Mr. Darcy's Great Escape (42 page)

“Good Lord, it is just a building—”

“It is
not
just a building!” Senselessly he grabbed his brother. He knew he wasn't supposed to do that at all, especially to Gregory, but strangely, Gregory was too surprised and weakened to oppose him. “If you had been its master like you should have been, you would remember that! Don't you understand? You cannot do this to him!” He was shaking him—or shaking the edges of his coat. “
Fitzwilliam
cannot get sick!
”

The horror of it—even just spoken—was enough to knock him out of his state. He released his brother, who fell back on the bed without complaint and stepped away. “I cannot appear weak in front of him. I must be the shining example.” He leaned against the bookcase. “All of my deeds, all of my failures, all of my mistakes—they can be forgiven if they don't fall on him. But even
I
am lost here.”

“You are mistaken,” Gregory said slowly, “if you think I know what to say to him.”

“Don't say—what we're both thinking,” Geoffrey said. “Tell him—I don't care. Just talk to him. Advise him. You've always been wiser than me.”

“And look where I have ended up.”

“You would have made an excellent master of Pemberley,” Geoffrey said. “The best. If not—if you could deal with people. It could have gone so differently.” He shook his head. “Just talk to him. Or listen to him.
Anything
.”

After a pause, Gregory quietly said, “Very well. Send him in.”

Geoffrey opened the door and went out to retrieve his son, who was pacing in the long hallway. Fitzwilliam Darcy had had his growth spurt, and was now almost as tall as his father, but he did not stand proud. He looked uncomfortable in his own skin, though most boys did at that age, when so much was happening to their bodies and minds. The transition to adulthood could make or break someone. George Wickham had already made his choices, by getting caught with one of the chambermaids. Thankfully, neither Georgiana nor Fitzwilliam were in that part of the house, and the servants had been suitably warned to say nothing while the girl was quietly dismissed. Fitzwilliam rarely spoke to anyone, much less while horizontal. In school, it was even worse. It would have given a normal father who loved his son a moment to pause. Geoffrey Darcy had sleepless nights.

As Fitzwilliam entered his uncle's room and shut the door behind him, Geoffrey Darcy slid down onto the floor of the empty hallway and cried.

The Last Monk of Saint Sebald

Cassandra Darcy was judged by both parents to be the loudest Darcy, a title formerly held by the infant Geoffrey. Nonetheless, even when Elizabeth was exhausted, Darcy never tired of the sound of her coos, murmurs, or wails. “Very well then, you feed her,” said a sleepy Elizabeth as he got up to tend to his hungry child in the early morning light.

“Sadly, some things remain out of my own extensive capabilities,” he said, handing her to her mother. Elizabeth could not help but be relieved, not just that everything was finally in order, but that new life had awoken new life in Darcy's eyes. He loved all of his children, but the timing of Cassandra's arrival brought something out of him that had been asleep. The only thing missing was his sister, but her letters indicated nothing but the best. She was happy in her new home and quite occupied giving the old castle a much-needed woman's touch. As Georgiana was still by birth a Darcy, not a single word in her letter could be doubted.

Even though Geoffrey was eight and growing quickly, the Darcys were spared the burden of hiring a governess for a time. Grégoire was a natural teacher, and his knowledge was not just restricted to the Good Book, though that would do for the moment, with the children so young. Charles and Eliza were old enough to understand, and Anne and Edmund just liked to listen.

“Enough for today,” he said, closing the book and shooing the children away as he saw his brother approaching. Grégoire leaned against the tree, removing his spectacles as Darcy sat down next to him.

“You work very well with children,” Darcy said. “You should consider having some of your own.”

“You may have this conversation with me as many times as you wish, and I will sit patiently through it, but my answer will always be the same,” Grégoire said with a smile. “I have no desire to leave the Church.”

“I couldn't imagine you as anything but a clergyman,” Darcy said, “but in case it passed your notice, we have a system in England where clergymen can have families.”

“And I believe that system is full of clergymen who became so because they were a younger son and desired a living.”

“But they do get to enjoy themselves,” Darcy said. “I heard about Munich.”

“About the abbey? What about—
oh
.” Grégoire reddened under Darcy's amused stare. “Please—it was a mistake.”

Darcy slapped him on the back. “Manhood is not a mistake, little brother. It is a very wonderful thing.”

“Please be silent.”

“Why, you might even imagine it happening multiple times—”

“Please,
please
,
brother—”

“Quite possibly on a regular basis—”

“Darcy, please,” Grégoire said, covering his face with his hands. “There is more to life than the physical experience.”

“But it is
part
of life.”

Grégoire frowned. “I made a promise—to my abbot, myself, and to God. I have always believed I was meant for the contemplative life.” He added, “And I still believe it.”

