Mr. Darcy's Great Escape (21 page)

“Then we should ask for an exhibition of her
descântece
?”

Elizabeth did not know what that word meant, but she could logically conclude that it meant something along the lines of “magic” or “curse.” Caroline gave her the briefest of glances; they were not prepared for this eventuality. Surely they could talk their way out of it?

“I have a much less dangerous solution,” Trommler said, “for all of us.” The rest of them tried to hide their sighs of relief.

“Please,” Olaf said. “I would like very much to hear it.”

“Very simple,” Trommler said. “Your Grace, you have for months now extended your hospitality to masters of the profane and otherworldly. Why not put them to good use for a change?”

“Their predictions are valuable!” Vlad said. “Fine, summon them.”

Trommler had this prepared, because he only had to wave his hand and the guards retrieved two men, a European and an Asian man, both not dressed for court. They bowed to the count.

“Mr. Izmaylov,” Trommler said, with all the false politeness usually in his words when not addressing the count, “do vampires exist?”

“An odd thing to ask in Transylvania,” the European said, squirming. “Yes, of course they do. Why do you ask?”

Trommler pointed to the group, specifically Caroline and Elizabeth. “They call her Muma
, the Forest Mother, and she drinks blood, as do her minions. She has cursed His Grace's family, or so Prince Olaf says. In payment to lift it, she demands two Englishmen.”

Izmaylov seemed legitimately confused; he didn't seem to be in on the plot, but he was a quick thinker, “Then I suppose His Grace is lucky he is in possession of two Englishmen.”

“Yes, how convenient,” was Trommler's answer. Even after four thousand pounds, he was not making this easy. “Surely your mystic Uzbeki has some way of banishing vampires and forest demons.” He added in English so the count wouldn't understand, “Unless you are the charlatans we both know you to be.”

Izmaylov's expression wavered, then hardened. “Let the Englishmen go,” he replied in an accent. His accent was, of all things, American. “They're nothing to you.”

“You'd be surprised. Play your cards right, and they're worth a great deal.”

“Trommler!” Vlad's patience was wearing thin, especially the language barrier. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Only to say that for what you're paying them, your mystics ought to at least be able to expel some vampires.”

“That's not precisely what we do—”

“Yengi is a great holy man of the Kazak steppes!” Trommler boasted, quite loudly and sarcastically. “Surely he can do something against these unholy creatures.”

The mystics exchanged looks, and the Oriental stepped forward, shaking in his boots and began to chant, waving his staff with the metal tip and roller on the end of it. When he was close enough, Grégoire, as instructed, leapt at him like a dog and tackled him. The mystic was much smaller than Grégoire was, so it wasn't hard to hold him down.

“Useless!” Trommler proclaimed. “And what of you, Artemis Izmaylov? Her werewolf is making short work of your holy man.”

Artemis glared at Trommler and jumped into the fray, pulling Grégoire off Yengi the mystic with surprising speed and strength. Still, he would not approach Caroline or Elizabeth, the latter of whom spat at him.

“I know you're not vampires,” he said to them in English. “I don't know what your intentions are—”

“Enough!” Vladimir rose, speaking in German. “Must my house be infested with demons over two Englishmen?”

“A problem I will be taking care of shortly,” Trommler said and, with an arrogant smirk, reached behind a tapestry and removed a gigantic wooden cross, so heavy as to be almost unwieldy, with its silver tips and gold inlay. “Be gone, monsters!”

Caroline, Elizabeth, and Grégoire all took the cue to hiss and look away from the cross, but they were drowned out by the two men who stood between them and Trommler, who actually were cowering and growling. Artemis grabbed Grégoire by the neck and said quite clearly in English, but in a very bestial growl, “I know you're not really a werewolf. Tackle him and I'll save the Englishmen!”

