These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Nicole Clarkston

  “No, please, allow me!” Georgiana was rising at the same time, and they just barely avoided colliding again. She froze and jerked back her hand, then watched in silent consternation as he turned his back to her to clean his own cup. When he had finished, they commenced an uncomfortable dance back to their respective seats.

  Georgiana did not dare speak or move toward him again. She stirred her tea—needlessly, for the sugar lump had long since dissolved—and seemed fascinated by the print of her dress. It would be up to him to speak, and he had little notion of where to begin.

  “Have you been well, Georgiana?”

  Her head jerked up. “Tolerably.”

  He swallowed and cast his eyes about the room for help. “How… how have you occupied yourself?”

  She tipped her shoulders. “Lydia and I talk a great deal, and she taught me to arrange bonnets. Elizabeth was making me learn to manage the household accounts.”

  “She was?” a smile warmed his face, but the cool expression from Georgiana brought him to awareness. This was not the time to talk about Elizabeth. He cleared his throat. “And… have you been painting at all?”

  “No, but I play.” She brightened at once. “I have been learning to play the harp you had delivered! May I play it for you?”

  He began to smile in truth. “I had nearly forgotten. I would like nothing better, Georgiana. Perhaps tomorrow evening, after dinner?”

  She dipped her head in something akin to a nod, and took a swallow of tea. Perhaps his response had been too lukewarm for her taste. He watched as she resumed staring at her lap, fingering the handle of her cup.

  He sipped of his own drink, more to hide his own frustration than out of a desire for the refreshment. He never had been skilled at conversation, and his sister was little better. How, then, were they to go on? He thumbed the rim of his cup and tried to imagine what Elizabeth would say. What was the first interest Georgiana had mentioned? He closed his eyes in dread, but resolved to try.

  “Has Mrs Wickham been faring well here at Pemberley?”

  Her eyes widened. “Why, yes, she says she loves it. She says that no one ignores her here, and I believe that pleases her.”

  He lifted his cup to conceal his mild astonishment. How anyone could ever have contrived to ignore Lydia Wickham, née Bennet, was beyond him, but he wished he could have known the secret. His cheek flinched. “And her… her health has been sound?”

  Georgiana giggled. “Lydia eats like a horse. She loves Mrs Reynolds like a second mother, and says that if all ladies in her condition were treated so well, England would soon be overrun with babies!” She laughed, then with a glance at her brother’s horror-stricken face, quieted.

  “I think you would be impressed, Fitzwilliam. I was teaching her some of what I learned in school about table settings and… well, some of the etiquette that she had not the opportunity to learn. She really is a very gracious hostess now, we have been practising.”

  He had difficulty believing that, but he allowed it to pass. Mrs Wickham was Elizabeth’s sister, after all, so perhaps some qualities had found their way into her character, but the last thing he desired to do was to search for them. “I am glad to hear that she has been a friend to you,” he answered diplomatically.

  “Fitzwilliam? Do you intend to marry Elizabeth?”

  His spoon clattered on his saucer. He spared a moment to evaluate her expression, but could not read it. He drew a deep breath and decided to risk the truth. “Yes, I do. I have intended to marry her for some while, and she has now accepted me.”

  “She did? Lydia seemed to think that you had some quarrel last year. She says—”

  “I would prefer not to know Mrs Wickham’s opinion of my affairs. The truth of the matter is that Miss Bennet and I have not always been on equable terms. She revealed to me some parts of my nature that I had thought under good regulation, but I discovered myself to be wrong. We had reconciled somewhat last summer, just before….” He sighed and returned to his tea cup for another pensive swallow. “If you are concerned that Miss Bennet merely desired a fine match, you need not be. It was not easy to win her good opinion, but I am secure of it now.”

  Georgiana’s eyes were wandering over the walls, a faint pout twisting her mouth.

  “Georgiana, are you not fond of Miss Bennet? I thought you would be.”

