These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Nicole Clarkston

  “You have said the same twice now, and yet I am unpierced by your blade. Could it be, Captain Noronha, that you also know the truth of the matter? For you see, a word to your general could result in things which you would find… unpleasant.” Pereira’s lips curled, his fingers sliding suggestively down the length of his letters as his eyes turned upon Amália. “You have my word, Captain, that I would personally see her safely delivered to her home.”

  Amália shivered, but Ruy’s face purpled. “Drag him outside the camp!” he ordered his men. “If you think, Pereira, that I hesitate to strike you down out of fear for myself, you are mistaken. I would not spill blood before a lady’s eyes.”

  “You speak so gallantly before you draw sword in cold blood!” mocked Pereira. “What becomes of the whore when you are executed for murdering an unarmed man?” The soldados froze, looking questioningly to their captain.

  The corner of Ruy’s mouth tipped, and for the barest of a second, he flashed Amália a confident smile. “Vasconcelos will never know,” he whispered threateningly. “And I have no intention of murdering an unarmed man, but I shall certainly defend myself from an armed one. I understand you were once remarkably skilled with a blade. I will give you a sword—cut me down, and you may show those letters to whomever you please.”

  Pereira inched back, uncertainty finally reflecting in his manner. “Dueling is illegal, Captain. Surely even you are not so mad! You cannot deny the law. She is a married woman, and her husband wishes to reclaim what was taken from him.”

  “He ought to start with his manhood! He cannot even be troubled to seek his wife in person? Why is it he sends you, the dog who licks his boots? Nay, he did not even do that much, for it was likely not the son, but the father who set you after her! Vasconcelos did not even trust that worthless son of his for such a simple task as retrieving an unwilling wife.”

  “Senhor Vasconcelos must think of his dignity. You do not expect such a great man to waste his time recovering a stray broodmare. If the fount were not precious, I think no one would even care what became of the vessel,” he sneered. “If, that is, the cask is found to be of pure silver, and not common clay.”

  Ruy’s eyes widened sharply, and he rounded to face his sister. Her lips white and her cheeks flushed in shame, she shook her head in vehement denial. No, she carried no Vasconcelos child, and she would die before ever permitting it! As for Pereira’s implications toward her purity—she wanted nothing more than to spit directly in the vermin’s face, but it was only an insult. She had known greater injury than Pereira’s filth.

  The righteous indignation writ over Amália’s features was enough answer for her brother. The terror slackened somewhat from his face and he blinked… slowly. Time seemed to coalesce around her. Amália saw Pereira’s hand move, saw the flash of silver as the dagger dropped from his sleeve. Too late, too slowly, she opened her mouth to scream out in warning.

  Ruy’s head had tipped back toward Pereira—his mouth preparing to speak, his body uncoiling in relief. “N-n-n-o-o-o-o!!!” sounded from somewhere in the room—herself, she realised, just as Pereira’s fist gripped the blade. Ruy’s face flared in shock, then twisted in pain, as the fist drove toward his chest.

  Amália screamed—not in surprise or fear, for she had lived an eternity in that fraction of a second and knew clearly her own mind. She cried out injustice to the heavens, she swore an oath of woman’s wrath and vengeance, and she raised the alarm. The redcoats would not be long.

  Pereira still held his dagger, but he was rapidly thrown against a wall by the soldados. Amália rushed to her brother’s side, meaning to ease his fall, but fall he did not. He staggered, seemed about to lose his footing, and looked down at his wounded torso in disbelief, but he remained on his feet. Amália stopped short of cradling him, fixing her eyes on the pool of blood forming just under his left arm.

  He met her gaze, his eyes looking somewhat glassy, but then he offered her that cocky smile—the one that promised that all would be well, though his lips were chalky and his forehead already beginning to sweat. With a gentle hand, he pushed her back, and none too soon, for Pereira had just felled one of the soldados, and was hard upon the second. Older, stronger, and more cunning than the youthful recruit, Pereira was showing him no mercy, and now he held a sword in his right hand with the dagger in his left.

