These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Read online

  A Pride and Prejudice Variation

  Nicole Clarkston

  Copyright © 2017 Nicole Clarkston

  Cover Design by Janet Taylor

  All rights reserved.

  ASIN: B074SYW889

  Dedication

  To Jane Austen. Thank you for 200 years.

  Acknowledgements

  We all have our people. In my case, I have a lot of them. This book has been a labour of love for so many, and I am deeply indebted to each and every one of them for their encouragement, support, and advice during the creation of this book.

  I first must acknowledge my partners in crime: Janet Taylor of More Agreeably Engaged, and Rita Deodato of From Pemberley to Milton. Between the two of them, I will have story inspirations until Doomsday.

  Janet holds my hand every step of the way. She is the lady who gets the head-smacking-the-keyboard emails when I am in the early stages, and the frantic texts at the end. Still, she keeps cheering me on. She helped craft some of Darcy’s character in this book through her invaluable insights, and then, she made that cover. What took me over 200,000 words to say, she described with one picture.

  Rita said to me one day, “I always wished the colonel would fall in love with a Portuguese girl.” I couldn’t let that one go! She helped create and name every Portuguese character in this book. She has been feeding me information on Portugal, the language, the history, and the culture since this book was in the early conception stages, and she even sent me a real bottle of Port to celebrate its completion.

  I must also thank my fellow authors: the lovely authors of Austen Variations are the most wonderful group of writers you will ever meet. I am grateful for their encouragement and support. In addition, three other authors have been tremendously helpful in the creative process: Joy Dawn King, Don Jacobson, and Joana Starnes. Thank you all for your critiques and beta-reads, and Joy, thank you for challenging me to “sprint!”

  Debbie Fortin beta read this entire monster from the beginning, helping to tweak awkward sentences (because I do love them so), and preserve the flow of the text. All this while she was having surgery!

  Lastly, and far from least, is the final set of eyes on this book before publication. Betty Madden caught errors that I hadn’t noticed in nine months of writing, and she polished my grammar until I actually sounded sophisticated. She managed this despite frustrating technical problems and the exceedingly short window I gave her between my final edits and publication date. Thank you, Betty!

  I am grateful to so many more, and most importantly to my family, who have tolerated my insanity while l finished this turkey. Now, it is yours to enjoy. Bom apetite!

  1

  28 August, 1813

  London

  Fitzwilliam Darcy exited the disgraceful hovel in one of London’s worst districts, tugging self-consciously at his hat. He sighed at last in relief. He was assured now that George Wickham would make his appearance at the church in the morning, for the man could not afford to vanish. For better or worse, a few more hours would see that cad and wild Lydia Bennet shackled to each another for life.

  He stepped quickly to a side street, not wishing even to be seen loitering in this part of the city. There was only one possible reason a wealthy man would dally here, and though it would only be winked at, he abhorred the association. A block away, he paused to collect his thoughts.

  It was well that he had discovered the youngest Bennet girl when he had. It was too late for her virtue, but not so disastrous that she was beyond all hope of recovery. It was a mercy that her uncle was a man of great sense and less pride, for even now that good man and his lady wife were exerting themselves to redeem Lydia Bennet’s morals somewhat before her wedding. With a man such as Edward Gardiner for her public defender and himself as her secret guardian, it was yet possible that the girl could regain some measure of respectability… and her sisters—and Elizabeth—might freely mingle in society once more.

  Some secret part of him longed to ride to her door the very moment the ceremony was completed. He would seek her out on one of her scandalous solitary walks, fall on his knees, and declare to her all that love of her had wrought in him. How grateful she would be to him for saving her sister! How pretty her tears and words of contrition, and how sweet her rosy cheeks and embarrassed teases when she recovered from her initial shock? The tenuous threads that had begun to twine them together during her stay in Derbyshire might weave ever stronger, binding her heart and winning him her hand at last. Delicious as that particular fantasy might seem, it could never be!

  Since his world had shattered at Hunsford and he had faced the reality of life without Elizabeth Bennet, he had overcome his objections to her connections. Those feelings dispatched, it had been an effortless journey from baffling passion to overpowering devotion—of the kind that sought only her happiness, at the expense of his own and even in the face of scandal. His long carriage ride from Pemberley had provided ample opportunity for him to sort his feelings.

  He would do for her what no other could, and he would do all in secrecy so that no shadow of obligation should haunt her. If he could ever have won her love by fair means, he might have counted himself the most blessed man in the kingdom. Now, however, his confession of involvement in her sister’s affairs could only bring her shame. Any affection bestowed under such duress would bear the taint of obligation, and that he could not accept. No, far better that he leave her in peace, for his company had ever been distressing to her, and could only be more so now.

  Perhaps, if she were not eager to marry another, he might one day meet with her as common—but not so indifferent—acquaintances. He had good reason to believe that Bingley would have understood the meaning of his cryptic note the day before, encouraging the fellow to stop once more at Netherfield for the fall shooting—without his sisters. If that hint were not strong enough, he would speak more pointedly on the subject when next they met. If Elizabeth had been right, Bingley might find a warm welcome and untold joy upon his return to Hertfordshire.

