10. Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Porto, Portugal
D arcy drew a slow, luxuriant breath, and then another. His chest bore a comforting burden—a warm pressure, softened by radiant silk and gentle movements. His fingers flexed and curled, stroking the cascade of dark waves and clasping them close. There, in that place between sleep and wakefulness, a name whispered from his lips. For just a moment, he was not alone.
With another breath, he pressed his forearm tightly across his chest, trailing his fingers through the short brush at his chin. He must ask Wilson today for a shave, but first, his lips formed a soft endearment, a tender valediction to the bliss of his slumber.
Another breath brought full consciousness. Darcy lay with his eyes open, staring once more at the darkened ceiling of his quarters. From some distant place, a church bell tolled merrily. Unless he missed his guess, this was Christmas morning.
He groaned, rolling out of his cot. Georgiana would be rising on this morning, weeping bitter tears for him. Would Richard have taken her to Pemberley, or was she in London? Had his gift to her, ordered in long-ago summer, been delivered? And what of the traditional servants’ gifts, and the tenants, not to mention his aunts and uncle and…. It made his head throb. So much had been his to oversee—far too much for a man of his years, but he had learned to command and care for all. Now, he was powerless to even ask for a shave.
It was not vanity to confess that his place had been that of a keystone in a bridge. Once pulled, all about was liable to tumble. What frenetic distress must follow in the wake of his absence!
He was slinging his body through his bare-handed fencing regime again, exorcising his frustrations through his muscles as his mind—detached from his physical self—battled for some peace. He had ever been one given to brooding silence, but just now, he would have sacrificed his right hand for the relief of unburdening his fears. Was Georgie safe from whomever sought control of him? What had become of all his careful planning; the specific breeding plans of his stables, the orchestration of the field rotations and the attentive maintenance of Pemberley’s orchards, the repairs he had planned to the eastern wing of the house, and the strategic investments he had ordered through his solicitor?
Voices without signaled the expected arrival of his breakfast, but he paid it little notice. Too much anguish gnawed at him. If only he could close his thoughts to those matters he could not control! Somehow, he must learn to focus his mind, or the burning helplessness of his circumstances, grieving himself for all that was far beyond his reach, would drive him to madness! If only he could cease thinking of poor Georgie, and Richard, and… oh, no he could not give up thinking of Elizabeth.
Georgiana had been dependent upon him, and Richard’s burden had now multiplied. His guilt over what they must suffer could only torment him, but Elizabeth! She was the one treasure of his heart who might go on unaffected by his disappearance. He needn’t fear for her, but in allowing his thoughts to linger on her, he was reminded in some part of who he was, and what he once had desired in this life. His memories of her—both searing and exquisite—were the anchor that bound him to sanity.
The voices drew nearer now, and Darcy ceased his exercise to fold his arms and stare at the door. He was not hungry, had not been for weeks, but he longed to at least see the hand that slipped with the tray through the little hatch. That another person on this earth took enough notice of him to deliver food was small consolation, but it was all he could claim. It was, then, with a great degree of shock that he witnessed the larger door swing upon its hinges to reveal a man on the other side.
Darcy stood mute, his arms dropped in pleased surprise. How long had it been since he had last seen a face? At least eight or nine weeks, and those only the few he had encountered upon his arrival. His chest heaved as confused emotions washed over him, and he squinted his eyes to recognise the face. Was it the same man he had seen on the ship? The one who had ordered him dragged and locked here?
The man offered a smug little bow. “ Feliz Natal , Senhor Darcy.”
Darcy’s mouth opened, trying to form the unfamiliar words in reply and discern their meaning.
The man smiled. “It is too long since we have spoken. You may remember, my name is Pereira. I am the attendant to Senhor Vasconcelos, the governor of the district. My master desires to brighten this holy morning for his guest by making himself known to you. Come, he awaits on the upper floor.”
Darcy drew back suspiciously. “I—” he paused, clearing his throat from disuse, and spoke again. “I should be most curious to speak with him, but I am not suitably attired.”
Pereira laughed. “If that troubles you, Senhor, I shall arrange for fresh clothing, but your current appearance does not trouble Senhor Vasconcelos.”
“It does ‘trouble’ me.” Darcy squared his shoulders, gambling everything on this stance. At last, here was an opportunity for some answers, but he would not meet his captor as a groveling prisoner! The man who could affect the most dignity in such a confrontation held an advantage, and he would exploit every possibility to secure his freedom. Any clothing that did not emanate such a fetid stench would restore some semblance of his pride.
“Very well,” Pereira shrugged, then signaled to someone outside to bring a small stack of folded linen. “However, senhor, I think you will find that it will matter little.”
T he coat and breeches might have been stolen from the laundress’ line, so poorly did they suit his figure. Though he had still been denied the luxury of a proper shave, Darcy had been permitted to splash a little water over his face and torso before dressing once more. With damp fingers, he had smoothed his own hair and beard. No cravat had been supplied, and the boots lent him pinched his toes, but there was a great deal more to adopting a confident manner than the skill of a valet. His father’s example had served him well through many a negotiation, and none could assume a cooler presence than he when he desired to impress another by his disdain. If only I had not done so at the Meryton Assembly!
