These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Nicole Clarkston

  “I am sure that Mama is greatly in your debt for inviting the gentlemen to round out our party. Such a merry gathering we are!”

  “Some of us are,” Jane tilted her head significantly. “You hardly spoke two words to poor John Lucas. I always thought you rather friendly with him.”

  Elizabeth lifted her shoulders. “John is as pleasant as a young man may be.”

  “And you have known him since we were so young. I was glad he could complete our table this evening. Think what bad luck if we had an uneven number! I was sorry Lydia wished to remain at Longbourn with our young cousins, but in truth, a party of thirteen would have proved most awkward. Lizzy, tell me truthfully; what do you think of John?”

  Elizabeth stared blankly. “There is nothing to think. He exists, I suppose. I hardly troubled myself to be offended by him. He is neither agreeable nor disagreeable. He is… innocuous.”

  “Oh. Oh, dear, that does not sound very promising,” Jane sighed.

  “Jane, I beg you not to match me up with a suitor, particularly not John Lucas.”

  Jane smiled; the weak, tenderhearted expression of the disappointed, and took her sister’s hand. “I would wish you to marry for love, Lizzy, but finding love requires talking to men. You will have to attend balls more often this winter. You know how you can outshine any woman in the county—”

  “Save for you!”

  Jane was not to be deterred. “You must stop using Lydia as your excuse for remaining away from company. Of course, she needs a confidante, and who better than my dear Lizzy, who soothed all my own heartaches and nurtured my hopes? But, Lizzy, I am afraid for you. You have not been yourself. Even Papa is noticing.”

  “Papa spoke to you about me?” Elizabeth raised a sceptical brow. “You may have embellished your entreaty a little too far, for now I no longer believe you.”

  Jane glanced over her shoulder to the laughter emanating from the others at the card table, then her voice dropped seriously. “He rode over last Tuesday, Lizzy. He made as if he only wished to pay a sociable call on Charles, but he spent most of the time talking about you. I promised I would not reveal what was said, but look for words from Papa in the very near future.”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “So, I am to have a suitor arranged whether I like it or not? Or does he propose again to send me to London with Aunt and Uncle after Twelfth Night?”

  “You know Papa would never force you against your wishes.” Jane paused, permitting herself a little smirk. “It would be far too much effort for him to match wills with you!” She giggled softly, encouraged by a warming of Elizabeth’s smile. “Lizzy,” she continued, leaning closer, “it breaks my heart to see you downcast. Save for Charles, there is no one dearer to me, and when I am so full of joy, it pains me that you should not be.”

  “You deserve your happiness, Jane, and ought never to be ashamed. Do not allow your concern for my present melancholy to dim your joy in the least measure.”

  Jane drew her shoulders back, a welling up of the great tide of happiness she longed to share. “Lizzy…” her voice dropped to a whisper now. “I have a secret!”

  Elizabeth’s lips parted, amazement dawning over her face as she searched her sister’s jubilant expression. “Jane, are you—” she hesitated, sweeping her gaze again over her sister’s form. “Can you be certain?”

  Jane was nodding nervously, biting her lip but nearly bursting with tearful elation. “I believe so!” she breathed. “I told Charles yesterday. Oh, I know it was not fair of me to tell him so soon, but I was feeling so ill, and I was so deliriously happy, and he deserved to know for Christmas! I told him I wished to share the news with you, and he agreed, but we must not tell Mama just yet. Oh, Lizzy, please be happy with me!”

  Elizabeth was numb. She swallowed, her ears pounding with the echo of her throat and her own drumming pulse. Jane’s joyous tears slowed like golden honey, glinting off her cheeks in the firelight as each of her words dropped with the weight of iron.

  Jane. Dear, lovely Jane, for whom Elizabeth would jealously have claimed all the blessings the world had to offer, had been granted each one of her heart’s desires. She should be contented for her. Satisfied. Overjoyed!

