Page 7 of These Dreams (Heart to Heart Collection #1)

Chapter seven

Pemberley

R ichard’s return to Pemberley revealed the whole of the estate in an uproar. It was still mid-morning when his coach rolled to the door, to be met and attended only by the men from the stables. The outer steps to the house itself remained curiously unguarded but for the groundskeeper, who only passed by in the course of his other duties. The door to the great house was opened to him before he was obliged to knock like a beggar at an hostel, but only just.

In bewilderment Richard handed off his gloves and hat to the lone footman present, searching about for the others all the while. None of the usual staff were at their assigned posts! Three of the upstairs maids hurried by him with harassed pink cheeks and hardly a deferential glance, clearly set about some task of great import. He stared in amazement, wondering where the devil Mrs Reynolds or Hodges could be. Was it not typical for one of them, at least, to greet him upon his arrival? And where was Georgiana?

“Do you wish to remove your coat, Colonel?” the footman reminded him politely.

“What?” He spun to face the young man. “Yes, my coat, of course. Where is your mistress? What is happening here?”

The footman permitted himself a brief expression of chagrin—which, Richard noted, would never have been tolerated under Darcy’s authority. “The lady desired that some improvements be made to the house, sir.”

“I presume you do not refer to Miss Darcy.”

“No, sir,” the footman kept his eyes straight forward, but he swallowed unhappily.

“I see. Where might I find your mistress?”

“She has not stirred from her apartment these four or five days, sir.”

“Good heavens! She is not ill?”

“No, sir,” was the clipped response.

Richard squinted in irritation, divining that some curiosity must be at work within the halls of Pemberley. “I think I must speak with Mrs Reynolds. Please send word for her to meet me in the library.”

“I am afraid, sir….”

“Afraid of what? Speak up, man!”

The footman’s tight collar worked uncomfortably. “The library is in some disarray, Colonel.”

Richard swore under his breath. Darcy’s meticulously ordered library! Lady Catherine had salt indeed to meddle with such precision. “Very well, I shall go to her desk in the servant’s quarters! Has my aunt come down yet this morning?”

The footman’s gaze assumed the glassiness accustomed to one of his station when attempting not to voice that which might be unpleasant to his superior’s ears. “No, Colonel,” was the simple reply.

Richard narrowed his eyes. “I see. Thank you, young man, you have been most helpful. What was your name?”

“O’Donnell, sir.”

“Just so! I’d no idea Darcy brought on Irish.”

The young man’s fair cheeks reddened. “My mother served in the kitchens during the days of Mr George Darcy—before her marriage,” the young man supplied. “It was her application that persuaded Mr Hodges and Mrs Reynolds to bring me on last year, and Mr Darcy gave his approval.”

“Well,” Richard nodded, his mind already turning to the conversation with Mrs Reynolds, “I trust you bring no papist anarchy or sedition with you. Welcome to Pemberley, young man.”

The embarrassed flush deepened over the lad’s face, but he made answer respectfully. “Thank you, Colonel.”

Richard strode impatiently away, a jerkiness to his strides which always reemerged whenever he assumed command in battle. A cautious look into the library as he passed confirmed his fears. Four maids and two footmen had the entirety of the high shelves emptied, and now the fine books that had been their master’s pride dominated the centre of the room in a haphazard stack. “ Insupportable!” would have been Darcy’s sedate exclamation, but Richard’s mind filled with more colourful oaths.

The drawing room seemed in scarcely less a state of disorder. Another bevy of household staff fluttered about with great swaths of drapery fabric and hand-worked cushions. All the furniture had been reordered, and some of it he did not even recognise. A low breath left him and he stood motionless, his mind awhir—his practiced response to impossible scenarios. Lady Catherine must be stopped, but how ? Richard growled and nearly ran down the stairs to the housekeeper’s domain.

“Mrs Reynolds!” he snapped—perhaps a bit too harshly, for the woman nearly leapt from her starched dress.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam! Sir, forgive me, I was not notified that you had returned!”

Richard softened somewhat. “So I see. Mrs Reynolds, what the devil is happening around here? I see little short of chaos when I walk about! No one at their posts, the library torn up, the drawing room in shambles, and Miss Darcy locking herself within her rooms! Tell me everything at once before I must confront my aunt.”

