Page 57 of These Dreams (Heart to Heart Collection #1)

Chapter fifty-seven

“L izzy, when I told you all those months ago about letting a man hold you, I’d no notion you would attempt it in public.” Lydia held the hand mirror as her sister brushed her hair, angling it so she could catch Elizabeth’s eye with a knowing smirk.

“Are you saying that we should have been entirely alone?” Elizabeth set the brush aside and made a coil, refusing to permit her sister to embarrass her.

“It is usually better that way. A large, soft bed—ow! You needn’t poke me with the hair pins, Lizzy.”

“I was only comforting him. We were not in any danger of a seduction.”

“That is not what it sounded like to me. I have never heard you make some of those noises, and I am perfectly certain that Mr Darcy had—”

“Lydia, that is quite enough! Yesterday was rather trying for him, let us leave the matter to rest. Please, I beg of you, do not tell Kitty or Mama!”

“Hmm. Well, you are lucky that Georgiana slept through it all. At least, I think she did. Poor girl, she would not have known what to make of it if she had wakened. You know that she and George never… well, you know… did you?”

Elizabeth made no answer for a moment, trying to at least appear to finish Lydia’s hair. “I was never certain. I am glad of it, though.”

“So was I. It would have been a bit strange, being best friends with another girl your husband had—” she broke off and bit her plump lip.

“Lydia,” Elizabeth set aside the brush and knelt before her sister. “You still love him, do you not?”

Lydia swallowed and shrugged. “What would it matter if I did? The blackguard will get what he deserves, and I will try to find someone else someday.”

“Lydia, anger will not help. I know, for I have tried it.”

“It is better than silly tears! At least if I am angry, I feel like I can do something about it. I still wish I could make him suffer, just a little. It would be easier if I thought he was sorry.”

“Perhaps he is,” Elizabeth adjusted one of the curls at her sister’s temple.

“Lizzy, do you think we could go to London?”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Why, Lydia?”

The girl gave a broken sigh and pouted. “Well, I thought perhaps before he is hanged, if I could see him once more. Mr Darcy did hope that I could induce him to tell what he would not tell anyone else, and… well he deserves to know—” Lydia swallowed and twisted her fingers together over her bulging stomach. Her eyes were low, but she lifted them hopefully again to her sister. “Will you ask Mr Darcy if he will take us?”

“I do not know if I can ask him for that, Lydia,” she confessed. “I will speak to him, but it may be too much.”

Lydia nodded and sniffed. “You’d better go on, Lizzy,” she shrugged. “He will be wanting to see you after he dresses.”

Elizabeth rose doubtfully. “You will be well?”

Lydia forced a brave smile. “I always am.”

Elizabeth lingered a few more moments, fussing over her sister’s dress, adjusting her curls, until Lydia at last grew weary of her attentions and demanded that she leave. She went downstairs to the breakfast room, but she was not hungry for more than a bite or two. William never appeared, so she determined to wait for him again in the library.

A fresh fire blazed, and all the evidence of their previous night had been swept away. Elizabeth glanced out of the windows, contemplating a walk, but it was raining. The fire seemed rather inviting, and that silly old journal lay just beside her favourite chair. She smiled and made herself comfortable.

“A full shave? Are you certain, Mr Darcy?”

Wilson stood in his accustomed place at the right of Darcy’s chair, the shaving items all artfully arrayed before him. A steaming white towel filled a bowl, and the razor shone brightly from a recent sharpening. The floor round him was already littered with trimmings—he had survived that much so far—but it was not enough. He wanted to be himself again, and Fitzwilliam Darcy was clean-shaven.

Darcy gritted his teeth. “Yes, Wilson, please proceed.”

“Very good, sir.” Wilson cautiously approached with the towel, and Darcy closed his eyes. This time, the towel would not drape about his neck as it had done when he had intended a mere trim. He drew a deep breath, and his fingers sank into the arms of his chair as Wilson arranged it over his face.

He was trembling, every urge screaming at him to rip the cloth from his face, remove the hot steaming thing from the air he breathed. He knew he was panting, and could only imagine what his trusted valet saw. A fleeting temptation, to bolt to his feet and let the matter rest for another day, pressed into his consciousness.

His fingernails were now scoring the leather of his chair, and his jaw was beginning to ache. He would prevail against this irrational fear! He tried to recall Elizabeth; the way she had bent over him only an hour ago, loving him back to himself, back to his home. His breathing steadied, but his pulse still drummed. He would do this for her , to prove to her that he was deserving of her efforts!

An eternity passed, and the cloth became marginally more bearable. It was cooling, and mercifully, Wilson had finished preparing the shave cream. Darcy opened his eyes in profound relief when Wilson whisked the cloth away, but now the real test was to begin.

The cream was less trying than it might have been, the soft bristles massaging flesh long hidden to all save Elizabeth and her teasing fingers. Ah, yes, if he could only think on her, close his eyes and imagine her smiling caress! He felt some of the tension leave his hands, but then Wilson turned away for a moment. What he brought back….