This was not according to script, but Grégoire was not really given a choice. Artemis pulled him up with one hand and flung him at Trommler, sending them and the cross right over so they were wrestling over it. Artemis shouted something to Yengi in the language of the Orient, and the two of them leapt up on Vladimir's table, then over, and grabbed Darcy and Maddox, hurling them over their shoulders. Vladimir tried to shout for his guards, but he could barely get the words out as Artemis growled at him—a real growl—and went right back over the table, Yengi following. “Go! Go!”

Their play came to an abrupt end. Elizabeth and Caroline helped Grégoire up and away from Trommler, and they all made a break for the door, Olaf taking up the rear with his own sword and leaving a cursing Vladimir and Trommler weighted down by his own holy weapon.

Fitzwilliam was waiting for them with the getaway carriage, of course, but the crowd that he saw was not entirely what he expected. It was the American Artemis who threw the Englishmen inside and climbed up on the top with him as the women climbed up to be with their husbands. “Go, man! Go!”

“Who are you?”

“Does it matter? Go!”

Inside the carriage, Caroline tore off her veil. Beneath it, she was crying. “It's over, Mrs. Maddox,” Count Olaf said across from her as the carriage started up. Now that he had broken character, he looked exhausted and emotional himself. “We have them. We won.”

“Thanks to Trommler's enemies, it seems,” Grégoire said, pulling off the fur on his face. “I've never tackled a cross before.”

“As it was all in good service of saving lives, I think God will be quite understanding,” Elizabeth said, patting him on the knee. Beside her, Darcy was soundly asleep, resting his hairy head on her shoulder.

They were deep in the forest when the carriage came to a halt. Fortunately they were not being pursued. “These are my lands. We should be safe,” Olaf said and climbed out of the carriage and into the snow. Artemis and Yengi climbed off the top of the carriage and landed beside him.

“All good things come to an end,” Artemis said in French, as Olaf didn't understand much English. “Thank you for the ride. I wouldn't want to stay with Count Vladimir so angry at us.”

“Impressive thinking with the cross,” Olaf said. “It seemed as if you were really harmed by its presence!”

“Yes.” Artemis squirmed. “It did.”

“But we cannot leave you out in the snow like this. Where will you go?”

He looked at Yengi, who clasped his hands together and bowed. Artemis copied the gesture. “We'll find our way.” Without further comment they turned and walked into the darkness, until all that could be heard was Yengi's chanting and the swinging of his metal prayer wheel.

“An odd pair,” Fitzwilliam said from his position as the driver. “What's this now about the cross?”

Olaf crossed himself. “I suppose we'll never know. Perhaps it's better that way.” He shivered, not against the cold, and climbed back into the carriage for the rest of the trip.

***

The ride back to Count Olaf's manor was mercifully short. Fitzwilliam checked on Darcy and Dr. Maddox as soon as they came to a stop. “They're drugged,” he said. “Just mildly. I don't think it is poison.”

“To keep them from speaking,” Olaf concluded. “Or trying to escape.”

Just inside, a guard was tending to Dr. Maddox's wound but was practically pushed aside by Caroline, who embraced her husband. “Darling,” she said. He responded by resting his head on her shoulder, but raised one hand—the one that wasn't bandaged—enough to grasp her hand, if only weakly.

Elizabeth spotted Darcy wrapped in blankets, coughing into a bucket. She kissed him on the small part of his cheek that wasn't covered in hair. “
Darcy
,” she whispered. It was not Mr. Darcy of Pemberley and Derbyshire, or Fitzwilliam Darcy. It was just Darcy, her husband, her beloved.

He seemed to be struggling to say something but was unable to. She wrapped her arms around him, around a thin frame under the blankets. They would do everything together—the three of them. “You don't have to speak,” she said. “Don't strain yourself.” Instead she just placed his hand on her stomach. Though not visible beneath her shawl, there was a small swelling there of what she hoped to God would soon be their next child. His eyes remained unfocused, and he was unable to verbalize whatever it was in his mind, but his hand caressed her belly, slowly and cautiously, in silent acknowledgement. She had told no one—not intentionally—before this moment. This was how she wanted it to be—Darcy, the father of the child, showing the first signs of joy and affection. It was limited to his hand motion, but it was enough.