Mrs Reynolds looked all abashed, but she made to clarify matters with her usual efficiency. “Lady Catherine found the previous arrangement of the house not to her standards. She has insisted that all be restored as it was in the days of Lady Anne.”

“Oh, botheration,” he hissed. “And I suppose she has spent these several days terrorising Miss Darcy, so that she is afraid to contradict our aunt?”

“To a degree, sir, but the rearranging of the quarters came after the Mistress withdrew. I believe Miss Darcy’s distress concerns Miss de Bourgh more principally.”

“Anne? What could possibly be offensive about Anne?”

“It is rather that Miss de Bourgh finds Miss Darcy’s company trying. The pianoforte troubles her head, she claims, and she insists that the windows of the house remain darkened in honour of the Master.”

“I had ordered all of those shrouds taken down. Does Anne intend for Pemberley to remain a tomb for Georgiana as well?”

“Miss de Bourgh feared a draught, I believe,” Mrs Reynolds smiled diplomatically. “We did not like to disobey your orders, sir, but we were uncertain of the proper authority in such a matter. Lady Catherine does not countenance disobedience. I am sorry, sir, but with Miss Darcy retired to her rooms, there was none to give any direction to the contrary.”

“And Miss Darcy likely never will,” grumbled Richard.

“Sir, I ought not to say as much—it is not my place, do you see.” Mrs Reynolds’ merry cheeks pinked uncomfortably as she hesitated.

“Do, please, speak out, Mrs Reynolds. I care little for the estate or the proper chain of authority at the moment. I quite depend upon you to advise me in any matters pertaining to my cousin at present, for I cannot know all that goes on.”

“Well, sir, it is only that she requested her bags to be packed for an immediate departure as soon as you had returned. She was rather vague as to the items she wished to take—I think she was not certain where she would be going.”

Richard pinched his lips thoughtfully between his teeth. “Nor have I any idea what she intended, but little wonder that she desired to go on to somewhere else. Where my aunt is concerned, sometimes retreat is the wisest alternative. The poor child, I had been so hopeful that she would no longer remain closed away! I ought not to have gone as I did.”

“Certainly, it is not your doing, sir. She did remain happily out and about for some days when you first went away.”

“You said she had begun to play the pianoforte? That would have been most promising! Such a pity that her cousin raised an objection. Has not Mrs Annesley’s return lent her some confidence?”

“Yes, sir, but there was some….”

“Do not tell me,” he groaned, “that she has suffered some turf dispute as well! What, has Mrs Jenkinson ruffled her feathers?”

Mrs Reynold’s brow wrinkled thoughtfully. “There seems to have been some confusion about which of the upstairs maids would be assigned to Mrs Jenkinson upon her arrival. As Mrs Annesley was away….”

Richard pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is not the very object in securing a companion for a young lady to find one more mature than her charge?”

“Oh, Mrs Annesley is a good sort, and to be truthful, sir, she was in the right,” Mrs Reynolds defended.

“I see that you tactfully refrain from expressing your opinions on the other lady. Is the matter sorted now?”

“As near as it may be, Colonel. The maids have been reassigned, but the ladies have not spoken to each other. Mrs Jenkinson will not leave Miss de Bourgh’s side, and Mrs Annesley remains with Miss Darcy.”

“Heaven help us when they all sit at table together once more. This is why I never married!”

“About that, Colonel….”

“No, stop there,” he held up a hand. “If my aunt has already begun ordering lace and ribbon for my supposed wedding, I hope you have been good enough to intercept the messages and burn them.”

Mrs Reynolds’ eye twinkled craftily. “I left the burning for you to do, sir.” She took the key from around her neck and opened her little desk drawer to withdraw a short stack of hand-written notes. “Here you are, sir—for your approval.”

Richard leafed briskly through them, then thrust them with great satisfaction into the fire grate. “I intend to speak with Miss Darcy, if she will open her door. Will you have tea brought up, Mrs Reynolds? And perhaps you may send someone to unpack her bags. I am sorry to disappoint her, but we must remain here for a short while, at least.”

A proud gratification glowed upon the loyal housekeeper’s face. “Certainly, sir. And may I say, it is a pleasure to have you returned.”

