Page 70 of These Dreams (Heart to Heart Collection #1)

Chapter seventy

Cheapside, London

A mália softly closed the door to Mr Gardiner’s sick room and stood for a moment, staring at it. No rational person would be as kind and welcoming to her as this couple had been. She was a stranger, dropped into their laps by someone entirely unknown to them; with almost no friends and no credibility in the country, as well as a scandalous past that had followed her and nearly cost them everything.

She should have been escorted to the nearest ship, with a polite pat on her head at the very best. Why, she was not even proper governess material for their children, being Roman Catholic and not well-versed in English etiquette! She should have been shamed, cast out, and left on her own.

Instead, however, she had been accorded the honours of a daughter of the house—taking meals with the family, helping care for Mr Gardiner in his injured state, looking over business matters with Mrs Gardiner, and, perhaps best of all, speaking long into the afternoon with the lady about life and love and children and hope.

Amália’s fingers traced gently over the couple’s door. Yes, hope. That was what she most longed for. The sort of deep, binding affection so fluently spoken in looks and touches by this loving couple was like something in a dream. How was it possible, to live one’s life serving and seeking another’s well-being before her own? Who in the world could she trust so far, to lay herself open, baring her throat in faith that not sharpened teeth, but tender caresses would capture her?

It was a ridiculous question, really. There was one, and only one. She blinked tear-blurred eyes and allowed her fingers to fall from the door. Richard could never be hers. Not before, when she was married; not after, when he was still a penniless Anglican; certainly not now that he was the heir to his father’s title. He would need a wife whose blood matched his own, who could aid her husband in Society and host galas for the elegant lords and ladies of the great machine that was the English Parliament. A woman such as Mr Darcy’s sister could give him a son of pedigree and unquestioned character in the eyes of the ton , not tainted by a Catholic heritage and a mother widowed under peculiar circumstances. What right had she to even think of him, when it would deny him the future he deserved?

She turned away and wandered to the sitting room. Mrs Gardiner’s sewing basket rested there, full of small items she had been mending for her young children. Amália gently lifted the top garment—a little white dress, only just retired from her youngest son. The affectionate mother had been in the process of mending a rip in the sleeve, preparing to put it up in hopes that another would wear it soon. Another child, another promise, another dream fulfilled for another woman. Amália dropped it back in the basket, covered her face, and wept.

The front door clattered, and Amália tried valiantly to collect herself. It would be Elizabeth and her father again, most likely, returned from their dinner at Mr Darcy’s house. Oh, she could not allow them to see her like this! She wiped frantically at the tears streaking her face as a low, urgent voice spoke to the manservant in the outer hall. A moment later, the door to the drawing room swung open and Richard burst through.

He fell before her feet at once, his breath coming short and his eyes rimmed red with the agitation of the last days. He reached for her hand and bowed his head, pressing his forehead to her knuckles.

“Amália,” he heaved, never lifting his face, “I beg you….”

She looked away, swallowing the hard knot in her throat. “You need not explain, Richard. I understand,” she whispered.

He raised his head to blink curiously. “You understand? But I have not yet spoken.”

“It is not necessary, Richard. I know what you have come to say. It is safe for me to return home now. Do you know of a ship on which I might sail?”

“A ship?” He shook his head. “Amália, I cannot bear to lose you!”

Her eyes filled with tears again. “Nor, I, meu amor .” She sniffed and lifted daring fingers to caress his cheek, one last time. “ Vou ter saudades tuas, ” she choked. She closed her eyes then, blocking out the pain of seeing him kiss her hand, watching him rise without looking back, and beholding the door as it closed behind him.

“Amália,” she felt him cup her chin, felt his thumb stroke over her cheekbone, and opened her eyes. The pleading look upon his face nearly shattered her heart. It was too cruel that he should still be there, begging for her blessing in bidding her farewell! Had she not already given it? He cradled her face in both hands now, those soft brown eyes gazing up into her own.

“Amália, minha flor— do you remember when I used to call you that?”

A breath swelled in her bosom, a wistful smile threatened, and she nodded as the tears spilled down her lashes.

“I would do so again, and every day forever. I have not come to see you depart from me! I came to bring you this.” He bent and withdrew a small box from his coat, then opened it before her eyes. Within was a white band, sprinkled delicately with clear diamonds, and crowned with a golden gem. Its shade was both soft and warm, like the buttercups he had given her the day they had met. Amália stared in wonder. She had never seen another like it.

“It is a yellow diamond,” he explained. “I know it is not the most valuable I could have chosen, but it made me think of you.”

She was shaking her head, biting her lips together and blinking away the tears. “I cannot, Richard! We both know I cannot, and nor can you. Your father would never approve.”

He smiled, that dashing, laughing smile she knew from former days. “This ring,” he lifted it from the box, “is from the Countess of Matlock’s personal collection. It once belonged to Lady Georgina—my great-aunt and Darcy’s grandmother—and upon her death it was returned to the Fitzwilliam family. My mother wore it, and now, I give it to you.”