Soldiers of All Types

It was understood that they could not stay past the night. Count Olaf was overjoyed at having pulled the wool over his brother-in-law's eyes, but he could not house them for long. He told his men to begin loading up their wagon as the others returned to their chambers.

Elizabeth approached the count, “I know we've been such an intrusion, but might I bother you for a—”

“—change of clothes, yes.” He smiled tiredly at her. “It really is no trouble.”

“There is no way we can possibly repay you to the extent that you deserve—”

He put his hand up. “I have already secured a favor from the monk. That is enough.” He turned and walked off before she could ask him what it was.

That left her with what to do with Darcy, while Fitzwilliam studied the maps. Grégoire was still at his brother's side when she entered her husband's chambers. Darcy had been sleeping since their arrival. It seemed almost cruel to wake him for something as simple as a change of clothes, but— “Darcy?” she said as Grégoire propped him up. He did not respond to stimuli. His eyes fluttered opened, but he made little acknowledgement of either of them.

“Could you hold him up?” Grégoire said, and she held Darcy upright as he cut away the ruined vest and undershirt that had once been white. Grégoire had no visible reaction to seeing most of Darcy's rib cage, but Elizabeth gasped. “I don't think we should try to shave him now. The beard will help in the cold.”

“Agreed,” she said numbly, staring at her skeleton of a husband. At least there were no apparent injuries on his body or signs of disease. “Darcy,” she whispered, wiping the dirt away from his forehead. He groaned something incomprehensible. “It's all right. We're here.” In response, he only coughed.

Elizabeth put a clean white shirt over his head and let him lie back down. His socks were disposed of along with his shirt, and he was finally let to rest, which he seemed to be doing regardless of their ministrations.

As Grégoire excused himself, Elizabeth stopped him. “What did you promise the count?”

“The count?”

“Our host. He said you offered a favor.”

“Oh.” He looked a bit embarrassed. “I—promised to say a Mass so that his daughter will not miscarry. She is with child again.” The part about Olaf's son taking ill had been false; the part about the failed confinement of his daughter last year had been true.

“That was it?”

“Yes.”

He was hiding something, but she accepted his answer, too tired to do otherwise. It did not seem pressing. Instead she removed her outer layers and crawled into bed beside her husband, listening to his steady breathing and occasional cough no matter how many blankets she put over him. But he was here, beside her, where he belonged. Where they were and how they had gotten there, for the moment, did not matter.

***

In the morning, Grégoire was already up when she knocked on his door. Of course, he rose earlier than all of them, no matter how tired he was. In the hallway they encountered a tense Fitzwilliam, still not fully dressed. “How is Darcy?”

“Still sleeping. He called out for you during the night, Grégoire,” she said to her brother-in-law. “Except he called you Gregory for some reason.”

Grégoire shrugged. “Has anyone spoken to Mrs. Maddox?”

“Yes,” Fitzwilliam said with a frown. “Dr. Maddox is not well. He has a fever, from the infection in his hand. He needs rest and, at the very least, an apothecary.

Elizabeth felt a pang of guilt; apparently, Darcy had fared well. On the other hand, it wasn't
his
brother who had run off with Count Vladimir's daughter.

“Yes, I discussed it with Count Olaf last night. He says the best thing to do is to make straight for Frankfurt, which is large enough to have a decent surgeon, and from there we can write to Darcy's man in Berlin and have him deliver a message to England. Beyond that, we'll have to find passage somewhere along the coast of Hanover. It's not safe to travel
to
England anymore, just from it.” His frown deepened. “I'm not positive that either of them are well enough to travel, but we don't have much of a choice. If we don't leave before the heavy snows set in, we'll have to winter in Transylvania.”

