These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Nicole Clarkston

  He grasped her elbow, jerking her toward himself until she could feel his breath on her forehead. “You will not deny me tonight, my wife,” he hissed. “Right here, by the fire so I can see you looking to me—me, and no other!”

  Amália twisted her arm, fear slicing through her heart. Miguel had never seemed so provoked, so insensible to her pleas. Her breath was coming in sharp gasps, and his other hand bit painfully into her backside as she tried to wrench away from him. “Please, Miguel, you are hurting me!” she cried.

  “That will be over soon,” he growled, his fingers delving through the sheer fabric of her skirts until she felt him tugging at her drawers. The muted sound of seams ripping sent a shiver down her spine.

  She pushed against him frantically with her free hand, beating uselessly against his chest. “Miguel, stop! You needn’t force me, you are my husband!”

  “Indeed, I am!” He hooked a hand behind her thigh, then pressed her body backward until she fell beneath him. Only the thick rug on the floor spared her from smacking her head on the tile, but even so, she lay dazed and short of breath as he tumbled upon her.

  She protested weakly as he drove savage kisses along her jaw, covering her mouth and cutting off her terrified whimpers. She tried to cry out, desperate for air, but his weight crushing her and the spiraling horror of his sudden assault sent a blind panic through her mind. She began to shake her head, thrashing like a wild thing under his power. “M-m-guel,” came her smothered words, “can-n brea-ff—”

  Unable even to draw breath enough to complete her plea, Amália called on the last of her strength. His knees were between her thighs now, and she flailed her calves against him, battering her hands against his shoulders and flying ineffectually about his head—trying at any cost to catch a fresh gasp of air and to pause for a moment—a few seconds! —of reason.

  Miguel pulled back, but it was not to grant her reprieve. His face twisted into a hideous snarl, more terrifying than she had ever known, he drew back his hand and delivered a ringing blow to her cheek. Amália’s eyes rolled back in her head and she saw only a dazzling flash of white, then several seconds of alarming darkness. In the hours following, she would remember trying to open her eyes, only to discover that they were never closed.

  She swept her hands before her face, searching for Miguel as she felt his body pulling back from her. Long seconds passed as her vision returned—a blur of white, then a hazy dark head leaned over her. She blinked, panting, and realised that he was speaking.

  “—couldn’t help it,” he was mumbling. “You had no right to anger me so!”

  She slowly felt of the tender back of her head, her bruised cheek, all the while putting out another hand to lift herself to a sitting posture. “W-what did you say?” she stammered incredulously.

  He was pacing now, gesticulating wildly. “You know I would never hurt you! You cannot possibly blame me; it is not my fault. You deny me my rights. It is only natural I should be outraged!”

  She drew her knees under herself, her fingertips braced on the floor as the last of the fog disappeared from her eyes. She turned her head one way, then the other, trying to determine how dizzy she was before she attempted to stand. “Not your fault…?” she repeated dumbly.

  “There, I am glad you see it for what it is,” he nodded in satisfaction. “Your heart has not been faithful, my wife. I would be within my rights to put you aside entirely, but I love you too much for that. I will forgive your coldness of late, so long as you take care to show more affection. After all, it would not do for my father or madrasta to perceive your indifference. Such a disgrace would surely find its way into the tittle-tattle of the city.”

  She stared in mute shock, still seated on the floor.

  “Oh, come, my flower, did you not hear me say that I forgive you?” he cried in exasperation. “Do not sit there looking deaf and dumb. Come, stand to your feet.” He reached for her hand, but she reeled back, crawling crab-like away from him.

  “What is this?” he sneered. “You are not going to pretend fear now, like some spineless ninny! No, I know you too well for that. Stand up, or I shall begin to think you not only a coward but a liar!”

  She spun backward all the more hastily, kicking her feet away from his grasping hands. At last he stopped, resting fists on his hips. “So, this is how it is to be,” he scowled. “You would turn things about, make me lose countenance! You think yourself quite the innocent victim! Well, have it your own way tonight.”