  “Oh,” she lifted her shoulders again, “I am. It is hard to dislike Elizabeth. Yes, yes, I suppose I am terribly fond of her. She has been very kind to me.”

  “You do not sound overly sincere. May I ask what troubles you?”

  She looked him directly in the eye and seemed to take a brazen risk. “Fitzwilliam, where have you been?”

  He released a troubled sigh. “Georgiana… I would rather not discuss it.”

  “Do I not deserve to know? Do you think me too much of a child?”

  “No! I… of course not.”

  “Then why do you tell Elizabeth everything? Why can you not bear for anyone else to be near you? I am your sister, Fitzwilliam. I have known you all of my life, but you seem terrified to be around me!”

  He set his cup down with a clatter and pressed his lips, looking at the wall.

  “Fitzwilliam, please forgive me!” she began to apologise. “I did not mean—”

  “It is not your fault, Georgiana. Please do not ask me about the time when I was away. It is not that I object to you knowing, but rather that I do not wish to relive that time.”

  “But Elizabeth—” she began to protest, then bit her lip and fell back against her chair.

  “I did not have to tell Elizabeth.” He spun his cup slowly around on the saucer, trying to express his feelings. “She already knew, somehow.”

  Georgiana’s face pinched sceptically.

  “I do not expect that to sound logical. Georgiana, when you thought I was dead, you mourned me, did you not?”

  “Yes, of course! I thought I would die—I wanted to at first. It was worse than I could have ever imagined!”

  “But you were comforted,” he suggested. “Others came to you, and brought you cheer.”

  “Yes,” she answered slowly.

  “I had nothing of the sort, only my memories of home—of you, of Richard.”

  “And of Elizabeth?”

  His brow dimpled. “Georgiana, I was afraid that in a moment of weakness, I might be induced to say something that would endanger you. I prayed, I hoped that you were safe, but there was nothing I could do to protect you. I fought in every way I could to avoid letting my thoughts stray to you.”

  She sighed and nodded solemnly. “So, you thought of Elizabeth. And she must have thought of you, because everyone was turning to her for comfort, and she had no one herself.”

  “That explanation will suffice.” He tapped his finger on his saucer. “Georgiana, I hope that one day you will love, as I have learned to. It has given me life when I had none, brought hope into the darkness, and now it has offered me a future. I will always treasure you, and none could ever replace you, but Elizabeth owns a part of me that I never knew to exist. You must not feel threatened by her.”

  Georgiana pursed her lips and tilted her head to allow her gaze to rove over him for a long, uncomfortable minute. “Elizabeth sent you here,” she pronounced at last, a faint smile touching her eyes.

  He shifted in his seat. “She recommended it, yes.”

  She set aside her cup and saucer and patted her hands on her lap in mild amusement. “I have never seen you bend to another person’s wishes so easily!”

  “Do you not think her advice sound?”

  She sighed, her faint smile growing in colour and vibrancy. “Lydia said I was being foolish, and now you have seconded her opinion. It is hard, Fitzwilliam, I will not lie. You have been away for so long, and I have missed you so!”

  His face softened. “I imagine you must have had a dreadful time of it.”

  “Yes,” she bit her lip and looked
down, apparently deciding against sharing more. “But I will try, Fitzwilliam. I had begun to think I would have liked her for a sister. Now she will be, and I think it a fine thing.”

  “You will no longer be troubled by her presence?”

  She drew back her shoulders in a brave manner. “I will try,” she repeated. A light came to her eyes and she smiled again. “But will you return the favour, Fitzwilliam?”

  He lifted a brow. “Of course, Georgiana, you may ask for anything.”

  Her face grew ever livelier, inspired by the joy she expected in his answer to her great request. “I would like for Lydia Wickham to stay with us after her child is born!”

  His entire body flinched. “Save for that.”

