17. Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Porto, Portugal
“D own there?” Ruy stood back from the stained wall, gazing somewhat askance at the air shaft from which Amália had first heard the voice. “Are you certain it was not just some echo from another part of the house?”
“I know what I heard, Ruy. There is someone imprisoned down there, and Miguel has some part in it!”
“Darling, there is a war on. I think you have no business meddling in state affairs. He could be anyone—a traitor, perhaps.”
“If that were so, why hide him away here? We have regular prisons for that. The things I heard were not the questions for a prisoner of war. No, Ruy, I think Senhor Vasconcelos is involved in something hideous and dangerous.”
He snorted. “’Hideous and dangerous’? Excellent recommendations they are. Please, tell me how I may involve myself at once!”
“Ruy,” she stopped him seriously. “This is my home now, and if it is taking place here, I am already involved. Something is dreadfully wrong with all this! Oh, Ruy, you ought to have heard that poor man. Why, my heart breaks, and I cannot even eat for worry over what must be happening to him!”
He sighed and shook his head. “This is why women do not go to war, you know. You would nurse back to health every enemy we shoot, and if he had a handsome smile, you would marry him as well.”
She crossed her arms and half-smirked. “Can you think of any better punishment for an enemy than to make him finance a society wife?”
A slow grin charmed its way to his reluctant mouth, and he finally bowed his head in defeat. “What do you wish for me to do? March into Miguel’s study and ask him all about it?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Please do be serious, Ruy. We must release him and somehow get him to a ship and safety!”
“That is no mean feat, my dear. Too many eyes are about during the day, and my presence in your house at night would most decidedly be noticed. You shall have to reach him on your own. From what you say you heard, the man may not even be ambulatory. Even if you find an opportunity to reach his cell in secret, how are you to extract him? You cannot very well hoist him upon your own back. If the man does have any strength of his own, how do you know he would not prove dangerous to you?”
She bit her lip. “I had not thought of that. Perhaps I may slip away tonight and speak with him through the door? I could at least gain some information about who he is.”
“And if you are caught? What then, my valiant little sister?”
“I do not think I shall be tonight. It is Miguel’s regular evening at his club, and Senhor Vasconcelos departed for some business in Braga this very morning.”
“Are you certain it is only they who are involved? What of Pereira, your father-in-law’s lapdog?”
She was silent, staring at her toes in the grass. She did not dare mention to him that their own father could also be connected to the business! “I do not know, Ruy,” she confessed at length. “But I must try! If you had only heard—”
“Hush,” Ruy whispered, holding up a hand. He gestured toward the wall and Amália leaned close. Their eyes met. “Is that what you heard before?” he asked softly.
Amália, straining her ears to hear the laments echoing from below, nodded. “He sounds English, does he not?”
Ruy narrowed his eyes as he listened, his expression broken for the miserable soul buried within the ruins of the old halls. “Yes, poor devil. Is he crying out a woman’s name?”
“That is the same as I have heard before,” she agreed. “A wife, perhaps?”
“Or a harlot,” he grumbled. Ruy snaked his fingers through his hair, hissing in frustration. “Oh, dash it all, Amália! I wish to heaven you had not told me of this, but for the sake of men who have fought and bled beside me, I cannot leave one of their countrymen to rot.” He wrinkled his face, then bit out a low growl. “See here, I’ve a number of friends among the English—some of the best soldiers who ever wore a uniform. Find out who he is, if you can. Perhaps I may then learn something more of him through my own means.”
She caught his hands in relief. “Oh, thank you, Ruy!”
He scowled. “You may not thank me when your husband learns of this.”
A ll was stillness.
Complete, utter dead air.
He crouched on the low bunk, his head leaning into his grimy hands and his sharp elbows digging into his atrophied thighs. If he pressed hard enough, perhaps he could deafen himself and blot out the screaming silence—that roaring nothingness! —which kept him from sleep.
There had been another, a companion to his idleness, for but a few days. It had been perhaps a week ago that the fellow had been thrust into his cell, wasting from hunger, disease, or both, and apparently reviled by whatever power held them. His tongue had been cut out long years before by some enemy, and he was already at death’s threshold, but his angelic companionship had come to ease a precious handful of hours.
He never did learn who the old man was. He also was English, and his name started with the letter B, but that was the limit of his knowledge. Before any further letters could be spelled out and guessed, the poor fellow had fallen into a merciful sleep. The man was never again strong enough to attempt communication.
He had never felt more helpless than those two days when he watched his only companion die. He had longed to nourish and care for the old man, but his leg shackle would not permit him to even cross the room. He tried kicking his own food plate near, but the old man was too weak to feed himself. Then, three days ago, the old man simply did not awaken.
It took another full day for anyone to claim the body. He stared at it for hours, sick at heart for his own uselessness and baffled at the purpose of it all. Then, in one flashing, sinking moment, he understood. The man’s identity and history were not important—had never been. The whole purpose of placing them together had been to make him watch another die, when he himself was powerless to stop it. Like every other torment Vasconcelos and Pereira had devised—solitude, restraint, the sack over his head and the near drownings, this too had been carefully fashioned to twist his mind.