“Senhor Darcy,” Pereira paused before a door, offering a slight bow and extending his hand toward the room. “My master, Senhor Vasconcelos.”
Darcy arched a brow and boldly entered. His eyes quickly adjusted to the finer room and he cast a brief glance over the man who stood before a long window. Vasconcelos was approximately twenty years his senior, Darcy guessed, and a tall, lean man with dark hair, unmarked by any silver threads. He turned, and began to assume the right to speak first, but Darcy preempted him.
“Senhor Vasconcelos, I understand?”
The man permitted himself a small smile—a point acknowledged, but not given freely. “ Bem-vindo , Senhor Darcy,” he bowed from the waist, speaking in English. “It is an honour to meet you at last.”
Darcy’s hard eyes cast haughtily down the lines of his aristocratic cheekbones. “The honour is all yours, I assure you. Am I to understand that it is you I have to thank for sending men to first beat me, then to kidnap me from my country and finally to cast me into a solitary cell?”
The man’s lips pulled into a smile. “Senhor Darcy, I would not have you think that I came specifically to harm you. Quite the reverse, in fact. I paid handsomely to spare your life.”
“Past circumstances would refute that claim,” Darcy observed.
Vasconcelos chuckled. “Do you think, Senhor Darcy, that none other might have envied your position? Oh, I hold no particular loyalty for your enemy, but the arrangement was most advantageous for both of us. He was to procure something of vital importance to me, and in return, I made you disappear, and rather expeditiously so.”
Darcy squared his shoulders. “What is it you wish, sir? A ransom? Though it galls my honour to confess it, you must know that my estate is well able to afford a handsome price to secure my release.”
Vasconcelos laughed aloud now. “It is a tempting offer, Senhor Darcy, but you are presumed dead and such possession is no longer yours. No, it is something of far greater value I seek.” He touched a finger to his lips and paced toward the window.
“Like you, Senhor Darcy, I am a man deeply loyal to his country. When the Corsican threatened our nation, we were pleased to ally ourselves with the English. It was a good idea, yes, your English troops and ours together on the field against the French? Your General Wellesley and his men have fought with us nobly and well.” He turned slightly to observe what effect his words had over his guest.
Darcy had adopted his British mask of serenity—that consciously maddening facade of imperturbability with which a good Englishman could meet a firing squad as calmly as a round of cards. He raised a brow at Vasconcelos’ pause, and politely supplied his thoughts. “My cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has been one of those men. He served here for two years as second in command of the First Division Light Cavalry, taking many a risk with his own life in defence of your land.”
The other’s cheek twitched. “I am familiar with his name.”
“In that case, you cannot accuse my family of any lack of concern for your country’s welfare.”
“I have no such intention, Senhor Darcy. The English have been proper allies in all respects save one.”
“We are not of the same religion,” Darcy guessed, his voice affected by near boredom.
Vasconcelos paced back to him, clasping his hands behind his back. “Ah, perhaps there is a second, then! Have you noticed, Senhor Darcy, that all the trials of man return, after a fashion, to his religion?”
“Indeed, I have not. I find that most of human conflict is instead rooted in a quest for power. For some it may be through the church, for others the state, while still more seek the power of profit in trade. There are also those who seek the power of position while deliberately placing their rivals at an uncomfortable disadvantage,” he paused briefly to level a significant look at his host. “Even the pettifogger in his dark alley is not without his inducements, for what greater power over his associates might there be than a bag of gold, and what better satisfaction to be found than assaulting a wealthy and unsuspecting stranger to obtain it?”
Vasconcelos’ face warmed to a knowing smile. “You are offended by my methods, sir, but you have no right to be so. What are a few months of solitude to a man whose conscience is clean and his thoughts pure? Yours is but a small sacrifice. Yet, I cannot agree with you that the search for power is the greatest division between men. No, it is love. For me, I love my son, I love the progress made possible by this new age of ours, I love the men who fight against the Oppressor, and I love the Church, but more than all these, I love my country and the honour of my fathers.” He clasped his hand over his heart, affecting a patriotic sigh. “I wonder, Senhor Darcy,” he gestured now, “what do you love?”
Darcy paled, his unflappable demeanour cracking only slightly. His mouth opened as he caught his breath, then he resolutely closed it.
“I shall presume,” continued Vasconcelos, “that you also are faithful to your Anglican church, misguided as it is?”
Darcy cocked that eyebrow again. “You make no secret of your own prejudices, sir.”
“Nor you of yours. I believe you will discover yourself to be a very prejudiced man indeed, when introduced to other perspectives.”
Darcy’s jaw tensed. “I have already had an opportunity to study my own flaws in that regard.”
“It is a wise man who finds the courage to look into the mirror. Such a man might amend his ways and become worthy of the objects of his own devotion. Surely there are such for you? I am to understand that you have your own family in England. You mentioned your cousin with, I think, not a little fondness, and I am informed there is also a sister. Georgiana, yes? Did I pronounce it correctly?”