***

At breakfast, Count Olaf joined them, as did his wife and son; they discussed various routes out of the country and various places to stop for shelter. It had not snowed the night before—a good sign, he judged. “The only thing I regret,” Olaf said, “is not being able to see the look on Vladimir's face when he discovered our ruse. Perhaps he hasn't, yet.”

“And Trommler?”

He shrugged, “That man, as far as I can tell, is the type of person to survive. Unfortunately.”

Their few items were packed, and the reliquary was returned to its hiding place in the now well-padded wagon. A hung-over Darcy attempted to get up but eventually needed Fitzwilliam to carry him to the wagon.

Their departure from the castle was an odd one. They were eager to be gone but wanted to say proper good-byes to the man who had so needlessly put himself out and in great danger for them. However, they could not bring themselves to celebrate, and their good-byes were muted.

“Go with God, Brother,” Olaf said to Grégoire.

“Go with God,”
Grégoire said as he made the sign of the cross.

***

“Uncle Bingley!”

The shouts of two children, probably racing in his direction with the intention to grab hold of him and perhaps topple him, was enough to make a very tired Charles Bingley smile as he entered his London townhouse. “Prepare yourself; I am about to be trampled,” he said to his doorman as the Maddox children appeared around the corner. “Hello, chil—” But that was about as far as he got before Frederick and Emily Maddox reached his legs, and he succeeded in standing only by grabbing on to a pillar. “Careful! You're both much too big for this!”

Emily raised her hands a silent question, and he picked her up with a groan. “You're getting too heavy, Miss Maddox. I bet you're going to be at least your mother's height.” He looked down and patted Frederick on the head. “And you—you're practically a man now.” Actually Frederick was five as of a week ago, but he was unaware of that fact. His birthday was celebrated with his sister's. “Look at you.”

Louisa Hurst finally appeared, trying to follow her niece and nephew with a more graceful, womanly entrance. “Hello, Charles.”

“Louisa. How are they?”

“Quite eager for next week.” She turned a stern eye to the children. “And you are both up past your bedtimes.”

With a collective groan, a servant finally herded off the children as Mr. Hurst hobbled in. “Mr. Bingley.”

“Mr. Hurst. How are you both? Is there any news?”

“There's a package that was passed on by the Maddox housekeeper, but it's not from the Continent,” Louisa said. “It came last week. No return.”

“To Dr. Maddox?”

“To Frederick.”

He nodded. “Does he know about it?”

“No. We weren't sure what to do.”

“I'll handle it,” he said. “I'm sorry I'm later than I said I would be—I was held up at the business office.”

“I thought you hired a manager for that,” said Mr. Hurst. Louisa Hurst had already put in her objections to Bingley reentering the family business, and said nothing at this juncture.

“I did, but—there's only so much he can do with the embargo. The company hasn't had a shipment in six months.” He shook his head. He didn't want to talk about this in front of his sister. “Where is this package?”

“In your study, with your other post. None of it from the Continent—we checked as it came in. How is Jane?”

“She is fine. Worried, but fine,” Bingley said, which was his regular answer, and he said his good nights to his sister as he went into his study. He left the door open, and Mr. Hurst followed him.

“I hope you don't mind,” Hurst said, sitting down on the chair across from him. “You would think having two children would make the house livelier, but it's actually been rather quiet.”

“I don't mind,” Bingley said as he quickly shuffled through the post, mainly concerning his business venture, and a few from people who had heard he was in and out of Town and were sending their invitations.

“Any hope for the business, Bingley?”

He sighed. “I don't know. I either pay the workers for essentially doing nothing, or throw up my hands and let them all go. The warehouse is empty, and no money's coming in.”

“Will you have lost much?”

“Hardly anything. I wouldn't have gone into it otherwise. Still—I feel bad, not paying men who think they have jobs. These are dock workers, not idle gentlemen.”

“But they're not actually doing their jobs.”

Bingley just shook his head. “Anyway—let's see about this.” He pulled the brown package closer to him and retrieved his pocketknife to cut the strings. There was no return address. “I assume it came on Frederick's birthday?”

