“No,” he said. “Not to my knowledge. But I was young. I do not remember everything.”
“He was good at keeping secrets,” Darcy said. “It never bothered me to carry this one around. Uncle Gregory himself said that he wanted to be buried in obscurity, to not taint the family tree. He was very noble in that sense, in his loyalty to the Darcy line. This was until Austria, when it came out, and I realized—maybe I should have told someone there was sickness in my family.” He was not speaking so easily now. Only Grégoire’s reassuring nods kept him going. “It seems to have missed Geoffrey and Anne—the others are too young yet. But it is evident that George is affected. I have tried to counsel him—without counseling him.You understand.”
“I understand.”
“All of Gregory Darcy’s personal effects should still be there, or so I have been informed by the solicitor, who knows him only as ‘previous resident.’ He is also buried there, I am quite sure. I do not know where else he would be buried, and he is not at Pemberley. I let the land sit because there was nothing better to do with it and because it would mean—going back.”
Again, Grégoire nodded. “I am honored to go with you.”
Darcy smiled. It was exactly what he needed to hear.
When he could put it off no longer, Dr. Maddox told his son they were to go to Windsor, to see the king. There was no way to begin to explain why—he barely understood it himself, and Frederick did not even know he was adopted. He was eight—too young for all that. Dr. Maddox withstood Frederick’s barrage of questions admirably, ducking as many as he could with “His Highness requested it” and “It might not be fun, but it will be short.”
Caroline hugged her son—who was dressed up in clothes purchased especially for this visit—with extra vigor before they entered the carriage. “Be good. And whatever you think, for goodness’s sake, do not say it.”
“Then what am I to say?”
“To our sovereign? ‘Yes, Your Majesty’ and ‘No, Your Majesty’ will suffice,” the doctor said, kissing his wife. “He will be fine.”
“He is not the only person I am concerned with.”
Dr. Maddox smiled to hide his anxiety.
The trip to Windsor was brief. Dr. Maddox had never been there—no one went there unless compelled to, despite the massive grounds and impressive architecture. The sovereign was mad, and none of his many children called, because often they were not recognized when they did. He was seen mainly by his doctors. Dr. Maddox knew a few of them, and he had little respect for their approach. They were of an older school, and he had radical ideas about certain aspects of medicine. Dr. Maddox was against bleeding the sick—he himself had been almost bled to death as a young man when he had developed an infection following his first cataract surgery. He had had one foot in the grave when his brother, frantic with worry, finally shooed the doctors away when they came with their spikes for the daily bloodletting, and only then had he begun to recover. Or so Brian said. Dr. Maddox had little memory of the experience. Dr. Maddox was an observational doctor, believing only what he saw, and he saw patients get weaker after bleeding, with no positive effects that seemed to be connected to the bleeding itself. They had already debunked Aristotle’s treatise on the humors of the body—why not do away with the entire idea of an excess of blood?
But the established doctors who had been schooled in the previous century and had treated the king for years had other ideas, and Dr. Maddox knew his place was not to contradict them. Maybe someday, when they were long gone, he would publish a paper, but he was not willing to be labeled an outlaw just yet, when his family depended on him.
Without much ceremony, Dr. Maddox and son passed the guards and greeted one of the doctors with whom he was acquainted. They made small talk as Frederick impatiently pulled on his arm. Maddox pitied his son; he had no idea why he was here and would not know for years, if he ever did. And by then, the king would most likely be long dead.
“His Majesty is in good spirits today,” said the physician. “You know he is completely blind, correct?”
“I have been informed, yes.”
“Not helping his stability, I’m afraid. Of course, everything he says will probably be complete nonsense. It’s best just to play along or you risk upsetting him. Not that he can do much when he’s that way. But it might be distressing for your son to see.” He was quiet and then said, “Why is he here?”
“His Royal Highness the Prince Regent thought it would be a good idea to bring a child.”
“Yes, His Majesty loves children. He loved his own when they were children. He is disappointed with how they have turned out.”
Dr. Maddox nodded and looked down at his son, who was frowning at being dragged along on this mysterious errand. “Best behavior, Frederick. This is your king.”
Frederick did not seem impressed, but at least he didn’t say so.
The servant opened the door to the king’s chamber. “Do not turn your back on His Majesty,” he cautioned them.
Not that it mattered—the old man was blind—but Dr. Maddox nodded. “Of course.”
The two of them were allowed entrance to a sitting room. It had the splendor of a royal palace but without any of the little touches of a man who cared for his surroundings as the Prince Regent did. In that way, it was almost as bare as the man sitting in the armchair before them. Wrapped in blankets, even though it was not cold, he shook his head, his remaining locks of white hair waving as he said, “Who is it? Who is there?”
Dr. Maddox bowed, and his son did the same. “Your Majesty, I am Dr. Daniel Maddox, and this is my son, Frederick Maddox. We are here at your son’s behest.”
“My son? Frederick has come?”
“No,Your Majesty. My son is named Frederick as well.”