  Ruy pulled the lad back by his collar, helping him to stand by main strength as he struggled to free himself from his vicious opponent. The boy at last broke free, and then it was Ruy pressing Pereira against the wall. The swords glittered between them, and for a horrible second it looked to Amália as though the dagger had slipped beneath Ruy’s blade, trapping his hand and biting repeatedly where the sword was nearly useless.

  Ruy twisted his bleeding body, drew back his arm in a killing blow, and the sword struck. The last blasphemy to leave Pereira’s mouth did so as a futile gasp. His knees buckled, his eyes rolled into his head, and he fell toward the man he had just tried to kill.

  Ruy stepped back, swaying and panting, as Amália raced to him. “Ruy! Oh, there is so much blood!”

  Indeed, there was. Ruy glanced down, dropping his sword from numb fingers. Half a dozen slashes covered his torso and right arm, soaking his olive uniform. Amália’s hands hovered helplessly over each wound, but she was never allowed to inspect them, nor to ask if he were badly hurt, nor even to thank him, for entering the door was a new flood of red.

  A British officer, flanked by four junior officers, coldly surveyed the scene. He flicked unfeeling eyes over Amália, glanced disinterestedly at the dead civilian and the groaning soldado, and at last his judgment fell upon the Portuguese captain—the last man standing.

  “By order of the general, I hereby place you under arrest.”

  37

  Pemberley

  “Lizzy, where have you been?” Lydia braced a hand behind her back and fanned her flushed cheeks with one of Georgiana’s laced fripperies. “Georgie was looking for you before. I think she was speaking to the steward.”

  Elizabeth lay aside her shawl and turned curiously. “Has anything new been discovered?”

  Lydia pouted. “I don’t know, that horrid Lady Catherine threw me out of the room. I was looking for you to give her a set-down.”

  Elizabeth ignored the last remark, walking past her sister in the direction of Georgiana’s favourite sitting room. “How long have they been speaking? Oh, it must be serious!”

  “It sounded that way. The steward said a horse had been stolen, and then he talked about Mrs Annesley and that footman—it is too bad he cannot afford a commission, for I should like to see him in a uniform.”

  Elizabeth stopped. “Lydia, were you listening at the door again?”

  “Of course not! They post footmen at every door here, do you know, but they had not thought of the window. That dreadful woman wants them all covered, so they could not see me, but I could hear them plain enough. The old groundskeeper saw me, but he only offered me a flower from the hothouse, and said it was nice for a change to see ladies taking an interest in the hedges. I think I might have torn my fine new cape.”

  “Oh, Lydia,” Elizabeth groaned, shaking her head. “Well, what else did you overhear?”

  “Ha! There, I knew you would be pleased that I took it upon myself to listen in! I thought it would be useful, since you were not here. By the by, where have you been these three hours? I told my maid that you liked to take walks, but it would be the first time you had done so here. What do you not like about Pemberley’s grounds? I should have thought you would have roamed the whole of the estate by now, but y—”

  “Pemberley is not Longbourn,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Yes, I did take a walk, but I may not be so free here as elsewhere. Please, Lydia, let us speak of one thing at a time. I would rather not listen to gossip, but was there anything particularly troubling about what you heard? Something that, perhaps, might be covered up before it reached us through proper cha
nnels? Only tell me what you think might help Georgiana,” she admonished. “Not every matter is our concern, but I do not believe I trust Lady Catherine.”

  “Well,” Lydia frowned at the floor, “It was a few minutes before I got round to the window, so I may have missed some bits. Georgiana said hardly a word, but that is not so surprising. Let me see… oh, yes, there was a report of some man lingering around the woods last night, but the steward never said the name, nor if he ever knew it. They will have the dogs after him, you may be sure. Hmm… Lady Catherine sounded very put out with the colonel for going away, but she has said the same for days now.”

  Elizabeth waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. “And…?”

  Lydia stuck her lip out in thought, then shrugged. “Oh,” she brightened, “just as they were coming away, an express came for the colonel from his father, the earl. I think Lady Catherine knew she was supposed to give any letters for him to you, as the colonel asked, but she opened it anyway.”

