The Plight of the Darcy Brothers Page 23

  Uncomfortable in the silence, he said, “Is there anything I can do to see to your comfort? I mean, is there anything you would like?”

  “I'd like yeh to box George in the head, but I s'ppose it'd get yeh killed, and yeh deserve yer nice life with yer pretty wife.”

  The doctor managed a wan smile.

  “S'ppose I should name 'im George, what after 'is pop. But I'm so tired.” She closed her eyes. “Stay with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yeh got this real calming voice, doc.”

  “You want me to read to you?”

  “S'ppose it would be nice. Anything but the Bible, aye don' want ta hear 'bout Hell.”

  “All right.” Fortunately, he always had a book in his bag for long visits where he was stuck with an unconscious patient. Plucking the current one out, he cleared his throat and began to read, “'The double sorrow I do tell, of Troilus, who was the son of King Priamus of Troy. In love, how his fortunes befell, from sorrow to happiness, and after out of joy—'”

  The hour fell late, and his voice was hoarse when he felt the hand he held go limp and cold. “'What, is this all the joy and all the rejoicing? Is this your advice? Is this my happy situation?'” He looked up and closed his book somewhere in Book Three of Chaucer's lesser masterpiece.

  He took her pulse and called for a priest. One was ready, in fact, in the other room, and as the holy water was touched upon her brow, Dr. Maddox removed his glasses to dry them from his tears. He finally managed to bring the blanket over her face and paid the priest. Exhausted, he was closing up his bag when he noticed the madam standing by his side and pointing into the next room. There was a figure there.

  “Who—Caroline?” he squinted. The figure in the dark was unmistakable. Only one woman would have a proper gown fitted to the last months of her term and wear it to such a place. Unmistakably, emerging from the shadows in the unlit next room was his wife, bearing a cooing infant in her arms, wrapped in her own shawl. She looked up from it only to gaze at the scene before her. Finally, Maddox had the courage to mumble, “You shouldn't be here. It's—”

  “—not proper?”

  “I was going to say 'sanitary.'” He stood to greet his wife, who presented him with a newborn with a small amount of brown hair, half-asleep but still murmuring softly. He looked at the baby and said to it, “You've no idea.” To what, he didn't clarify. He was suddenly tired, and not just because of the hour. He barely had it in him to question his wife as to what she was doing in this awful place; she must have gotten a look at Lilly. It was unhealthy for her here, physically and mentally, so he saved his questions. “Let us go.”

  “We are taking the child.”

  “I don't—I don't know where the orphanage is.”

  “I meant it more generally,” she said, and with enough indignation that he had not the means to fight her, she walked off, child in arms. He was helpless but to follow her into the carriage.

  “You cannot be serious,” he said.

  “Daniel, you know very well I am quite capable of being serious.”

  “But—if—,” he struggled for the right words. “To state the obvious, you only have a few weeks—”

  “Then I will have another infant. Oh dear, he's going to cry. We'd best find a wet nurse. And at this hour!”

  “I imagine people will be awake in a few hours.” Now slightly more settled into his side of the carriage, he looked hard at the infant in her arms and at the look on her face, which he could not decipher. “What—what brought this on?”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “You know I would not refuse you anything in the world,” he said. “But—I have to admit, I was not expecting—”

  “Nor I, but—look at him.” The look on her face, for this moment more important than the child itself, was absolutely and utterly motherly. “How can this child grow up in an orphanage? To do what with his life? Be a beggar or a thief or a dockworker at best? To never know parents?”

  “Well I admit some sympathy to his situation—”

  She looked directly back at him. “Can you stand two infants instead of one?”

  “It is not a matter of 'standing.'” He settled back into his seat, thoroughly perplexed. “It just—I don't know. I hadn't considered it. I was so focused on… Lilly.”

  “Was there any hope when you arrived?”

  “No,” he said sadly.

  “Would there had been? Had three days not passed?”

  “If she had given birth in a better place, not gotten infected, then perhaps—but beyond that, there was nothing—” but, he didn't want to have this conversation with his very expectant wife. He didn't want to tell her that a queen of England had died of infection of torn tissues and there was nothing a doctor or surgeon could do for it. The idea of losing Caroline alone was terrifying. And now to be left with two children, instead of one, assuming they both survived? What would he do then?

  But this was not about what he wanted—it was about what she wanted. He knew better than to deny a tense, expectant woman anything—especially the woman he loved, the woman who was constantly surprising him.

  Despite the rising sun, they made their way home, and Caroline took the boy to the cradle meant, hopefully, for their future child. Fortunately, it was large enough for two. She set him down, and he slept comfortably, immune to the world around him.

  “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.

  Frederick and Emily Maddox were christened together nearly five days later, when Dr. Maddox finally judged his wife's health had returned enough for a short trip to the cathedral. The girl, with her very Bingley orange hair, was named after her maternal grandmother. In attendance, with everyone caught up in Derbyshire, were merely the Bingleys, the Hursts, and the Maddoxes. Jane had come down to be there for her niece and nephew, as Charles would be leaving almost immediately after the ceremony and they would ride back together. Louisa and Mr. Hurst were named godparents, lacking the abilities to be parents themselves. Afterward, they all returned to the Maddox house so the babies could be settled in their cradle, and many presents were given to two children who were totally unaware of the events surrounding them.

  Excusing themselves after an early lunch, Mr. and Mrs. Bingley were back on the road to Chatton, assured that the doctor would join them when they sent for him or when Caroline was ready to travel, whichever came first.

  “Two children,” Jane said in the carriage, leaning into her husband. “For the work of one.”