The Plight of the Darcy Brothers (35 page)

“He can never know,” Dr. Maddox said, putting his arm around his wife as he looked at the boy. He was, despite the circumstances of his birth, beautiful. “Another secret for us.”

“A child should know his father.”

“His father has refused contact. Now that we have his son in our house, I would not dare to press the prince again.” He leaned on her shoulder tiredly.

“Does he have a name?”

It seemed odd that she hadn't asked that question before. “Lilly said something about George in her ranting, but I believe it was out of spite and was never official. Nor do I think it would be wise.”

“Frederick then?” Caroline said. “I would not saddle a child with the name 'Augustus.' Unless you want him named Daniel.”

“No,” he said, not needing to explain why. If there were to be a Daniel Maddox the Second, he would be a true son of his once-distinguished line. “We will forever be playing a dangerous game, but I suppose, Frederick it is. What do you say to that, little Frederick? What say you to any of this?”

But, of course, the boy was sound asleep and said nothing.

At Pemberley, there was the general hubbub of the master returning. For though Mr. Darcy had spent time, even seasons, away from Pemberley during his bachelorhood, this was the first time since his year on the Continent, when he was not yet Master of Pemberley, that he had been truly abroad and unreachable. There were things to be done, papers to be signed, and of course, the small matter of the introduction of a bastard brother and the care of his pregnant wife.

Georgiana stayed with them, and Mr. Bennet joined them, for Mary still had a few weeks to go, and he, feeling his own parental burden lessened by the settlement, felt free to stop watching Mary like a concerned hawk and relax a bit in quiet. The six months of waiting had done nothing good for Mrs. Bennet's nerves, and now she was merely overenthusiastic about the nature of the settlement and a bit nervous at the prospect of two daughters facing dangerous childbirth, even if one was far off. There was much going back and forth between Chatton and Pemberley for meals and discussions, and every bit of the adventure on the Continent was told over and over again. The Darcys were happy to be back at Pemberley and would remain there until they were needed at Chatton for Mary's delivery.

There were some minor things to be worked out. The servants would not call Grégoire anything but Master Grégoire, which he was uncomfortable with, and they were equally uncomfortable with him returning their bows, however polite and humble he meant to be and at whatever length this was explained to them. Darcy sighed at the whole business and was relieved when his wife said, “Dearest, the matter will surely settle itself eventually.”

It was now fall and hunting season, but Bingley was too swept up in his own affairs for much shooting, so was there less than usual. Bingley and Darcy didn't even bother asking Grégoire if he wanted to be taught how to hunt. They could assume that he did not. Darcy delighted in the dual pleasure of simultaneously teaching his son and his brother how to fish.

“Wasn't Jesus a fisherman?” he said as they sat by the lake waiting for bites.

“He was a carpenter, I believe,” Grégoire said.

“Our Lord and Savior, the son of God, built houses?” asked Darcy.

“He was a modest man,” was the reply.

“I heard he was a fish,” said Geoffrey.

“Yes, Son,” Darcy said, giving him a pat on the back. “He was a carpenter fish. Where in the world did you get that idea?”

“He is referring to the word
ichthys
,” Grégoire explained. “It is the word for fish in Greek, but someone noticed that it also could be an acronym for 'Jesus Christ God's Son is Savior.' Or something to that effect. So, there are many places in Rome where you can find mosaics with the fish symbol.”

“See? Your uncle is very learned, like you shall be someday,” Darcy said to his son.

“He also dresses like a girl. Do I have to do that, too?” Geoffrey said, and Darcy would have been stern if Grégoire wasn't laughing.

Bingley took leave of his guests for Town, as his sister was very expectant and he wished to be there. This had been previously arranged, so he was sent off with the warmest wishes for Mrs. Maddox.

When he arrived three days later, he had a shock waiting for him. He stared for a while at the sight before him saying, “Unless I am
severely
misunderstanding the biologic process—”

“
Charles
,” she said in the demeaning manner of hers, “we adopted.” For she was, despite her obvious extremely delicate condition, holding a cooing infant in her arms. Hesitantly, he approached her and peered through the bundle at the brown-haired infant. “His name is Frederick.”

“I don't suppose—well, uhm—congratulations!” he sputtered, flummoxed, and then looked to the doctor for help, who was just arriving from a call. “While I don't question your intelligence, may I inquire whose idea—?”

Dr. Maddox only shrugged. “Hers. And yes, perhaps ill timed, but who can say no to his wife? Besides, I rather like him myself.”

“And he is—I mean his parentage—”

“The mother was a patient of mine,” he said. “She died from the rigors of childbirth and the unsanitary conditions of her lodgings. The father wants nothing to do with him, and so it was this or an orphanage.”

Bingley was going to go into a line of questioning that would perhaps go as far as to question their collective sanity, but he saw the delighted look on his sister's face when she held the infant and merely repeated his congratulations on their newborn son. “Twins without the effort. I should have thought of that myself, for Jane's sake. May I—” The baby was passed to him, and he looked down in wonder at the child who was apparently his nephew. “Hello, Frederick. Well, at least you won't have everyone constantly holding the color of your hair against you.”