“Nonsense. Let me see him, and we shall tell the truth of the matter.”
Dr. Maddox helped lift Frederick into the lap of King George III. “I’m Frederick Maddox, sir.”
“You’re very small to fight the French.Why did I ever send you to Flanders? Utter nonsense. A foolish misjudgment on my part; a man must always take the greatest care with his children.” He did not bother to turn his sightless, milky eyes in the direction of Dr. Maddox, who took the seat beside him. “He is not my son, is he?”
“No,” Dr. Maddox said honestly.
“A shame that I made him Duke of Cumberland, then. Wait! I know who you are!” He pointed not at Frederick but in Maddox’s general direction. “You’re Lord Brute! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to visit?”
“I am not Lord Brute, sir.”
“How dare you say otherwise! You were a witness at my wedding! I remember it perfectly. John, I am most insulted.”
Dr. Maddox said seriously, “I did not mean to insult you,Your Majesty.”
“What do you have to say, George?” the king said to Frederick.
“I’m not George; I’m Frederick. I told you that.” Frederick Maddox was not known for his patience, especially not in the lap of a mad person, even if he was king. “Don’t you remember?”
“Frederick—” Dr. Maddox said to curb his son, but the king interrupted.
“Nonsense. I remember everything perfectly, except for the times that I do not. Fortunately, I do not remember them! So it is most convenient. They say I am mad, but you shan’t listen to that, young George. And stop lusting after your tutors; ’tis most improper for a royal issue.”
Frederick, legitimately confused, turned to his father, who gave him his most serious “mind your manners” look.
They chatted for some time, until Frederick became fidgety. The boy was escorted out of the room and told to wait outside with a servant.
“I am a physician,Your Majesty,” Dr. Maddox said. “I am here because your son, George, asked me to come and see you.”
“And what is your medical treatment?”
“Sadly, I have none.”
“Then you admit it. That makes you more intelligent than most doctors. It is a
shame you are a colonel instead of a doctor; I imagine you would have made a good one,” the king said. “That was George, wasn’t it? It felt like him. I know my own son.”
“It was not George,” Maddox said. “It was his son; your grandson.”
“Really? No one told me he had been born. I am subscribed to the wrong papers. Well, I create him Lord of the Colonies in America. Tell him that, won’t you?”
Dr. Maddox, despite his anxiety, could not help but smile. “I will,Your Majesty.”
CHAPTER 22
A Matter of Propriety
IT HAPPENED THAT TWO LADIES were riding to Town, one an earl’s wife and the other her cousin, when they spotted two people walking down the road with bowls on their heads. They were tempted to tell the curricle driver to slow down so that they might get a better look, but seeing that the couple were armed, they decided otherwise. They didn’t look much like bandits—one was a woman in a silk bathrobe and the other a man walking on wooden sandals.
“How curious!”
“Oh, that’s just Princess Maddox,” said the driver. “She was heir to some small kingdom in Austria until she married an English gent. Comes up and down all the time. And ’er servant, I guess.”
He did slow down a bit, but the travelers ignored the curricle, talking in their nonsense language so fast that the words were impossible to pick apart. “How strange, those Austrians!”
“Indeed, ma’rm.”
Visiting the small village close to her home was always a pleasant walk for Nadezhda Maddox, Princess of Sibui. It was much less trouble to walk than have a carriage take her to Town for simple things, such as groceries. She knew most of the people in the village, where she felt more at home than in London’s high society, despite her aristocratic blood. She usually brought a man along to carry the special items that were too small to have delivered, but now she had Mugin, at least until the next ship to sail to the Orient.
“Sa! Why so many? Are we having a feast?”
“Since when are you opposed to a feast?” she replied. “All you’ve done since you got here is stuff yourself. And, yes, we are. Binguri-san is coming to discuss business with Brian and he’s staying a few days.” She continued on in Japanese, ignoring the other people traveling down the dusty road, aware of their gawking. “He is bringing Georgiana.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
She glanced at Mugin, laden with packages, but did not stop walking. “You know, Jorgi-chan isn’t a little girl anymore.” Mugin was irreverent as always. “So?” It was a good sign.
“So what I mean is, they have rules in this country about what men and women do together that are different from yours, which you ignore anyway.”
“I noticed.”
“Mugin, you’re not being serious.”
“What am I supposed to be serious about? Jorgi is a mere child. She is…what, ten?”
“Twelve.” She sighed. “Her father is going to be more protective of her. And more suspicious of her going off into the woods with men. From now on, I go with you.”
“You decided this with Brian-chan?”
“We didn’t need to discuss it. Brian’s English. He pretends not to be, but he is. English ladies are proper.”
“Proper?”
“Respectable.”
“Ah,” he said. “So, you’re going to chaperone me? What is the worst that could happen?”
“You’re seen holding hands with her by a local, and you have to marry her.”
Mugin stopped in his tracks. Nadezhda kept her expression neutral to disguise whether she was being serious or not. Only half of her was. Georgie was only twelve.