“The world doesn't agree with you,” Darcy said. “Where can you go? Spain? Rome? Egypt? Why can you not consider Pemberley your home?”

“Because I am not a priest. I am a monk, Darcy. I am part of a brotherhood. What brotherhood, I do not for the moment know.” He shook his head. “I cannot explain it, but I know it. It is what I stand on, as you stand with your wife and your children.”

Darcy sighed. Somehow the question he had unknowingly been asking had been answered. “As long as you're running to something, not away.”

His brother smiled. “That, I assure you, is true.”

***

The summer passed peacefully for the family at large, even though the world around them was in chaos. Derbyshire was quiet, and Bingley's business was thriving under new leadership. He was back and forth between Chatton and Town, often staying at the Maddox house outside London. Georgie begged him to come along, and he could hardly deny her anything. She became especially close to her Aunt Nady. Everyone privately knew that Nadezhda would never have children, as Brian had taken her to nearly every doctor in England to confirm it. If her nieces and nephews adored her, so much the better. Brian and Bingley would sit in the office and work out the details of unloading their stock, and Georgie and Nadezhda would play in the grove.

“Look! Look! I can do it!”

Georgie did finally manage the handstand—for about five seconds before she went toppling over. Mugin caught her from landing flat on her back by grabbing her legs and holding her up. Fortunately she was wearing boy's breeches underneath for this exact purpose. “Very good. Nadi-sama?”

“I can't do that. Very good, Miss Bingley.”

“Heh.” Mugin released Georgie, who managed to flip back to being upright again. “Now, with one hand!”

“Awww! Mugin-san!” Georgie groaned.

“You must practice,” he said. “At your age I was—how old are you, Jorji-chan?”

“Eight!”

He looked to Nadezhda, who held up eight fingers. “Ah. Well, I don't know what I was doing at that time, but I am sure it was hard!” He tried to stare Georgie down, who switched tactics and immediately looked up at him with her sweetest, most heart-melting expression. “You're too clever, you know that?” he said, patting her on the head.

“You're a softie is what you are,” Nadezhda said. Between their accents, their English was barely understandable to the average Englishman, but Georgiana was accustomed to both of them.

“You tell anyone, and I'll kill you,” Mugin said. “It goes for you too, little
ookami
.”

“Mugin, do you really have to leave?”

“There is only one ship.”

“But you can stay here! Forever! Aunt Nady's staying!”

“Nadi-sama is a
gaijin
. She belongs with her husband, in a
gaijin
country.”

“Besides, I believe Uncle Brian needs my help doing… anything,” Nadezhda said. “That man needs a good woman.”

“I need a good woman,” Mugin said. “For a night, maybe two, depending on how good she is.”

“
Mugin!
”

“What? She didn't get it. Did you, Jorji-chan?”

“Get what?” Georgie asked as she put her hair braids back together.

“See?” Mugin said with a broad smile. Nadezhda just folded her arms and shook her head.

***

“Daniel? Daniel!”

Dr. Daniel Maddox groaned, moving only enough to reposition his head. “What time is it?”

“Two in the afternoon,” Caroline said, entering his chambers. “The servants are not aware of your return time last night. They were all asleep.”

“It was—very late,” he said. “Early. Light in the streets.”

“The Regent had a late night, I take it?”

“His Highness always has late nights. You'd only need to read the gossip columns to know that. Which you do, as I see them crumpled up on our nightstand.”

Caroline sat down on the bed, pushing up against him so he would make room as she scratched his head. Ever since his hair had come back in, he adored that. He was like a cat, she'd say. “He had a late night with some emergency, I mean.”

“Perhaps,” he said, his voice still slurred from sleep. “Or perhaps he was so drunk he rather abruptly fell asleep standing and tipped onto the Prime Minister's lap.”

“What happened to patient confidentiality?”

“As the man in charge of the
Courier
was right there, I doubt it's
confidential
,” he said, turning onto his back so he could see her properly. “Is there a reason you woke me? Am I late for something?”

“Do you know what today is?”

He blinked. “The twenty-seventh? No, it must be the twenty-eighth—why?”

“The twenty-eighth. Four months.”

It took him a moment. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

He smiled, pulling her in for a kiss. This close, he could see her perfectly. He didn't need to; he knew Caroline. He could see her from far away, when his eyes were closed, when she was in another room—she was his wife, and he
knew
. “You know,” he said between kisses, “technically, this could be four—and—a half—”

“I know,” she said. She didn't resist being pulled down, or his hand stroking her belly. They hadn't made it to four months since Emily, when the morning illness lessened and her body truly began to change. Once her body had made it three-and-a-half, but never four. “I want to announce it.”

