These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Nicole Clarkston

  “This is the wrong man!” he spat. “Kill him anyway, and find Darcy!”

  Something snapped inside George Wickham in that instant. Whether it was fear of imminent death, insult at being presumed for Darcy, or merely the indignity of being tossed aside as of no account, his blood boiled over in rage. The arm round his neck tightened, but he used his opponent’s very strength as his own.

  With a half-strangled cry of fury, he threw himself back into his assailant’s embrace and lashed out with both feet at the second man. The man went down, senseless for at least a moment, and Wickham felt a surge of exhilaration such as he had never known. The arm slackened in astonishment, and he dropped his weight against it and was free, then he turned gave a mighty shove against the other.

  With space now to fight, he put up his fists and grinned. His attacker had somehow lost his knife when he had broken free, and now they were equally matched. Well… not quite equally, for Wickham knew the house. He feinted and dodged, ever advancing, until his opponent found himself backed into a small alcove made by an oddly placed support beam in the room. Wickham closed in then, and delivered the sort of punch Richard Fitzwilliam always used to knock him down with when they had been boys.

  The man dropped most satisfyingly, and Wickham stood back, shaking his fist with a pleased little smile. Old boy, you’ve still got it! he congratulated himself.

  Another crash behind him drew his attention back to the fight still going on in the corridor. He arched his brows and shrugged to himself. Why not? Either Darcy would hear how valiantly he had acquitted himself and exert his considerable power on his behalf, or he might find an open door and perhaps a ship ready to sail in the harbour.

  Without a second thought, he charged into the fray. Boots and fists were flying, Darcy’s black-clad footmen straining against what still seemed to be an oncoming tide of assailants. Where the devil had they all come from? The only lunatic Wickham knew who might be both willing and capable of hiring enough men to storm Darcy house was… he gulped. The viscount!

  There was a scream from above stairs, followed by what sounded like a vase shattering against a wall. Wickham jerked his head up and saw a commotion on the stair landing, and then there was another shriek. It was distinctly feminine… and terribly familiar. His face whitened in horror. Miss Darcy was here?

  At some other point in his life, it is likely that he would have hesitated. After all, why should he put himself at risk for that spoiled little heiress? But on this night, his ire was hot and he had tasted the valour of the defender. In the next moment, he was flying up the stairs, dodging planters and sculptures that had been tossed at the attackers. Well did he know where her room was to be found, and there his steps carried him.

  One brave footman had wedged himself in the door, but he could hear Georgiana Darcy struggling inside. She was not cowering behind the man, he could see, but trying to get beyond him, while he was attempting desperately to keep her safe from the men in the hall.

  “Let me through!” came her irate voice. “I will not lie helpless in wait!”

  “Please, Miss,” the footman was answering through gritted teeth. “You must stay inside!”

  Wickham could not help a short laugh, even in the moment. So, Georgiana Darcy had at last found her Darcy backbone. He was not spared long, for another tried to force him back, away from Georgiana’s door. This man held a pistol, and it was leveled at his head.

  Wickham backed, his hands held before him, as he cast about for some weapon to employ. Nothing, not even his own babbling tongue, was faster than the finger on the trigger. Surely, however, the man did not intend to waste his one bullet on him. It was, in all likelihood, destined for one Fitzwilliam Darcy.

  “Don’t be a fool!” he implored the man. “Darcy is not even in the house, and look below! The footmen already have the upper hand.”

  The pistol wavered slightly. Behind him, Wickham could see Georgiana Darcy throwing a heavy water basin through the door, just missing the man who tried to get through. The pistol drifted away… then snapped back, and the hammer cocked.

  “Leave my husband alone!” came a savage cry, and then a fire poker slashed down on the hand holding the pistol.

  His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Lydia? What in blazes would she be doing here, of all places?

  She wielded her poker with lethal intent, if not accuracy, slashing upward and then crashing it down on the man’s shoulders. Wickham was frozen in awe. Lydia, the girl he had seduced, abandoned, and… oh, bloody hell. She turned toward him, her face red and her hair wild, but it was her figure that held him mute.