  One breath. Elizabeth fought her body to draw in a second, but it had betrayed her. “I—I am… happy, Jane.” Oh! There was nothing more painful than offering praise and glory on behalf of another, when the cost to oneself was so dear! She gasped softly, a silent rest between the rhythmic lines of her empty hymn. “It is wonderful, such a surprise. Charles must be so proud. I am delighted for you, Jane.”

  “I hoped you would be!” Jane gushed in relief. “You really are the truest, dearest sister, Lizzy. Oh, but we must speak no more of it!” Jane tilted her head and Elizabeth raised her eyes to the door.

  Mr Bingley was the first of the gentleman to enter, his tender expression immediately searching out his wife. Some shared intimacy passed in their look, and he casually wandered in their direction. Beside him followed John Lucas, who seemed glad enough of the opportunity to make a foursome with the Bingleys and Elizabeth by the fire. Elizabeth’s attention, however, was reserved for her father.

  Mr Bennet looked her way, but did not deign to interrupt the quiet group. He offered a kindly smile, then responded to a jest between Mr Gray and Mr Purvis—a local widower who was working very hard to attract Kitty’s notice. Elizabeth watched as the larger group settled in at cards, and her father retired to a corner with a book.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes, then resolutely turned her head. John Lucas sat to her left, and if she kept her gaze steadily on his face, she could no longer see the writing desk.

  ~

  Elizabeth was late to bed that evening—later even than the rest of the family, who had all returned home in the long hours of the night. Lydia’s spirits had been her first concern, for she truly had begged off spending the evening in the company of Jane’s guests, fearing extreme discomfort when her marital status must be explained to the gentlemen. Elizabeth had tried gentle persuasion and promised to stand near for the whole of the evening, but Lydia had bluntly refused to meet the curious stares of the other guests and Jane Bingley’s pitying words.

  Children, however, with their innocent affections and playful ways, seemed to work a magic in her. Elizabeth had hurried in from the carriage, still regretting that she had left Lydia to her own devices, but she had found her sister laughing riotously with their young Gardiner cousins. It seemed that the littlest had found one of the kittens from the barn and tied a bright ribbon round its short little tail, amusing them all for the better part of the evening. Clearly, her sisterly comfort was not required on this festive night.

  Perhaps it was that very lack of purpose which troubled her at her toilette before she retired to bed. She gazed blankly through the flame of her candle, her face so close that she could smell its warmth fanning through the curls at her temples. Was she really so morose of late that even her father worried over her? Had she not just recently sported merrily with him over one of his favourite novels, and pointedly charmed each caller to attend the Bennet drawing room? Could the hollow sound of her laughter be heard by anyone but herself?

  The mirror, staring back at her, gave answer enough. She was adrift, without direction or inspiration. And for what? For the loss of something that had never been hers? For envy of her beloved Jane, or disappointment over Lydia? A flash of anger rose in her eyes—the only life to spark back from her mirror. No! She swiped her hand over the flame, quenching it with a quick, stinging pinch of her fingers. There must be more.

  Rubbing her eyes, Elizabeth tiptoed to the bed that was now hers alone and slid between her cold sheets. She shivered. It had never been absolutely necessary that she and Jane should share a room. Longbourn was large enough for the family and two guest rooms, after all, and seldom were both needed when company came. When they were still very small, however, she and Jane had found delight in long talks into the night, we
ll after they were supposed to have been asleep. They had shared warmth and secrets, and never had the typical disagreements of sisters troubled their happy little arrangement.

  Elizabeth burrowed more deeply under the counterpane, staring at the mound of Jane’s old pillow in the moonlight. It seemed so strange now, with no sounds of breathing, no second body dipping that side of the bed. So many times, when her feet and hands were cold, Jane and she would have snuggled close, giggling and tugging at the blankets. Hunching her shoulders, she tried to recall that sweet fellowship as she nestled her head into the pillow.