“Right now? At least let me get dressed—”

“No, silly man—next week, when we go up for Edmund's birthday.”

“Oh right. Of course,” he said. “What was I thinking? I was distracted by something.”

***

Anne had a few months left to her increasing, which so far had been successful. She suffered only the normal aches, pains, and illnesses of a woman with child, but she had the experienced Mrs. Collins to aid her through the worst of it, and the best doctors lined up in case anything went wrong. As she approached confinement, even the normally subdued servants hummed with excitement at the idea that Rosings and the Fitzwilliam family might see an heir. Though nervous, Lord Matlock was otherwise in the best of spirits, at least in front of his wife. Mr. Collins offered to sit in vigil, but when Grégoire mentioned fasting alongside prayer, Mr. Collins lost interest in the idea and decided to put his faith in the Lord to do what was right.

The Darcys paid a call on Rosings as soon as Elizabeth was well enough to do so. They listened patiently to Lady Catherine's declarations that if Anne's child was a girl, she of course must be married to their Geoffrey, and if it was a boy, all the better, because he would have his pick of their three daughters (though she thought the eldest was a bit shifty-eyed and no good would come of her). They nodded politely, saying almost nothing, and left the room with some amusement and no intention of taking a word of her advice.

“Son, if Anne has a girl, would you like to marry her?” Darcy proposed to Geoffrey, who was sitting on the stairs.

“What?” Geoffrey said. “I thought I was marrying Georgie.”

“I hope not,” Darcy said. “Or I owe Bingley five pounds.”

“
Darcy!
” Elizabeth said, and swatted him.

***

Edmund Bingley turned two largely without his knowledge, though he certainly enjoyed the attention that was lavished on him by those around him. It was, in the end, as much a celebration for them as it was for him. No one needed to say it, but everyone knew it was a marker date, when the idea of Darcy and Dr. Maddox's ill-fated departure became real. Their family was whole again (and seemed to have gained a few members), their prayers answered, and life as they knew it was returning to normal, even better than normal. It was the summer of 1813, and Wellington first successfully routed Napoleon's troops.

“I hope nothing happens to that poor man,” Grégoire said at the news.

“Who? Wellington?”

“He means Bonaparte,” Caroline said to her husband.

“Don't let the rest of the country hear you say that,” Charles suggested, lifting his glass to Grégoire.

“He was very polite,” Grégoire said, “and he quite possibly saved my life. I will say nothing against him.”

“You are too good for this world,” Darcy said. “Dangerously so. One of these days you will get in trouble for it, and this time… Elizabeth and Mrs. Maddox will not be there to save you.” He glared at Bingley, who was chuckling beside him. “Be quiet. You stayed at home and got a thrashing from your own employees. You are lucky you have an insane brother-in-law.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that in front of me?” Brian Maddox said. “I won't begin to deny it, but normally it is not wise to insult a man thoroughly more armed than you are.” Brian relinquished his Japanese costume and swords only when it was absolutely necessary, and often had at least the small one hidden inside his waistcoat when he did.

“Because you are wearing a skirt,” Caroline said.

“Pleated trousers. A
hakama
is a set of pleated trousers.” He turned to his wife. “Nady, you tell them how manly I am. What? Why are you laughing? Don't do this to me!” But he could not truly raise his voice at his wife, who hid her laughter with her hand, but not very successfully. “At least you could support me.”

“Mr. Maddox, if you expect your wife to always be your sternest supporter when your honor is insulted in any family event, you are not well educated in the English customs of marriage,” Darcy said. “I need not turn my head, and I already know Elizabeth is staring at me and deciding whether to laugh or to look enraged.” She was doing precisely that. “See?”

“You are a quite accomplished husband,” Elizabeth said. “Already you know that I am thoroughly plotting my revenge with a story you wouldn't want told.”

“What about this noodles incident I keep hearing mentioned?” Dr. Maddox said.

Bingley looked down at his drink. “No, no, that was me. Well, involved me. And everyone present was sworn to secrecy. Right, my darling?” He looked so very sweetly at Jane, whom he had not insulted.

“You are an accomplished husband for not upsetting me during the course of this conversation.”

“I'll help him along,” Brian said. “He told me last week he wants to go to India.”

“India!”

“Oh God.” Bingley slumped in his seat. “Joking! I was partially—
mainly
joking when I said that I might be interested in thinking about possibly
considering
—”

“INDIA!”

Elizabeth turned to her husband, whose well-practiced mask of indifference was set on his face. “Mrs. Darcy, I can soundly promise you I will never venture to India, Africa, or quite possibly beyond the British shore, and if by chance someone is foolish enough to visit a country filled with snakes, vermin, pagans, and disease, I will leave him to stew in his own mistakes.”