  He raised his eyes to hers, still speechless. She was carrying his child! How could he not have guessed at Fitzwilliam’s meaning? He tried to remain standing, but his legs shook. He was to be a father?

  “George!” she cried, her hand over her mouth, and her eyes full of tears.

  He regained his voice. “Lydia? Oh, Lydia, my girl, look at you!” he breathed.

  She stepped close to him, almost into his arms, then drew back a fist and delivered a sound blow to his jaw.

  She did not hit that hard, truly, but the shock of it knocked him from his feet. He tumbled to the floor, testing his lip for blood and glancing back up at her. She was shaking her head, her expression a confusion of anguish and relief as she wept. “George, I should kill you!” she rasped.

  She should. She was right, and he knew it. “Lydia, I….” He stopped. No apology would do. There were no words that could pay her back for all the grief he had caused her. He looked at his feet, splayed on the floor before him, then back up to her face, and he cried out in alarm. “Lydia, no!”

  The man with the pistol had recovered his senses, and was in a high temper at the insult. He pushed Lydia aside and leveled the pistol again—at his heart, this time. George Wickham: seducer, cheat, liar, gambler, and worthless coward, gritted his teeth and prepared to meet his end.

  “No!” shrieked one final cry, and the pistol discharged.

  George opened his eyes just in time to catch his wife as she crumpled into his arms, a bloody mass already spreading over her robe.

  66

  Cheapside, London

  Elizabeth lifted her head from the pillow and listened. The sound came again—a low, rasping noise. She sat up and drew a blanket over her shoulders. It was decidedly coming from the next room, and she knew those sounds all too well.

  Deciding to take the risk, she stepped from her own room and knocked softly on the door. “Senhora? Are you well?”

  The door opened almost immediately to a young woman who was hastily wiping her eyes and attempting a brave face. “I did disturb you, Miss Bennet?”

  “No,” Elizabeth smiled, “I could not sleep. It sounded as though you were also awake, so I hope you will forgive the intrusion.”

  Amália stood uncertainly in the doorway, apparently wondering what was proper.

  “Well,” Elizabeth faltered, seeing that her presence was not as welcome as she had thought it might be, “I wish you pleasant dreams. Good night.”

  The other woman started then. “Oh, please, do not go! Do you wish to come in?” She stepped back and reached to the bed, tugging the counterpane neatly into place to make a more dignified seat for them.

  Elizabeth accepted somewhat shyly. It had always been a matter of course to spend long hours of the night with her sisters, and she had even engaged in the practice with Georgiana on several occasions, but she barely knew this foreign lady. She could think of almost nothing they might have in common, apart from their mutual sleeplessness. She settled onto the bed, tugging her blanket more closely about herself, and tried to think of something to say. Amália was looking uncomfortably around the room, seeming to suffer the same difficulty.

  “How are you finding London?” Elizabeth ventured. “Of course, perhaps you have seen very little of it, but has your stay so far been agreeable?’

  Amália nodded jerk
ily, seeming relieved that Elizabeth had gone first. “Everything looks different here, but I like it. This house,” she nodded toward the walls, “it is pleasant.”

  Elizabeth smiled proudly. “It is, but I believe it is more than wood and plaster and stone that makes it so. I have always loved spending time here, for I know of no more gracious hostess than my Aunt Gardiner.”

  “Oh, yes, that is what I wished to say,” nodded Amália. “She is… gentle. She is like my nurse when I was a child. It is cheerful here.”

  “I am glad you have been made to feel welcome.” Elizabeth hesitated, evaluating the fleeting expressions playing through the other woman’s features. “I hope I do not ask too much, but have you much family of your own in Portugal?”

  A pained wince tightened her eyes. “My father… and my brother, Ruy.” She wetted her lips and struggled for a moment, but Elizabeth stayed her.

  “You need not tell more. It was not my wish to cause you discomfort.”

  Amália blinked and touched the corner of her eye. “My mother is gone, and I had no sister,” she offered.

