He knit his fingers together over his chest. His eyelids were growing heavy, and he had no reason to struggle against their weight. It would matter not if he slept or remained watchful, for the night would run its course with or without him. The hazy room slitted to grey lines, then darkened completely.
His mind wandered somewhere in that place between wakefulness and slumber; where dreams are wondrous enough that the dreamer is conscious of their deception, but so sweetly persuasive that one is loath to leave their embrace. It was sea and a sky, closing together at that place where the world ends, drawing him to the pinpoint of infinity. At the very centre, a field of yellow wildflowers grazed his palms as he walked through them, and when he turned to look back on then, a single candle burned behind him.
He squinted his eyes to make out the figure holding it, and beheld a young woman with eyes that sparked and full lips set into a grim line. She held steady and silent as he walked toward her. He reached for her, sensing that he knew her… yes, yes, he did know her. She was Fate; judge, angel, demon. She held the power to absolve and the power to condemn him on his merits. His vague understanding of God and the culmination of a man’s life were at least clear enough to know that she was not real—not the true Judge, but some dim shadow conjured by his own imagination. Still, he trembled, for he looked into her solemn eyes and saw himself. It was, therefore, not a surprise to him when she lifted her hands, and two more figures appeared through the veil. They came toward him, not with intent to deliver, but to consume.
He watched, helpless, as the two closed in. With strong hands and hisses of fury, they crushed him, collapsing his wind and stealing the very breath of life from his lungs. At the very last gasp, his eyes opened for the last time. A face, once fleetingly known, and now forever cursed, faded from his view, and then all was darkness. Below the window, the city never noticed.
~
George Wickham startled from a most unsettling dream. He lay in the dim space for a moment, uncertain why he was awake, until he heard his name repeated. The door to his room was open and that red-headed footman from Pemberley was summoning him from his bed.
Wickham yawned and took his time about rising. Surely, it could not be that important. In the most leisurely way possible, he stretched from his narrow bed and came to the door. “Well, what does Darcy want?” he asked, in the muddled and surly voice of one just awakened.
“Mr Wickham, sir, Mr Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam have gone out. They left an instruction for you to await their return in the drawing room.”
Thinking he had not heard properly, he rubbed his eyes and focused them on the footman again. “They want me to await them where? Guarded, I suppose, or is Fitzwilliam trying to set me up for a capture as I flee justice? Oh, yes, the blue drawing room, the one with the large open window to the garden! Does he take me for a fool?”
“Sir,” the footman ignored his protests and gestured to his side, “Mr Darcy has sent you some fresh attire and the services of Mr Wilson, in case you require any assistance.”
Wickham sighed. “Very well, Darcy, I shall cooperate. The drawing room is far more comfortable than this one, at the least.”
65
“There, suh. Tha’s where ‘e ‘ad me bring the note from th’other chap.”
Darcy looked up to the shaded windows. If there was any light burning within, it was not visible from where he stood on the street. He glanced at his cousin. Richard’s blood was up, his fists balled, and he was enraged beyond recall. There was no point in asking the seasoned military man what he advised, for all thought of reason and tactics had fled his cousin’s mind.
Darcy gestured to Woods. “You had an errand you were to undertake. See your note delivered, and then return to us.”
Woods tried to conceal his doubtful expression, but did as he had bidden. As they watched him climb the steps to the flat, Darcy spoke lowly. “Richard, what do you hope to achieve here tonight?”
Richard’s nostrils curled in restrained anger. “If you fear that I will kill the blighter, you needn’t. I have killed enough men; the savour of victory is bitter when another man’s blood is on your hands. We collect him in his sleep, and drag him before the nearest regiment of the militia.”
Darcy looked back to the shaded windows. “If you intended to remove him by force, we ought to have brought two or three footmen.”
Richard grinned in the darkness. “We can manage.”