  It was possible that he might then, after such obvious efforts to right his wrongs, dare to begin again with Elizabeth. What he would give to bring her home with him! She was not a woman to wander in indecision, and if she had begun to think better of him, no protracted courtship would be necessary. Might he even win her affections early enough that he would not spend another winter alone? Could it be possible?

  His heart burned, convincing himself that the prospect might yet blossom before him, but then constricted once more. It was alternately possible that one day she would fall into the arms of another man, and as a friend of her future brother, he would be forced to look on in silence.

  Bah! He shook his head, banishing the twisting of his stomach and the panic rising in his heart. All of this was yet pointless dread, for until the morrow’s ceremony, her family was still at risk and any romantic hopes blighted. He would carry out the one detail he could control, and hope that someday she might find him worthy of her friendship and regard. Such warm sentiments might eventually flourish into love—pure, unselfish love, such as that he held for her. Should it prove impossible, his heart owed her nothing less than a complete withdrawal. He clenched his eyes as he walked, swallowing the shooting pain arcing through his chest. Elizabeth….

  Footsteps behind him snapped him back to awareness. It had been a grave risk, facing these streets alone, night after night in his search for Wickham. A man dressed as he was drew attention, and his face was one easily recognised by any who cared to notice such things.

  Not for the first time, he doubted the wisd
om of his decision to go out without the protection of at least a footman or a driver, but secrecy had been of the utmost importance. His fine and imposing appearance, though marking him to prospective thieves, had served a purpose as well—all the better to impress his will upon a recalcitrant landlady and an unrepentant pair of reprobates. Still, he could not afford to be found deaf and blind to his surroundings! Woolgathering over his lost love could cost him dearly.

  The steps were light and quick—a child, perhaps, or a small woman. As they drew daringly closer he clamped his hand over the coin purse in his pocket, preparing either to shield it from less threatening pickpockets, or fling it away from himself at greater need. Counting two more steps, he whirled. “Why do you follow me?” he demanded.

  A young girl, no more than fifteen and dressed in rags, shrank back from him. She cowered behind her raised arm, wincing at the harshness of his tones. “I dinna’ mean no ‘arm, suh!” she protested.

  He relaxed, dropping his hand. “You should not be alone on the streets, miss.”

  “Lawd, ain’t yew ‘igh an’ mighty! ’Tis me work. I ‘ave ter eat, suh.” The little waif crossed her arms indignantly, then her eyes widened when his hand hesitantly moved once more toward his pocket. “I’ll give yew a right good one! I’ve a room ‘round da corner.”

  “Certainly not!” His hand moved quickly away once more, his face pinching in disgust. This refuse of society was nearly the same age as George Wickham’s latest quarry—the one he had just laboured to save. What difference was there between the two but the circumstances of their birth and upbringing? There was less he could do for this stranger, perhaps, but his own innate charity would not permit him to simply turn his back.

  It appeared, however, that his vehement rejection of her services brought about a sudden melancholy, for she began to pout and whimper. Whether genuine disappointment or a practiced art, he could not say. He knew only that he could not leave her thus.

  “When did you last take a proper meal?” he asked more gently.

  Her hanging head jerked upward in astonishment. “’Proper meal,’ ‘e says! Lawd, suh, I ‘ave ter fend fer meself. Where is a girl like me supposed ter find tea an’ crumpets? Eatin’ like Prinny, I s’pose yew mean?”

  He grimaced, then reached into his pocket. He weighed the purse before withdrawing it, then stepped near. “Hold out your hand,” he instructed. When she hesitantly did so, he poured the entire contents into her outstretched palm. “There is a boarding house, second block over, number six. The proprietress is a Mrs Younge.”

  She nodded. “I know the ‘ouse. She’ll frow me aaaht quick as yew please! She never lets me stay wiv me fellas more than an hour.”

  He frowned, barraged by a series of images he would much rather have done without. “Indeed. Show her one of these coins and tell her that the gentleman who was just there gave them to you. She will not dare to defy my instructions. You are to ask her for a week’s board and a clean set of clothing, and then for work. Stay off the streets, and look well to your appearance and manners. I believe she is in need of a new chamber maid, if the state of the establishment is any indication. I hope you may find honourable employment, miss.”

  She gaped for the space of a heartbeat, then her fist tightened around the coins he had given her as if she were afraid he might change his mind. Like a flash, she spun and was gone. He lingered only a few seconds more himself—long enough to see that, indeed, she had taken the direction to Mrs Younge’s abode.

  His conscience now lightened a precious little, he sighed and began to turn away. I think, he mused silently, that Elizabeth would approve, if I ever dare to tell her. That happy thought warmed and stirred his heart, quickening his steps toward his own home. It was the last notion to pass through his mind before a noiseless, earth-shattering blow to his head. In a flash of light, his breath heaved from his lungs and he crumpled, senseless, to the ground.

  ~

  “Does not my Wickham look handsome in his Regimentals?”

  Lydia Bennet had not the decency to titter behind a gloved hand, as many another giddy girl too young for marriage might do. No, Lydia proclaimed her opinion loudly and to all who cared to hear, as well as to several who did not.