  She tucked herself tightly all round and found that if she strained at the blanket just so, she could almost imagine that she was not alone—that her back rested securely against solid warmth, with a firm weight draped round her waist. She arched her neck, pulling back her shoulder to bare yet more of her skin as a breath of tepid air tickled below her ear.

  The weight tightened over her stomach, rolling her close and cradling her head as a shiver thrilled up the back of her neck. “Elizabeth.”

  Was it a voice she had heard, carried on the wind, or merely the creaks and groans of the old house as it cooled and settled for the night? She inhaled deeply, catching a tendril of sandalwood fragrance with undertones of something more earthy. Her fingers touched the bare space of her neck—a warmth kissing her skin, grazing delicately over that sensitive place.

  “I have thought only of you.”

  Elizabeth turned her head languidly. Surely, she had heard the words spoken aloud! The prickles along her arms testified to the whispered breath over her flesh, the deep hum of masculine tones. I am going mad! she chided herself, but she could not desire to shatter the dream with the truth. There could be no one there! Yet, some intuition compelled her to raise up, to meet the eyes that had long since been dimmed from memory.

  He smiled and lifted gentle fingers to touch her cheek. “My dearest Elizabeth, how I have missed you!”

  A tear spilled over his fingertips. She could not speak, could not even answer with a smile. Her lips parted, but her throat was so choked that she was capable of no more than a garbled sob. She bit her lips together, trying to nod, to speak—something!

  “It is all right, my love,” he soothed. Those deep eyes, like sweet warm chocolate, searched lovingly over her face. “You have been too much alone, as have I.”

  Her breast heaved. She wetted her lips, swallowing. “You cannot be real!” she whispered into the darkness.

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “I am not one given to fantasy or madness. You know that I detest all forms of pretense, yet you see me before you.”

  She shook her head. “I have been seeing you everywhere! No, it is not you. My mind—I must be deceiving myself.”

  His warm fingers brushed her chin. “Then you have longed to see me, my love, as I have you. You cannot know what comfort that gives me.”

  A strangled cry trembled from her. “Oh, Mr Darcy, it is all my fault! I shall never overcome my grief! If I had only been gentler, forgiven more easily—”

  “Do not linger over your regrets, my Elizabeth,” he murmured. “We must take what little we are given—do not let us return to the past.”

  She bowed her head, trembling with tears, and felt his hand hesitantly rest upon her tousled curls. She leaned willingly into him, longing to feel more. He drew her to his chest, wrapping an arm about her, and simply held her. Shaking, Elizabeth at last dared to reach for him. Her fingers slipped over the smooth linen of his shirt, touching and testing and, at last, trusting.

  She pressed her face into his chest, her hand fisting the material of his clothing and kneading the firm muscle of his shoulder. “Oh, my love! How shall I go on, knowing that what we share in our hearts, all that which might have been, can never be!”

  “We have our small moments,” answered he. “All of life’s treasures may be stored up and accounted in moments such as these. My dearest Elizabeth, I have been a broken, lonely man in a dark place—from where I may never return. I have nothing left but these dreams of you.” His throat worked, his eloquent eyes imploring her to understand. “My Elizabeth,” he whispered, “forgive me for trying to invoke you into that darkness to be with me!”

  She clenched her arm about his neck, greedily pressing her burning eyes to the thrumming warmth of his flesh. “I would rather face darkness with you than a world of comfort alone!”

  His breath sighed through her hair, and his hands clasped her shoulders in fevered relief. “It is more than I can bear, Elizabeth! To never see you, to have no hope of such a life as I had always expected—it is too bitter!” His fingers traced up her neck, to her jaw, and he gently lifted her head to look into her eyes. “May I leave with you my heart for safekeeping? How I need you, my Elizabeth!”

  She sniffled uncontrollably, little gasping cries muffled against his chest as she pulled him close once more. “Do not leave me again, Mr Darcy!”

  His fingers burrowed tenderly through her hair. “William,” he whispered softly into her ear.

  She lifted her head, her lips silently forming the intimate name. He smiled once more, the light in his eyes a ghostly shadow of former days. “It was my dearest hope that this year I might have wished you a Merry Christmas, my precious Elizabeth.”

