“That will never do, Amália! I know you too well. This marriage was not your wish, was it?”
Amália lifted her chin, and the eyes which often flashed the colour of the sunset seemed to blacken. “I wished to please my father, Ruy.”
“That is right and noble, but it is not what I asked. Miguel always did have an eye for you, but I never thought the feeling returned.”
“You speak as if such tender affection were vital to a marriage!” she gave a scornful little wave of her hand.
“You always believed it ought to be. I remember that once you felt—”
“Perhaps we may discuss this later, Ruy.” She turned back to him with that cheeky sparkle in her eye that never failed to silence him. “You may assure yourself that I am hardly the downtrodden wife—quite the contrary! And as I see my husband coming to us just now with Senhor Corte-Real, I shall thank you to not put a melancholy look on my face.”
Ruy chuckled, then leaned to kiss the cheek she lifted to him. “I hope he is worthy of you,” he whispered closely. “You deserve a man who would slay dragons for you.”
She stilled, the brilliance of her dark brown eyes dimmed somewhat as she gazed up to him. “Why do you say that?” she whispered tightly.
“Did not another man once vow to do that and more? Even he was yet found unworthy, so I am left to assume that Miguel Vasconcelos achieves yet a higher standard. A prince among men he must be.”
Her jaw clenched, those golden eyes now glittering in fury. “Curse you, Ruy!” she hissed.
He straightened in mild surprise. “I say! I did not think to anger you. I thought perhaps you had forgotten all about the Englishman. A good chap, too—saved my life once, you remember. Forgive me, Amália. I did not know—”
She caught herself in an instant, once more drawing the serene veneer over her beautiful features. “No, you are quite right, Ruy. How silly of me. I haven’t the least idea of whom you speak, for I have forgotten all about Richard Fitzwilliam.”
9
Pemberley
The servant’s entrance at Pemberley was a narrow, dim flight of stairs leading down from the rear part of the house. The wooden steps were well worn from countless forays by maids carrying buckets or footmen taking errands. The long, narrow handrail down the side was smooth, burnished to a sheen by sweat and years.
It was this handrail that guided Richard on his descent. He carried no lantern, for he desired none to know of his late-night errand. No whisper of conjecture might be breathed through the house—not until he knew whom to trust. If he were correct in his suspicions, his next strategies must be planned with the utmost care. If he were mistaken… his stomach twisted.
If he were mistaken, this one ethereal hope, likely a mere figment of his own will, would finally die. The guilt of defiling a grave would be then the least of his sorrows, and he would learn at last to mourn without denial. You must face the truth eventually, his better sense chided. He grit his teeth, retorting back to that inner voice. While there remained a doubt in his heart, every avenue must be pursued. A good officer would do no less!
A step creaked under his foot, and he paused. He was in the midst of the flight of stairs, with no figures in sight at either top or bottom. His racing pulse eased. Of course, no one would be down here at such an hour—at least they ought not be. It had been a near thing, slinking from his room without attracting notice. Mrs Annesley had nearly caught him when he first slipped into the rear passageways. What in blazes was the woman doing in the back corridors of the house? Richard had slipped into a shadow, praying that the thumping of his own door had escaped her hearing. He had not drawn an easy breath for long moments after she had passed.
Richard dared a quick descent now, down the final steps, glancing once over his shoulder before he pushed open the door at the bottom. Objective number one: Successful.
He wrapped his dark cloak more tightly about himself as he darted away from the footpath. Perhaps such stealth was ridiculous, but his conscience already smote him for what he had set into motion this night. He felt like a rebellious youth once more, stealing off to the stables for a midnight escapade, and each breath of wind, each light stirring of some creature in the underbrush, arrested his heart.
Through the trees he threaded his way, marking the places where the needles pressing into the damp earth silenced his footfalls. At once, the snapping of twigs echoed through the wood. Richard jerked to a halt. The sound had not been made by his own boots.
He rounded behind the nearest tree, squinting against the shadows until a figure—vague and shrouded by tendrils of mist—moved apart from the rest. “Who goes there?” he demanded.
The figure—a man, he could see—froze. “Please, sir, do not wake the house,” a voice returned. “I was only off to see my mother—”
Richard’s eyes had traced his shape by now. That tall, lanky frame, the faint lilt to the syllables, were unmistakable. “O’Donnell? Why are you about so late?”
O’Donnell came near, his face made ghostly pale in the darkness, but Richard suspected it would have appeared so even under proper light. “My mother, sir, she lives just over the fen, across the wood beyond the estate’s borders. My sister has been ill, and Cook gave me a parcel I might take to them, but I did not wish to be late to my duties in the morning.”
Richard stared. “Do you mean you have walked over eight miles tonight?”
O’Donnell shifted his feet. “I ran part of it, sir.”
“Singular!” he cried. What was the protocol in such a situation? A soldier in a time of war could not leave camp at all without leave, but he had not the least idea of the permissions granted to a servant at a great house such as Pemberley. In truth, as he had never meant to inherit an estate, he had paid little attention to the inner workings of the staff. Did Mrs Reynolds know of his errand?
“If I may, sir,” O’Donnell ventured, “is there some trouble?”