  One such was Madeline Gardiner. “Lydia, dear, the rector is waiting for us!” she hushed her niece.

  “Oh, bother that, Aunt. I know I am to be married, so it does not signify if we are a few minutes delayed. I want to admire my George!” Lydia brazenly stared out upon the street, waving as she caught sight of her betrothed.

  “Oh!” she cried in relief as her aunt at last succeeded in tugging her within the church. “Did you see the other officer with him? I did not recognise him—certainly he was not one of George’s particular friends like Denny or Carter, but neither was he that insufferable Mr Darcy!”

  “Lydia!” admonished her aunt, as firmly as she dared within the church. She glanced about, catching her husband’s eye, then leaned close to her niece’s ear. “You know very well all the particulars of Mr Darcy’s kindness to you,” she whispered. “I think perhaps one day you will see more clearly how your circumstances would have suffered without his assistance!”

  “Oh, certainly I am grateful, Aunt,” she shrugged airily. “But it is only George’s due that Mr Darcy has given at last. You know how he was wronged, and I would hate to see that man standing up at my wedding, even if he did, in the end, set us up so very happily.”

  Aunt Gardiner rolled her eyes and bit her lower lip. She longed to throttle the empty-headed girl, but there… Lydia was to be George Wickham’s problem soon enough, and her dear Jane and Lizzy the beneficiaries of the honourable arrangement. She shot an imploring glance to her husband, and thanked heaven that Edward stepped forward.

  “Mr Darcy is coming, Lydia,” he assured his niece in no uncertain terms. “I insist that you show him every respect, for until you sign the registry, you are still under my authority. I will honour the man, and my household will do the same.”

  Lydia groaned, her eyes half-closed and her expression a cynical deadpan. “Of course, Uncle,” she sighed.

  Edward Gardiner sidled close to his wife, shaking his head. Lydia Bennet possessed all the maturity of a twelve-year-old, yet it was for him to give her hand in marriage to a man nearly twice her age. There could be no honour in this! If only there had been another way… but there was not. Wickham’s dissolute ways and Lydia’s own foolishness had seen to that. It was only a mercy that Mr Darcy carried enough influence over George Wickham to ensure that she would be treated well, even after the wedding. And speaking of Mr Darcy….

  “My dear,” Madeline whispered close to his shoulder, “I thought Mr Darcy was to escort Mr Wickham to the church?”

  “As did I,” he replied in a strained voice. Wickham was now entering, and Darcy was nowhere to be seen. “He had arranged for Wickham to meet with another officer of his new regiment just up the street—for extra assurance, I understand. He was intending to await them both here at the church. Perhaps he decided in the end that he would prefer no further association with the man, and instructed them to carry on without his presence.”

  “One can hardly blame him,” she reasoned, “after what Lizzy has told me about his history with Mr Wickham. I suspect there is more that she has not said—and besides that, it is not the way of his station to mingle with those such as we.”

  Edward narrowed his eyes, glancing again toward the back of the church. “I believe that he would not wish to encounter Wickham if he could help it, but I see no such pride as you suggest in the man. In fact,” he craned his head about again, as if to verify that the doorway still stood empty, “I rather believed him most pleased with our acquaintance, and with one connection of ours in particular.”

  Madeline smiled, threading her arm tightly through his. “I thought the same, my dear, but a man of his importance must have many demands made of his time and his attachments. I will continue to hope, b
ut I shall not judge the man hastily if he should withdraw. He has been very good to our poor Lydia, after all.”

  He patted her hand. “Nor I, my love.” He looked about the room once more. The small wedding party had assembled, the rector was frowning over his Book of Prayer, and the bride and groom appeared restless. To George Wickham’s off side, the nameless captain waited nonchalantly. He had no vested interest in the proceedings, and had only made his appearance out of solidarity with a future comrade in arms—and perhaps the extra crown weighting his pocket had been of some assistance. He was beginning to tap his toes.

  Edward Gardiner cast one more hopeful glance over his shoulder, but, again, was disappointed. At last, he signaled the parson. “Let us get on with it,” he conceded.

  Lydia squealed in delight.

  ~

  Longbourn, 27 August

  My dear Aunt,

  Pray, write back and tell me how it is that Mr Wickham and Lydia were found so easily! She wrote us the same day she was to come to your house, and I can scarcely credit her assertions. A carriage! Jewels! Lydia has ever been one to embellish the plain truth, but Aunt, even the note paper on which she wrote was of such quality that I believe there must be some mystery at work here.

  How is it possible that he will marry her on such little inducement as my uncle claims? I believe, Aunt, that I understand his character and motivations. I shudder to imagine Lydia’s fate, married to such a man, and I do not think it possible that my uncle would have consented to the arrangement had he not some assurance of her future felicity.

  Dare I ask, Aunt, if another of Mr Wickham’s “acquaintances” had aught to do with the marriage? I can conceive of no other explanation, and yet, I cannot imagine why he would trouble himself! He owes our family nothing—less than nothing! When I last spoke with him in Derbyshire, he gave no indication that we should ever meet again.