They waited in silence for Woods to return. When he did, he bore an expression of helpless resignation. “No answer, suh. I ‘eard somethin’, but none came to the door. I left the note under it, in case ‘e’s there, suh. May I go now?”
Darcy withdrew a fat little purse and began to hand it to him. “One word; Miss Dinah will be employed honourably at Darcy house, so long as she comports herself with dignity and is not found to be compromised by any connections to criminal activity. I must exhort you, sir, to also seek honest work. Naturally, you would not wish to jeopardise her chances.”
Woods accepted the bag of coins, slowly cradling them into his palm and then slipping them into a deep pocket. “Aye, suh,” he mumbled, then he turned and was gone.
Richard was shaking his head. “You cannot mend every man, Darcy.”
“No, but I can salvage that one. Shall we?” he gestured toward the flat.
Richard jerked his head in satisfaction. “I thought you would never ask.”
They listened for a moment at the door, trying to discern what was taking place. There was a scraping sound, a frantic clatter, and then a Portuguese oath. Darcy quirked a brow, and both stood back. At a signal from Richard, they charged together, throwing their shoulders against the door at the same time.
A single candle burned in one corner, rendering the room dusky and shadowed. Just to the right, Vasconcelos crouched with a small trunk full of papers. He still clutched a few in his hand as he recognised them, then the papers slipped from his grasp and he straightened.
“Fitzwilliam,” he half-smiled, then his eyes lit on Darcy. It was clear that he struggled for the first instant to match him as he appeared now to the bedraggled prisoner he had kept, but then his face set grimly. “So, have you come to return what is mine, or do you think to seek revenge?”
“Neither,” Darcy answered disinterestedly. “Please collect your belongings at once. You are to accompany us.”
“To what purpose, Senhor Darcy? We both know that your courts would do nothing to me but send me back to Portugal, which is where I am bound this very night.”
“I would have your testimony before you depart. You will tell me the location of the Viscount Matlock, as well as give me a sworn statement that will be presented to the general in command of the troops in Porto.”
Vasconcelos laughed. “You believe somehow that I will be censured? You have no influence there.”
Darcy flicked a glance at Richard. “I do not, but a well-respected officer with connections to the military hierarchy in Lisbon and Porto most certainly does. What will become of your family honour when the evidence of your depravity becomes known among your fellow countrymen?”
“And what shall become of yours, when all is revealed? I think you must reconsider your demand, for you will both be denounced as frauds, cheats, and bastards.”
Richard laughed and crossed his arms. “Ah, yes, this scandalous secret! What is it you think is so important that we could never withstand a sixty-year-old revelation?”
Vasconcelos bent to collect some papers and began leafing through them nonchalantly. “Nothing short of the parentage of the earl of Matlock and George Darcy.” He sneered, his eyes still on his papers. “English women are whores.”
Vasconcelos found himself suddenly jerked from his feet and thrown upon the bed, with Colonel Fitzwilliam pinning him down. “Speak another such vile falsehood, and I will rip out your tongue!” he snarled.
“Calm yourself, Cousin,” Darcy placed a staying hand on the othe
r’s shoulder.
Richard eased himself off Vasconcelos’ stomach, but stood over him with fists cocked. “I would have the proof of a gentleman of your accusations, sir!”
Vasconcelos held up a defensive hand, eyeing Fitzwilliam warily, but he spoke to Darcy. “Your grandfather deceptively hosted my father with intent to defraud him! My uncle also was on the voyage; the eldest son and heir of the family. They went honourably to purchase back what was theirs, but once they arrived, Senhor Darcy refused to negotiate. The old earl as well, he was a partner by then and wanted to keep what rightfully belonged to my family.”
“Your family,” seethed Richard, “owed a debt! It was not rightfully yours!”
“It was no more Senhor Darcy’s!” shot back the defiant man on the bed.
Darcy frowned at his cousin for interrupting. “Do go on,” he commanded.
