Amália swallowed hard and took two or three gasps. “No, it is good that I should tell someone. I have kept it secret.” She sniffled and dabbed her nose. “My brother killed a man defending me. He was to be put on trial, and I do not know what has come of it.”
“Oh, dear! My goodness, little wonder you are troubled. Killed a man! Has he anyone to vouch for him, that it was a matter of a lady’s defence?”
“My father was to go. I do not know… I wish I could know! My father told me not to write, but I wish I were a man and could give my testimony! I wish I could go to be with him!”
“You cannot go back,” Elizabeth guessed slowly, “because of your actions freeing Mr Darcy? You fear what your husband may do?”
Amália stilled, then nodded. “It is my own fault,” she wiped her cheek again. “I was not a proper wife.” She gritted her teeth, and a fire flashed in her eyes as she lifted her chin. “I was too stubborn. I am a disgrace now, but I would do it all again, because I will not love such a man.”
Elizabeth wanted to cheer such a saucy speech. It was something she could have heard herself vowing, but it had cost the young woman dearly. How did one applaud when another was forced to choose between living terror and shameful exile?
“At least,” Elizabeth mused, “you are safe now.”
Amália drew a ragged breath. “Safe, yes, but a stranger. I cannot stay forever with Senhor and Senhora Gardiner.”
“Indeed, I believe you could, but that is not your only alternative. Mr Darcy will certainly seek an establishment for you, for as long as you desire to remain in England.”
“No,” Amália shook her head, “that is not necessary. I would not expect—”
“I would, Elizabeth interrupted. “It is his way.” She smiled softly and toyed with the counterpane. “He is the most excellent of men, and he will not suffer a friend to endure hardship.”
Amália’s eyes fell. “You care very much for Mr Darcy, do you?”
“I do,” Elizabeth answered quickly, then regretted her prompt, effortless reply when the other woman drew a sharp breath and looked away. How could she flaunt her good fortune, to shamelessly adore the man who had twice offered her his hand in marriage, when this poor woman feared for her life because of her own husband? Elizabeth winced at her own insensitivity.
Amália drew her knees up and crossed her arms over them, laying her cheek upon her elbow. “He spoke of you.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “He did?”
“In Portugal. Yes, I did heard him. It was how I found him.” She lifted her head and turned it the other way, away from Elizabeth. “He will be a kind husband to you.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. She had hoped to offer some comfort to the displaced young woman, but it seemed that the longer she remained, the guiltier she felt for her own charmed life. Certainly, she had known crippling grief, had faced uncertain horizons, but now she had come into the full light of day, with the larger part of her worries behind her. What cheer could she offer to one whose past was a regret and whose future was a sorrow?
Amália was drawing pained breaths through her teeth, trying with all her might not to sniffle in earnest or gasp aloud. Elizabeth rested a hand on her shoulder. “Amália, do you wish me to go?”
There was no answer, save a muffled sob. Elizabeth felt the tears starting in her own eyes. How she longed to gather her new friend in her arms and promise that all would be well! But she could not, nor would Amália be fool enough to believe her if she did. Elizabeth nodded to herself in resignation, and began shifting her feet back to the floor.
“I did…” came a small, broken voice. Elizabeth stopped and looked back.
“I loved h-h-him.” She gave up on speech and turned her face into her knees, shielding it with her arms. There was a high-pitched squeak, and then her body gave way to sobs.
Loved him?Elizabeth felt her stomach knot. Amália was in love with… with William? Or her husband?Oh…she realised, with both relief and sympathy…the colonel.
Elizabeth watched the young woman helplessly. She did not seem to desire her presence, but each time she had offered to go, Amália had called her back. The poor girl must be terribly lonely, with none to share her burdens. Hesitantly, and not knowing if it were wanted, she touched Amália’s hair, stroking it back from her face.
Amália was already beginning to calm herself. The first bursts of agony had overpowered her, but she was fighting back. Elizabeth heard the forcefully modulated breaths, one final little cry of pain, then she lifted her head with a jerk, and began wiping her eyes with the hem of her nightdress.
“Would it give you relief to speak of it, or would you prefer not?” Elizabeth asked gently.
Amália drew one more sobbing breath, and nodded. Her mouth quivered as she tried to gather her voice.
“How long have you known him?” Elizabeth prompted.
Amália wiped her eye again. “Almost four years ago, he saved my brother in battle. My father wished to… to recognise his bravery. He was injured, and came to stay with us while he recovered.”
She stopped for a moment, twirling her fingers in the lace of her nightdress, then continued with a fatalistic lift of her shoulders. “We could not marry. My father would not allow it, nor would his family. I was only seventeen, and Richard was not Catholic. We could not even think of it.”
Elizabeth was the one weeping now. What if she had come to know her love, to see him for the match to her heart that he truly was, and then had been forced to give him up for some artificial stricture of society? What then if she had been obliged to marry another, and that not even a man of integrity?