Richard snapped back to attention. “Trouble? No, why should you ask?”
“Well, sir, it is rather late, and you seem to have misplaced your lantern.”
“Never you mind, O’Donnell,” he answered stiffly. “It is nothing more than I did on reconnaissance training as a young lieutenant. We were often required to venture into the night with no more than a pocket knife.”
“Oh!” the lad replied cheerfully. “It is admirable that you have kept up the practice—a good exercise for an officer, and all of that.”
“Certainly.” He cleared his throat, trying to affect a tone of command. “Carry on, O’Donnell.”
“Sir!” The lad touched his cap and sauntered away.
Richard beat his head against a tree. Fool! He would have done better to disappear into the shadows until O’Donnell had passed, but no, old soldier that he was, he had to play the sentry upon his midnight errand! With any luck, the lad was naïve enough to accept his excuse, and intimidated enough not to speak of their encounter. He sighed, waiting until the boy had fully disappeared before resuming his path.
His hands were still shaking when he approached the estate chapel. True to his word, Broderick was there, and with him two grimy-looking souls.
“My apologies, sir,” Broderick spoke at once, “I know you wished for all to be prepared at least a fortnight ago.”
“Never mind that. Is everything in readiness now?”
Broderick jerked his head wordlessly to his assistants.
“Oh, aye, Cap’n,” one of them offered a toothless grin. “Me an’ Blunt, we got into one finer ‘n this. This tosser wan’d the wife’s jewels t’ give t’is fancy piece, see.”
Richard held up a hand. “Just get on with it, and remember I am paying you well for absolute secrecy!”
“Aye, Cap’n. Eh me boy!” he gestured to his companion.
Richard had been present at far too many a burial, but the unsealing of a family vault was an event to which he had never been witness. It was never meant to
be an expeditious undertaking—rather, it seemed the architects of such a crypt felt that the very difficulty of the endeavour added some solemn momentousness to the occasion. Still, he was pleasantly surprised—and not a little disturbed—at the efficiency of the experienced grave robbers. He certainly wished the task over and done with quickly, but he wondered how many other final resting places had been desecrated by this pair.
“Sir, you will be wanting this.” Broderick extended to him a thickly folded cloth, soaked in camphor. “The odour will be rather bad by now.”
Richard nodded, accepting it. “Bring out the body,” he directed.
Down to the cold stone floor the grave robbers lowered the body, encased in a simple woolen shroud. Richard clasped the hideous cloth more tightly about his nose. What the devil was I thinking?
“D’yo’ wan’ to see the face, Cap’n?”
“No!” Richard fought a wave of nausea, and closed his eyes. “Turn the body over, then pull back the clothing just there,” he waved in the general direction he meant.
“’Ere, Cap’n?”
“A little lower. Yes, there. What do you see?”
The man cackled irreverently. “We calls ‘em grubs, Cap’n, but—”
“Not there!” Richard shuddered in revulsion, then stepped near to examine the body himself. His stomach heaved, his entire torso convulsing as he struggled to answer this one question. Briefly he turned away, dragging agonising breaths through the caustic mask. You started this, fool!
He reached within and found that well of fortitude which had seen him through so many battle fields. This was just one more dead man. That he had been in the grave for nearly four months should matter little—that he bore Darcy’s name mattered a great deal.
“Hold the cloth back a moment,” he ordered. With a final desperate grip on his courage, he leaned down. He narrowed his eyes, tilted his head, and looked again.
“Pull back a little farther, show me the right side.” Disgust was quickly forgotten. The mark—where was it? The skin was discoloured, certainly, but not so much that the mark could have disappeared. Had his infallible memory at last tricked him—now when he truly depended upon its accuracy? He searched for long minutes, left and right, up and down, until at last he admitted the truth witnessed by his own eyes.
“Don’ see nuthin’, Cap’n. You want I should turn ‘im back over?”
Richard stood back, his flesh prickling and his breath shallow. “No… no, I have seen quite enough.” He stared at the wall, blind to all but the starkly fresh images in his mind.
“Shall I put ‘im back, then, Cap’n?”
Noting the esteemed colonel’s indisposition, Broderick spoke for the first time in half an hour. “Thank you, yes, that will be all.”
“No,” Richard breathed. He shook himself, and his gaze—sharp like an eagle’s now—lit with sudden purpose.
“Sir? Did you wish to see more?”
“No. I have seen all I need. Take the body to the churchyard and give it a respectful burial, but it is not to remain here. I do not know who the man is, but he is not Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
~
Christmas Eve
Netherfield
It was Darcy.
There he was, in that same chair by the writing desk—a quill in his hand, the faintest flush to his cheeks as Caroline Bingley questioned him about his sister. Elizabeth glanced up from her own book, chuckling her amusement at his obvious frustration.
He penned half a line, and Caroline begged him to convey her admiration for a certain table design of Miss Darcy’s. His broad shoulders lifted, his head raised, and he all but glared at her. “Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present, I have not room to do them justice.”