“Richard, I do not understand,” she objected softly. “It is impossible, have we not always agreed? Would not your position be threatened by—”

“Amália, my love, I had determined to speak before I received word of my brother. I planned for us to return to Portugal together, to stay there the rest of our lives.”

“You… you would do that?” She tilted her head in disbelief, brushing her ear against the hand that caressed her cheek. “But you cannot now. Your family needs you.”

“I certainly can do so. There is no law compelling me to accept my father’s title. Addington refused an earldom ten years ago.”

“Not to marry a Catholic widow,” she reminded him quietly.

“No, certainly not, but it frightened my father enough that he agreed to support me. He has already lost Reginald, and when I told him that I would refuse any lady but you, that the earldom would die with him and that I would remain in the army to my death, he relented. My mother, too, is too grieved to stand against me now. I know it is unjust of me to play against their sympathies so, but it is done, and I do not regret it. Moreover,” he stroked his thumb along the edge of her jaw, “they are most eager to meet the woman who defied their enemies to free Darcy.”

“But Richard,” she protested, refusing to even look on the ring he held out to her, “you have told me before. There would be… política . He does have rivals, no? I would bring shame to your house!”

“It would not be a popular marriage,” he confessed. “I do not pretend we would be without hardship, but nothing could be half so agonising as to lose you again. I have grieved over this for years—I know what you will face in the ton , and it will be brutal. I could never dare to ask it of you before, but perhaps now I shall carry just enough prestige to make it bearable for you. Can you endure it?”

“It is not for myself that I am concerned. Your family, they will suffer as well, no?”

“I told you this ring was a gift from my mother, and my father has been arguing for Emancipation for years. They are not best pleased, it is true, but our union is not without its charms for them. Your father is of noble lineage, and I have not yet told you about your dowry.”

“Dowry? It was spent, long ago—”

“Not the one given by your father, but the one you won by your own courage. Darcy wishes for you to have that deed that has remained hidden all these years. He thought yours the most proper hands for it to fall into.”

She shivered. “I do not want it.”

“Nor do I, but my father, after some reflection, considered it a macabre sort of poetic justice. I thought we could place it in the care of your brother. Oh, my love, I received a letter today!”

She stiffened. “About Ruy? Oh, Richard, does my father write? Please, you must tell me!”

“No, it is from General Cotton’s aide. I have my connections,” he smiled, then withdrew the letter from his breast pocket. “He wrote that the charges against your brother were dismissed. There were sufficient witnesses to verify that he defended a lady against an armed assailant, and that your father arrived in time to testify in his favour. It seems that your father then wrote a scathing denouncement of the Vasconcelos family, as well as Pereira, the dead man. Your brother,” he was grinning by now as he re-folded the note, “should already be in Porto to resume his leave.”

Amália was trembling with joy, relief, and pride. “Ruy! Oh, Richard!” She instinctively sought to hide her tears, to cover her face, and she found her cheek pressed against his shoulder. His gentle hand was stroking her hair, and his soothing voice in her ears.

“ Minha flor ,” he murmured, “I will take you back to see them as soon as I may, but promise me that I shall not sail away this time without you. I do not think I could survive it! I beg of you, permit me to remain forever with you, or come back to England with me. Do not permit an ocean to part us again!”

She drew her arms about his neck and held him—held him near to her heart, as she had yearned for so long. She nodded into his shoulder, the joyous tears wetting his coat. “All the winds in the sails could not tear me from you.”

She felt him sigh in deepest relief, and his head tipped to rest upon hers as he pulled her closer. “I know we must wait a year,” he continued, his voice thick with regret. “I hope you will spend part of that year here with me in England.”

A tearful, joyous laugh shook her, and she lifted her head. “Do you think I might attend Senhor Darcy and Senhorita Bennet’s marriage?”

“I would insist upon it. Elizabeth Darcy will be your first ally in the ton. Though not without her own obstacles, I have faith that there is one lady whose courage will rise to the challenge.” His brow clouded, and he tipped her chin to look into her eyes. “We have not yet settled where we will live. Is it your wish that I remain with you in Portugal? I would, if you desired it. Whom would you marry—the soldier, or the earl’s son? Neither will be an easy man to choose.”

“I choose Richard, whatever he is.” She drew back enough to gaze into the eyes she had dreamed of for so long, then lifted a possessive, loving hand to that square jaw she had thought never to caress again. “ Eu a mo-te , Richard Fitzwilliam, meu amor . My heart and life are yours.”

The flesh around his eyes crinkled with delight. “And mine belong to you, my flower!”

No more words were spoken, for their tender expressions and sweet assurances found voice instead in gentle kisses and a secure, loving embrace. Amália clasped her love close to her heart, safe and cherished at last, and promising to never again let him go.