My dear readers, I am so excited to have Nicole Clarkston as my guest again today. She has written a new scene tied to her Pride and Prejudice variation These Dreams, which made my Best of 2017 list (click to read my review). I’ll let her introduce the scene and the giveaway, so please give her a warm welcome:
Richard Fitzwilliam was wounded in battle in Portugal, but had befriended young Portuguese Lieutenant Rodrigo (Ruy) de Noronha. Invited to convalesce at his new friend’s family home in Lisbon, Richard made the acquaintance of the lieutenant’s lovely young sister Amália. Their initial meeting appeared first as a blog post on Austen Variations and then as a post-script after the epilogue of These Dreams. Today’s vignette, however, you will only find here. Enjoy it, and stick around for a chance to enter the giveaway at the end!
Major Richard Fitzwilliam, decorated commander of the First Division Light Cavalry and an acclaimed hero of the battlefield, was in full retreat.
Oh, he would never confess as much. It would be too disgraceful, if any of his comrades in arms detected signs of weakness in his warrior’s armor. But there it was, a fissure the size of a Derbyshire canyon, cracking right through his chest into his viscera. And it widened every time she smiled at him.
Amália. He had never heard a lovelier name. Both sweet and flinty, gentle yet perplexing. It suited her, this enigma of a girl, barely old enough to dress as a lady and act as her father’s hostess. She came near him now, those delicious pearly teeth and peerless golden eyes flashing in an artless smile as she clutched a book in her hand. “Major, you are not in town with Ruy today?”
He looked up from the writing desk where he was composing a letter to his father. He shifted in the chair, pressing back against his seat and holding his breath, lest he catch her fragrance again. “Not today. He had some business with his commanding officer, but I do not report until next week.”
“Then you will be leaving us, no?”
Was that a tinge of wistfulness in her voice?
Richard cleared his throat. “Only if I have overstayed my welcome. I am to report, but I am not required to remain with my regiment. My commanding officer does not desire me back on active duty until my arm is fully healed.”
She smiled again… blast. “You are most welcome to remain here, Major. My father, he is… honoured, no? He tells everyone how you save Ruy.”
Richard’s neck felt hot. “I fear his narrative does your brother too little credit. The Lieutenant’s actions and bravery gave much courage to his men. Likely enough, we would both have been killed if the line had faltered.”
Her expression froze, and he could see the horrifying reality playing through her thoughts even behind her lingering smile.
“But let us speak of other things,” he corrected swiftly. “It was generous of your father to offer his hospitality.”
She warmed again, glanced about, and finally settled herself into a chair opposite him. “He wished to hold a dinner party for you and Ruy, but that would not be proper just now.”
“Nor would I wish him to exert the effort. I am simply grateful for such a comfortable and welcoming house in which to convalesce, though I do not quite share my commanding officer’s opinion that I must take such a long time about doing it.”
Those eyes sparkled again as she opened her book. “One must not attempt to heal too quickly, Major.” She dropped her attention to the pages then, giving every impression that she had sought this room, and that very chair, simply so she might enjoy her book in proximity to him.
They were hardly alone in the room, though it seemed that way to Richard. A woman of reduced circumstances, as they would have called her in England, always shadowed the daughter of the house, and half a dozen others came and went in that room on some errand or another. None, however, spoke to either of them, and the two were left in an uncomfortable peace. Uncomfortable to him, at least, and becoming more so by the minute.
He squirmed in his chair, doing his best to not think of her soft pale gown, or the way the spirals of hair curled round her tender neck, or the delicate fragrance which was even now assaulting his senses… dash it all. He snatched the paper on which he had been writing and crumpled it for the fire, for he had written some words which had nothing at all to do with correspondence with his father.
She looked up in mute surprise as he thrust the wad of notepaper to the front of the desk, but he glanced at her only long enough to acknowledge her notice. He forced his attention back on the fresh sheet before him, flexing his fingers and shuffling his feet beneath the desk.