  51

  Lambton

  Richard did not sleep for most of the night. He prowled the floor until half past eleven, his boots clapping loudly against the boards until he began to fear that Williams, the innkeeper, would come personally to see what was the matter with his guest. He tossed himself on the bed then, prying off his boots and wishing for his batman. Any face would have been welcome, for that matter, save his cousin’s!

  He fell back on the pillow, staring at the black ceiling. How dare Darcy cast aspersions on the woman who had thrown herself into danger to save his worthless hide! Had the man any notion of the sacrifice she had made? Had he even noticed that hideous bruise over her beautiful face—the price of disobedience?

  How fresh and angry it must have been then! Richard’s own fingers pressed into his eye sockets, wishing he could blot out the image, but instead revisiting it. The tender purple streaking over her cheekbones, the tears slipping over it from her golden eyes, it was all as real now as it had been days ago. How had it happened? Had that beast Vasconcelos thrown her to the ground, held her against her will—forced her?

  Richard snatched the pillow from under his head to crush it over his face. At least it muffled the broken sobs and captured the hot tears, if it did not erase the horrible scene in his mind. She… she must be safe now! He had to believe she was, or he would go mad. Surely, the captain would have arranged something for his sister, if she could not remain at the camp. Ruy would have found a way….

  ~

  Two hours later, sleep had still not found him. He was up and pacing again, now in his stocking feet. His thoughts had turned back to his block-headed cousin, because he preferred anger on which he could act over grief he was helpless to mitigate. The fool was staring at the harmless insect, and was going to look right over the snake until it rose out of the grass to bite him!

  Richard stopped pacing for a moment, then fumbled through his travel case until he found a small bunch of notepaper. He lit his lantern and scratched a few notes to himself, listing out possible avenues. Not that he expected Darcy to pursue them, of course, but he could investigate on his own. It was his family involved as well, after all.

  Broderick—perhaps he might uncover something. Richard listed a few possible places for the man to search. Wickham had been seen in the area recently, that seemed a plausible place to begin. He seemed to know something, though whether he had intended to feed Miss Bennet the truth or a lie was yet unknown. Richard would give his whole inheritance, pittance that it was, for just one hour alone with the man in a windowless room!

  It was a shame that he had not found an opportunity to question the ladies at Pemberley a little more. Elizabeth had expressed her reservations clearly, but by that moment he had already set foot in his carriage and would not be turned. Perhaps he ought to reconsider, for she was certainly correct that at least Mrs Annesley’s behaviour merited some explanation.

  He narrowed his eyes. That was easy enough to investigate. Perhaps he might stop by her brother’s cottage outside of Weston, just to… enquire after his health.

  ~

  Pemberley

  Darcy was still on his balcony when he heard his valet enter the bedchamber just before dawn. He had spent the night there, grateful for the portico that shielded him from the weather. He jumped from his chair, somewhat embarrassed at dragging half the bed coverings out of doors.

  Wilson found him almost at once, but his expression was perfect professional neutrality. “Good morning, Mr Darcy. I trust you rested well?”

  “Yes, thank you.” He held a blanket in his hand still, and Wilson patiently offered to take it from him.

  “Would you like your shave now, sir?”

  Darcy felt of his chin. Yes, he would very much like the clean, fresh feeling of a shave. Never in his life had he tolerated even a shadow to besmirch his jaw, but there was a certain comfort—an anonymity, perhaps—in the unsightly thatch he had cultivated. Elizabeth had not made any objections to it yet, and if she did not mind, perhaps there was no great rush. “I think just a trim.”

  Wilson, good man that he was, refrained from grimacing. “Very good, sir.”

  In a moment, Darcy was seated in the chair that he had used to occupy every single morning of his adult life. His paper was at his right hand, and a fresh hot towel draped about his neck. Just as if the last months had never happened. Darcy waited for Wilson to turn round, then tugged the stifling towel a little lower, away from his face.

