These Dreams (Heart to Heart Collection #1)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

28 August, 1813 London

F itzwilliam 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 wisdom 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.

“D oes 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, but 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. Oh, Aunt, I do not criticise him; how could I, when he had shown us such hospitality and consideration? Even when I so thoughtlessly expressed my anguish over Lydia’s elopement in his presence, he did not admonish, nor did he immediately turn away in revulsion. He was kind… sad even, but I felt him very clear on this one salient point: that we must part company. Surely, an association with Mr Wickham and our disgraced family are abhorrent to him, but I must know if my assumptions are mistaken! I expect that you will receive this letter on the very day of the wedding, and as Lydia is to journey here almost immediately, I might the sooner look into her face than receive word from you… but oh, Aunt, I cannot learn what I must from Lydia. Please write, and tell me if my family are indebted to another, and how deeply so. Yours affectionately, Elizabeth

M adeline Gardiner’s hand trembled as she gently laid the note upon her writing desk. She blinked several times, breathing in slow, measured breaths.

“My dear?” Edward leaned over her shoulder. “Is something amiss?”

“A letter from Lizzy,” she explained, passing it to him.

Her husband took it after laying aside his coat, as if shedding from himself the responsibility of the morning’s events. His own face clouded as he read. “Did you leave her any hints in your latest correspondence, my dear?” he asked when he had finished.

“Of course not, but you know Lizzy. She is ever inquisitive, and I believe she has learnt to doubt the first thing she is told. She is not so foolish as to believe the explanation you gave to Thomas, and she has seen Mr Darcy’s generosity for herself.”

His troubled eyes swept the page again. “Only yesterday, I might have suffered no qualms in relaying to her the entire truth, but….”

“But not after Mr Darcy did not appear today?” she guessed very softly. “I thought him well disposed toward her, but that would seem a clear enough indication that he does not intend to renew their acquaintance.”

His face pinched. “Perhaps it is best if she is not led to hope, the sooner her eyes might fall on another.”

She shook her head. “It will not be that simple, I am afraid. Lizzy will see through any dissembling of mine, but even if she does not, I do not believe any other man will easily draw her attention.”

“Why ever not? She is a sensible young lady.”

“She is, Edward, but though she is just coming to know this for herself, I have believed it for some weeks—she is also a young lady violently in love.”

Water. Water everywhere.

D arcy gasped, convulsing and struggling for air. His efforts only intensified the sensation of drowning, filling his lungs with fluid and sending him gagging to his knees. Someone’s boot connected with his middle then, and his abdomen seized uncontrollably.

His eyes wild with panic, he rolled to his back in the pool of water. For eternal seconds, he writhed for air, willing his reluctant lungs to draw breath. Through the haze commanding his mind, his eyes registered two figures and a bucket bending over him. Several shrieking, gasping breaths later, he knew the figures for men, neither of whom he recognised.

“Are yew sure that’s ‘im?” one voice whispered. “’E don’ look so ‘igh an’ mighty.”

“Lawd, that’s ‘im alright. I’d know ‘im anywhere, wiv’ dat fancy waistcoat an’ a’. I’ve been watchin’ ‘im fer months!”

“But ‘e ain’t got no money! F’ought yew said this bloke was rich?”

“’Course ‘e ain’t got money, ‘e gave it to yore ‘arlot!” guffawed the first man. “’E’s a fool, tha’s what ‘e is. Bloke like ‘im could ‘ave paid fer much be’er.”

Darcy was squinting at the two men, still coughing intermittently. He struggled to rise, but quickly found he had been stripped of his former raiment and bound, hand and foot. Little remained of his previous attire but the very most personal of articles, and his torso had been left bare, cold, and wet.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you mean by accosting and robbing me as you have done? I caution you to release me at once, for you shall not like the consequences of detaining me!”

“Oh, ‘e says we’re to let ‘im go! ‘Ow d’yew like that?” the taller man roared in delight. “Naw, suh, yew be goin’ wiv’ us, on a nice li’le voyage.”