  With a final sweep of his arms, he whirled away and paced to the door. “Put some oils on your face and be sure that your maid is instructed in cosmetics,” he grumbled. “I come to your bed on the morrow, and I will not have my wife looking so bedraggled as you do just now.”

  Amália winced as the door slammed. She put a hand to her eyes, avoiding the rising welt across her cheek. What just happened? Was this the way it was when a woman learned that the man she had taken as her own was but an animal?

  She rolled slowly forward to her knees, but at once her stomach twisted. A cold sweat came upon her and she bent double, retching and heaving on the bare tiled floor. When it was all over, she collapsed back against the side of the chaise nearest her, a hand draped listlessly over her stomach.

  What am I to do now? she wondered distantly. All her newly awakened misgivings had exploded into violent terror. The man whose name she had embraced was a monster, and she his prey. Was this episode merely an isolated mishap, or was she to expect mounting cruelty now that the threshold had been breached? He had frightened even himself when he laid her out helpless on the floor, that much had been clear… but would he be brought back to reason so easily again? Would he now nurse a grudge against her for his own ferocity, blaming her as he had already begun to do for his own utter lack of humanity?

  So numb was she that she did not at first recognise the hot tears streaming silently down her cheeks. She was trembling from head to foot, but she was too stunned to cry aloud, too dazed even to curl into a ball and give way to her trauma and dread. One sense only began stumbling through her muddled thoughts—her home was no longer safe.

  A new awareness of a wife’s true vulnerability began spreading from her heart. What protection had she against him? Her father’s honour would be disgraced if she fled her husband’s house. Ruy would find a way… but Ruy was a soldier, destined to be called again to the lines at any moment. Regardless, there was nothing either father or brother could do, for by law and by sacrament, she belonged to Miguel!

  Sobs began heaving within her breast as the tears blinded her eyes and stung her raw cheek. Too weak to stand, she began to crawl dizzily toward her bed. If only there were someone to comfort her! She thought longingly of her mother, how she would have gathered her in her arms and soothed her damp, tousled curls with gentle kisses. She screamed out silently for Ruy to come champion his sister and defy Miguel. Oh, but the bitterest wish of all was for Richard—Richard with his crooked smile, twinkling eyes, and shining sword. What would Richard have done, had any man so much as insulted her, let alone attacked her person?

  A shrill cry rose from her throat and she ceased all movement, instead splaying herself face-down on the cool floor. Why, why did he have to be a British soldier? Why not one of her countrymen, a Catholic—someone her father might have accepted? Or why could she not have been born an English girl with handsome enough connections to tempt his noble family?

  She turned her injured cheek against the cool floor and pressed into it, drawing what comfort she could from its nearness. Her hands worked, kneading and caressing the only thing at hand as though it were strong arms offering her shelter. She lay there long—so long she could not have told—until her sobs were exhausted and her tears spent and dried upon her face. Still she did not move, but her mind had begun to think more clearly.

  Somehow, she must appease him. It was the only way of securing her safety! None other could save her from her husband, and would not even h
er father say that it was only her wifely duty to please him? Perhaps, if she went to him even now and offered herself, it was not too late for him to repent of his wrongs and treat her once more as he always had… as his prized possession.

  A lump formed in her throat. Yes, a possession. This was to be her life, forevermore! Wed to a man of temper, around whom she must walk as if on eggshells! She sniffled, rolling to her side and spreading one hand out—reaching, stretching, as if in a mournful farewell to her days of youth and hope….

  At once, she lifted her head in surprise. Her fingers had encountered something cold and smooth, some feet away on the floor. The shadows had fallen before her, but she could feel metal clanking against metal as she inched her fingers over the object. She snatched it up, recognising it instantly for a ring of keys.

