A moment later a rough hand jerked aside the rude garment he wore over his shoulders, and Darcy stiffened. Next would come the hot irons—burning his chest hairs and singing his nostrils, but never pressing quite enough into his skin to deeply scorch his flesh. Still, they were always taunting, always painful, and always bore the threat of the damage theycouldinflict.
Later, in his dark hours of solitude, he would scold himself for the terror they brought upon him. Clearly Pereira had been instructed to spare his life and to leave no crippling marks of torment. His knowledge was needed, after all, and what good was a man who died of infection? When the moment came upon him, however, and his fortitude had already been diminished by the water torture and his arm sockets savaged by the men holding him to the hot brands, he invariably proved as weak as his fears.
He screamed. He writhed. He pleaded to Heaven for mercy, and groaned Elizabeth’s sweet name as a mantra… but he never compromised Georgiana.
“Pleasedrivearoundtothe stable yard, Pedro,” Amália signaled her driver.
It was not an unusual request that she made of him, so rather than letting her down at the front of the house, he clucked to the horse and did as she had instructed. Safe now in the privacy of her own drive, she removed her shawl and stretched luxuriantly in the seat of her carriage. A long, tedious undertaking all these visits to the society matrons of Porto had been, but what luck that Senhora Rodrigues, her last intended stop, had been too ill today to receive callers! Her husband’s step-mother had returned directly to the governor’s house, freeing Amália to enjoy the rest of the ride home in solitude.
She strained to see through the window of her carriage as it rolled around the house—such a hideous old building it was! Its face was large, ornate, and imposing, but its older wings were so dark and decayed that parts of it felt more like an abandoned ruin than a fine estate. The Vasconcelos family had fallen considerably in consequence over the last few generations, as she knew, and the older sections of sprawling property had rather gone to seed. It did boast unparalleled views of the river, however, and this quality alone redeemed the house in her eyes. Frequently when she could escape her formal duties as the mistress, she would disappear down one of the private walks down to the shore. Today she was not expected by her husband for at least another hour, and she intended to make good use of it.
Pedro put down the step for her, and by unspoken custom a boy from the stables took up his post ten paces behind her as she set out. Breathing deeply, she wandered her little way along the sandy, rock-strewn path. It was not long, this path, but always restorative. She did not dare loiter, for Ruy was calling this afternoon, and she ached to steal a few private moments with her brother before Miguel joined them.
She sighed, her shoulders drooping.Miguel!Did all wives find their husbands’ attentions as tiresome as she? To be certain, he was never anything but gentle with her, but he seemed to expect her to find as much pleasure in his advances as he apparently did. If only he did not insist on touching herquiteso much! An involuntary shiver tensed through her shoulders. Reasoning that she had caught a brief chill and ought rightly to return to the house, she turned back.
It was a nomadic, reluctant path she trod back to the house. When she had emerged once more into the courtyard, she slowed, glancing up. There was her favourite balcony overlooking the waters, and there, jutting below it, the ancient rambling wing she had never troubled herself to explore. Miguel had told her it was sealed up to all save the rats, but a few slitted windows winked down to her and sparked, for the first time, a longing to know more of them. Perhaps it was the work of her own natural curiosity, or perhaps she was more averse to returning indoors than she would confess, but surely there could be no harm in taking a detour about the exterior of the house before assuming her mantle of duty once more.
Amália dismissed the stable boy and commenced a leisurely stroll about the lower level, to the rear of the house. The stone facing in parts was crumbling, and in other parts overgrown. There was an archaic loveliness about it; a touch of flavour from the bygone days of the house’s glory, and she could not understand why she had never before wandered this part of the premises.Well… there is that bit about Miguel searching me out whenever I am at leisure.Somehow, he never thought to look for her by the river, but he would have quickly discovered her here on the back lawn.