Darcy clenched his eyes again, but Wilson’s gentle fingers touched his cheek, reminding him that he must relax his face or he would be cut. He drew a long, ragged breath, and slowly exhaled.

Elizabeth leaned over him again, her hair tumbling down as a blessed veil, engulfing him and shielding him from the rest of the world. Her tender fingers traced his face, and his name was soft upon her lips. He sighed and felt his body release its tension. Elizabeth.

12 January, 1759 The babe has kicked mercilessly all day! Mr Darcy insists that it is too early for me to experience such discomfort, but I think perhaps he has forgotten that month he and my brother spent on the continent. I was decidedly with child before his departure, and if my woman is to be believed, I shall be delivered a full three or four weeks before he anticipates. We have it on a wager now; if I am correct, the child shall be named after me. If he is correct, it will be another Fitzwilliam after my father. That the child might be a daughter is clearly out of the question, for Mr Darcy desires a son, so a son I shall give him. I tire of Lady Margaret’s stay at Pemberley. She seems to feel that as she is doubly my sister by marriage and was, until two years ago, a Darcy herself, that she has license to advise me in matters of the house and preparations for the child. Why, she has gone so far as to presume that our own children might one day marry! If that woman ever has a daughter, I shall be certain that my George—for I know that shall be his name—will have better sense than to marry a cousin twice over. Ridiculous woman! I declare she must be padding her gowns to match my appearance, for I cannot conceive of how her own babe could be as large as mine. She is hardly circumspect with her personal confidences, but perhaps she speaks the truth. My brother was away at the same time as my husband, after all. Did they not all return to Pemberley together, along with that fellow from Portugal? But no matter, if my sister-in-law carries the next heir to the earldom, my brother is well pleased, regardless of when she is delivered. She said the most curious thing to me this morning. She claims to have overheard an argument between our husbands in the study, though how she could have heard it all the way from the music room seems a mystery to me. I do believe the silly woman is lost, after all, for one would have to travel the long portrait gallery between those two rooms. That is the kindest assumption I can make, but my maid—

E lizabeth turned the page and flipped it back and forward again. Three or four pages out of the journal had been torn out, and not recently. She fingered the frayed edges of the missing pages, noting how yellowed they were.

Curiously, she scanned the following journal entries. Here and there, more pages had been removed, and then the narrative would resume with mundane details of the household. She was nearly through the volume, and found that the remaining pages contained very little about Lady Margaret or her husband, the former earl. There was one curious entry, near the end, that caught her attention.

14 March, 1759 I am pleased to note that the dreadful business seems to be behind us. Mr Darcy assures me that we shall nevermore hear the name Vasconcelos, and he thinks he shall not have to return to that cursed piece of ground again. My brother, I fear, has nearly ceased speaking to us. I am quite satisfied with that, but Mr Darcy is rather distressed. He insists that we must maintain solidarity with our family, regardless of their perceived errors. George has not turned, or so my midwife reports. The news is of some concern, for she informs me that if he is born ill, I may find it difficult to carry another child. That matters little to me, for George is to be the heir my husband requires. Childbearing is a tedious affair, and I shall be pleased to have done with it. I have grand plans for the London house, and as soon as the talk about that poor dead fellow cools, I intend to hire the very best decorator to be had. Mr Darcy agrees that I must show myself a gracious hostess, and naturally I must present myself at court next season. I have confidence that in time, all shall be forgotten. I have decided that once this volume is complete, I shall give up on journaling. I shall have weightier duties, and it has become rather bothersome to secrete this from the maids. Every corner of my habitual chambers are regularly cleaned, and it does not fit within my desk, so there is no place readily at hand to keep it. Perhaps one day I shall remove certain passages and give this into the keeping of my son, so that I no longer have the bother of keeping it hidden away. I must close for now, Mr Darcy has been wanting me this half hour.

Elizabeth dropped the old journal, eyes wide. A dead man! And the mentions of Portugal were too staggering to dismiss. Hurriedly, she flipped back to one of the first entries she had read. There it was, a reference to the earlier Mr Darcy visiting Portugal and conducting some business. How had she not noted it before?

Her hands tingled, then felt numb as she feathered through the pages. Oh, she must show this to William! Stumbling out of her chair, she raced from the library.

Matlock House, London

“J ames Fitzwilliam! I would speak with you in private!”

The earl of Matlock had just been raising a glass to his lips when his sister forcefully invaded his study. His hand jerked, splashing amber liquid over his trousers. Annoyed, he lurched to his feet to brush off the troublesome stain. “Catherine? What the devil are you doing here?”

She slammed the door herself and whirled about in a storm of black mink and silk. “I will thank you to speak in a civilised manner! And why would I not have come, if my niece is deceased?”

“I had not thought you interested in leaving Kent. What is this all about, charging into my study like a harridan? Why can you not wait to be received properly?”

