Mr. Darcy's Great Escape (32 page)

Out of Austria

The next day, a terrible downpour descended on Derbyshire. It was not the gentle May showers that the children enjoyed playing in before Nurse discovered them, but the cold, harsh rain of early winter, not quite snow yet, but cold enough to be almost sleet.

Elizabeth seemed surprised when Dr. Maddox made his scheduled appearance, even though the walk from the carriage to the front door had him thoroughly soaked. “Mrs. Darcy.”

“Dr. Maddox,” she curtseyed. “I did not expect you, to be honest. I would not want you to put your health at risk.”

“I was more concerned for the carriage driver than myself. Please alert me if he takes ill, but I never miss my appointments.”

He was rushed at by the servants, who attended to his coat and hat and provided him with all the towels he needed. Beyond that, he was not interested in wasting time. “Where is he?”

“He's not yet left the bedchamber. He is not seeing visitors. I told him Bingley was coming, and he said to say he was busy with his ledgers.”

It was half past noon. Dr. Maddox refrained from comment. “Do I have your permission to intrude on the master's quarters?”

To his surprise, Elizabeth blushed as they climbed the grand staircase. “Mr. Darcy has always preferred the mistress's quarters.”

Again, no comment. “So I have your permission.”

“Yes,” she said, as they headed into the private wing of the master and mistress of Pemberley's rooms. “I dismissed all the servants except for his manservant, who is aware of the situation.” She added, “I think Darcy has his suspicions.”

“They are not unreasonable suspicions at this point,” he said as he was brought to the doors that led to her chambers. “Thank you, Mrs. Darcy.”

She was emotional as she had to leave him to his business. As a physician he was normally accustomed to this, but not so much with a relative, especially when he had little idea of what he was doing. “All will be well, Mrs. Darcy. Time heals all wounds.” The quotation was not actually true, as he had certainly never seen anyone's leg grow back, but it seemed to comfort her enough for him to enter the room and close the door behind him.

The sounds of rain and thunder filled the room, as everything else was perfectly quiet. Darcy, sitting in an armchair that was turned to face the window, could have easily heard the shuffling on the carpet and said without turning around, “I do not recall summoning you to my private chambers.”

“As you seem to be unwilling to greet guests, I had to resort to more drastic measures,” Dr. Maddox said, slowly approaching Darcy's end of the room. It was terribly dark, the only light from the dreary sky and a candle by the bed stand.

“Maddox,” Darcy said, his voice less harsh, but not lightened. “Doctor. Please don't come any closer.”

“We lived together in a space half this size for months; I can hardly believe that you are so bothered by my presence.” Without Darcy's permission, he strode up to the window, his hands behind his back. He did not eye Darcy like a specimen, but looked only briefly enough to tell that he was dressed, even if none of his clothing matched, and he hadn't shaved in a day or two. Beside him was a tea tray on a stand.

“So, I am not to expect a straitjacket? Or are you the distraction while burlier men sneak behind me?”

“No,” Dr. Maddox said quietly. “Nothing of the sort, I assure you.”

“You have no bag, I see.”

“I have no instruments that can help you, Mr. Darcy. I am only here to write a prescription, and I can do that in any room of the house.” Again without permission, he pulled the other armchair formerly by the fireplace and placed it on the other side of the stand.

“People die from those magic pills,” Darcy said. “I am not a fool.”

“That is why I so rarely prescribe them,” Dr. Maddox said, sitting down and pouring himself a cup of tea. Darcy was apparently stupefied by his presence, lacking all of his usual healthy demeanor and assertiveness. “It's actually just a recipe for a tonic that aids in a night's sleep.”

“You wish to drug me?”

“I wish to recommend it. I assume you've not been sleeping well.”

“So I am to have no secrets from anyone?”

“It is not a secret. It is plainly written under your eyes.” He sat back, dish in hand. “I did not know of it until it was prescribed to me by my own physician. I take it every night and it works wonders for me.” He sipped the tea, and then put down the dish. “The tea is cold. Should I ring for more?”