  “Oh, dear, I had five sisters! I am afraid our house never wanted for feminine companionship, but we had no brother. I think it would be a fine thing to have always a young man devoted to defending my honour and saving me from scrapes.”

  Elizabeth realised her error when Amália’s shoulders rounded and her features crumbled. She was breathing in long, deep breaths, trying to retain her composure, but she was losing the battle.

  “I am so sorry,” Elizabeth pleaded, searching about for something the young lady could use as a handkerchief. “Let us speak of something else.”

  Amália swallowed hard and took two or three gasps. “No, it is good that I should tell someone. I have kept it secret.” She sniffled and dabbed her nose. “My brother killed a man defending me. He was to be put on trial, and I do not know what has come of it.”

  “Oh, dear! My goodness, little wonder you are troubled. Killed a man! Has he anyone to vouch for him, that it was a matter of a lady’s defence?”

  “My father was to go. I do not know… I wish I could know! My father told me not to write, but I wish I were a man and could give my testimony! I wish I could go to be with him!”

  “You cannot go back,” Elizabeth guessed slowly, “because of your actions freeing Mr Darcy? You fear what your husband may do?”

  Amália stilled, then nodded. “It is my own fault,” she wiped her cheek again. “I was not a proper wife.” She gritted her teeth, and a fire flashed in her eyes as she lifted her chin. “I was too stubborn. I am a disgrace now, but I would do it all again, because I will not love such a man.”

  Elizabeth wanted to cheer such a saucy speech. It was something she could have heard herself vowing, but it had cost the young woman dearly. How did one applaud when another was forced to choose between living terror and shameful exile?

  “At least,” Elizabeth mused, “you are safe now.”

  Amália drew a ragged breath. “Safe, yes, but a stranger. I cannot stay forever with Senhor and Senhora Gardiner.”

  “Indeed, I believe you could, but that is not your only alternative. Mr Darcy will certainly seek an establishment for you, for as long as you desire to remain in England.”

  “No,” Amália shook her head, “that is not necessary. I would not expect—”

  “I would,” Elizabeth interrupted. “It is his way.” She smiled softly and toyed with the counterpane. “He is the most excellent of men, and he will not suffer a friend to endure hardship.”

  Amália’s eyes fell. “You care very much for Mr Darcy, do you?”

  “I do,” Elizabeth answered quickly, then regretted her prompt, effortless reply when the other woman drew a sharp breath and looked away. How could she flaunt her good fortune, to shamelessly adore the man who had twice offered her his hand in marriage, when this poor woman feared for her life because of her own husband? Elizabeth winced at her own insensitivity.

  Amália drew her knees up and crossed her arms over them, laying her cheek upon her elbow. “He spoke of you.”

  Elizabeth tilted her head. “He did?”

  “In Portugal. Yes, I did heard him. It was how I found him.” She lifted her head and turned it the other way, away from Elizabeth. “He will be a kind husband to you.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes. She had hoped to offer some comfort to the displaced young woman, but it seemed that the longer she remained, the guiltier she felt for her own charmed life. Certainly, she had known crippling grief, had faced uncertain horizons, but now she had come into the full light of day, with the larger part of her worries behind her. What cheer could she offer to one whose past was a regret and whose future was a sorrow?

  Amália was drawing pained breaths through her teeth, trying with all her might not to sniffle in earnest or gasp aloud. Elizabeth rested a hand on her shoulder. “Amália, do you wish me to go?”

  There was no answer, save a muffled sob. Elizabeth felt the tears starting in her own eyes. How she longed to gather her new friend in her arms and promise that all would be well! But she could not, nor would Amália be fool enough to believe her if she did. Elizabeth nodded to herself in resignation, and began shifting her feet back to the floor.

  “I did…” came a small, broken voice. Elizabeth stopped and looked back.

  “I loved h-h-him.” She gave up on speech and turned her face into her knees, shielding it with her arms. There was a high-pitched squeak, and then her body gave way to sobs.

  Loved him? Elizabeth felt her stomach knot. Amália was in love with… with William? Or her husband? Oh… she realised, with both relief and sympathy… the colonel.