“Precisely. Or do we really know? Or just the day his mother died?”

“I don't know. I was never clear on that myself. For some reason, I don't want to bring it up, even with Caroline.” He severed the strings and tore off the brown packaging to reveal a box. “I feel sort of guilty, opening his present for him.”

“My understanding is the doctor does it without a second thought.”

This didn't make Bingley feel much better as he opened the box to reveal a set of toy soldiers, half painted British and half painted French, lying against fine silk. “Goodness.” He spun the box around so Hurst could get a look.

Mr. Hurst picked one up, examining it. “
Very
nice. Young Frederick will be ecstatic.” He put it back in its place. “Who will this be from?”

“I don't know. Usually the doctor makes that decision, but I don't think he'll be back in time.” He crossed his arms. “I bought Emily a doll—I suppose this year it could come from the Bingleys, alongside her present.”

“Was the doll made of gold?”

“They can't tell the worth of things. And it's a very nice doll,” Bingley said, closing the box and flipping it over.

“Looking for the royal seal?”

“We're not supposed to say that out loud, Mr. Hurst,” he said, settling into his chair.

“Someone should say the obvious,” Hurst said. “I agree with your plan. Louisa and I already bought him something. He's been trying to find it all week.”

“Jane is going to come down for their birthday and bring the children.”

“All of them?”

“We thought—well, it might take their minds off the situation. The house might be destroyed in the process, but so be it.” He smiled at that, one hand still on the box of soldiers.

***

The five of them took shifts through the night and the next day, until they had to stop and pay what seemed outrageous for a change in horses. The road was long and brutal, rarely paved except for the old Roman roads. A week at full speed was enough for everyone, and it was obvious that their husbands needed not only proper food (and a shave) but a doctor.

Grégoire held Darcy upright long enough to make sure he swallowed the contents of the container of soup and then helped him back down. Elizabeth climbed up next to Caroline. “How long do you think we should ride?”

“As long as we possibly can. Out of Austria, at least.”

The half-ruined wagon rolled into Frankfurt. The best inn they could find was in poor condition from the chaos of war, but it would do. Grégoire was sent off to find a decent doctor, if one was to be found. The reliquary was put in the Maddoxes' room, as it seemed that the doctor needed most any blessings it would bring.

At last, after the innkeeper brought up food and drink, Elizabeth was left alone with Darcy. “Darcy,” she said, taking his hand. “You need to drink.”

To her surprise, he coughed and responded, “Maddox, I've just had the loveliest dream.”

“Oh?”

“Elizabeth was with me,” he said.

She kissed him on the forehead, and he opened his eyes. They didn't seem to entirely focus, but enough for him to say, “Oh.”

“That's all I get for going to Transylvania to rescue you?”

He smiled weakly. “You are… preferable… to waking up next to Maddox.”

“I would hope so,” she said, all of the desperation coming out of her. Relieved as she was to find him alive, he was not well. “I'll help you up.” “Help” was an operative word, because she did most of the work, as he didn't seem capable of moving much himself or even lifting his own deteriorated weight, but finally she had him resting against the headboard enough for him to drink. It took him a long time to finish the bottle, but he managed, and seemed to stay awake this time as she put it away.

“Where—where am I?”

“Frankfurt. We've just arrived. Grégoire is looking for a doctor as we speak.”

“Doctor—” he stumbled. “Grégoire?”

“Yes, you have a brother named Grégoire.”

He was too impaired to respond in his traditional way, which bothered her as he answered simply, “He's here?”

“We found him in the monastery. It was dissolved, but he was still there. He posted, of course, but like everything else, it didn't reach us in England.”

He made a motion that seemed to be an abbreviated nod. “Dr. Maddox?”

“He's in the next room, with Caroline.”

“Bingley?”

“Yes. I don't know another Caroline.”

“No… I mean… where's
Bingley
?”

“He didn't come. He's watching the children.”

“Oh.” After some time, he said, “Clearly… we should have been… more specific in sending for help.”