“How dare!” Darcy bellowed, attempting to roll to his knees. “I will have you know—” but he was silenced by a vicious kick to his jaw. Robbed of his hands, he fell to his face, spitting blood. Fire shot through his veins at the painful insult. Anchoring his shoulder to the ground, he whirled and lashed out with his bound feet, sweeping them like thick truncheons beneath the shorter man and tumbling him to the floor with a surprised little squeak.

Darcy was on his knees above the man in an instant—to what advantage he could not have told—he only knew the ground was fatal, and an upright posture infinitely preferable. “ Release me! ” he thundered through bloodied lips. “If you do so now, you may only hang for your offence! Do you know who I am?”

While the shorter man had fallen back, cowed by Darcy’s manacled rage, the taller only laughed. He planted a boot now into Darcy’s chest, toppling him back against his helpless hands and smacking his head uncontrollably to the ground. An explosion of light lanced through his mind, dazing him. He rolled to his side with a groan.

“Go on,” the fellow jeered. “Wha’s yore name, suh? Tell us, so we can be prop’rly respectful, suh!”

Some bit of Darcy’s indignation flagged as good sense whispered to him. “You seem to already know it,” he growled.

The other man had by now regained his feet, and he stood beside his companion as a smaller dog in a pack seeks the protection of a larger one. “Naw, suh, we could ‘ave the wrong man! We wouldn’ wan’ that, now, would we?”

“What is it you seek? A few gold crowns? A ransom? I assure you, sirs, that you will find the executor of my estate a rather dangerous adversary, for he served under Wellesley himself!”

“Would that be, uh, Colonel Fitzwilliam, then?” the taller man mused. “Aye, I’ve ‘eered tell o’ ‘im. A dang’rous fellow, indeed!” he laughed. “Don’ worry none ‘bout ‘im, ‘e’ll be of no ‘elp to yew, suh.”

Darcy froze, his breath growing faint. How could these men know so much about him? He stared between the two in mute shock.

His hesitation proved the final verification which was desired. “Yew see,” the taller man confirmed to his colleague. “Jus’ like I said. Fitzwilliam Darcy, in the flesh, jus’ like the man wan’ed. Come on then, le’s get ‘im ‘board ship.” He produced a rough sort of sack, and to Darcy’s horror, the two men pinned him to the floor and cinched it down over his head, tying it securely in the back.

He raged and stormed all the while, flailing and writhing against his captors, but only earned another vicious kick in the ribs and a second bucket of briny water doused without warning over his face. Blind and helpless, he gagged on the deluge of water, his offended ribs crying out for breath. He was still gasping when, a moment later, a rod was thrust through his elbows, and he was forced to his feet. The two men had determined to carry him off to God knew where, and he was utterly powerless to resist.

Wave after wave of panic rose in Darcy’s gorge as his closely bound feet were compelled forward in mincing, treacherous little steps—away from everything dear to him: Pemberley. Richard. Georgiana! What were they to think? How would his home, his sister, his family carry on if he were to suddenly vanish?

With a final cry of protest, he set his feet and began to twist his torso about, employing the very rod which was to make him their slave as his only weapon against his tormentors. Wildly he spun and slashed with his makeshift bludgeon, searching for the feel of a solid body beside him and snarling in some satisfaction when he felt contact. Back and forth he thrust as his captors yelped and dodged, but a blinded and bound prisoner could never hope to ultimately prevail.

Mere seconds after Darcy’s final revolt, some heavy object crashed into the back of his head. Hobbled and defenceless, he slid drunkenly to the ground. Even could he have seen about him, his vision would have been tilted and hazy. He shook his head, instinctively desperate to see, to act, but it was useless.

