Mr. Darcy's Great Escape (31 page)

“Reverse what?”

“Side! Reverse your side!” Kayano insisted. “You are weak on your right. Don't reveal it!”

He meant, of course, to fight left-handed. “But—” He did not know the proper translation for “un-gentlemanly.” Not that he had considered himself a gentleman in a long time, but that did not mean he forgot how to fence. “Not—proper.”

“Left side! Now!” Kayano beat his staff against the ground impatiently. Brian hesitantly took up his left side. Still, the old man was not happy. “Both hands on blade!”

Brian did not attempt to argue this. He put his hands on the blade as he had seen Miyoshi do time and time again, even though at least Miyoshi fought properly, on his right side.

“Now. Block!”

He was stronger on his left but untrained. He barely managed to block again, but this time he did not lose the sword.

“Again!”

So it continued. Block, block, block. By the end he was sweating and exhausted, while Kayano's response was to strike his feet. “Move them!”

“I can't—”

“Motion!”

Brian stepped back in a sort of shuffle, maintaining his stance.

“The Buddha says change drives the world. Change is inevitable. You must change!” Kayano said, but then more calmly continued, “But you know this.”

Weakly, Brian nodded.

“You have changed many times. Many, many times. Like a wheel moving too fast.”

Again, he nodded.

“Miyoshi cannot change. Japanese, they cannot adapt. Every day, the same strike! Every day, the same block! Useless samurai. He would be better use to you,” he said. “Change or die.”

With that, he let Brian hobble back to his room, where he collapsed next to his wife and fell promptly asleep.

***

At the next meeting, it was decided. “Pilgrims,” Kayano said, and the others nodded.

“Pilgrims cover their faces and speak little,” Tahkonanna said. “You will go to visit a shrine in the south.”

“Apologies,” Nadezhda said, “but how will we find our way?”

“Miyoshi-san,” Kayano announced, to Miyoshi's surprise. The samurai, whatever that meant, stood off to the side of village meetings, his hands in the folds of his robe. Kayano rose, pulled out the two swords on his right side, and presented them to Miyoshi. “You will escort them to Nagasaki. Do you know the way?”

“
Hai
,” Miyoshi said, obviously shocked at the gesture.

“Then take them there, samurai,” Kayano said, then handed him his swords, which Miyoshi quickly slipped into his belt. “And then do what you will.”

Miyoshi bowed to him before Kayano turned his attentions back to the couple. “We have obtained a traveler's permit, some money, and provisions for the road. When you are well enough, you will go.”

“We have no way to repay you,” Brian said, bowing low to the ground from his kneeling position as he'd seen others do before Kayano-sama, Lord Kayano.

But Kayano just laughed and slapped him on the shoulder before walking off.

Their instructions on how to dress and act like pilgrims began in the morning; first thing to do was to learn how to wear gigantic hats that were little more than overturned rush buckets with slits to see through. These illogical contraptions were not at all heavy and would thoroughly hide their features, but they had to be tied because, to the best of his knowledge, Brian hadn't seen a buckle or button since they left Russia.

Tahkonanna aided them. Miyoshi went off somewhere, and they did not see him but were assured that he would keep to his assignment all the way to Nagasaki. “He is an honorable man.”

“He is a bit…” Nadezhda searched for the word in Japanese. “Rude.”

“He is proud. Samurai. The warrior class. Nobility.”

“What is he do—here?” Brian asked as the village head's son showed them how to tie up their white pilgrim's outfits with all the proper knots.

“Doing here,” he corrected. “I don't know what he did, but he had to leave his lord, a very dishonorable thing. He came here to die.
Seppuku
. So sorry, I don't know the word in Russian.”

“Kill himself?” Brian said.

“Suicide?” Nadezhda said in Russian.

“Yes.” He gestured with his hand as if he was holding a sword and thrusting it into his stomach. “
Seppuku
. A very honorable way to die, the proper action, for one who has brought shame to themselves.”

Then I would be dead many times over
, Brian mused. “Are you serious?”

