The Plight of the Darcy Brothers Read online

  “It's not Irish,” Bingley insisted.

  “I didn't say it was bad. I have nothing against the wild, savage, Papist Gaels over the crossing. In fact, it's well known that Maddoxes go mad over them.”

  The doctor just took off his glasses and sighed, and Mr. Bennet had a good laugh, all at poor Bingley's expense, of course.

  “You can have more time, if you wish it,” the doctor said. “The child won't be going anywhere.”

  “But I must be in the Carpathian Mountains by Christmas, before the hard snow sets in.”

  “Work?”

  “You could… call it that. But you would be wrong,” Brian said. “I am to be married.”

  “What?” Both Maddox and Bingley rose in response to the news.

  “Sorry not to mention it in the letters. I haven't entirely decided on it, but the date is set.”

  “Then how, pray tell, is it not decided?” asked Mr. Bennet.

  “Funny story—”

  Dr. Maddox put his glasses back on and crossed his arms. “Somehow, I don't think this story is going to be very funny.”

  “Depends on your perspective; you see, I sort of lost myself in a bet. Now, I thought it was going to be some kind of labor transaction, but apparently, this count or baron or whatever wants me to marry his daughter, for whom he has not found a husband to his liking. And for whatever reason, I am to his liking. Now if I had known that and had known what cards he was holding when I raised—”

  It was impossible—Bingley could not help but laugh, though he did cover his mouth when he did it, while the doctor's expression was entirely unamused. “So you are to marry a Romany girl because of a bet?”

  “Not Romani. Those are the gypsies. She speaks Romanian. And she's an Austrian princess.”

  “A princess!” Mr. Bennet said. “My, my, this gets better all the time.”

  “Have you even met her?” Daniel Maddox demanded.

  “Once… no, twice, and to be honest, she isn't so terrible at all… a real jewel hidden away in that massive castle. She was very sweet to me, if a bit shy.”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  “Oh, I'm quite serious. The question now is to never go back to Austria again or to go back and stay for the rest of my life, minus some traveling abroad. When the count—I believe he is a count—when he dies, I would inherit his estate. I could abandon it, if I pleased. So, you see my dilemma. Not that I am expecting an answer from you, though you probably would at least like to comment on my terrible habits and how much trouble they've gotten me into.

  “To be honest, if I didn't appear, I don't think he would chase me. But it might break her poor heart. That's the real issue. Certainly, I've run away from altars before, but usually I thought the woman deserved it. So go on now, make your condemning response to my insipidly stupid behavior.”

  But the doctor had no response. He was standing there, gaping and towering over his brother but not saying anything. He scratched his head and after some time said, “… Congratulations?”

  “You support it?”

  “I don't know. I mean, do you know her? You only met her twice?”

  “Yes,” Brian said. “That's double the amount of times a couple in her country normally meets before marriage, so one could say we know each other quite well. None of this business of slow courtship through balls, dinner invitations, letters—and more dinners and more letters and going on walks—when all you want to do is marry the poor girl. Plus, she expects an arranged marriage, so she seemed mildly surprised that I was so—I don't know, nice to her.”

  No one could seem to gather any response to all this, even Mr. Bennet. It was Brian who had to continue, “But, enough about me. How is my sister-in-law?”

  “She's fine,” Dr. Maddox stammered. “I think I need to sit down.”

  “I told you I have the summer. Will you relax already? And I must go back to Italy and then come back here first. Plenty of time. What are you so worried about?”

  “Your welfare and, apparently, your sanity,” his brother replied.

  In utmost secrecy later that day, as his brother rested from the long ride from Town, Brian passed a letter to Mary Bennet in the hallway, quietly and with no one around. He had barely turned around when he was facing Bingley, who was trying to look as intimidating as possible. “Mr. Maddox.”

  “Mr. Bingley.”

  “My office?”

