She sniffed and rested a hand upon his chest. “You must not speak so, William. It is not I who was taken. I remain here, as I have always been. It is you who have been wronged.”
“Yet it is you who remain shackled to a phantom in the night. You have another life, Elizabeth—people who love you, a future to live.”
A chill shivered through her scalp and she opened her mouth in denial, but he brushed his thumb over it to silence her. “Please, my dearest, I cannot allow your days to be taken as mine were.”
Her eyes began to burn and a sob caught in her throat. “My days are already a torment, William! Every waking moment leads me farther from you. Gladly would I sacrifice my reality for these moments in your arms.”
He pulled her close once more, his chest shaking in restrained anguish. “But there is more for you. You must permit life to have its way in you, else you will die. I could not bear it, my precious Elizabeth!”
“What would you have me do, William? I did not summon these dreams of you as an act of will, nor do I understand why you are so real to me, but I cannot deny the truth. You are mine and I love you, William!”
Something like a cry burst from him and his arms tightened still more. His cheek, wet with agonised joy, he rested atop her head as he trembled for breath. “My Elizabeth! You have made my existence worthwhile. Would that I could do the same for you! But it is too selfish of me to keep you for my own. I can bring you nothing more but grief, my love.”
“Do you expect me to simply forget you, to cease seeing you whenever I close my eyes? Even if I could, there must be some reason for you to always be in my heart!” she protested.
“My darling, I do not deserve to have you making yourself miserable on my account. You must allow some other to fill your thoughts, so that I may fade.”
She pressed her tear-streaked face to his shoulder, clinging to his shirt. “There could never be any other, William. How could I love again?”
“A moderate degree of affection may grow from friendship, may it not? Even a comfortable sort of accord, with a home and family of your own, would be preferable to the waking nightmare that has been yours because of me.”
“And I am to settle for comfortable accord, after I have known what it is to have my heart shattered, seared, and set aflame? You believe I could be content with only a ‘moderate degree of affection’?”
“Not content, no, but no longer tormented, Elizabeth. I beg you would live again, and know that with you, you carry those hopes I was never able to realise. Love for me, my darling.”
She buried her face more deeply into his chest, pushing against him until he reclined back and held her cradled in his embrace. She fought to breathe, and for a fleeting instant dreamt of suffocating herself in his arms. At least then, she would nevermore be parted from him. This horror he had asked of her—could he really expect her to do it? She sobbed, a piteous gasp, and bit her frozen lips. “How?” she whispered into his neck.
“Laugh, Elizabeth. Laugh as you did on the night I first set eyes upon you. You captured my heart in that moment, for no other has ever shone so brightly in her joy as you did. You have lost that—I have robbed you of it—and I cannot bear to see you so broken! I would rather see you at peace in another’s arms than devastated in my own.”
She swallowed, not lifting her head. “I do not think I have it in me.”
“You do, if anyone does. There is none so strong and clever as my Elizabeth. Please, my darling, will you try?”
Elizabeth slid her arms under his torso, still shaking her head in denial but unable to refuse his plea. “Just a little longer, William. Let me hold you for a short while.”
He sighed into her hair, and her neck tickled as his breath warmed her neck. She heard him draw breath to answer, but he never did. His body tensed, his chest arching in some hidden pain. She raised up to see his eyes flown wide in alarm as they rested on her for one last, searing instant. He was gasping, crying out in silent terror, and then he was gone.
14
Porto, Portugal
Amália lay silently in her bed, her fingers twined through the sheets. An hour earlier, she had heard Miguel’s footsteps pause outside her door, then move down the corridor. Her candle had been snuffed, and she had taken care to keep her breathing low and even to give the illusion of sleep. Miguel had apparently been convinced, for he had not even knocked. Only a short while later, the house had gone quiet for the night. Dare she move now?
Her heart pounding in her ears, she eased from her bed, cringing when the floor squeaked faintly at her touch. She froze, listening for any imagined disturbance, but heard nothing more. Another moment of stillness persuaded her to rest a second foot on the cold boards, then to slip across the room to don a dressing gown and light her candle.
Her door opened on noiseless hinges—she had taken care to check that some hours earlier—and she tiptoed down the corridor. Glancing to the right and left, she took the direction toward the study, where Senhor Vasconcelos and Miguel had spent most of the evening. The room was not locked and reeked of cigar smoke, but otherwise seemed unremarkable enough. Amália wandered slowly over the thick rugs, curiously touching and investigating each paper on the desk, each small curio on the shelves. Nothing seemed novel or out of place. There was no dust lately disturbed, not even a full ash tray or half-empty bottle of port to catch her notice.
Her brow furrowing in disappointment, she sighed. She had been fooling herself! What ridiculous fantasy would have brought her here in the dead of the night to find nothing at all? It could only be more humiliating if her nocturnal wanderings were discovered, and due to the deep, luxurious sheen to the carpet, anyone who cared to notice could easily discern her small, bare footprints amidst the thick pile.