Tahkonanna gave them both a look of mild surprise, which indicated that he was, and they decided not to push the matter any further. “Here.” He handed him what appeared to be a walking stick but upon closer inspection it had an obvious handle and a longer portion.

Brian pulled it apart to reveal a thin sword. “I don't know how to use this.”

“You've never held a sword?”

“Oh, I have, but—never in serious combat. We use guns.”

“Your gun was destroyed, Madokusu-san. Miyoshi-san is your samurai. It is only for emergencies,” he assured him. “Nadi-san,” and he passed her a much smaller one, which could be concealed easily in her robes.

There was another town nearby that had regular trade with the Russians, however illegal. Through them, Brian and Nadezhda were able to convert their fortune to Japanese coinage. Brian offered some to Kayano, who refused. “You will take this instead.” He pointed to his head.

Brian wasn't quite sure how literal he was being. “What?”

“Memories,” Kayano said. “We have lost. The Japanese came from the south and defeated us. In time, we will be gone. But you will remember.”

Brian understood and bowed.

That night, they shaved his head or most of it. His usually wild mane of hair was particularly hard to trim, as it was naturally frizzy and overly knotted. They shaved off his long, Russian-esque beard, including the sideburns. The only thing they left long was the back, to be tied up in a knot of some kind, and he left the room feeling more naked than he had ever been in his life despite being otherwise covered in clothing.

When he entered his chambers, Nadezhda made no attempt to hide her laughter at his bizarrely tonsured head.

“It's not funny,” he said in Romanian with mock indignity.

“Oh, darling, I've not seen you this way for a long time. Or ever,” she said, holding out her arms as an invitation. He sat down on the mattress beside her as she caressed his face. “Though your cheeks do feel good again.”

“I had no idea you took such pleasure in them.”

“Now that I have told you, you must be as fastidious in your shaving habits as you can.”

He kissed her. “Of course.”

She continued to massage his face and then his neck. Over their long flight and then even longer recovery from typhus, they had had understandably little time for any intimacy.

“We will have to be very quiet,” he whispered into her neck. “I don't think these walls are particularly good at disguising sound.”

“Then they must be accustomed to it,” she said simply, because she always seemed to take things with greater ease than he did. She had learned the language better than he had. She had no provocation against approaching elders and speaking for herself, and they seemed unruffled by it, here in this tiny barbarian village at the end of the world. She was his Nadezhda, and she was constantly surprising him. He had already decided, long ago, that he liked that part of their marriage very much.

***

“We don't know how to thank you,” Brian said to Kayano, meaning it somewhat literally. The leader had already refused what little Russian coinage they had, saying they would need it in Nagasaki.

“Taking Miyoshi-san off our hands is enough,” said Tahkonanna. “Good luck.”

“I would say we would never be this way again,” Brian said, “but luck keeps surprising me.” He tightened his grip on his wife's hand, and though with the bucket of straw over his head he could not see her smile, he could feel it.

Miyoshi was waiting for them, up the road, as they said their good-byes to the village. Other than wearing a hat that resembled a lampshade, which covered the upper half of his face, his traveling clothes were no different from his regular ones. “It will be good if you remain silent,” Miyoshi said. “Your accents give you away.”

“How far is Nagasaki?”

“Very far. Months.”

They were going to be walking for months? Brian looked at Nadezhda through the holes of his
tengai
nervously. Could she take it? Could he take it? Miyoshi seemed to have no hesitation at such a long journey on foot, even in sandals.

“Have you ever been there?” Nadezhda asked.

“No,” Miyoshi said.

“But you've been close.”

“Edo.”

That was, or so Brian recalled, the capital. “Are you from there, Miyoshi-san?”

“No.” That seemed to be the end of his answer for a long time, before he added, “I worked there.”

Both of them had enough sense to know this was not something to probe further. The rest of the day was passed mainly in silence.