Darcy’s eyes widened for the barest flicker, then he snapped back to his cool reserve. Vasconcelos had, however, perceived his fear, and he pressed his advantage.
“You see, Senhor Darcy,” the man walked a slow circle about the room toward his desk, “I have studied you carefully. I know much, but there is a deal more I must learn.”
“And may I ask what that is? What is required to secure my freedom?”
“Freedom! That is an interesting question, senhor. What, indeed, is required?” He paced once more, then returned to face Darcy. “What becomes of Portugal, Senhor Darcy, when Bonaparte is at last defeated? Will your troops withdraw peacefully, as the terms of our friendship decree?”
“My country has no imperial designs upon yours, at least not to my knowledge.”
“Perhaps not, sir, but when you go, our strength goes with you. Our Prince Regent reigns yet from Brasil, and that holding is dearer to him than his own home country. We have no hope of continued tribute from the colony, and so we must forge our own way into this new world. We must build a flourishing economy, at all costs.
“Our territory had been thought to be without mineral wealth, but some years ago, a potential source was discovered in a nearby province. Further investigation has revealed that a substantial ore deposit rests beneath our own soil. Unfortunately, the ownership of that land was the subject of a royal debt—to your grandfather.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes. “You speak some riddle. I have no foreign holdings.”
Vasconcelos’ calm vanished, and his face flashed with ire. “You lie! My family was disgraced over the matter! The deed still rests in your hands, and I must have it.”
“You have certainly confused me for some other, sir. And for this, you have kept me your prisoner? Outrageous!”
“No! Not for this only, but for the insult to my father. He traveled to England with an honourable sum to reclaim the deed, and returned in shame, for your grandfather abused him, appropriated his monies, and sent him away!”
Darcy pursed his lips. The man was volatile and clearly deluded. Perhaps patience might render him more reasonable, and reason might effect his release. “I beg your pardon, sir. There is not, nor has there ever been, a debt owed to my family by a foreign country, nor have we ever been given land as a repayment. How should such a thing have even come about?”
Vasconcelos had turned away, but at Darcy’s innocent question, he spun around. The back of his right hand slashed across Darcy’s cheek, leaving him dazed and more than a little indignant. “I have the proof in our own records! What is more, I had written assurance from my contact that the deed was yet in England under your name.”
Darcy’s hand cupped his bruised cheek. “From whom? This supposed enemy of mine, who doubtless would scruple not to lie over such a matter? What ally have you who could legitimately know of my personal affairs?”
Vasconcelos’ mouth turned to a bitter expression. “One who may not have my own interests at heart. I received word only yesterday that the deed was not found among all your possessions, and now it is for me to discover where you have hidden it.”
“You speak nonsense!” cried Darcy. He was quickly rewarded with another blow from the back of Vasconcelos’ hand.
“Senhor Darcy, allow me to be perfectly frank,” he sighed, ignoring the startled curse from the man he had just struck. “I know you have it, and think to hold it yourself. Your grandfather was not ignorant to the land’s value—this is evidenced by the king’s own documents. I will have it returned to me, to reclaim the riches for Portugal and to restore my family’s honour.”
Darcy was simmering in rage, restrained from violence only by the recognition that there was no escape from this place but by the pleasure of the very man he would wish to strangle. “I cannot give you what I do not possess!” he bellowed. “If you are so certain that the deed is in English hands, I may employ my own resources to help you recover it, but it is not among my belongings!”
“I had another who promised me the very same—one of even greater influence than you yourself,” retorted Vasconcelos. “However, nothing has yet been recovered, and my partners grow impatient. Now, Senhor Darcy, you must be made to cooperate. Perhaps if this sister of yours were questioned instead, you might be more willing?”
Darcy’s colour drained, his stomach falling to his feet. “Do not you dare— ”
“I do dare! And I have been patient enough. You will tell me all there is to know about your estate, your family, and your personal holdings, or I will ensure that your existence here becomes one of misery. You will long for your solitary detention after one hour with Pereira!”
A savage fire burst within Darcy’s chest, and he leapt with a snarl toward the other man, flinging caution away with the last of his calm poise. “You are mad!” he cried, pulling back his fist to crash into the other man’s jaw. Before he could release the blow, an iron grip caught each elbow and checked him back, just as he was careening in mid-stride.
More quickly than he could think, his hands were bound together and two strong men pulled him down, while a third tied a sack once more over his head. He spun and fought, as he had before, but in his heart, he knew himself beaten. Still, he struggled until Vasconcelos’ chilling words sounded, and he paused only long enough to listen.
“I trust, senhor, that you shall prove more agreeable in the future. Certainly, you will prefer to spare Senhorita Darcy a similar discomfort.”
Darcy stilled, forgetting to even breathe as he was dragged to his feet.
O ver twelve hundred miles away, on Christmas morning, Elizabeth Bennet awoke all Longbourn with her screams.