  Sitting up, she examined them. There were two, linked together by a twisted bit of wire. They could only have come from Miguel’s pocket when he had fallen upon her! She lifted one of them toward the firelight, her fingers tracing the toothed edge. She knew most of the common keys about the house, but this one was unfamiliar to her. It was too large for a desk key. Rather, it looked as though it were meant for a door… or a padlock.

  A slow smile grew on her lips. Whatever became of herself, there was one other she could save from her husband.

  21

  He had not yet come to her room.

  Amália dared not wait for her husband. Her absence would alarm and enrage him, but her presence could lead to a protracted… liaison… for which she could not spare the time. It gave her some precious little relief to slip from her room and away from where he would expect her, but a spear quivered in her stomach when she thought of the repercussions. How furious would he be once he had found her? Would he attempt to force her again? Strike her?

  She leaned against her door, clutching the keys to her chest as if they were a crucifix. That man—Richard’s cousin! —trapped below, he was counting on her! And Ruy, who was exposing himself at her behest, would be awaiting her at any moment! She could afford to tarry not one more second, for if Miguel came and found her, all might be lost.

  Noiselessly, she slipped from her room and down the corridor. She had not yet solved the problem of how to avoid her husband in the halls, but Ruy had been clever enough to suggest to their father that he ought to invite the recently returned Senhor and Senhora Vasconcelos to dinner. Perhaps if her father and mother-in-law were not to call tonight, Miguel would have closeted himself away somewhere for a quiet drink. She only prayed it was not in the study.

  She tried to affect nonchalance as she strolled from one end of the house to the other. There were far too many maids about at this hour for her to expect that none might notice her passing, but none ought to perceive anything to excite in her manner. In fact, perhaps playing the part of the mistress would serve her well, in more ways than one. Passing by the hall leading to the guest quarters, she casually inquired of one of the head maids. “Maria, can you tell me where I might find the master?”

  The woman froze at her task, and her eyes shifted to one of the other girls. Amália scrutinised the pair curiously. “Maria?” she insisted. “Is something wrong? Where is he?”

  The maids exchanged looks again, and the younger of the two then glanced unconsciously down the hall.

  Amália frowned. A suggestion that Miguel was in that direction would more than suffice for her current wants, but the maids’ furtive behaviour was curious—too curious for a proper mistress to dismiss without investigation. “Maria, speak out at once!” she commanded.

  It was not necessary. From two doors away, another girl emerged. She glanced hastily in their direction, then gathered a rumpled shawl about her shoulders and seemed to scurry from the mistress’ presence.

  Amália stood aghast, her hand—with the keys in it—drooping in shock. The two remaining maids turn abashed gazes back to her, then hung their heads in embarrassed deference. She stared speechlessly. No words… no words could come! Shame, jealousy, anger… and relief. Her cheeks must have burned crimson and her palms were sweating as her feelings of resentment and fury boiled within her.

  She turned swiftly away, failing even to acknowledge Maria as she sped down the corridor. The keys turned to firebrands in her hand, and she felt her face crumpling in contempt. Never before had she felt her marriage such a waste! Not even when he had thrown her down and struck her, not even when she had lain awake at night in tears for what might have been. Her love, her future, all had been stolen for the selfish use and disposal by a man to whom she was little more than a trophy! What now of that vain hope of at last pleasing her father by her choice?

  The remaining distance, through the study and down that dark, abandoned corridor, passed as a blur. She gritted her teeth and ran, clutching the keys in her hand as her talisman. At last she stood before the door, panting and longing to scream out in rage. Instead she trembled in silence, despising that life she had chosen with all its trappings and deceit. No more!

  It had not occurred to her that the key in her hand might not be a fit, and she never dreamt it in this moment either. Dominating her thoughts now was one simple decision. With this turn of the key, she felt herself also to be turning her back—on Miguel, on her home, and even on her father’s honour. Her loyalties were now to be of her own choosing.