  “No, Lydia, she was right. Surely it was a private family matter, and none of my business.”

  “Oh, that does not signify, for we all knew its contents a moment later. I think she is louder even than Mama! Anyway, did you know that the colonel has an elder brother?”

  “As he informed me upon our first meeting that he was a second son, yes, I suppose I did.”

  “Well! What a prize! I’d not thought of it. I wonder if he is more handsome than the colonel? Of course, he would wear dull black and brown coats like an ordinary gentleman, but I suppose being heir to the earldom would stand for something.”

  “What has this to do with Georgiana, Lydia?”

  “Why, I suppose nothing at all, but the brother’s wife has died. Lady Catherine was quite angry with her for doing so, said she had no consideration at all for the family’s interest, never consulted her or did her duty and bore an heir, second person in the family to die this year, and so on. What a long list of names she called her! Then she closed herself upstairs and we’ve not seen her for half an hour. I tell you, what a relief!”

  “Where is Georgiana now? I suppose she might have gone to her music room? This must have come as a dreadful shock to her, losing a cousin while she still mourns her brother.”

  “A footman told me she was in the library. That’s where I was going just now, and then I found you first. Lizzy, you really oughtn’t to disappear when such important doings are afoot!”

  “I shall consult you next time I plan a walk, to see what you expect the morning to bring whilst I am away.”

  “It is no good being tart with me, you know,” Lydia huffed. “It is not my fault if everyone turns to you.”

  Elizabeth fell into step beside her sister, watching her carefully. “Lydia, how are you?”

  “Hungry. That awful Lady Catherine has ordered such silly meals of late, loads of odd spices and small little servings! What I would give for a platter of plain, buttery boiled potatoes, and a pile of roast beef such as Hill always made, but at least Mrs Reynolds is a good sort. She had half a chicken and some sweet mince pie sent to my room yesterday before tea, and a whole quart of nice soup just before dinner.”

  “I did not mean your appetite,” Elizabeth chuckled. “But I am glad that you are being well looked-after. Have you experienced much discomfort?”

  “Oh, other than needing to relieve myself—”

  “Anything alarming?” Elizabeth interrupted.

  Lydia sighed as she walked. “No,” was the short answer. She frowned at her toes as they alternated back and forth, first one then the other peeping beyond the bulge of her stomach. Then, she glanced up at her sister. “But thank you for asking, Lizzy. Besides Mrs Reynolds and my maid, who are paid to look after me, you and Georgie are the only ones who ever do.”

  Elizabeth offered a little smile of pity, but wiped it from her face when she realised that Lydia would not appreciate it. “I think Jane’s letters have been slow in coming because she has been ill. It seems she has not quite your fortitude, but you know Papa asked after you in his last letter.”

  “He asked if I was behaving myself. That is not the same thing. Mama persists in thinking I have gone back to George, and only writes me here because she has not my address in Newcastle yet. As if I would ever so much as speak to that worthless cad again!”

  “Lydia,” Elizabeth asked carefully, “what if you did see him again? It is not unlikely, you know. In fact, I believe it inevitable. How do you think you shall manage?”

  “Lizzy,” Lydia drew to a halt and stared at her sister. “I know that tone. You know something, don’t you?”

  “No,” Elizabeth answered slowly. “I cannot predict, of course, but what if you did? Would you be very troubled?”

  “Troubled? I should lock him in a room with bread and water until I hear him beg my forgiveness! And then I might perhaps let him have a cup of tea, and keep him locked up until the child soils his nappy….” A wicked grin spread over her face for a moment, but then her expression fell again. “I suppose it is no good fancying such things. He will never come back, and I will never hear a word of concern from him after me.”

  Elizabeth could not help a scowl. “I think he is concerned with no one but himself. I am sorry, Lydia.”

  “I wish,” the girl sighed, “I wish he could at least see what he has done to me, and maybe feel just a little bit badly about it. It’s not fair, Lizzy, that he should have got all the sport, while I got this,” she gestured to her stomach.