December, 1813 Longbourn

N ovember passed, and with it the still, pleasant days of the long autumn. Deep winter dawned one morning with a vengeance, just as the residents of Longbourn fell under the pall of Lydia’s new circumstances. Elizabeth had not, after all, gone to London, for she felt her presence more sorely wanted now than ever by her youngest sister. She was the only remaining Bennet sister who felt thus, for Kitty and Mary had distanced themselves even farther from their wayward younger sibling—Mary, out of perceived righteousness, and Kitty, out of boredom.

Mrs Bennet’s nerves distressed her greatly during this time, for she worried now whether Lydia ought to risk the expected journey to Newcastle and her husband’s regiment. It was not to be attempted by coach, surely, but she felt it irregular in the extreme that Lydia should birth her child in the home of her girlhood before Mr Wickham had sent for her. “How everyone will talk!” she was often heard to lament. “Why, they will carry on as if you had no husband at all! Mrs Long will gossip so, and those Lucases cannot remain silent either. Lydia, my love, do take care not to leave your ring in your jewelry box when we have callers, and do not let it turn over so that the diamond cannot be seen! Such a fine ring it is. Surely no penniless soldier could have purchased it. They must see that!”

Mr Bennet, when he was present for these expressions of motherly concern, was known simply to roll his eyes and raise his paper yet higher. Within a few more sentences from his wife, he would invariably snort his derision and stalk to the privacy of his library—often not sparing a word even for Elizabeth as he passed.

For her part, Elizabeth was desperate to divert her sister. Lydia’s secret was no longer a private matter, but Elizabeth remained unconvinced that the girl would not still attempt to do herself harm. Lydia spoke the proper words of humility and resignation, but that rebellious streak that had previously caused her such great trouble was still very much a part of her character. It was evident in her eyes—a certain hardness that would not yet surrender. Whether she meant to work it for her own restoration or instead, it would prove her undoing remained uncertain.

As a consequence, Elizabeth seldom left Lydia’s side. She exerted all her considerable charm and wit to draw out the girl from her self-imposed solitude, and many an afternoon found them engaged in needlework or, more commonly, discordant duets at the pianoforte. These did little to improve Lydia’s skill, but much to lighten her moods.

A month’s time saw a minuscule improvement in Lydia’s spirits, but by mid-December, Elizabeth’s reserves of fortitude had paid a harsh toll. Her only escapes were those afternoons when she could consign the guardianship of her sister to Mrs Hill—for, as Mrs Bennet counseled, Lydia must be properly trained to manage her husband’s household when he sent for her, and surely an officer as distinguished as Mr Wickham would require a wife of the utmost sophistication and capability.

It was on these days when Elizabeth began walking regularly to Netherfield, bundled against the wind and rain. It was a restorative balm to her soul, sitting quietly for a time with Jane and even the kind Mr Bingley. Still, no matter the insistence of the application by her host and hostess, she could never be persuaded to take a room for the night. She often, however, availed herself of Jane’s new carriage when the weather had grown unpromising for a return walk.

This crisp afternoon held no rain, so Elizabeth bade her sister an affectionate farewell at the door. She deliberately did not see the worried looks exchanged by husband and wife as she turned down the steps, nor could she have known that, at a nod from Jane, Mr Bingley would summon one of his stable hands to unobtrusively follow her home to ensure her safety. She desired the solitude and the freedom of setting her own meandering pace, not intending to arrive again at Longbourn until nearly dusk.

She set out along an indirect way, one she had admired the previous year during her short residence at the house. It began near the manicured hedges and soon narrowed to a half-groomed path among the trees, leading down to a long grassy bank along the stream. The trail followed the water some way before turning back through an orchard, and finally, to the fields that bordered Longbourn. It was an isolated route, resplendent with the silver of impending frost and shrouded in a bower of blessed silence.

Elizabeth stopped as she neared the stream. This was her favourite scene along the route, where the shallows bubbled and coursed over the rocks and an old willow spread her bare branches over a little log bridge across the waters… and it was where she had once interrupted Mr Darcy’s silent reverie.

He had been leaning against that very tree, his tall frame only slightly off-balance as he stretched a long arm through the hanging branches to the trunk. His head had been bowed, seemingly lost in some private thought, until he heard her approach.