All the while, his captors had continued their questions, coming now at all hours of the day and night. Never did they inflict enough harm to take his life, nor even permanently scar his body. Instead, they terrorized him, spun lies about his family and made daily threats against all he held dear and could not save. They seemed intent on weakening him, making him despise his own life yet never granting him the peace of death. To what end? He had no means of securing the information they claimed was his. The futility of all he bore at their hands sank him even deeper into his despondency.
A noise from without drew his attention. Footsteps, soft and alone, stopped outside the door to his chamber. Another visitation from Pereira? He shivered, shrinking his tall frame, but otherwise remained still as he waited.
The door did not open as he expected. He stilled, his breath almost dead in his breast as he waited for what was to come. Instead of the clanking of a key, however, he thought he heard a harsh whisper. His ears sharpened and his eyes focused on the door.
“Someone is there?” came the muted words again. “Please answer, I am a friend!”
He stood. The speaker, whispering though she was, clearly was a woman, and a Portuguese speaker. What interest could such a person have in him? Nevertheless, his heart began to beat as it had not done in months.
“I am here,” he responded haltingly.
A loud sigh of relief shuddered from the unknown speaker, followed by; “What is your name? You are English, yes?”
He hesitated. Was he being tested, in yet another twisted effort to confuse his mind and break his heart and will? His mouth opened, but his teeth chattered in fear and he closed it once more.
“ Please , Senhor, I wish to help! How is it you came here?”
He stared at the door, only faintly realising that he strained at the shackle round his leg. “I was attacked and taken by force from England,” he answered at last.
“You did know for what purpose?” the voice came again. “You have done some crime?”
“Indeed, I have not!” he shot back with indignation. “It was my fortune—and my sister’s—that my attackers desired.”
The speaker was silent a moment, considering. “Your sister,” came the exotic tones again, “she is safe?”
He closed his eyes, a mournful groan rumbling in his chest. “I do not know.”
“You are not hurt, senhor? You can walk, no?”
“I could, were I not shackled to my bed,” he growled.
There was a muted “Oh!” from behind the door, then a moment of thoughtful silence. He feared that she had decided him a hopeless case, beyond rescue, when the soft words came again. “I will find a way to help you, senhor!” his unseen knightess vowed. “What is your name?”
He narrowed his eyes. Was he truly still himself? The name he had borne since infancy seemed now unknown to him, attached as it was to another man—another life.
“Senhor!” cried the lady once more. “I have little time. Please, your name so that I may know to whom I speak!”
His chest heaved in desperation to accept this rescuing angel’s assurances. Could it be another trick, or had he at last gained a true champion? He gritted his teeth, flexing his fists in doubt. For himself alone, he would never have trusted another in this dark place. But for her… for a chance, even the ghost of one, to assure himself of Georgiana’s safety and to seize his constant prayer of once more seeing her….
“Senhor!”
He drew a deep breath, his eyelids fluttering closed as he tried to gather his courage. Elizabeth , he groaned, in his ever-soothing mantra. Aloud he heard his own voice, cracking and unfamiliar, speak the name that for so many years had been his greatest source of pride, and had now proved such a liability.
From outside the door he heard a small squeak, a sharp indrawn breath, and his stomach lurched nervously. Had he spoken rashly after all? His brow pinched, he demanded, “Madam? Are you unwell?”
The voice returned, strained to a higher pitch now. “Your name again, senhor? I did hear you, no?”
He wetted his lips, and this time his voice came more clearly despite his growing fear. “Fitzwilliam Darcy, Madam.”
There was dull sound, as though the lady’s forehead had crashed into the door on which she leaned, and then a scuffing noise of soft leather against stone. He heard her scrambling to her feet and then she gave a hasty cry, as though an afterthought cast over her shoulder. “I will do all I can, senhor!” Then, rapid slapping sounds announced her hasty retreat.
He slid back down to his bunk. She was gone, just as if she had never been. He scraped his hands roughly over his eyes, dazed. Had she been a mere phantom? Had the sweet delirium of his dreams at last invaded his consciousness to the point that he could no longer determine fantasy from reality?
Slowly he eased backward on the miserable bed that was his prison. His arm he crooked over his eyes, blotting out all visions but those he chose for himself. It was the one power that remained to him. He thought fleetingly upon his sister, but an instant’s glance at her china blue eyes filled with tears was nearly enough to nauseate him by his own impotence. Swiftly he replaced the image with one that always brought him peace—a playful smile, a maiden’s blush, and fine sparkling eyes.
He sighed, his pulse calming. She was playing the piano for him at Pemberley once more, glancing teasingly up at him through thick lashes as her fingers danced over the keys. His closed eyes flickered as that foreign voice, so musical and so real , tickled his ears again. Had he truly won a friend who might help him regain his freedom?
Elizabeth’s brow puckered in his imagination as she embarked upon a challenging section of the piece she had chosen—a sliver of pink tongue touching her lips, pert nose wrinkling deliciously. He smiled at the memory.
Perhaps it was not impossible that he might one day have the pleasure of seeing her do so again. For the first time in months, he permitted his feelings to reach for her in hope rather than despair—a faceless hope that spoke now in exotic, daring tones.