“No!” Darcy said, alarmed. He recovered quickly, saying more passively, “No. You shall not. These are my chambers, in my house, and I will decide who rings for what. Am I not the master of Pemberley?”

Dr. Maddox said softly, “It seems more that you have made yourself a prisoner of Pemberley.”

Darcy did not respond in anger. He didn't fret or fidget. He merely retreated into himself, gazing out the window. That, at least, was unchanged from the old Darcy. “I can leave if I want to.”

“I don't think you can.”

Darcy considered this for a moment, gathering his answer. “I know you think I'm mad. I know you've been watching me since our return.”

“Then apparently you knew about it before I did, for I was only informed of your suffering a few weeks ago.”

To this, Darcy had no answer. He did look eager to give one, but words seemed to fail him.

Dr. Maddox turned and looked into his eyes. Darcy's eyes were the only part of his body not slackened. They betrayed the turmoil inside him. “Darcy, I am not here to have you sent away or to encourage your family to do so. I came here primarily to give your housekeeper instructions for a drink that will help you sleep. My secondary motive was more in line with your suspicions, but not quite so wild. Your family
is
concerned for you, and
did
contact me, and
did
answer my questions about your behavior.”

“So there is a conspiracy.”

“I would not use that term.”

“I would call any number of people planning behind my back to do something against me a conspiracy. You can call it what you like, Doctor. I really don't care.”

“I'm going to ring for more tea.”

He rose, but as he did, Darcy grasped his arm very tightly. “Please don't. Have pity on me!”

There was a sudden surge in Daniel Maddox, and he left his formal doctor mode entirely. “Have pity on you!” The shocked Darcy slumped at this wild deviation from the mood, as he faced a towering man with a loud, raw voice. “You! You, who sat in a cell while I entertained you, while I wanted to die from the pain in my hand, as my flesh rotted away from infection! You, who were not so easily discarded by the count, who was looking for someone to mindlessly take his frustrations out on!” None of this was calculated. In fact, it was the very definition of sudden. His mood had varied unexpectedly since he had returned, but he had restrained himself in company. But now he grabbed Darcy by his vest and nearly pulled him out of his chair. “Do you know what they did to me? First Trommler and then the count? Did you sit in a chair for three days without food or water while being interrogated? And yet I have to go on, like nothing happened, because I don't own a great estate that I can hide in and turn into my own private cell! All because I'm not rich enough to ignore everyone beneath me, even my own wife!” He found himself, once he had shaken the life out of Darcy and shouted more than he had in his entire life in one breath, quite woozy. He released the petrified Darcy and stepped back, first leaning against the window and then, when his legs failed him, sliding down to the ground, with his hands over his face.

A meek Darcy said, “Neither of us left Austria.”

“You're wrong,” Dr. Maddox said, still not recovered. “We brought it back here with us.”

Outside, the rain continued unabated.

“What do we do now?”

Dr. Maddox lacked a prepared answer. He had only throttled one other patient, also a relative, and there he felt he was justified. He had reason to lose his head while intoxicated. He had no reason to do so with a disturbed patient. “I don't know.”

“So there are no doctors to heal the mind?”

“It is not possible. In this we are quite inept.” Dr. Maddox was exhausted. Facing Darcy had reopened wounds he thought healed.

“Then why are you still here?” Darcy's tone was not insulting. It was more a desperate inquiry. “Why do you not leave me alone?”

“Because if I do,” Dr. Maddox said, “we know there is only one option before us, and though it might seem a relief to you to remain confined, I will not stand to see your family—
my
family—suffer it.”

Darcy stood up and walked to the window for a moment before offering his hand to the doctor, who got to his feet. Darcy couldn't meet his eyes, distinctly looking away but in no particular direction.

“I'm sorry,” Dr. Maddox said. “I should have been more professional.”

“It depends if you consider me a patient or a friend.”