The Harvest Festival

1812

The Darcys returned to Pemberley as quietly as was possible, which was not very quietly, and Elizabeth discreetly tugged on her husband's hand as he observed the crowd greeting him as if he was a distant, uncomfortable observer. He did nod and acknowledge them in every necessary way required of him, and then retired to his chambers until dinner. Though he did not express it, he was obviously most displeased that they had delayed the harvest festival until his return, which meant he had to preside over it. Decorations were thrown up as quickly as possible, and he made only a minimal appearance. Georgiana was also in a state of despair but managed to put on a smile as Elizabeth reassured her that Darcy would come around. Still, Elizabeth imagined that to have one's future put on hold by an overprotective elder brother was clearly its own strain.

Settled at Pemberley, Darcy's physical recovery continued, but he remained retreated from everything except the basic civilities required for social life. He saw his children but didn't play with them; Georgiana and Grégoire were officially charged with distracting Geoffrey and Anne from their father's infirmary. Sarah Darcy was not old enough to notice.

There was also the other matter, that of Elizabeth's own increasing girth. Since Austria, Darcy had made no attempts to involve her in conversation about her condition. She knew that her own emotions were not as they normally were, after the strain of both what was happening with her own body and what was happening to their family, but that could not help her dismiss her fears.

There was one resident also hurt by Darcy's infirmary, whatever it was, and it was Georgiana. Georgiana Darcy, a child no longer, was sitting on her heels impatiently but
so patiently
. She loved her brother, yes, but he was not her responsibility. Elizabeth doubted that in the throes of love she would have so much patience for her own father if he had not consented to her own marriage, but Georgiana sat in silence.

In their time as sisters, Elizabeth and Georgiana had treated each other as such, and the younger of the pair had blossomed, but perhaps now was the time to stop unconsciously looking down at her as a young girl.

Her mind guiltily set, Elizabeth found Georgiana in her sitting room, reading. The book was in French. “Georgiana.”

“Elizabeth.” She set it aside as if she was ashamed of it.

“What are you reading, if I may inquire?”

“Oh, it's—I borrowed it from Mrs. Maddox. It's a history of Scotland. They were allies for many years, the Scots and the French, against the English.” She picked it back up and caressed it. “It makes me feel nearer… somehow.”

“Your brother will give in.”

“He shouldn't have to give in,” Georgiana said with a surprising amount of anger. “He's my brother, and I'm in love with a man who will care for me and isn't terribly far away from Derbyshire. Why should he resist? I am sick of his protectiveness.” She put her hand over her mouth. “Forgive me. I don't understand him sometimes.”

“
Sometimes
?” Elizabeth said. “But—in regards to yourself, to all of us, may I ask you something?”

Georgiana looked up at her. “Of course.”

“Do you think Darcy is well?”

Her sister-in-law did seem to grasp the severity of her meaning, because she looked down at the book again, and then away, before answering, “I don't know. I'm perhaps not the best person to ask.”

“You've known him all of your life.”

“But he's always been distant—or he was, before he was married. You know he's been more a father to me than a brother.” She shook her head. “I cannot judge.”

It did not settle Elizabeth. It had the opposite effect, but she made every attempt to hide it in order to continue the conversation. “Has Darcy said anything—odd—to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Off. Strange.”

Georgiana frowned. “I think he meant it in privacy.”

“You don't have to say it, then.”

“But,” her sister-in-law considered, “he didn't
say
it was private. I just don't think he meant to be heard. That's… fair, isn't it?” She looked to Elizabeth for approval and was nodded on. “He said he never left Austria. He said he never will.” She paused before going on. “Forgive me, but I could not think of what to say to that.”

“I cannot imagine he was asking for a response.”

Georgiana's voice was wavering. “You don't think he's well, do you? Something rattled him in Transylvania?” Before Elizabeth could respond, she said, “Should he see a doctor? Not Dr. Maddox, I suppose.”

“No,” she said. “I've… thought of it. But I cannot bring myself to subject him to that. Besides, even Dr. Maddox's opinion of mind doctors is poor.”
I'm not sending him to Bedlam
, she thought.
I'm not giving up what little of him I have left
. “He needs to talk to someone.”

“Then of course it should be you!” Georgiana said. “Lizzy, you are the only person I know who can alter anything in him. Believe me when I say, if anyone is to reach him, it can only be you.”

Determined to do so, Elizabeth returned to the house, went into her study, and sat down to write the hardest letter of her life.