“Or your face. Charles? Care to explain?”

For indeed, the ink was still there, if fading. “Geoffrey Darcy.”

“Oh,” she said, because that was enough of an explanation.

“Here's the plan,” Brian said to Bingley after Dr. Maddox had been forced into his study by the midwife. Unless something went horribly wrong, the doctor could not attend his own wife's
labor or the birth of his child, and though this could not have surprised him, it frustrated him to no end.

“I didn't know a plan was required,” Bingley said.

“If we're ever going to get out of him where that child came from, a plan is required,” Brian said. “We get him soused, and then you follow my lead. You're a clever fellow. Look touched in the head when you smile, but I know you've got brains.”

“Did anyone, at any point, teach you manners?”

“I think I lost them along the Silk Road. Come on.”

Mr. Hurst was already there with the inconsolable Maddox. “
I'm
the doctor, damn it!” His wife's screams from upstairs seemed to wring him out like a washcloth.

“Danny, you're having a child the hard way. Sit down and have a drink.” Reaching into his jacket, Brian removed a small bottle of what appeared to be water, its label in some foreign language.

Mr. Hurst immediately took hold of it. “What is this?”

“Vodka. And very fine stuff, the best I'm told. From Saint Petersburg.” He took it from Hurst, popped what appeared to be some sort of cap with expertise, and poured his brother a small glass, as well as some for himself and some for Bingley, but of considerably smaller amounts. “Drink up.”

Caroline wailed again, and the doctor downed his glass.

“We could make a drinking game out of it,” Brian said.

“We'd all be under the table then,” Bingley said.

“Well, you could probably drink our English stomachs under the table.”

“I'm not Irish!” Bingley insisted.

“Pass the whiskey, or vodka. I don't care,” Dr. Maddox said in a plea of despair. In fact, before long and after very few
screams, he was woozy and red-eyed. “Oh God. What have I done to her? I've ruined her!”

“What are you talking about?” Bingley said. “She's the happiest I've ever seen her since she married you. Well, not precisely
now
, but until now—and probably tomorrow sometime. You've given her two children.”

“And she didn't even have to have one of them,” Brian said. “Patient of yours, huh?”

“Yes,” Dr. Maddox slurred. “Confential. Ity.” He seemed to be having trouble with the words. “Discreet.”

“Can you describe her?”

“Lilly… Lilly died of childbed fever. If she wasn't… if there were
sanitary conditions
…” he trailed off and took another swig from his glass, unaware that it was empty when he did so. Brian filled it again.

“So you knew her first name?”

“She—wasn' a patient. I mean, until.”

“Was she beautiful?”

“I—s'ppose. I mean… I never looked at her… I never did it. I could have. But you know… not associating with her.”

Brian spoke again as his brother drained his glass and Bingley closed his ears to a particularly loud yell. “Wait a minute! Was this that whore who visited you a few months ago?”

“
Lilly was not a whore!
” Dr. Maddox slammed his glass on the table. “She was, well,
technically
, she was a whore by profession. But that doesn't mean she deserved to die abandoned. She was a lady.” His mood, if not already, became positively dour.

“And the father?”

“Can't—can't talk about him.”

“But if he wants nothing to do with his child, and he is not a patient—”

“He
is
a patient,” but it came out more like “ish.” “Besides, 's treason.”

Bingley and Brian stared at each other. They only knew, offhand, of one other of Maddox's patients—

“George Augustus
Frederick
,” he whispered to Bingley.

“No!”

“Danny,” Brian said. “Are you drunk enough to tell us if the prince is the father?”

“Not enough,” Dr. Maddox said. “Pour me 'nother.”

Brian laughed. “All right. Mr. Hurst?”

Mr. Hurst was far ahead of them, however, and was already in too much of a stupor to respond.

“But suppose, then, we talk of Frederick himself. He's not your patient. And he is my nephew, and I am very concerned for his health,” Bingley said. “Especially his blood. Would you say he is of a… royal bloodline?”

“Oh God, what have we done?” the doctor moaned. “I mean, we didn't do anything. He wants nothing to do with his son.
His own son.
Frederick would have gone to an orphanage with its terrible,
unsanitary
conditions.” He raised his eyes, his glasses askew on his face. “You cannot tell
anyone
.”

“That, I think, we can swear on,” Brian said, raising his glass. “Mr. Bingley?”

“Mr. Maddox. Dr. Maddox. I swear never to speak of this again.”

“Even to your wife! Even to your sister!” Maddox shouted. “No, your other sister!”

“Very well. Louisa shall never hear it from my lips.”

“Oh, thank God,” Dr. Maddox said, and put his head down on his desk.

He was not roused again until very early in the morning, long after Bingley himself had fallen asleep on the couch, and it was Brian who shook his brother awake. “Come on.”

Still half-asleep and feeling the effects of the night before, the doctor was led up the stairs and into his wife's bedroom, where he was seated on the armchair beside her and a baby was placed in his arms. He stared at it numbly, barely aware in his stupor that he was holding his new daughter.