She rounded a part of the stone edifice and spied an inset of the wall—unseen during much of the year due to the thick, creeping tendrils of buttercup that grew there in the warmer months. In summer they would flourish wildly, far beyond the modest powers of the gardener to contain. They had died back now, and only a patchwork of dark green rosettes marked their foothold.
She bent low to collect a handful of the clinging vegetation, impulsively lifting it to her nose. In the spring it would have been alive with fragrance, but no longer. What was that silly thing Richard had once said about it? “The buttercup starts out so fresh and full of hope, ready to bless the world by sharing its hardy sweetness, but then it finds the world has no place for it. It is attacked, reviled, and uprooted from the very place it once loved. It does not die, but becomes a mere shell of what it once was in its full splendour.”
She pinched the withered green stem, staring without blinking or even truly seeing.Ah, Richard. You were speaking of quite another blossom, were you not?
From somewhere, perhaps the moaning of distant sea against land, she almost thought to hear an answer. It was little more than a sob, really, but it sounded so distinctly human, and so remarkably male that it might have been conjured by her own vivid memory. She glared again at the little stem with a low, caustic laugh.You can summon the voice—why not the man?she mocked herself. She flicked the stem from her fingers with a rough sort of finality and turned to go, but the sound carried to her again. This time it was more of a piercing shriek, like a desperate prayer.
Alert now to the deception of her own fancies, Amália whirled to face the water. There was no wind today that could have tricked her ears, no lads from the stable yard at their sport nearby. Another piteous cry followed, and this time, she could but confess it for honest reality. It seemed to be coming from behind her, but there was nothing….
She bent low once more, tilting her head as she stared hard at the little inset of the wall. Indeed, there was some sort of an opening there. It was partially obscured by the weeds, but there, near the ground, was a little hollow where the earth pulled somewhat away from the wall. Set into the gap of stones was a rusted lattice grate.
She straightened in relief.Silly little fool!she chided herself. How dramatic of her to presume to hear a voice, when it was only the musty exhales of the old underground chambers. As if there could be someone trapped down there, like in some absurd Gothic tale! Breathing a little more easily, she turned for one last admiring look toward the river before she must go indoors to dress for Ruy’s arrival.
She lifted her hand to the sun, shading her eyes where her hat proved insufficient. Yes, certainly it was time to put her wilder stirrings to rest for one day. So resolving, she set out once more, but another deep groan from within the wall caused her knees to tremble. She turned wide, startled eyes back to it, her mouth slightly agape. Was it… was it a name she had heard? It sounded for all the world like….
“Elizabeth!”
Gasping for terrified breath, Amália did the only thing she could think of. She spun and fled for the door of the house.
Chapter thirteen
Longbourn
“Ah,Elizabeth,youhavereturned from your walk. Please come in.” Mr Bennet greeted his daughter at the door of the house, standing back with a suggestive tilt to his head and his eyes flicking toward his study.
Elizabeth cast a dubious glance toward Lydia, disentangling their linked arms. She caught a nervous breath, but acknowledged the request with a cheerful nod and smile. “Certainly, Papa.” She removed her cloak and bonnet in the hall, then followed him dutifully to his desk, noting with what deliberateness he closed the door behind her.
Mr Bennet sighed wearily, tugging at his cravat and tossing aside a stray book as he found his chair. “Sit, Elizabeth.”
Her brow edged upward. “Are we to have a serious conversation, Papa? Perhaps I ought to call for tea, for I think I could do with the fortification.”
He returned a wry smirk. “I have just imbibed something a mite stronger, but you may feel free if you wish.”
“Oh! If it is that serious, I think I should not. My imagination as I wait would be sure to cause me far more distress than simply hearing what you wish to say.”
He had draped himself in a leisurely posture over his chair, but his whitened knuckles laced tightly over his abdomen as he smiled at her. “Lizzy, you…” he stumbled, then appeared to amend his approach. “Your father is a foolish old man. I am heartily ashamed of myself.”
“Ashamed? Papa, you have no cause to be. Is it because of Lydia you say this?”