  Brian Maddox rolled his eyes but followed Bingley into his study. “So—how is my sister-in-law? Danny is too modest.”

  “She's fine. What was that?”

  “Aren't you the noble guardian?”

  “Mr. Maddox.”

  Brian sat down. “It was a private letter from Mr. Mastai to Miss Bennet that I was asked to deliver along with the other one. Yes, yes, I know it's highly improper for an unmarried man and an unmarried woman to post and all that nonsense, but I do think they know each other well enough for one last correspondence. Or whatever it was. It was sealed, and despite the fact that I am perfectly capable of breaking a seal and then closing it up again without the appearance of having done so, I did not read it on the way. That letter, anyway. One hundred thousand pounds, huh? He must be one of those old noble families. Probably traces his roots to the Roman Imperials.”

  “Darcy asked you to deliver this?”

  “Yes. Isn't he the model of propriety or some such nonsense?”

  Bingley found he could not openly contradict him. “So I suppose it should be permitted. I would certainly not want to upset Miss Bennet at this stage.”

  “I'm not the doctor, but I would say yes to that. Anything else?”

  “Since you are here,” Bingley said, “how are the Darcys?”

  “Quite well, now that this is settled, or they seemed to be. They would have sent all kinds of presents, but they didn't want to weigh down my load. They are very eager to be back, I think. And you are probably eager to have young Mr. Darcy off your hands.”

  “How are they intending to return?”

  “They had not decided. Initially, when I met them on the road from Paris, they said they might come back more leisurely, but now they may have had enough of Europe and be missing their son.”

  “Have they learned the language, or will they bring a guide all the way?”

  Brian leaned back, his mood altered. “Odd thing for you to ask.”

  “Why?”

  “Just, thinking that.”

  “Is there something you're not saying?”

  “Is there something you're not saying?” Brian said. “God, I hate circular arguments, unless I'm winning them. Yes, Mr. Bingley, if it will satisfy you as my host, I will say graciously that I believe they intend to return with their monkish guide, and that is all I am permitted to say at this time.”

  “Monkish guide?”

  “Yes. The young man is a monk.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Bingley said. “Very well, then.” He rose, which meant Brian was free to leave, and his guest excused himself.

  Outside, Daniel Maddox was waiting, having just awoken from his nap. “What was that about?”

  “Espionage, secrets, and lies,” Brian said dramatically. “Is there any food about?”

  Two days later, Brian declared himself well enough to leave again, and his brother did not put up an argument. With the reply and some new clothes (having thoroughly ruined the old ones), he got back on his horse, and together with his brother, made for Town. Traveling at an exceptionally fast pace, they arrived in Town two days later, and only at the doctor's insistence did Brian agree to rest the night at his house before traveling to Dover.

  “You've no pain in your back? When you ride?” the doctor finally inquired nervously.

  “No, none at all.” Brian had been injured in his shoulder two years prior, but the nerves there affected his back and initially caused great discomfort.

  “And running?”

  “No pain, just that damned limp. The leg won't go in certain directions, that's all. I'v
e gotten used to it. You already said you can't repair nerves.”

  “I wouldn't dare,” Daniel Maddox said as they awaited the arrival of his wife, who was resting upstairs. “Surgery is a painful and dangerous procedure, even if I think I can fix something.”

  “Maybe that was the attraction of the count. He might think I can't run away from him if I hurt his daughter, or him, to get his fortune. Not that I would.”

  “Brian, you can't be serious.”

  “Perhaps I am,” Brian smiled, making it impossible to tell if he was. “Perhaps I should settle down. I'm almost forty, Danny, and a cripple. Maybe I should recognize that God is handing me something, even if it is in the Carpathian Mountains.” He turned. “But look, if it isn't the Gaelic goddess herself. Mrs. Maddox.”

  “Mr. Maddox,” Caroline said, descending the stairs. How she had safely managed into a beautiful gown at her stage, neither had any idea. She was still, but for her midsection, the image of grace and female form. Her curtsey, however, was excusably minor. “How are you?”