“Did you honestly think that I would not notice that monstrous announcement you had printed in the papers? I never thought you capable of something so foolish, James. Of all the preposterous notions! We settled that Georgiana was to marry a viscount, not some penniless second son who cannot be got out of his uniform!”

“Perhaps we have,” the earl smiled. “I have come to see the matter quite your way, Catherine. A viscount Georgiana shall have.”

“And Anne is to be wed to her cousin. This we agreed!”

He gestured dismissively. “Whatever pleases you, Catherine. You may have Richard for Anne.”

She lifted her cane, shaking it in his face. “I am not speaking of Richard. I have waited for you to confess your knowledge of it, but I can see that you do not intend to do so. Darcy has returned! I have seen him myself. There, now what have you to say to that?”

He had resumed dabbing the drink stain from his trousers, but stopped to gape at her. “Darcy? Are you consorting with spirits now, Catherine?”

She sneered. “Blasphemy! I speak of our nephew, Fitzwilliam Darcy, perfectly alive and residing at Pemberley at this very moment!”

“I would tell you to see the physician, if one could be found willing to attend you. Darcy has been gone half a year! What do you mean, coming to my study and crying out about dead men walking about their former estates?”

Fuming, Lady Catherine de Bourgh committed one of the least lady-like acts of her life. She twisted her mouth into a tight scowl, grasped what remained of the earl’s drink, and flung it in his face. “He is not dead, James! I saw him with my own eyes, and conversed with him at length until he ordered me out of his house. He ordered me! ”

Matlock ground his teeth, murder in his eyes as the liquid ran down his face. “I always said the boy had sense. I ought to have ordered you out of my house years ago!”

“He accused me of conspiring to have him killed! I have never been so insulted in all my life. I insist that we make answer to this, James! I will not bear the brunt of whatever you have wrought with your scheming.”

“Scheming? I have done nothing against Darcy! Why are you so hasty to turn this on me? Where has he been all this time, if he was not dead, and why does he suddenly return? Had he some scandal to conceal?”

She blew out an impatient breath, rolling her eyes at his dullness. “He was in Portugal. Do not employ your arts with me, for I know you must have been involved in some way.”

“Well, I was not. The last word I had of Darcy, before I was escorting his body to the grave, was that he was in Town on business and intended to call in a few days. I never even had an opportunity to send a reply! Where does this ‘Darcy’ of yours claim that he was?”

“Did you not hear me? He was in Portugal , James. He was taken from the street, placed on a ship, and held captive for months, and you and I both know the reason!”

An uneasy expression passed over the earl’s face. His brow furrowed and his jaw fell almost slack. He put a finger to his lips and paced behind his desk. “Portugal?” he asked in a low voice. “I thought—”

“You thought our father buried that secret? Apparently, he did not, for the son of that vile man is the one who held our nephew.”

“What could he expect to gain? Darcy knew nothing of it, nor, I fancy, did his parents. Old Richard Darcy and Lady Georgina were quick to forget everything, and our own father spoke but little of that affair. I have done what I could to see the matter rest.”

“James, where is that deed? I searched all of Pemberley for it when I was there before, and found nothing. It has surely been destroyed by now, but someone believes it still exists.”

“Then that someone must be deceiving everyone, for I have seen nothing of it. You may rest assured, I made a thorough search through all the old records at the solicitor, for I felt as you—it is best that it be destroyed, if it is ever found.”

She rested somewhat on her cane, but if her aging arms trembled somewhat, her brother made no comment. “What is to be done? Darcy will listen to no one, the foolish boy!”

“What else can be done? If the deed cannot be found and Darcy has returned well and alive, I suppose that is the end of it. I still do not understand why anyone assumed he would have it, or what they thought to gain from taking him.”

“Are you so simple, or do you believe you can deceive me, James? Someone from this very house must have known of it, and desired to gain access to Darcy’s wealth and estate!”

“That seems a rather elaborate ruse, Catherine. Why would anyone go to such lengths? If this Vasconcelos is still alive, he would have come first to me, not to Darcy.”

“And how,” snarled his sister, “am I to think that he did not?”

Matlock slammed his fist on his desk. “Darcy was like a son to me! I would never have allowed harm to come to him!”

Lady Catherine scoffed. “From the moment of his funeral, I have seen you arranging his affairs, and quite happily! Can you think my memory so poor in that regard? You stood to control all of his wealth through your son!”

Matlock straightened and blinked for a moment. “Indeed,” he answered slowly. “My son….”

Lady Catherine narrowed her eyes and walked toward her brother, cane extended. “You will find this out, James! I will not have my nephew casting this disgrace upon me. I insist that you ride to Pemberley at once to explain matters and to set his head straight. And as we are discussing it, there is another matter. I advised you against it, but you persisted, and now it has brought about a travesty against all that is natural and just. I insist that you speak to him about it before the harm is irreversible!”

“There is more? What greater harm could befall the man than to be imprisoned and presumed dead for six months?”

She tapped her cane on the ground. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, that is what.”