Feeling even more the idiot, she began backing her way out of the room, sweeping her foot over the prints to wipe them clean, but then something new did catch her eye. She stopped and held her candle low as she bent to look more closely. Larger prints than hers covered the floor in mostly random paths, but one well-worn trail of them appeared to be leading directly into a wall. The trail disappeared at the side paneling, with one or two marks of only half a print visible to her straining eyes.
Curiously, she poked a finger into the print and found that the carpet ended in stone tiles just under the ridge of the panel. Her pulse thrumming in fear and excitement, she raised up to touch her palms to the wooden paneling. After a few experimental pushes, it gave way and spun creakily about its axis, revealing a dark, musty corridor beyond.
She craned her neck, holding her candle aloft as her breath panted nervously. The only sounds to be heard were a few random drips in the distance, the weeping of cold stone trapped in suffocating stillness. Blinking against the darkness, she dared a few steps.
Not for the first time, she regretted leaving her slippers behind, but she had originally feared the light slapping noise they created with each step. That concern seemed unimportant now, in comparison to the cold unknown stone, but she dared not return to her room for them. If she did, she would never find the courage to come back!
The corridor was long, broken here and there by old passages long ago sealed off or destroyed. Had it not been for the fresh, unlit candles hung along the wall, she would have believed this path abandoned as well. Their presence, as much as anything else, lent her the burning impetus to continue on. Something waited ahead!
She felt as if she had been walking an eternity, though in reality it could have been only minutes, when a new noise reached her ears. It sounded like a door groaning, and then… was that a voice? No, two or three voices!
Glancing about in panic, she searched for a corner, an alcove—somewhere to slip from view, should the need arise. The solid walls, however, were unsympathetic to her desperation. Amália stretched to her toes, clenching her candle with one hand and shielding the light with the other. Her sense told her to fly, but her heart, now convinced that her fears had come to fruition, c
ompelled her to investigate.
The voices seemed yet some distance off. Her sweating fingers flexed and her breathing grew shallow. There was no light reflecting up ahead, and there were likely more nooks in the wall where she might hide. She could draw yet a little closer and still remain hidden. She took another determined step.
The voices were louder now, and she could distinguish them from one another. One she knew instantly for Miguel, though she could not yet make out his words. His tones were another matter. There was a native savagery in them she had never before heard, and it echoed in the other voices about him. That second voice… Pereira, she could identify him now. Her father-in-law’s attendant was not well-known to her, but the slippery lisping quality of his words echoed clearly enough that there could be no doubt.
She strained to hear, pressing her head and hands against the wall to stabilise her faltering limbs. Who was the forsaken one receiving the brunt of Miguel’s animosity? She could hear him groaning, in those low desperate gasps that had haunted her since the previous day. Miguel was questioning him harshly now, demanding some intelligence of him in English. The man’s pitiful denials were punctuated by muffled blows—against his ribs or his head? —and then the same demands were made of him again.
Amália squinted her eyes, as if somehow that mannerism could help her to hear better. The odd echoes in the twisting corridor, combined with the foreign language, hampered her understanding considerably. It had been too long since she had spoken to anyone in English, and she was far out of practice. After a few minutes, however, she could be fairly certain that she had heard several words repeatedly. Sister. Land. Deed. Estate. And was that a name? Darley?
She pressed her forehead against the cool of the stone, her stomach twisting nauseatingly. She might have overlooked a prisoner in a time of war, even an Englishman, for spies on either side were not uncommon. These, however, were not questions one asked of a soldier or a spy. Miguel was cursing the man now, and she could hear Pereira’s mocking laughter as the captive cried out once more of his innocence.
How long had the poor man been locked away under her very nose, and how often did his tormentors come to interrogate him? Perhaps she knew little of such things, but he did not sound like a defiant prisoner, freshly apprehended. Rather, there was a defeated quality to his listless responses, as one who tottered on the verge of despair—or perhaps even the ultimate surrender of wretched, eternal darkness.
Her knees trembled beneath her and her heart beat thick in her throat. Something must be done! But who was she, a mere woman, to effect the release of her husband’s prisoner? Was it even wise to do so? Could the man possibly be a violent offender of some sort, and his capture in the best interests of society?
Another guttural moan echoed down the hall, quickly strangled by the sound of water splashing and then, long seconds later, desperate gagging and choking sounds. Miguel’s clear voice rang out then. “Tell us where to find it, or your sister will be here beside you within a fortnight!”
Her stomach lurched. No man deserved such treatment, no matter his offences, but to threaten a man’s sister! She could scarcely believe her husband capable of making such a threat, even if the captive were a spy. Something must be done! But how to defy Miguel without detection? Surely, he, allied with his father and owning the loyalty of all the household servants, held far more power than she. What could she do alone?
Voices, coarse and rude, made more demands and Amália listened with pained heart. She could pick out Senhor Vasconcelos’ dignified sneer now, and her blood chilled. Subverting Miguel alone would be difficult enough. He was her husband, after all, and legally she owed him her allegiance. Dishonorable her subterfuge might be, but she did not believe any lasting harm would come to her if he discovered her betrayal. She was less certain of her father-in-law.
