lady Matlock, I would be so delighted if you might also join us.”

  The gentlemen watched them go, and Richard stretched back out in his former place. “Mrs Bingley is a wise lady. I daresay she has the knack for keeping peace about your home, Bingley.”

  “Indeed, she is an angel, but I suspect rather that she wished to share some glad tidings with the ladies before the family at large are informed.”

  Darcy turned to his friend in surprise. “Congratulations, Bingley.”

  “Thank you!” the gentleman beamed. “I suppose I ought to hope for a son this time, but I cannot bring myself to dislike the notion of another daughter. I could be content with an entire brood of girls, I think.”

  Richard snorted. “You have not a disapproving aunt and a horde of jealous society ladies waiting for you to fail to produce an heir.”

  “It takes more than one month, Fitzwilliam, but the more seriously you apply yourself to the effort, the greater your chances of success,” Bingley answered with a perfectly straight face, then sighed in purest bliss. “To think, after everything, that we have come to this! Darcy returned, you, Richard, retired from the Army, and all of us well matched. I never thought we might be so blessed.”

  Richard pursed his lips and looked up at the sky. “A dream come true,” he murmured, almost to himself.

  “No,” Darcy mused. “The dream is the truth. It was merely a shadow of what was to come, a promise of what is only dimly seen, and the hope of a new life. From this dream, I hope I shall never wake.”

  Fim

  Bonus Chapter

  The following chapter was written as a vignette to accompany the book. It was published in May of 2017 on Austenvariations.com, and is reprinted here to explain some of the origins of the relationship between Colonel Fitzwilliam and Amália.

  A little historical background: In November of 1807, Napoleon’s troops invaded Portugal. The British, sensing the strategic importance of the country, were quick to offer their support, and Portugal became a British protectorate. English troops and British warships helped to fight back the French army and saw some success, but in March of 1809, the French took the city of Porto.

  General Wellesley was appointed commander of the Anglo-Portuguese army, which, as one can tell by the name, combined both Portuguese and British forces into one fighting unit. On May 12 of 1809, the French were again expelled from the war-torn city. Today’s “prequel,” if you will, picks up here, just after the Second Battle of Porto, and it is where our real story begins. What, you may ask, could Richard Fitzwilliam have done in Portugal that was more important than fighting battles? Why, what any young man would do when he found himself surrounded by flowers in spring.

  He fell in love.

  Porto, Portugal

  May, 1809

  Major Richard Fitzwilliam straightened his uniform jacket and adjusted the sling about his arm as he stepped down from the carriage. The house at which he had just arrived reminded him a great deal of his childhood home, the estate of Matlock in northern England. Though perhaps older and somewhat smaller due to its location in the city, it was similarly grand, with an old-world feel to it rather than the more modern elegance of his cousin’s estate of Pemberley.

  His host and traveling companion, Lieutenant Rodrigo de Noronha, struggled to the ground with a pronounced limp. He shifted a crutch under his uninjured arm and made an inviting gesture toward the house. “Welcome to my home, senhor. My father awaits, he wishes most eagerly to meet you.”

  Richard smiled graciously and followed his new companion up the steps of the house. Such a sight they must have made, battered but still resplendent in their mismatched military finery! In the few months Richard had been stationed on the Peninsula with Wellesley’s elite Light Division, he had found a number of his new Portuguese comrades in arms worthy of his admiration. Lieutenant Noronha, however, had been the first to extend the hand of genuine friendship. Saving a man’s life in battle tended to have that effect.

  They had entered the house now, and a slightly husky older gentleman approached, his face shining with his desire to please his guest. This would be the Lieutenant’s father, António Moniz de Noronha. “Major Fitzwilliam,” he bowed, “please to make yourself welcome!”

  “I thank you, sir. It was kind of you to offer your hospitality while I mend. I am most grateful to you.”

  Noronha beamed and clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You save my Ruy’s life! It is I who am in your debt, senhor. Your wound, it does not pain you too much?”

  “Just a scratch, sir,” Richard smiled confidently. “Many were not so fortunate. I am chafing to be about my duties with my men, but my general insisted on a short leave until I regain full use of my arm.”

  “It is only long enough for them to polish up a medal for you!” laughed the younger Noronha. “And a new post, from what I hear. Are you not to become a personal aide to General Payne? That is why he promoted you, of course. He could not have a mere Lieutenant to wait upon him.”

  Richard felt his face warming modestly, but his host spared him a response. “The accolades of honour are well-deserved, senhor. Now please, let me boast of you as my guest, as is fitting. Do not fear that I will host any grand soirees in your honour, for in a time of war I fear it would be in poor taste, but I must introduce you to some of Porto’s leading families. They will all wish to meet the Englishman who stormed the canon to save one of our own.”

  “I assure you, sir, I did no more than any of my comrades would have done. Had fortune so chosen, it might be my father extending his appreciation to your son.”

  “Sim!” chuckled the older gentleman. “But it was you who did it, and therefore you have my gratitude and your father shall have a box of fine cigars. Pedro!” he gestured to an attendant waiting nearby. “Come see to my guest, and make him comfortable. Forgive me, senhor, but I was engaged upon some pressing business when you arrived. My associate is just come as well, and I must attend him now while you refresh yourself. You will both take tea with me in an hour?”

  Richard bowed formally to his host, and both the traveling heroes were shown upstairs.

  ~

  Noronha was still beaming in pride when he entered his study again. “Forgive me, Senhor Vasconcelos. The Englishman has arrived, and it was necessary that I greet him properly.”

  One of the most powerful men in all of Porto, Manuel Vasconcelos, had taken a seat and seemed quite at home in Noronha’s study. His son Miguel, who had lately become something of a pupil to his father, gazed out of the window into the gardens, seemingly lost to the other
occupants of the room.

  “No matter,” Vasconcelos rose lazily from his seat and drew close to the desk. “I heard something of our Lieutenant’s misadventure. A close brush he had of it, so it is said.”

  “Indeed! His horse was shot from under him, and the line was charging from behind. If not for the Englishman cutting back through the fray before the guns to retrieve him, he would have been trampled to death. As it is, the doctors say he shall recover well in a few months and will scarcely even walk with a limp.”

  Vasconcelos nodded. “It seems our Ruy has earned a valiant friend. What is his name?”

  Noronha had poured his companion a drink, and now set his own freshly drained glass upon the desk. “Fitzwilliam. Major Richard Fitzwilliam. Ruy tells me his family are of noble lineage and considerable patronage.”

  Vasconcelos’ face changed and he tightened his grip on his glass. At his brief silence, his son Miguel turned curiously to observe the gentlemen. “Fitzwilliam, you say?” he inquired in a low voice.

  “You have heard of him?” Noronha asked as he tipped the decanter into his glass again.

  Vasconcelos drew a slow, savouring taste of his port and then thinned his lips before replying. “I know of his family, and so do you, but perhaps not by name. One day I will tell you of it, but it is of no importance now.”

  Noronha shrugged and took his seat. “Well, then, if we are not to speak of Fitzwilliam, I presume you have other matters of interest to discuss.”

  Vasconcelos’ face brightened. “Do you remember the survey I ordered last year?”

  “In Braga? I had nearly forgotten, but now that you mention it, I do recall something. You were looking for silver?”

  “Silver!” scoffed the other. “No, something of far greater worth.”

  “Gold, then?”

  Vasconcelos leaned forward, setting his glass with deliberate gentleness on the desk. “Iron, old friend. The ore of the future, on whose backbone our nation may survive after the war is over.”