  Elizabeth watched the young woman helplessly. She did not seem to desire her presence, but each time she had offered to go, Amália had called her back. The poor girl must be terribly lonely, with none to share her burdens. Hesitantly, and not knowing if it were wanted, she touched Amália’s hair, stroking it back from her face.

  Amália was already beginning to calm herself. The first bursts of agony had overpowered her, but she was fighting back. Elizabeth heard the forcefully modulated breaths, one final little cry of pain, then she lifted her head with a jerk, and began wiping her eyes with the hem of her nightdress.

  “Would it give you relief to speak of it, or would you prefer not?” Elizabeth asked gently.

  Amália drew one more sobbing breath, and nodded. Her mouth quivered as she tried to gather her voice.

  “How long have you known him?” Elizabeth prompted.

  Amália wiped her eye again. “Almost four years ago, he saved my brother in battle. My father wished to… to recognise his bravery. He was injured, and came to stay with us while he recovered.”

  She stopped for a moment, twirling her fingers in the lace of her nightdress, then continued with a fatalistic lift of her shoulders. “We could not marry. My father would not allow it, nor would his family. I was only seventeen, and Richard was not Catholic. We could not even think of it.”

  Elizabeth was the one weeping now. What if she had come to know her love, to see him for the match to her heart that he truly was, and then had been forced to give him up for some artificial stricture of society? What then if she had been obliged to marry another, and that not even a man of integrity?

  Amália swallowed and continued in a ragged whisper. “I thought he would come tonight with Senhor Darcy, but he did not. He cannot bear to see me, I think.”

  “Perhaps he thought it would be easier for you,” Elizabeth suggested.

  Amália shook her head. “Nothing is easier,” her voice trailed off on high note, and her body trembled again with tears, but she drew a brave gasp to collect herself. “No, I must go, away from his friends. It is not right.”

  “Where else can you be safe? He would not expect—” Elizabeth broke off, her brow furrowed. “Did you hear that?”

  Amália’s face pinched. “It is the housemaid, no
? She comes to stir the fires?”

  Elizabeth pursed her lips. “Not usually, unless it is a very cold night. Perhaps one of my young cousins requires something.”

  “Their nursemaid, she is not with them?”

  “I do not—” Elizabeth started with a gasp when the door to Amália’s bedroom was quietly opened. She squinted into the darkness, for at first there appeared to be no one there. An instant later, her aunt stepped round the door frame, and Elizabeth prepared to welcome her to their feminine conversation. The welcome died on her lips, however, when she beheld the abject terror in Mrs Gardiner’s eyes.

  Amália cried out—a wordless shriek of horror, and began scrambling backward on the bed. Elizabeth scarcely noticed the other lady’s reaction, for she could only see the man behind her aunt, whose left hand was at her throat, and whose right held a blade. Madeline Gardiner was sobbing almost beyond control, her hands trying desperately to pull his from her neck.

  “Minha querida!23” the man enthused. “Senti a tua falta!24” He checked his captive harshly, jerking a tearful gasp from poor Mrs Gardiner. “It is the time for us to return home, yes?”

  Elizabeth was trying to catch her aunt’s gaze. Who was this, and how had he entered the house? More importantly, if he held her aunt captive, what had he already done to her uncle?

  Amália rose from the bed, shaking and extending a pleading hand. “Por favor25, Miguel! You must not harm her!”

  “I shall do as my beloved wife wishes,” he replied with a sickening smile. “You are my wife still, my jewel. Come now, and she shall be unharmed.”

  Amália was backing away, glancing behind herself toward the window facing the street.

  “It is three floors down,” Miguel commented, with evident enjoyment. “You may go that way if you choose, my dear, but I had hoped you would come through the door with me.”

  Mrs Gardiner tugged again at his hands, just enough to shake her head. “Do not! He will k—”

  Miguel choked off whatever else she might have said, and crooned to his wife. “My precious, have I not always been a faithful husband to you? Have I ever harmed you?”