  “Would you wish for a man such as he bestowed with the honour of a child? I think he does not deserve it,” Elizabeth replied lightly.

  Lydia’s face wrinkled. “Do you know, I never thought of it like that. I always thought of the babe as a nuisance, but I suppose a fine strapping son who might one day knock his father down to defend my honour might really be something. But what name shall he have? I cannot very well name him Bennet, but I cannot bear to call him Wickham. How everyone will talk, and what sort of a life is that for a child? No father to give a farthing what happens to him or to me. Oh, bother, there I go again! It isn’t right, Lizzy, he ought to look after me!”

  Elizabeth could think of no reply—none that she dared voice—so she allowed her hand to rest upon her sister’s shoulder in comfort. Perhaps, a little inward notion threatened, perhaps one day, William might think of something. She only hoped that his sentiments remained unchanged, and that when he was recovered, he would be willing to again exert some effort on behalf of her sister. But that sort of thinking must wait for now, for he was still unaccounted for, and must have many obstacles left before him. Squeezing Lydia’s shoulder, she gently guided her sister toward the library.

  Georgiana was alone when they found her. She did not appear to be reading, though she had a great book spread in her lap. Her fingers were forlornly lifting and the dropping the pages, as though fascinated by their texture but not their script. Clear blue eyes rose at Elizabeth and Lydia’s entry, and she closed her book to stand and greet them.

  “Georgiana, are you well?” Elizabeth asked. “Forgive me, but you are looking rather pale.”

  “My aunt wishes me to accompany her to London on the morrow,” Georgiana mumbled. “My cousin’s wife has died, and we are to pay our respects, then remain at Darcy house.” She swallowed. “I… I shall not be permitted to have guests there while in mourning.”

  Elizabeth arched a brow toward Lydia, who crossed her arms over her stomach. The unspoken understanding passed between them—Georgiana was already in mourning, and this was but another excuse of Lady Catherine’s. “Georgiana,” she took a seat at the girl’s side, drawing her back down, “is there something you wish me to do? Lydia and I are, of course, content to return to Hertfordshire. Do not be troubled for that, but I am concerned for you. We would not leave you if you do not wish it.”

  “What can be done? My aunt has determined what is to be, and there is little I can say about it. I have not yet reached my
majority, you know, and Richard is still away. That letter he left about you matters naught, once she secures the support of my uncle.”

  “I could speak to Lady Catherine if you wish,” Elizabeth offered doubtfully. She knew as well as Georgiana how futile the undertaking would be, but she could not permit herself to simply give up.

  The girl’s shoulders drooped. “No, Elizabeth, it will never work.” She raised mournful eyes to her friend. “I am so sorry! I would never have sent you both away… but perhaps you needn’t go. Lydia ought not to travel, ought she? There is no reason you both could not remain here at Pemberley.”

  “There are a multitude of reasons, but one in particular stands out. What of the investigation into your attackers? Do we know for certain that it would be safe for you to travel to London? I do not think it advisable until we know who might be behind it.”

  “Pemberley might be no safer,” Lydia pointed out.

  “That is quite true,” Elizabeth agreed. “I would feel better if we knew something. I wonder if anything has been learned from that fellow recovered from the hills. Do you know if the magistrate was able to question him?”

  “He died last night,” Georgiana answered flatly. “That was why Mr Jefferson asked to speak with me this morning. The magistrate returned to him some hours ago to say that they can find nothing else.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “Nothing at all? Surely there must be something. Have none of the coaching inns seen the other man? Someone traveling as frantically as he must have would be remarkable, would they not?”

  “The horse ridden away turned out to be missing from our own stables—I wonder how that was not noted before—but no, nothing else. Perhaps there is nothing more to find. The magistrate suggested that it might be simple criminals, acting alone, and we have already stopped them. Mr Jefferson said that considering this, there was no reason why I could not go on to London with my aunt, but he did have a note from Mrs Annesley that her health is uncertain and she cannot travel at all just now. I should have felt better if she could have come to London with us.”