His head tipped immediately back to his letter, but his eyes were slow to follow. They caught Elizabeth’s and held—almost unwillingly—before he drew a visible breath and returned to his task. Miss Bingley made some flippant answer, to which he replied rather brusquely and almost thoughtlessly. He appeared to be struggling to find the right words, for his pen hovered in one place as his brow furrowed.
Elizabeth studied him in some fascination. Such a fastidious, precise man! She imagined that a letter from him would be so carefully phrased, so eloquently penned, that any sister would admire it excessively—but what depth of emotion might be found therein? He always seemed so expeditious in his sentiments, never lingering over four words when one would do, but there had been that tenderness in his eye, a faint softening of his voice, when he had made it clear that he wrote to his sister. And was it some intention on his part that had caused him to glance her way, as if ascertaining that she attended his words?
Mr Bingley was now having his share in the discourse, commenting with perhaps a little too much levity how Darcy habitually laboured over his words. All in the room found the jest most amusing, save the one at whose expense everyone laughed. Elizabeth had remarked a slight flinch to his cheek when he voiced an even, reasoned defence of himself… and then his eyes had found hers once more. There was a curiosity—she might even dare to call it a plea—deep within those dark lashes as they flicked her way.
What did he expect she would bring to the conversation? She did not know the man, could not possibly speak with any expectation of good information. She had done little but tease him herself—but he had never seemed to mind that so very much. In fact, there had been a spark to his expression and an energy to his responses whenever she rose to bait him. He had even supplied his own defects as fodder, all the better for her to banter with him.
Ah. At last I see all clearly! Mr Darcy despised being mocked, when what he perceived as his strengths were laughed about as faults to be made an amusement for others, but he loved being teased. It was a moment for him to prove before himself and others that he was, after all, human. If only I had understood him better!
“Lizzy? Lizzy, are you well?”
A rush of air filled Elizabeth’s lungs as she started in her seat. Jane had taken the place next to her and now rested her hand gently on Elizabeth’s shoulder in concern. “Forgive me, Jane! I was only thinking of something.” Elizabeth tried to brush off her sense of disorientation by smoothing a trembling hand over her skirts. She had worn her second finest gown in observance of this, Jane’s first Christmas Eve as Mistress of Netherfield. It was her light green satin, with the worked bodice—the same gown she had worn that long-ago evening in this very room….
Jane narrowed her eyes quizzically. “Is that what it was? I thought perhaps your head pained you again or your supper did not settle well. You had the most alarming expression just now!”
“Did I? Oh, I suppose I was running through the little tasks I must accomplish tomorrow, and of course the Boxing duties. I’ve so much to do, I really must learn list them all out rather than allowing them to clutter my thoughts so.”
“Did you wish to use the writing desk?” Jane inquired. “I think Charles will not mind.”
“The writing desk? Why no—I have never done so. Why should you ask?”
“You were staring at it just now. I believe there are pens and notepaper in abundance, and the gentlemen ought not to join us for some little while yet.”
Elizabeth looked once more to the desk. Was there truly no one sitting there? He had seemed so real just now, with that dark curl falling just over his brow, the faint crease in the back of his tailored coat as he leaned forward in his chair. There was a light trail from his fingers in the nap of the buckskin breeches at his thigh, the barest evening shadow over his chin, and his left foot was shifted just ahead of the other as he bent to his letter…. He had been there but a moment ago!
She straightened, forcibly pasting a smile on her face. “No, Jane, I thank you. I am afraid I should be carried away and become rather unsociable, and then only think of the questions I shall have to answer when all the gentlemen come in! It is Christmas, after all, and no one make
s lists of their tasks at such a festive time.”
“Truly, Lizzy, we are quite easy here. If it would give you relief, then by all means, jot down your notes so that you may then put them aside. Surely it would be preferable this evening to be merry and not distracted by other cares.”
Elizabeth glanced toward the card table, where her mother had drawn in her aunt Gardiner, Kitty and Mary for her amusement. “I think I must rather take care to preserve my energies and not become entangled in my own tasks. I fear once the gentlemen join us, the remainder of my evening will be spent in exerting myself to save your many guests from Mama’s questions in regard to their portions.”
Jane laughed. “There are only six gentlemen, three of whom are married and quite safe! As for the remaining gentlemen, I believe they expect some questions from Mama. There is only one among them all whose familiarity with you is so slight that he should be surprised to see you engaged in some task, even during a dinner gathering.”
“Do you not think your Mr Bingley knows me well by now?” Elizabeth asked in mock innocence.
Jane giggled. “He certainly does. Charles adores you! He compares you to an angel.”
“I thought that was his name for you. He must not know me as well as he believes.”
“Oh, I did not say it was just any angel,” Jane blushed.
Elizabeth raised a brow. “To which of these cherubic creatures does he ascribe a resemblance?”
Jane could contain herself no longer. She made a most indelicate noise in her throat as she sang out, “Michael! The one with the blazing sword!”
“Charming,” Elizabeth retorted drily. “Is that to be my occupation tonight then, to place myself between this strange gentleman you have invited to dine and his Eden?”
“Oh, you needn’t be concerned about Mr Gray. The parish is not large, but he can comfortably afford a wife, and I thought Mary rather taken with him. I think he will be quite well suited in our little neighborhood, do not you?”
These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 14