  “Quite well, all things considered and that you may hear otherwise. But I must be off in the morning, sadly. I have a most important letter to deliver.”

  Only when things were fully explained and she was satisfied was he permitted to go to sleep, and in the morning, they saw him off in the carriage to Dover.

  “Why is your brother so dutiful to the Darcys?”

  “I believe the answer is obvious,” Daniel Maddox said. “Besides, he has always been a man of honor when not at a card table or in a gambling den. Unfortunately, he is usually at one of the two.”

  After one month, many bribes, many horses, and a few close calls with authorities, Brian Maddox was back over the border and into the ancient hills of Italy. He instinctively headed towards the villa. His instincts were often very keen, except when it came to games of chance. Stopping to take a breather by a stream that must eventually have fed the Tiber and then the ocean, he washed his neck and sat in the shade. He knew if he just leaned against the tree, he would be fast asleep and lose the day, and he was not foolish or fast enough to travel this area at night.

  He had lied a little to Daniel. He did, at times, have pains in his chest that a surgeon told him were phantom. He had lost weight. He had grey in his hair, coming in at the roots. He was becoming an old man before his time. Maybe settling down would not be such a terrible idea. Perhaps that very notion was why he had not gambled a penny since the day he met Nadezhda in private during their second meeting, when they were afforded some time alone on a balcony, out of sight of her overbearing, bearded hulk of a father.

  Why was he turning his thoughts to her now? Wasn't he on an important mission? His brother would never grant his consent—not that he needed his brother's consent. He was a man and, besides, the older one. He just wanted Danny's look of approval for once, nodding just once in a way that said, You have done something right. I know I'm as shocked as you are. Only, Daniel Maddox wouldn't say it that way.

  He got back on his horse and continued his journey. He made it to the villa, just outside Rome, in another two days. There he found an overeager Darcy shaking his hand and not doing the proper thing of reading the letter in private in whatever room he designated his study. He read it aloud to all present. Mr. Bennet accepted the terms. All that he wished was his daughter's happiness, of course. (And they knew Mr. Bennet meant it.)

  Darcy turned unceremoniously to Brian and said, “What is the absolute fastest way to get to England without riding?”

  “Without riding? By carriage.”

  “We could not go fast by carriage.”

  Brian shrugged, confused. “Then, I suppose, you could charter a boat that would go around France and take you to home. But it would be a monstrous expense and still take time.”

  “How long?”

  He was getting alarmed by the urgency in Darcy's voice. Darcy rarely laid his emotions so bare. “Between one to two months to sail all the way around France, depending on the weather. But we would have to be lucky with the barricades.”

  “Can you arrange it for us immediately?”

  “Of course,” he said. “What is this all about? What's wrong?”

  “It's not—wrong,” Elizabeth said. “Nothing is wrong. I just cannot ride on a horse, and we need to return.”

  “Even the carriage would be a bit bumpy,” Darcy said.

  “Oh,” Brian said. And then again, “Oh. Well, uhm, why don't I see about a ship then, a fast one.”

  “Cost is not a concern,” Darcy stressed. “I will go to Rome now with the letter and see about the financial arrangements. They will probably take a day or two.”

  “I will return as fast as possible from the port with arrangements in a day or two,” Brian said. I hope your brother has adapted to life at sea, Mr. Darcy, or we'll all be in a lot of trouble. Though, a man can survive without food for a time if he is kept properly watered.”

  “Don't make Grégoire sound like a plant,” was all Darcy had to say to that. “You have made the assumption that I intend to take him back to England.”

  “But I am probably correct.”

  Darcy, it seemed, felt himself at a loss and only shrugged. They had more urgent business to attend to.