  He watched Wilson silently, observing with care all the little things he had once taken for granted. Details so simple as the rich bowl of shaving cream, the polished water kettle, the lavish basin without crack or chip, were all almost foreign to him now, despite his intimate familiarity with them. Wilson lifted the gleaming scissors, the rays through the window dancing off their brilliant surface, and Darcy’s heart stopped.

  “No!” he jerked to his feet and yanked the towel from about his neck to throw it far away from himself. He stood trembling, his chest heaving.

  Wilson was still standing by the chair, his mouth agape in astonishment and the scissors still poised in his hand. Darcy drew breath to apologise, but released it in futility. He merely shook his head and turned to the window. A few moments later, he could hear Wilson putting away the shaving items and discarding the water.

  “Do you wish to dress now, sir?”

  Darcy glanced back, almost looking over his shoulder but not quite. “No,” he replied in a low voice. “I shall call for you if you are needed.”

  He heard Wilson draw a sharp breath, then answer with his typical, “Very good, sir.” The door closed softly, and Darcy was left alone with clenched fists, his breath fogging the glass of the window. He could bear its confines no longer, and he walked back out to his balcony. Leaning over it, he drank in the fresh, cool air and struggled for at least two or three calm breaths.

  How was a man who had been wrenched from life to go on with it? Was he truly expected to simply step back into the world he had left? It seemed there must be some ritual to observe, some formal recognition to his reclaimed status as a living man.

  Unfortunately, that notion raised its own dilemmas. At the moment, the only ceremony he thought he could endure was the one that would make Elizabeth his own, and that only because hers would then be the last face he saw each evening, and the first one to wake him each morning. It would be her hands that might soothe over his hammering chest, her voice that would comfort him when the fears pressed upon him. He smiled—and if she were very generous, she might not even object to helping him into his coat and breeches, rather than requiring his valet’s services.

  Now that was an interesting prospect. He was starting to relax just a little, as pleasant visions of Elizabeth, instead of Wilson, struggling with his close-fitting attire roused his sleep-deprived mind to wakefulness. He felt his previous tension draining, and an entirely new energy was trickling into his body. Yes, in just a few more moments, he would be enough at peace to resume his morning preparations, and then he would see her. And he would ask her for a quiet moment….

  “Darcy, by thunder, I was starting to think you had been carried off again!”

  A jolt shot through Darcy’s arms, making his han
ds clench and his shoulders bunch for combat. He forced a few deep breaths and turned round. “Richard? What are you doing back here?”

  Richard strolled easily out onto the balcony, his eyes sweeping over Darcy’s appearance. “I found something—or, rather, someone. But before I tell you more, why the devil are you not dressed? Has your valet forgotten how to shave you? Egad, but you look a fright.”

  Darcy eyed his cousin’s approach warily. Richard seemed all ready cheer, but there was a tension in his shoulders Darcy knew all too well. Something had Richard agitated, and he supposed that it was himself. Why would it not be?

  Richard drew close, apparently unperturbed that Darcy had not answered his questions about his personal regimen. Once by his side, however, his smile faded and concern lined his eyes. In a somewhat softer voice he asked, “Darcy, are you well?”

  Darcy looked back to the rolling fields, his jaw working. “Well enough,” he returned quietly. He clutched the stone railing and breathed somewhat more easily when Richard also diverted his gaze in that direction, and a silent moment of contemplation passed. At last, he asked, “What brings you back, Richard?”

  “Well, you are not the only member of our family concerned about some of the recent doings. I decided to look into some matters on my own.”

  “And?”

  Richard cocked his fist at his belt with a satisfied grin. “It turns out that some very unlikely individuals have found one another.”

  Darcy sighed. “Your ability to keep me in suspense has not diminished, but I am not in the mood.”

  “Darcy! You are disappointing my fun. Can you not think of anything that would drag me out of my bed in the wee hours, then back an hour out of my way to beard the lion—that’s you, old boy—and all before my breakfast? Think back to the night you arrived! Did you not have some lingering questions to answer?”