  ~

  Darcy had fallen asleep. Was it minutes, as he believed, or hours? Nevertheless, instant clarity fired through his consciousness with the familiar clink of key in lock. He shot to a sitting position as the door creaked slowly open, and he craned his neck to identify his visitor. Was it, at last, the answer to his prayers, or another session of demeaning barbarism? An inarticulate cry of joy left him when the lantern cast its soft luminescence over a creamy shawl, a dark skirt, a bare arm, and a downcast face. It was she! She had come, as she had promised!

  After a hesitant pause, she raised her face, allowing him to study her in the lantern’s light. She was young, not much more than twenty, with dark curls and nearly black, almond-shaped eyes. High, rounded cheekbones tapered to a determined little chin. She was slim and petite—not so tall and shapely as Elizabeth, but a familiar spark of frank intelligence flickered in her expression—so like her, in fact, that he gasped in shock.

  She lifted her lantern away from herself now to gaze back at him—lips slightly parted, breast panting with anxiety. Dark eyes roved from his head to his feet, then back to his face. Her expression seemed to crack with pity for his condition, but then she began an intense scrutiny of his countenance. She tilted her head, one lip trapped in her teeth, and scanned his hair, his beard, his eyes, lingering over each detail as though she had expected to recognise him.

  Instantly, he cursed himself for an ass. Had he been so long away from decent society that he had wholly forgotten his manners? He jerked to his feet and offered a humble bow, but then he was as a mute. His mouth worked, but only dry breath emerged. His hands clenched and a burning fear raced through his torso as he tried, and failed, to introduce himself. Chest heaving, he tried again, but the only sound to emerge was a quavering, “Haaahhhh….”

  She firmed her lips and dipped an answering curtsey. “My name is Maria Amália Vasconcelos, Senhor Darcy. I am pleased to meet you at last.”

  He swallowed. “L-likewise, madam.” He flexed his fingers and looked about himself with discomfort. “I—I must beg your pardon for my appearance, and I am afraid my present manners do me no credit.”

  One corner of her mouth tightened wryly. “The fault is not your own, Senhor. My husband, I fear, is not to you a good host.”

  “Your… your husband? Is this, then, your home, madam?”

  Her mouth clenched. “I have been living here,” she acknowledged. She would elaborate no further, but a quick glance at something in her hand seemed to recall her to her purpose. She held it up, her gaze cautiously evaluating as she drew a few hesitant steps nearer. “Your leg,” she gestured with th
e object, revealing it to be a key. “It is still chained?”

  He nodded dumbly, forcing himself to remain still. It had been months since any had approached him with other than hostile intent, and an unreasoning fear shook him at her proximity. His efforts failed when she extended her hand to touch the shackle, testing the key. Though his logical mind knew her for a friend and his only hope of freedom, the trauma of the last months had left their mark on his mind.

  He lurched away from her, putting a hand out to stay her ministrations. “I will do it!” he objected. She frowned, then dangled the key before him so that he need not touch her hand to take it. He grasped it desperately, with a look of helpless apology before he bent his rigid fingers to their task. The key danced stubbornly all about the edges of the notch, shaking uselessly as he prodded about to set it home. The young woman lowered the lantern near, seemingly as eager as he.

  At last, with a nearly frozen, grinding clank, the iron fell from his leg. Darcy dropped the key and could not help a spasmodic jerk, kicking away the last of his restraints as he flew to the far end of his cell. He stood—gasping in joy, deliverance, and glad disbelief.

  “Come, Senhor,” the woman was beckoning. “My brother Ruy, he waits. He is to help you. You can ride a horse, yes? You are not wounded?”

  He was self-consciously brushing his hands over his limbs—whether trying to shed himself of his filth or his captivity, he could not have told. “I believe I shall manage, madam.”

  She sighed in relief. “Good. Now, come!”

  He followed, as closely as he dared, but stopped at the threshold of his cell. “Madam,” he fumbled, “I must thank you.”

  She turned, looking up to him with wide innocent eyes, sparking golden now in the light of her lantern, and for the first time he noticed the angry, raised mark on her left cheek. He tilted his head. “Madam, you are injured!”