***

If Darcy knew anything, he said nothing. He said little at all. He did have a lot of business to conduct, having been gone for half a year between his trips to Rosings and his stay on the Continent, and often spent hours with his ledgers in his study. At the end of very late nights, as Elizabeth stayed up waiting for him, he slipped into bed clothed and with barely more than a good night. Her enforced celibacy continued. He was often up and about when she awoke.

So it continued, for two unbearable weeks, until the Maddoxes came up to visit Chatton. Darcy pleaded business to excuse himself from the call. He had not been outside Pemberley's doors in nearly a month. Elizabeth did not fight him this time and went to call on the Bingleys—and Dr. Maddox.

The months had obviously been better to the doctor, who had returned to his old pallor for the most part. He didn't look the best she had ever seen him, with gray hairs coming in at the roots where there had once been black, but he was a man who had returned to health and society. “Mrs. Darcy.”

“Dr. Maddox.”

He waved off the servant and closed the door before settling into a seat next to the table between them. In his hands was her letter, now a bit rumpled from use. He glanced through its several pages before putting it on the table and turning his attention to her. “Have there been any changes I should know about?”

“No.”

“Well, then,” he said. “I spoke to Sir Richard Gregory, former doctor of the mind research at Oxford and the current head of the staff in charge of His Majesty.”

“I am impressed,” she said, “and grateful.”

“We do cross paths on occasion,” he said. “He agreed to review the case with me and studied my set of notes without the patient's identity. He is one of the few mentalists I respect as a doctor. That said, I cannot honestly say I recommend his advice.”

“So he reached a diagnosis?”

“He said he could not without examining the patient. Then again, he's had half a dozen different diagnoses over the years for His Majesty. It isn't quite like looking at a wound or listening to a cough, as you can no doubt imagine. Eventually he said monomania, but that is really a diagnosis for someone whom the physician—and the family—wishes to be committed.”

She knew the blow was coming and had been attempting, for these weeks, to brace herself for it.

“This is why I do not care much for mind doctors,” he said grimly. “If Darcy is, to be plain, not fit to reenter society, then taking him away from it will not amend the situation; it will make it worse.”

“Do you think he is unfit?”

“I think he's unwell.” Dr. Maddox had no hesitation saying it. He never seemed to have a problem speaking with the formality of a doctor. “He is more withdrawn than some men, but that is not a great flaw in his character by any means. In fact, I have always regarded Mr. Darcy as one of the most upstanding gentlemen I have ever met. He is not cruel, he is not malicious, and he is not abusive. He does not turn his anxieties into anger. For the most part, he has managed them. Then, of course, we had Austria.” Now he did lose some of his composure, if subtly so. “We tried to keep each other sane by talking about anything. We recited poetry. We told stories. We recited as much literature as we could remember, but there were long hours, and there was a darkness there—metaphorical and literal—that could not be escaped. Eventually you just… gave in.”

Elizabeth put her hand over her mouth. She wanted to cry. It seemed odd that she was more upset than Dr. Maddox, who was speaking of his own experiences. “But you are well.”

“I am a different case entirely. I have withstood loneliness before. Not on that scale, but I lived alone. Many years in poverty in the East End, surrounded by disease, and hunted by Brian's less scrupulous creditors. In a way, I was more acclimated to the circumstances.” He sighed. “The chief difference between me and Darcy is the desire to return to normal life.”

“What did the king's doctor recommend—beyond Bedlam?”

“Some pills that he gives the king, which I see no sense in, as they obviously don't work and the king has a completely different condition, more of a disease than something the result of trauma. The one suggestion I would actually follow is a certain tea, which mixed with certain ingredients can be very calming. When mixed with others, it can help a person sleep. I will venture a guess that he is not sleeping well. That, at least, I think we can convince him of.” He continued, “Beyond that, my own recommendation—though I am no expert of the mental realm—is to talk to him. After all, he should not be excluded from his own treatment.” Before she could respond, he said, “If you would permit me, I wish to speak with him.”

“He might not take well to it.”

“Maybe not. But we have at least some common ground on which to chat,” he said grimly.