“Miss Bennet!” had cried he. He had then clamped his lips, as though fearful to speak another word.

Elizabeth had braced her shoulders, then responded with a measured, “Mr Darcy,” followed by a short curtsey.

He had dropped his hand from the tree, casting about for some polite subject. “It is a fine day for walking,” he had offered— had there been some little eagerness in his tone?

“It is indeed, sir. This path is a favourite of mine. I beg you would excuse me for disturbing your solitude.” She had shifted her weight, preparing to walk on.

“It is no disturbance, Miss Bennet,” he had replied quickly. “I was about to return to the house.” His eyes had brightened, and she distinctly remembered a nervous swallow. Had he been about to offer to escort her?

“I am gratified to know that I do not trouble you, sir,” she had smiled archly. “I have only begun my constitutional, and so I shall bid you a good afternoon.”

“Do you ever ride, Miss Bennet?” he had interjected just as she was turning away.

Elizabeth had paused to study him curiously. Why should he have cared whether she ever rode? “I am perfectly capable of riding, sir, but I do not find it a terribly relaxing means of exercise.”

“No, but it need not always be relaxing. Rather, I should have thought one such as yourself might find it exhilarating. Have you never tried a fence?” His eyes had swept—very lightly—over her figure then, as though mentally evaluating her athletic prowess and suiting her with an appropriate mount and sidesaddle.

“No, sir. Horses tend to have a will of their own. As my own mind is quite determined to have its way, I do not like to think of matching my strength against that of a creature ten times my size.”

He had smiled then, and it had been the first time she had observed the small dimple in his cheek. Oh, that smile she remembered so well! The rare one, reserved only for quiet moments when… when he saw an opportunity to match wits. “It is not the power of the body, but the strength of the mind that determines a rider’s success. I believe yours to be one of remarkable tenacity, and I hope you will forgive the assumption that you enjoyed equestrian pursuits. Have you had some frightening experience?”

“I have been frustrated, and on more than one occasion. My own feet do not disobey me so readily as my father’s old hunter.”

Some spark had come to his eye then, and though his features had not moved, there had been a distinct light of humour to his countenance. Had he been mocking her, or… or flirting? “I trust, Miss Bennet, that should you ever undertake the enterprise with the whole force of your natural will, you shall meet with success.”

Elizabeth had felt a scowl spreading from her lips. “That is hardly a gentlemanly speech, sir. I cannot know whether you mean to compliment me, or call me willful.”

He had appeared shocked, either at her saucy retort or at the audacity of his own words. “I meant no offence, Miss Bennet. It was only an observation borne out by what I know of your character. You do not shrink from a challenge, and horsemanship can prove a valuable skill for a young lady. It seems likely that one day you will assume the weight of duties that will nearly demand such an accomplishment of you.” Had he been implying that she would one day be mistress of a larger estate than Longbourn?

“I thank you for your concern, sir. Should I ever find myself in need of an instructor to improve my riding, I shall not hesitate to seek your advice. For today, I prefer two feet to four.” She had glanced pointedly at Mr Darcy’s own feet then, just as he shifted one of them in her direction. O h, mercy, he had been about to walk on with her! How could she have been so indifferent to his intentions?

He had stiffened noticeably. “Until dinner then, Miss Bennet. I wish you a pleasant outing.”

E lizabeth now braced against that very tree, gasping in horror. How sternly she had rebuffed his first overtures of friendship! Many other occasions of their early acquaintance had played again and again through her mind, but that first private talk had been nearly forgotten. How could she have missed his good opinion, shining in every uncomfortable syllable and pouring from his hesitant expression? Oh, dear heavens, he loved me even then!

She turned into the tree, bracing her arm against the cold bark and burrowing under it. Disgust with herself coupled with redoubled sorrow that she had deliberately misunderstood his meanings at nearly every encounter. Had she only been more reasonable, perhaps their brief, explosive acquaintance could have instead been one of mutual amity. Perhaps she might have perceived his unmerited passion, kept so viciously in check, and have understood the torment he sustained in determining not to offer for her. And perhaps… perhaps when he did at last succumb, she would have answered his ardent plea with gentleness, rather than indignation.

