Page 37 of These Dreams (Heart to Heart Collection #1)

Chapter thirty-seven

Pemberley

“L izzy, 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 channels? 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.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. Had not Wickham’s note mentioned Mrs Annesley? Such a strange reference he had made! “And…” she probed cautiously, “has the steward been able to relieve his concerns about Mr O’Donnell?”

“Oh, he said very little about that, only that the magistrate had recommended that they permit him to return to his duties and do not arrest him. Perhaps they intend to watch him carefully, to see if his behaviour is suspect in any way.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth murmured. Oh, dear, she could not ask O’Donnell to take her note to Wickham! Even if sharp eyes were not thereby alerted to the clandestine meeting she planned, O’Donnell himself would be cast once more into doubt. If he were innocent as he claimed, he ought to be permitted the appearance of honesty. She knew that he would immediately leap to complete her request, but if any shadow were to touch him, it would not come from her.

She chewed her inner cheek, frustrated about what she ought to relate of her meeting with Wickham. Had either of the others the courage—or the restraint, in Lydia’s case—to listen to him? Could they believe a word he said, even if they decided to hear? And could she be certain that the hope that buoyed her own heart was genuine? She could imagine no greater betrayal than leading Georgiana to believe that her dear brother might be on his way to her, only to find herself mistaken.

“Georgiana,” Elizabeth ventured, “did Lady Catherine propose leaving early tomorrow?”

“Of course. It is four days to London when the roads are good, but they are likely to be muddy tomorrow for the carriage. She will wish an early start.”

“And does she seem at all unsettled regarding your safety?”

Georgiana scoffed. “She believes no one would dare trouble me with her about. ‘Daughter of an earl!’” she mimicked. “Oh, no, she cannot think me in any danger, particularly not once I return to London, away from the wilds of Derbyshire.”

Elizabeth nodded silently, but her stomach twisted. Lady Catherine herself might be the source of danger, for all Elizabeth knew, and this journey but a ruse! And where was Darcy? Might Georgiana’s departure delay or hasten their reunion, if such were to be?

But London! Mr Wickham had said that Darcy would be in greater danger in London than elsewhere, and Georgiana would be in no less peril—if she could trust his word! Oh, she could not allow Lady Catherine to take Georgiana away from Pemberley without knowing the truth! Any hope of learning more from the dead attacker was now gone, and the charming snake seemed the only voice willing to speak.

She looked steadily back and forth between the two girls. Lydia seemed morose at having to leave her new friend and comfortable situation. Georgiana’s face was a blank as she stared into her future. The child had endured far too much grief, and now had no control over her own affairs.

Elizabeth grimaced. To have to depend upon such a man as Wickham! And alone—no, she would have to meet him alone, if only to avoid compromising another. She closed her eyes briefly and drew a shaky sigh, then clenched her teeth. Meet him she would, tonight, before Lady Catherine took Georgiana away. She hoped he would not perceive how badly she needed him.

Lisbon, Portugal

“S enhora Vasconcelos? A carriage awaits you.”

Amália looked up from the floor of her room to the young petty officer. “A carriage? I have called for no carriage.”

“It is the general’s order, Senhora. That is all I know.”

She rose unsteadily. This had not come as a surprise—after all, the letters carried by Pereira had surely been brought before Ruy’s superiors. Vasconcelos and the bishop held considerable political influence, and she was but dead weight to a regiment camp. Her reasons for fleeing her husband would count as nothing before a military tribunal, and she would be forced to go back to him.

“Pardon, sir,” she wetted her lips, stalling for time, “has there been any word of Captain Noronha? Is he well?”

“I know nothing, Senhora,” repeated the bored officer. He stood back and motioned for an orderly to collect the single bag she had brought with her from Porto. “Come now, please.”

“Sir, I beg you,” she trembled, her eyes beginning to sting. “Please, may I not speak with a nurse or a surgeon before I go? I must know if he will recover—my father will wish to know,” she added as an afterthought, hoping her father’s wishes might seem of greater import than her own.

“If he recovers, he will stand trial for murder, Senhora.”

Her chest was heaving now, her eyes brimming. “Ruy!” she gasped. “I must see him one more time! Oh, please, you do not understand, I must go to him!”

“It is not permitted, Senhora,” the officer stated unequivocally. He stepped back and gestured, plainly, that she was required to follow.

Amália turned beseechingly about, seeking anyone who might speak for her. A rivulet of saltwater spilled down her cheek, and she dashed it away as her face was turned from the officer. Two young women sat nearby, sewing the uniforms of their husbands. Their eyes met hers, and then both looked down again. She watched them some seconds more in disbelief—though there was nothing they could have done, her mind refused to accept that none would even try. No one remained who would step to her side.

Slowly, her feet obeyed. She watched the floor, disconnected from the movements that carried her forward. Was there truly nothing more she could do?

“Wait,” an inspiration pricked her. “I wish to give a note for his commanding officer! For General Lecor, or General Cotton if he will read it!” She whirled away, giving him no opportunity to object. She would have her say, somehow make her words heard! There was a scrap of paper in her pocket, and she scrawled a makeshift letter.

“Here!” she cried, thrusting it into the officer’s hands. “You must give this to the general!”

The officer’s face was expressionless. “This way, Senhora.”

Amália surrendered. What more could she do? Head down in defeat, she stepped slowly to the Vasconcelos-emblazoned carriage brought by Pereira, an army escort standing by. The driver handed her in, and the door closed. She never saw the officer discard her crumpled note.