Seven hours. That was how long he could remain at attention without flinching. He knew, for he had done it not long ago; polished and ready for battle atop his charger, with a heavy bayonet at his shoulder. Seven bloody hours. He blinked a sudden rivulet of perspiration from his eyes. Apparently, he could not last even seven minutes with her in the room.
The paper was still blank, and he used the back of his hand to surreptitiously wipe another bead of sweat from his brow. It had nothing to do with the Portuguese summer heat, either, for it was still… not even June, and his composure was faltering by the second.
Darcy could have done it. Richard’s fingers tightened on the quill as he thinned his lips. Oh, yes, Fitzwilliam Darcy could have successfully ignored a woman with a book… whose eyes made his spine tingle every time they rose from her page. That old stick, he could have made a woman feel the full measure of his casual disregard, and suffered not a moment’s discomfort for it! Unlike himself… Richard writhed in his chair again.
“Major, you are not unwell?” that musical voice queried.
“I?” he jerked faintly. It was difficult enough to pretend that all his senses were not trained on her, without her bloody speaking to him! He had not been prepared for that. He cleared his throat again. “No, I am quite well.”
“You are not too warm? The sun, no, it comes in through the window. Perhaps you would prefer the garden air? Your letter would be easier after a walk, no?”
Oh, not the garden! He would never survive, not if she offered to act as his guide again. “I am quite well, thank you. I do not write quickly or easily. A family trait, I am afraid.”
“Then we must find some way to set you at your ease.” She rose, leaving her book in the seat. “Do you like reading, Major?”
“I used to. I have little time or patience for it now.”
“What of music? It relaxes the mind, no?”
That was precisely what he did not need, but he made an amiable reply. “It is a particular weakness of mine,” he answered, his voice lower than he would have liked. “And of every soldier, so far as I know, senhorita.”
“Then it will be my pleasure,” she beamed. “Senhora Ramires,” she turned to her companion, “will you play for the Major, and I will sing?” She turned back to him then, clasping her hands in apology. “I am hopeless on the instrument, but I do love to sing.”
She seemed to be waiting for him to rise, which he did—rather stiffly. He made her a quick, playful bow, mostly to hide something of his discomposure, and then… his stomach leaped somewhere into this throat when she blithely took his good arm to walk toward the piano. He stopped when she did, then gratefully dropped into the seat she indicated and crossed his legs.
She nodded to her companion, who dutifully took up the notes of a song he did not know. The opening lines were unremarkable enough, and would likely have remained so in his memory, until she lifted her voice.
He could not understand most of the words. He had a passing familiarity with Portuguese, and more so now than ever, but some combination of emotion and inflection rendered half the words foreign to him. He did not need them, however, to interpret the meaning of the song. She sang of young love, of searching and loss, despair, and then joy at reunion. Her clear voice rang with such power and intensity that tears began to pool in the corners of his eyes during the verses of tragedy and mourning.
The tone gradually changed, growing and building with the fire of hope. His eyes fixed upon her lithe figure, swaying as the music possessed her, capturing her breath until she gasped faintly between the lines and her feminine shape seemed ready to burst with the force of the passion the song had awakened. Just as the melody swelled to its most glorious, she met his eye, a faint smile about her lips as she continued to sing. Richard could not remember when he had last drawn breath, nor did he feel inclined to try to do so now.
He should stop her. He should declare himself unfit for company and retire to his room… and rejoin his regiment at first light tomorrow. Another trickle of moisture troubled him, but this time, he realised, it was a tear. And then a second. They mirrored the tears of the singer as she poured forth joy and lament, suffering and triumph, and with her final loving notes, Richard Fitzwilliam’s last defences fell.
Her voice quieted, like the dying breeze on the battlefield that leaves the flags limp and shell-shot at the end of the day. A soft sigh—hers or his, he was not certain—and the ruin was complete. He sat there in the deafening stillness, his skin still prickling and his lips parted, just as were hers.
