Page 64 of These Dreams (Heart to Heart Collection #1)

Chapter sixty-four

London

T he candle cast a dim glow over the flat. He frowned down at the street, then drew the shade. It would be some hours yet before he would know. There was little more he could do against the hands of the clock and the whims of fate. Either this night would grant him success, or it would not.

He turned back to the bed of the seedy little apartment, and sank down upon it. His father had been right, he reflected, when he had spoken of foolish wives and fleeting fortunes. If only… yes, if only! Those two words encompassed an ocean of regret and lost opportunity.

He sighed, snuffed his candle, then stretched out on the bed. He lay still in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the street below. London, he reflected, was a city that never paused. A man might have a fortune within his grasp, influence surrendered to him, or a woman under his power—yet the city outside hustled along, paying each man as little notice as if he were a beggar, a vagrant, or a forsaken one. Nothing truly mattered to the masses.

He stared at the darkened ceiling. He would have to deal with his father at some point. The man could never be brought round, and would persist in his old patriarchal ways. That was not the way of the modern world—the world in which he desired to make a place for himself. His father would move to stop him soon, of that he had little doubt. The conversation would not be a pleasant one, and it would take a turn for the worse if his actions this night were discovered.

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.

G eorge 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.”