Stupidly, he hung his head and complied meekly when the rod again jerked him to his feet. He heard the voices speaking roughly into his ears, but he could not comprehend. With the savage blow to his head had come another, equally brutal stroke to his heart. One thought only was coherent to him, and he clung to it with the ferocious desperation of a man whose greatest hope has been ripped away.

Elizabeth!

Longbourn

“L izzy? Lizzy, whatever is wrong?”

Elizabeth Bennet had jolted wildly in her sleep, snapping to immediate attention in her bed. She gasped and braced her arms behind herself, weak with the sudden shock of the sensations washing over her. She blinked and stared in disorientation out the window of her bedroom, still insensible to the protests of her startled sister beside her.

“Lizzy!” Jane rocked her shoulder insistently. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Elizabeth’s heart slowed after a moment, and she sighed out the last of the breath she had captured in her panic. “I—I think so,” she confessed at last. “It could have been a dream, I suppose.”

“What else could it be? Did you hear something from out of doors? The new rooster crows at odd hours. He is lucky that Mrs Hill has not made a stew of him.”

Elizabeth shook her head vaguely. “No, it was not a noise. I felt… cold. And wet—yes, that is it. Like when we used to play in the pond when we were very little, and we would frighten ourselves when we strayed too far from the bank. Do you remember?”

“Oh, yes! How we would cough and paddle for safety! It is a good thing Mama never discovered us. Do you think Papa ever found out, and simply never said anything?”

Elizabeth could not yet join in her sister’s fondness for the memory. Her brow furrowed in thought, and she lay flat once more on her bed. “It was more frightening than that,” she frowned.

“I am certain it was simply a bad dream. It is only to be expected, you know, with the way things have been of late.” Jane lapsed into humiliated silence, her hand falling unhappily over her stomach as she joined Elizabeth once more in repose. “Do you think Lydia’s marriage will be made much of?”

Elizabeth grunted. “If Mama has a say in the matter. Our dear sister shall be paraded before the adoring populace of Meryton and all the surrounding villages, and our new brother shall smile and laugh and speak everything that is charming and insincere.”

“Oh, that she had to marry such a man!” Jane lamented. “But I do wish to think the best of him. Perhaps he truly loves Lydia! She is… lively.”

Elizabeth turned her head in the darkness, and Jane could sense, if she could not see, the sarcastic glare her sister directed at her.

“Come, Lizzy, we shall gain nothing by thinking ill of him. The matter is done now, and we can but make the best of it,” she decided sensibly.

“Did you not think it strange that they did not arrive yesterday afternoon, as they expected to? Both Lydia and Aunt Gardiner wrote that such were their intentions.”

“Yes, but I imagine that anything might have happened immediately following the wedding. Perhaps he had some new instructions from his regiment, and was obliged to travel on straight away. I think we should have word today, or on the morrow at the latest.”

“Yes, perhaps,” Elizabeth agreed. She pursed her lips, gazing blankly up at her darkened ceiling. It would be dawn in a couple more hours, and she could anticipate an entire day of her mother’s demeaning fawning over Lydia’s good fortune. How it stung! To think that wild Lydia, who had disgraced herself and her sisters, should in their mother’s eye be accorded all the honours and distinctions of a faithful marriage, only amplified Elizabeth’s own regrets.

Such a happy estate might have once been hers, had she only the sense at the time to see the opportunity for what it was—a chance at love and felicity with the best man she had ever known. And as he is such , her heart whispered, he deserves better. Better than a woman with a fallen sister and George Wickham as a brother-in-law. Better than a woman who had insulted, misunderstood, abused, and rejected him. Better than I.

She closed her eyes, chiding herself for a fool when she felt the cool tears slipping down her cheeks. “Jane,” she whispered, sensing her sister’s unseen gaze still upon her, “I am well, truly. You must rest, for I believe we will have need of our fortitude in the morning.”

“Sleep well, Lizzy,” Jane comforted. With a sweet sigh of pending slumber, Jane rolled to her side and spoke no more.

Elizabeth stared at the ceiling.