  The Darcys, together and separately, said their good-byes to Rome. It was a pleasant place, but it was not home, not even to Grégoire, who spent the most time there. One night, he did not return at all, and Darcy stayed up in concern, long after his wife had retired. He was sitting on the stairs, knowing Grégoire would have to climb them to get to his room. When his brother did reappear, the sun was rising, and he looked exhausted. He shambled up the steps, nodded to Darcy, and attempted to make his way to his room. Darcy grabbed his bloodied robes. “I thought we spoke of this.”

  “The last time, Darcy. For Elizabeth.”

  “Explain to me, in detail, how this will help my wife.”

  “It is not a medical thing to be stated. It is a matter of faith, Brother, that the yoke of heaven can be pulled off one person and assigned to another.” He turned around, and despite his obvious extreme discomfort, stared right back up at his towering, intimidating brother. “I would not see her suffer. She deserves only happiness.”

  “While I disagree with your methods, I agree with the notion, however misguided, that we both wish the best for Elizabeth. But, if this is truly the last time, then I will take your word as a solemn vow.”

  “I vow it.” Grégoire crossed himself.

  “Then,” Darcy said, “let me help you to your room. That is, I believe, not part of the program.”

  Grégoire did not contradict him. As the birds chirped for early morning, Darcy bandaged his brother, lent him a shirt, and ordered the last remaining servant to wash out his robe with as much soap as possible. It was not until the monk was asleep on his mat on the floor that Darcy returned to his own bed, sliding next to Elizabeth, a hand on her stomach, and fell asleep. There was silence as he drifted off, and for the moment, that was enough.

  THE LONG WAY HOME

  THE TIME SPENT ON the ship was easily the most miserable of Darcy's entire life that did not involve some emotional disaster. In fact, despite the impending confrontation with Wickham— who he had decided would have to be told—hanging over his head, he was looking forward to returning to England now that their business was concluded as favorably as it could have been, beyond even his own expectations. He had gained a brother and, in some measure, restored a sister-in-law to a position in which she could live her life. He missed Geoffrey and the Bingleys terribly, and there was, of course, the exhilarating matter of Lizzy in delicate condition again. All of this put him in a good mood— until he stepped on that boat.

  For now he had two sick people to deal with, not one. Grégoire had not overcome his seasickness and did not do so over the course of the trip. Elizabeth was ill as well, and the rocking of the boat made her maternal sufferings worse. They spent most of their time sick in their cabin after the sa
ilors tired of them rushing to the edge of the deck.

  “How can you even—Grégoire, I know for a fact you haven't eaten anything in two days now! It isn't even possible! I don't know biologics, but I know that!” Darcy protested helplessly, to which Elizabeth gave a very pale smile and Grégoire just collapsed from exhaustion, to be hoisted up again and helped back onto a bench by Darcy.

  His only reprieve was when the ship took port briefly in France. Elizabeth and Grégoire had time to get off the boat and eat something, out of fear of starvation, and they were somewhat restored while on land. Then they got back on the boat, and his misery resumed.

  He barely had time to take his exhausted brother aside. “When we return to England—obviously, there will be some shock, but I wanted to ask if you wished to be called Grégoire Bellamont or Grégoire Darcy.”

  “Excuse my lack of knowledge of custom—”

  “It is nothing. It is whatever you wish.”

  Elizabeth, barely conscious herself but aware enough to listen in, knew it to be otherwise. What Darcy was offering was to acknowledge Grégoire as a Darcy, in direct opposite of convention for a bastard son. She doubted he would offer the same thing to Wickham.

  Grégoire shook his head. “I am just a humble servant of the Lord. Please, Brother, call me whatever suits you.”

  This was no help to Darcy, of course, and even Grégoire must have known that, but Elizabeth could not help but smile at Darcy's exasperation. She knew, in private, that his plans for his brother were comprehensive, that he hoped to convince Grégoire to at least switch to a monastery in Germany or somewhere safer than unstable France. Darcy could be as convincing as Grégoire could be stubborn, but she figured she would glean what amusement she could from the situation.