She was staring at him now, the hands she had lifted at the pinnacle of her song now lowered, her breath slowing. Five seconds… the handspan of time it took for a fuse to detonate its source, but the shuddering, racking pain exploded within his own heart.
She blinked, and he did the same. The spell, for the moment, was lifted, but never again would it be broken. At her brother’s voice in the outer hall, Amália drew a refreshing breath, smiled, and dipped him a curtsey. “I hope the song gave you some peace, Major,” she offered, a blush staining her youthful cheeks.
“I would not call it peace, senhorita, but it is a performance I shall never forget,” he answered in a husky voice.
She dashed the last of the moisture from her eyes, a relic of several seconds ago, and her expression brightened again to that of the girl he had thought he knew. “Perhaps we will go to Ruy now?” she suggested.
He rose at last, then gave her his arm to walk together toward her brother. She took it with girlish grace, smiling up at him, and the yawning ache widened in his soul. In two weeks’ time, he would leave her behind, never again to be troubled by her intoxicating scent, her lyrical voice, or those bewitching, golden eyes. The arm she clasped would be given again in service to King and Country, safe from her reach. His heart, however, had declared its home– in the palm of her hand.
Well, do you love the dear colonel as much as I do? So many of us know him as “Richard,” even though Jane Austen never gave him a name. It’s strange how his is one of the many characters Austen scarcely introduces, and he has come to life for us as a fully developed persona. Perhaps it is a combination of the fertile minds of JAFF authors and the fabulous actors who have portrayed this gentleman.
What do you think, who is the best film version of Colonel Fitzwilliam? Leave your thoughts, and you will be entered in our giveaway. Up for grabs is a reader’s choice of any of my books in any available format. The giveaway is international, so scroll our lovely men and name your pick!
For the giveaway, please leave a comment with your answer to Nicole’s question, and include your email address so I can contact you if you win. The giveaway will close on Friday, January 26, 2017. The winner will be chosen randomly and announced in the comments section of this post. Good luck!
Georgiana Darcy is now the reluctant, heartbroken heiress to Pemberley, and Colonel Fitwilliam her bewildered guardian. Vulnerable and unprepared, Georgiana desperately longs for a friend, while Fitzwilliam seeks to protect her from his own family. As the conspiracy around Darcy’s death widens and questions mount, Colonel Fitzwilliam must confront his own past. An impossible dream, long ago sacrificed for duty, may become his only hope.
Newly married Lydia Wickham returns to Longbourn — alone and under mysterious circumstances. Elizabeth Bennet watches one sister suffer and another find joy, while she lives her own days in empty regrets over what might have been. Believing Darcy lost forever, she closes her heart against both pain
and happiness, but finds no escape from her dreams of him.
Nicole Clarkston is a book lover and a happily married mom of three. Originally from Idaho, she now lives in Oregon with her own romantic hero, several horses, and one very fat dog. She has loved crafting alternate stories and sequels since she was a child watching Disney’s Robin Hood, and she is never found sitting quietly without a book of some sort.
Nicole discovered Jane Austen rather by guilt in her early thirties―how does any book worm really live that long without a little P&P? She has never looked back. A year or so later, during a major house renovation project, she discovered Elizabeth Gaskell and fell completely in love. Her need for more time with these characters led her to simultaneously write Rumours & Recklessness, a P&P inspired novel, and No Such Thing as Luck, a N&S inspired novel. Both immediately became best selling books. The success she had with her first attempt at writing led her to write three other novels that are her pitiful homage to two authors who have so deeply inspired her.
Nicole Clarkston recently introduced me to Leena Emsley, who narrated These Dreams for her, and I had the pleasure of interviewing Leena about all things audiobook-related. Please give her a warm welcome!
Thank you, Anna, for having me today on your blog! It is always a pleasure chatting with you. Today I bring you a scene related to These Dreams, featuring everyone’s favourite Colonel Fitzwilliam (before he was a colonel). This short scene is set three years prior to the events of Pride and Prejudice (and also These Dreams).
Diary of an Eccentric 