Vasconcelos glared once more at Richard, then seemed to come to a decision. “After a time, it seemed that Senhor Darcy might be led to accept the offer, but not Matlock. My uncle went to prevail upon the young countess to speak to her husband, but instead she tried to seduce him. When they were found, Matlock murdered my uncle with his own hands.”
The room was silent. Richard’s face had drained of colour, and he looked to Darcy with panic in his eyes.
“And that is not all,” Vasconcelos jeered, clearly enjoying Fitzwilliam’s discomposure. “My father had already discovered Lady Georgina Darcy to be a temptress, dissatisfied by her own husband. Shall I continue?”
Darcy’s eyes were narrowed. “These are your accusations?”
“I find it coincidental, sir, that both ladies presented their husbands with an heir less than a year later.” Vasconcelos was smirking confidently now. “And whence came the dark hair and eyes shared by the Fitzwilliam men? Richard Darcy and the old earl were both fair, according to my father’s description.”
“Darcy,” Richard rumbled in a shaking voice, “remember how I promised not to kill him? I have changed my mind.”
Darcy was silent for a moment, then he smiled. And then he laughed—laughed merrily and long. Richard was jarred from his outrage to gape at his cousin in astonishment.
Vasconcelos felt brave enough at Richard’s distraction to draw to a sitting position and he pointed an accusing finger at Darcy. “You mock me, sir! My father was obliged to bring back the body of my grandfather’s oldest son and heir, with no deed for the land he had gone to redeem, nor even the family treasury with which to begin again! Our family was impoverished and humiliated at court, and my father spent the rest of his life trying to restore our honour. Only five years ago he died, and I thank the heavens that he never saw us lose everything again at the hands of Napoleon.”
“I regret if you were wronged in any way, but as to your accusations against my heritage, I have evidence to the contrary, in the form of dated journals. My grandmother and great aunt were both visibly with child when the debacle began, and family records prove that my father and the present Earl of Matlock were born within a fortnight of one another. I also have this.” Darcy drew a yellowed paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it before Vasconcelos’ eyes.
“The deed, as you can see, is made out to Lady Georgina Darcy, and signed at the bottom with a date. There is a note just below the signature, written in what appears to be the same hand, conceding the land as a loss in lieu of ‘personal offences against her ladyship and her unborn child.’ What you have explained to me this night, as well as what my own family has revealed, lead me to surmise that your father attempted an assault on my grandmother, possibly out of revenge to Richard Darcy for refusing the land sale. It would be no great stretch to imagine that your uncle made a similar attempt upon my great-aunt, but that Lord Matlock was less forbearing than my grandfather.”
Richard’s mouth quirked. “The Fitzwilliams protect their own,” he pronounced with satisfaction.
Vasconcelos was staring at the deed in pallid disbelief. “It cannot be,” he whispered. “No, this is a forgery! I decry this for the slander it is!”
“Would you care to have it examined by an inspector? I can verify that my grandmother’s signature is a match.”
Vasconcelos glared up at Darcy. “And what English inspector would judge in my favour?”
“I doubt you could find an honest inspector from your own country who would. I invite you to return there now, for I believe I have had done with you. I will thank you never to intrude upon my life again.”
“You expect to wash your hands of me so easily?”
Darcy pursed his lips, then nodded. “Yes, I do. I know too much about you for you to ever again become a threat to me. I presume that you were rifling through these papers and collecting your belongings for a departure this very night? I hope I have not detained you too long, for I desire you to leave these shores at once.”
Vasconcelos slowly edged off the bed. “I will not be content, Darcy. Sign over to me the deed, and let us put this unpleasantness behind us. You wish to have done? I do doubly so. What need have you for something you did not know yourself to possess? It was ill-gotten under duress, if indeed my father’s signature is even genuine.”
Darcy folded the paper and slid it back into his pocket. “I think not. Perhaps some enterprising individual will approach me some day and offer to purchase it honourably, and I will be pleased to hear him. I shall bid you safe travels, sir.” He turned to go, but Richard’s voice stopped him.