She closed her eyes and prayed, her thoughts stumbling frantically for some inspiration. Whom could she trust? Even her maid was not her own, but a girl who had been in service in the Vasconcelos home when she had come to it. There was no way of knowing where the girl’s true loyalties might lie! Any faith she might have placed in her own family died in the next instant when she heard Senhor Vasconcelos utter her father’s name. She knew them to be old associates and sickened still further when she realised that her own dear father might be party to such torment.
Perhaps… Ruy had never been close friends with Miguel, and had repeatedly and vehemently assured her of his brotherly devotion since his return. Perhaps she could go to him, but would he defy his own father? Could she even find a moment of privacy in her husband’s or her father’s home to speak discreetly to her brother?
Amália spread her fingers on the cool stone, her eyes darting left and right in the darkness as she wrestled with her fears. No, she could not breathe a word to her father, not until she knew… knew something! She pushed back from the wall and begin stumbling back for direction from which she had come to think. Every feeling of loyalty and interest spurred her to cry off, run to her room and bolt the door—but her conscience could not allow her to leave be.
She hurried silently down the long, abandoned hall, back to the study. Something, she must do something! Perhaps she might invite her brother out for an intimate carriage ride in the park on the morrow.
~
Matlock House
London
Richard squared his shoulders and peered into the drawing room. As expected, the countess had prepared herself for morning callers, and was still to be found alone. “Mother,” he smiled winningly, “my carriage is ready, so I shall be taking my leave.”
She flicked her hand for him to take. “So melodramatic! I shall see you at dinner, Richard.”
His fingers twitched in hers. He had been rather close-lipped with everyone regarding his self-appointed mission, lest he be thought a madman. Consequently, his mother took his intimations regarding a pressing errand more lightly than was warranted. “I may not return this evening,” was his only reply to her assumption. “Mother, I must thank you for arranging your engagement calendar to accommodate Georgiana on such a short notice. It has relieved much of my concern for her while I tend to these matters.”
“I told you, did I not, that it was foolish of you to take her to Pemberley? She ought to have remained here these last months, it would have been far better for her.”
“She was most content there, Mother. It was only my aunt’s… assistance… that proved overwhelming for her. Georgie feared—ahem—that Anne with her poor health might tire of Derbyshire before my aunt had satisfied herself that she had rendered all necessary advice.”
Lady Matlock rolled her eyes. “Catherine likes to make herself useful. I trust you did not allow her too much freedom. If you would only involve your father in Georgiana’s protection and confirm an engagement to her, you would more easily silence your aunt.”
Richard cleared his throat and Lady Matlock frowned. “Indeed,” he fumbled, searching out his gloves from the pocket of his greatcoat. “If you will excuse me, Mother, I—oh! There you are, Georgie. I feared I would miss you this morning.”
Georgiana shyly entered the room behind him and offered a wan smile, made all the more pale by her black gown. “I wanted to be sure to see you, Richard.”
Lady Matlock arched a significant brow at her son. His neck and ears reddening, he turned back to his cousin. “I am glad you did so, Georgie. I wish you a pleasant morning. As you see, I was just on my way out.”
Worry creased her brow. “You will send me word of your business as soon as you may?”
“Of course! I do not know what I shall learn, but if I am delayed in returning, I will send word.” Georgiana nodded with tight lips and drew back as Richard bade her a gentle farewell and left for his carriage.
The carriage was a ruse, really, and it was more for his family’s benefit than out of any sense that someone might follow him. He truly felt like he was chasing ghosts, and he could not imag
ine trying to explain his search to his father or Reginald. How they would laugh at him! And his mother—she would send for the physician to examine his head!
He had the driver set him down at his club, then sent the carriage home. As soon as it had departed, he hailed a cab. “Tattersall’s13, please!” he instructed. Once there, immersed in the busy horse market, Richard tightened his caped collar up about his neck and did his best to lose himself among the other fine gentlemen vying for their next stylish mount.
As always, he encountered rough jostling, hawkers plying their wares, several horses trotted across his path, and, of course, the busy sale ring where wide-eyed young dandies brandished their cards to out-bid their rivals. Hundreds of faces milled about him—some he recognised, but most of which he did not. More than once a stray elbow shot into his path, or someone caught unawares backed into him as he passed. He never did determine which of these had been Broderick’s hand slipping into his pocket, but at length he became aware of the weight at the fore of his coat.
A jolly day’s work! he satisfied himself. And none too soon, either, for he feared that at any moment he might encounter someone he—
“Fitzwilliam!”
Richard groaned. He turned to face the voice, pasting a smile over his face.
“The same. Captain Harker, is it?”
The man drew closer. “Indeed, it is! I thought that was you, sir. I have not seen you since the Peninsula! How are you keeping in civilian life?”
“That is still ‘Colonel Fitzwilliam’ to you, Captain. I may not be in uniform, but I have not resigned my commission.”
“Oh! Forgive me sir, I had heard otherwise. It is all the talk, you know, how you fell into a fortune and all.”
“A fortune? I? I think you are mistaken, Captain. My guidance has been required by my young cousin upon the grievous loss of her brother.”
These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 20