Four months they might have had together! So brief—what couple can truly form into one spirit in such a short span? Yet what would she have given to know him only a little better! To feel his lips brush her hair, just once—to hear him murmur lovingly, “ My dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. ”

A moan escaped her, a nearly inhuman cry of anguish as she crushed her face into the bark. If only she could substitute the physical pain of clasping that tree with all her strength for the wrenching suffering of her regrets! Yet it was not her own sorrow and loss that darkened her heart, but the certain knowledge that he had left this world believing she did not—never would! —care for him. The pain she had caused him could never be erased, and he had met his death never once hearing a tender word from her.

Four months she could have held him before that black day in August… But no! Had he been assured of her love, with her family in sufficient awe of his formidable approval, Lydia might never have been permitted to make that ill-fated journey! No dark errand might have then summoned him to the rotting underbelly of London, and no violent attack could have stricken him. It is all my own fault!

She beat her head mercilessly into the cold bark, almost wishing her brow would begin to bleed. Such an injury might at last bring atoning relief! Blood—Darcy’s blood—was no less on her hands than of those who raised their fists against him, and never could she be absolved. No court in the world would convict her, but what of poor Georgiana Darcy, if she knew all? Could she smile upon Elizabeth Bennet, the woman her brother had given his life to please, and hold her blameless? Certainly not! Because of her own pride and resentment, the best man in the world now lay cold in the crypt of his fathers.

She remained there, clutching the trunk of that unyielding old willow, until her fingers grew numb with the chill. Sighing deeply, she at last stepped back and looked once more on that hallowed ground where he had once stood. The grass, the leaves, even the lively brook were now muted. All was shriveled and dying in the ruthless grip of winter. Could her heart not similarly freeze? For a few months at least, could her love not slumber so she might know some measure of rest?

Oh, but even if the gift of merciful oblivion were offered her, she could never choose it. Elizabeth’s eyes scanned up the barren tree to the dwindling glow of the frost-obscured sun. To forget the pain of losing Darcy would be to grow insensible to her own conviction that there could never be another like him. Not for any inducement would she sacrifice the joy of being loved by one such as he, even for some relief from her sorrow. She would cling to that knowledge, that once she had been loved and loved in return, and it had wrought a tenderness and a beauty in her that left her forever marked by its passing. She would content herself—she must! —for the power of this love must suffice for a lifetime.

Elizabeth clutched a hand to her chest, wishing to seize that ache and to never let it go, for it was now her only token of him. I will always belong to you! she vowed silently . Never will another touch my heart, for you took it with you.

Her mouth worked frantically as she made her resolution, desperate to avoid another wild outcry of anguish into the woods. None should know of her sorrow—it was hers to bear willingly and alone. Trembling, she dashed the cold tears from her cheeks. Then she turned quietly and resumed her solitary march to Longbourn.

Porto, Portugal

S ix paces.

That was the limit of his freedom. Six of his measured steps described the length and breadth of the chamber he now occupied. Enough light was permitted through a grate above his head for him to account for the passing of days, and sixty-two new etches stood out in the opposite wall against the darker gray stone. His were not the only marks upon this wall—only the most recent.

Darcy spent most of his days pacing. He had tried at first protesting the injustice of his captivity to any passing voice, but all he ever earned for his trouble was disappointment and bruised fists. How quickly his circumstances had taught him to surrender!

No , he quickly corrected himself. He had not surrendered, merely discovered the futility of one approach. There would be another. After all, no one ever forcibly captured a man such as he, then kept him alive to no purpose. Someone wanted something of him, and it only remained for whatever external circumstances had driven his abduction to ripen to the fullness of their depravity. That there must be some reason for the delayed explanations and demands of his captors, he did not doubt. What it might be was the question that baffled and tormented him in his solitude.

As prisoners went, it is likely that he was treated well, though the experiences of his life to this point lent him no proper frame of reference. New clothing had awaited him upon his arrival to… well, he had no idea if this were a proper prison, or somewhere more secretive. A steady supply of fresh food and drink came thrice daily, and the food was of a far higher quality than might normally be accorded a prisoner. There was tea each morning and afternoon, and even wine some evenings—both of such quality that they were not objectionable even to himself, one accustomed to the very best. Most curious of all, there was meat each day of the week, save one—Darcy had determined that one day to be Friday, and had marked it as such on his stone calendar.