“Darcy… look.” Richard nodded toward the far corner of the rented flat, still veiled in shadows. Another bed had been hastily put up, and the blankets had even been turned down for the night. A traveling bag lay open upon it, and an extra pair of men’s gloves rested beside the bag.
Richard was at Vasconcelos’ throat almost instantly. “Who is staying with you? Is it that worthless son of yours? Has he come to look for her?”
Vasconcelos was grasping helplessly at the hands which locked like vises around his neck. “I,” he gasped, then flailed desperately for air.
Richard loosened his grip just enough to hear what the man would say.
“I gave him one hour,” came the rasping words. Vasconcelos smiled, a look of cunning, and then wheezed again through lips that looked suddenly old and wicked. “He does not wish her to be left here for you.”
~
Darcy House, London
Darcy really did keep an excellent wine cellar. Wickham leaned back in the leather chair, savouring that last swallow. ‘99, he should think; a perfectly respectable vintage, even if it were not aged enough to be considered truly sophisticated. He held the glass up to the firelight, admiring the legs running down the curve.
It really was a pity that Darcy no longer liked him, for the man’s friendship was a rather convenient thing. If only he were not so odiously dull! What sort of gentleman left the house for a club night—or wherever he had gone—and expected another man to wait up for him like the house director from their Cambridge days? Fitzwilliam Darcy, that was the sort; the one man in the world who could make an indifferent gesture and have fifty leap at once to do his bidding. Oh, of course, Prinny had hundreds, and so did the assorted nobles of the land, but Wickham had never seen anyone else with Darcy’s casual air of command, nor the fervent loyalty of his staff—well, most of them, at any rate.
Wickham glanced up to the door of the study. O’Donnell stood there, facing discreetly away. On the other side, just out of view, was a second footman. As if he would try to go anywhere! He knew Darcy, and he was decidedly safer in this house than anywhere else in England. Fitzwilliam, he was less certain of. Now there was a man who delighted in keeping him guessing! Darcy would eventually prevail, however, and when at last they consigned him into the tender mercies of military justice, it would not be without some word and consideration in his favour. It might not be enough, but it was the best offer he was likely to get, and a far sight more generous than the viscount would have been.
He sighed and fingered his glass, then decided to pour a little more. To his dismay, the bottle contained only a drizzle. “O’Donnell,” he called out, “would you be a good chap, and ask for another bottle to be sent up? I’m bone dry.”
He saw O’Donnell glance to the left, at the other footman, but neither stirred from their place. Wickham frowned. Pity.
He adjusted his seat to look back into the fire and determined to satisfy himself with what little remained. A sharp clatter from behind him made him drop his entire glass. O’Donnell emitted a cry of surprise, and then Wickham saw him dashing toward a window outside the room, with the other footman in hot pursuit. What the devil?
Wickham stood up, listening to the grunts emitted by the straining footmen. Had someone just broken into Darcy’s house? Even in the middle of the night it was a fool’s errand, with so many vigilant servants about! He drew close to the door to watch the mayhem. Three men, with their faces covered, had broken through from the music room and were busily assailing the two footmen. More of Darcy’s servants came rapidly to aid their comrades, but they were quickly met with four more strangers surrounding them from all sides.
Wickham started to back toward the drawing room. This was not his fight. What could he do against so many? Best to secrete himself where none might trouble him, and see what came of it.
As he was stepping back, an arm wrapped firmly about his throat, with a blade tipped near his ear. “I’ve got ‘im!” a voice hissed. “‘E was in the drawing room!”
Wickham’s eyes went wild. They were after him? Or had they mistaken him for Darcy, dressed in fine clothes and sipping wine in the man’s house? He reached behind himself in panic, trying to dislodge the hand that held the knife. Another man came to face him, holding a miniature in his palm and comparing Wickham’s face.
These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 65