  His shirt was now damp with her tears. She clung to him, praying that if she only held him tightly enough, he would not vanish in the mist. Her entire body racked in spasms of anguish, but his arms held her close as his tender voice caressed her starving heart. She gasped, tasting the salty drops streaming down her face. “Merry Christmas, William,” she whispered.

  10

  Porto, Portugal

  Darcy drew a slow, luxuriant breath, and then another. His chest bore a comforting burden—a warm pressure, softened by radiant silk and gentle movements. His fingers flexed and curled, stroking the cascade of dark waves and clasping them close. There, in that place between sleep and wakefulness, a name whispered from his lips. For just a moment, he was not alone.

  With another breath, he pressed his forearm tightly across his chest, trailing his fingers through the short brush at his chin. He must ask Wilson today for a shave, but first, his lips formed a soft endearment, a tender valediction to the bliss of his slumber.

  Another breath brought full consciousness. Darcy lay with his eyes open, staring once more at the darkened ceiling of his quarters. From some distant place, a church bell tolled merrily. Unless he missed his guess, this was Christmas morning.

  He groaned, rolling out of his cot. Georgiana would be rising on this morning, weeping bitter tears for him. Would Richard have taken her to Pemberley, or was she in London? Had his gift to her, ordered in long-ago summer, been delivered? And what of the traditional servants’ gifts, and the tenants, not to mention his aunts and uncle and…. It made his head throb. So much had been his to oversee—far too much for a man of his years, but he had learned to command and care for all. Now, he was powerless to even ask for a shave.

  It was not vanity to confess that his place had been that of a keystone in a bridge. Once pulled, all about was liable to tumble. What frenetic distress must follow in the wake of his absence!

  He was slinging his body through his bare-handed fencing regime again, exorcising his frustrations through his muscles as his mind—detached from his physical self—battled for some peace. He had ever been one given to brooding silence, but just now, he would have sacrificed his right hand for the relief of unburdening his fears. Was Georgie safe from whomever sought control of him? What had become of all his careful planning; the specific breeding plans of his stables, the orchestration of the field rotations and the attentive maintenance of Pemberley’s orchards, the repairs he had planned to the eastern wing of the house, and the strategic investments he had ordered through his solicitor?

  Voices without signaled the expected arrival of his breakfast, but he paid it little notice. Too much anguish gnawed at him. If only
he could close his thoughts to those matters he could not control! Somehow, he must learn to focus his mind, or the burning helplessness of his circumstances, grieving himself for all that was far beyond his reach, would drive him to madness! If only he could cease thinking of poor Georgie, and Richard, and… oh, no he could not give up thinking of Elizabeth.

  Georgiana had been dependent upon him, and Richard’s burden had now multiplied. His guilt over what they must suffer could only torment him, but Elizabeth! She was the one treasure of his heart who might go on unaffected by his disappearance. He needn’t fear for her, but in allowing his thoughts to linger on her, he was reminded in some part of who he was, and what he once had desired in this life. His memories of her—both searing and exquisite—were the anchor that bound him to sanity.

  The voices drew nearer now, and Darcy ceased his exercise to fold his arms and stare at the door. He was not hungry, had not been for weeks, but he longed to at least see the hand that slipped with the tray through the little hatch. That another person on this earth took enough notice of him to deliver food was small consolation, but it was all he could claim. It was, then, with a great degree of shock that he witnessed the larger door swing upon its hinges to reveal a man on the other side.

  Darcy stood mute, his arms dropped in pleased surprise. How long had it been since he had last seen a face? At least eight or nine weeks, and those only the few he had encountered upon his arrival. His chest heaved as confused emotions washed over him, and he squinted his eyes to recognise the face. Was it the same man he had seen on the ship? The one who had ordered him dragged and locked here?

  The man offered a smug little bow. “Feliz Natal,10 Senhor Darcy.”