Dr. Maddox half-smiled. “I suppose you're right.”

Darcy removed his wig. “I hate this sodding thing.” He tossed it on the bed. His hair was beginning to come in again, enough to cover his head adequately, but he still looked quite different than he normally did. “I can go outside if I want to.”

“Prove it.”

Darcy visibly steeled himself before running out of the room. Dr. Maddox followed curiously, but not particularly quickly, as Darcy bypassed his wife, servants, and by-then curious doorman, and ran out the front doors of Pemberley, into the rain.

“Darcy!” Elizabeth said, chasing after him.

Dr. Maddox sighed to himself and walked up to the window, watching her disappear into the forest after her husband.

“Are you in the habit of just letting your patients run away from you, Doctor?” Mrs. Reynolds asked next to him.

“No,” he said, “but I suppose I can't be expected to hold on to every one.”

***

Elizabeth lost Darcy, but she never felt like she truly lost him. She knew where he would go, almost instinctually—like a child, he would go somewhere he felt safe. She knew all of his spots. He had, after all, spent the first happy months of their marriage showing her every inch of Pemberley's vast grounds and explained every spot where he might have fallen, or played, or caught a fish. With the downpour, there were very few options. The trees did little to lessen it. But there was a shelter—near the waterfall—that was so beautiful in the summer. There had even been a bench there, but it was brought in for the winter now. She was lucky it was such a warm December. “Darcy!”

“Go away,” he said, and she turned to her left. Her soaked husband was indeed sitting under the little wooden canopy, or had been sitting, but he rose in alarm when she approached. “Just—please. Leave me.”

“Darcy—”

“I don't mean you any disrespect—”

“I'm sure you don't!” she shouted, which had its intentional devastating effect.

“How can you know what I feel?”

“Yes, sir! How, indeed, can I know if you do not tell me?”

Darcy turned away; she was not sure in anger or in befuddlement. Even with nowhere to escape to, he was doing his best to try, but she grabbed his arm and tugged on his coat. “Darcy,” she said, softening her tone. “I am your wife of nine years, and I take it with insult that you do not share with me your concerns. Please,
tell me
.”

He said nothing. He did not move, either away or closer to her. His face was partially hidden in shadow. She waited, and she lowered her hand so that it grasped his, cold and wet, and for a while, there was only the rain to make sound.

“I cannot,” he said at last.

“Why?”

“I cannot explain it.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

He turned his head to her at last, his eyes full of desperation and surprise.

That was enough of an answer for her. “You don't have to be.”

“I know.”

“You're ill, Darcy.”

He whispered, “I know.”

She reached out to embrace him, but again he shied away, going as far to the end of their shelter as he could without being soaked. More than he already was, anyway. “I told you,” she reminded him.

“I know.” He was, it seemed, fighting his own instincts. “Lizzy, I can't.”

“You can't? You can't even touch me?” She did not let his hand go, as much as he twisted and tried to escape it. It was her last hold on him, a tether into the abyss. “Have I become too disgusting to you?”

“No,” he stumbled. “No, of course not.”

“Then you know your thoughts are irrational.”

“So you presume to know them?” he spat back.

“You are making them obvious enough, sir.”

To this, he had no response. Actually, he did stare at her, rather blankly.

“Do you still love me?” She wanted it to be with force; instead, it came out as a scared whimper. Damn it! She was madder at herself than him.

“Of course,” he said, stepping closer to her.

“As much as the day we were married?”

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

Without provocation, she crossed the length of distance between them—still considerable—and kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He was not entirely unresponsive, if a little spooked. With enough time that passed, she felt the uneasiness release from him. When she pulled away to breathe, he was still trembling. “I need you,” she whispered. “I need my husband. And don't tell me he's still in Transylvania, because he's right here with me; I can feel him.” She caressed his cheeks, probably the only thing that kept him from fleeing.

“Lizzy,” he said, “are you admitting to a weakness?”