What manner of villain first violently kidnapped a wealthy man, then transported him in so careless a manner, as though his date of arrival were of lesser import than the cargo the ship carried? Why then leave him to himself without so much as a question or word of demand, yet feed him like a prince?

The mystery savaged his mind in those dark hours alone. With each day, he would the more readily have sworn away all that was his own, simply to regain his freedom and see another human face. Perhaps that was the intent, after all—the longer he remained locked away, the greater chance his captor believed for success to his objective. Let them have it all! Only that morning when his tray slid under the door had he cried out, “Ask of me whatever you wish! It is yours, whatever is in my power to give, only free me!”

His plea was met directly with silence, of course, followed by a few muttered words in another language in the outer corridor. He had been able to gather little of the language, or the country he was in, but he no longer thought it to be Spain or Italy. He was nearly fluent in Italian and reasonably familiar with Spanish, and the spoken words he heard were not quite right. Portugal was his best guess. But why? He had no business or contacts in that country. No enemies of whom he was aware, but it was a universal fact that a man of wealth never wanted for foes. Enough English soldiers had passed through this land in recent years, it was not impossible that he was known to someone .

Hissing in frustration, Darcy ceased his pacing and flung himself on the small bunk of his chamber to think. His wealth seemed the most obvious objective, but before anyone could lay claim to a farthing of the Darcy fortune, they first had to deal with… his heart seized every time he thought of it. Georgiana! He daily cursed himself for an imbecile that he had not placed some legal barrier between her and her potential inheritance, but never could he have imagined that her fortune might have endangered her. Damn you, Richard, you had better guard her well!

Richard was no fool, surely. He would understand her vulnerability and would not leave her—unless recalled to his regiment. Heaven only knew what might then be arranged for her! Certainly, the entire Fitzwilliam family would rally to her—the poor child!

Again, he tormented himself, imagining what they believed had become of him. Did they know where he had been when attacked? What speculation must arise from that circumstance! And what of his appointment the following day—had Wickham done the honourable thing and wed Lydia Bennet? Good Mr and Mrs Gardiner, what were their thoughts when he had not appeared? Had Bingley ever reconciled himself to Miss Bennet? How everyone must have thought he had failed them!

His head in his hands, he allowed his heart to wander back to the reason for it all. Elizabeth. Does she believe I could ever have abandoned her? He scarcely permitted himself to think on her, for when he did, a fury such as he had never known welled up within him. Fool that he had been, he had done himself harm enough in her eyes! To be now robbed of his chance to make things right, to lose all hope of ever winning her favour, was surely the greatest wrong ever perpetrated against him. Would he ever see her again, and would she have wed another by the time that day came?

Darcy’s fists clenched, his fingers tangling painfully in the tousled hair at his brow. Elizabeth! His chest heaved, his heart raging at the injustice of it all, until he could no longer remain seated. A cry of anguish and hatred for his captors ripped from him and he leapt to his feet, his arm slashing the air as if it were a man.

Inspired, he repeated the motion. Slash. Parry. Thrust! Again and again, his body rehearsed the well-schooled manoeuvres. Parry. Retreat. Advance—Thrust! Darcy spun and slashed, his sword hand gripping the empty air with a ferocity he had never brought to his exercise.

Half an hour later, wrung with sweat, he sank to the cool stone of the floor. What he would give to have Wilson there with a towel and a basin of fresh water! Yet, despite the exhaustion, he felt the best he had in weeks. Would that he had a face to attach to his enemy, that deplorable figure on which to focus the full measure of his just wrath!

Darcy mopped his bearded face with his under shirt, his chest heaving as he contemplated the light from the grate above. Truly, he had a better face than his enemy’s to fill his imagination. It was the very one that faded from his eyes each morning when they opened to take in his solitary chamber—the one face that had awakened in him all to which true manhood might aspire, and the one that had the power to soothe and comfort him in the darkest places. He closed his eyes, his heart beating a little more evenly now.

Heavily, he lowered his tired body to his cot, draping his arm over his face. This night, at least, he would have rest, and his dreams would be of his own making. Elizabeth.