“And what if I refuse?” “To what, marry her?” “Yes.”
“I’ll make you.”
They stood in perfect silence. Not a bird chirped for that one moment. There were no passengers on the roads.
Mugin dropped the packages, drew his sword, and swung, seemingly all in the same movement. Nadezhda had already ducked out of the way. Her wakizashi was blocked only by the metal beneath his shoes as he tumbled to the ground. He kicked her sword away and rolled across the road. He jumped back onto his feet as Nadezhda charged. Their blades drew across each other with a horrible shriek and the sparks of steel striking steel, until the dust settled. Nadezhda had the edge of her blade at Mugin’s neck. He had the tip of his pointed at her chest.
Without ceremony, he pulled away and replaced his blade in its sheath. “You’ve improved.”
“I am a childless housewife. I have time to practice.”
She replaced her blade and he picked the packages back up, and they resumed their journey.
“Are people really so upset about these things?” Mugin said. “If her reputation is so important, she should have a man protecting her.”
“But not alone with her, because even he cannot be trusted.”
“Heh. Jorgi-chan doesn’t need a man. Certainly not a gaijin. She can take care of herself.”
“Yes, but her father doesn’t know that.”
“Fine,” he huffed. “Their country, their rules.”
They spoke no further on the subject.
The carriage from Derbyshire arrived and three Bingleys (two human, one animal) were received with delight. Monkey went almost everywhere that Bingley did, usually because of Jane’s unilateral declaration that as much as she loved her husband, she would not have his wild animal running around their bedroom and making a fuss when he was gone, which was precisely what Monkey did when Bingley went away. Georgiana was the only child old enough to manage him, and this time, she was with her father.
The young Miss Bingley was not so much traveling on her father’s coattails as she was going to visit her Aunt Nadezhda. Although she was on good terms with every member of her very extended family, there were certain people with whom she felt an affinity—Brian, Nadezhda, and Geoffrey. Her father was borderline. Her mother fell in with everyone else; consequently, it was a joint decision by her parents that she would spend time with her father over her mother, as he seemed to be closer to her.
Charles Bingley was aware of Georgiana’s friendship with the disreputable Mugin, but it was all managed through Nadezhda, and he held the princess’s judgment in high regard. Besides, if he ever insulted Her Highness in front of Brian, Charles was quite sure he would have his head cut off within seconds. So Georgie loved to play outside with Nadezhda and Mugin. Let her be a child a bit longer. He believed, looking back on it, that his sisters had both assumed the position of a lady too quickly, which had had negative effects on their personalities for years.
They arrived in time to clean up for dinner, which was relatively normal English food. It was always a gamble to visit the Maddox house.You did not know whether you would be sitting on the floor, eating raw fish, or at a table, eating roast beef. He did find Oriental food interesting, but he had spent most of the trip incredibly sick from the unfamiliar spices.
“Ah, English food,” Brian said. “The more tasteless it is, the better.”
“He’s talking nonsense,” Bingley said to Her Highness, gesturing to his plate of beef. “He would have been salivating at this in India.”
“There is something to be said for real meat, yes, all right. But how about our dinner with the martial arts master?”
“What, before we were running for our lives back to Hong Kong?”
“Mugin was running. I was running. You were being carried, because your back was nothing but bruises. And you had been foolish enough to try every dish they offered you without asking what it was.” Brian turned to his wife. “I would take you there, but Mugin ruined the reputation of all foreigners forever in that village by beating the master senseless.”
Mugin, who had not yet contributed, said in Japanese, “I refuse to lose because Bingali was injured and you run like a woman.”
“I told you, I have no control over it!” He turned to his wife again. “Nady, do I really—”
But his wife had already broken
into laughter. She tried to smother it in her napkin, but to no avail.
Nadezhda had succeeded in getting Brian and Charles into a sakedrinking contest, which, of course, ended with them both collapsing and having to be dragged to their rooms. The servants had all gone to sleep when she changed into old clothing and woke Georgiana. “Put this on.”
They lived not more than a few miles from Town. The two adults were quite capable of running the distance, Georgie managing to keep up behind them. Fortunately, the bad section of London was closer than Town proper. Mugin had wrapped a shawl over his face; from a distance, he could almost be mistaken for an English dockworker, except for his shoes. Georgie was also dressed like a boy, which she could still pull off.
“We just watch,” he said to her.
They slipped in the side door of a warehouse, or what had once been a storehouse or slaughterhouse. It was a square building, empty of furniture except for boxes, the occasional chair, and dirty straw on the floor. Gas lamps lit the middle of the room, and men (and a few women) gathered to form a ring. The onlookers were already shouting as two men entered the ring, one wearing only an undershirt and the other nothing above the waist. A man hit a bell with a spoon, but the contestants had already started pummeling each other. When it got too gruesome, Georgie covered her eyes, or Nadezhda did it for her. There was no referee; it continued until one man wound up unconscious on the floor and was dragged off, while the spectators cheered for the muscle man. As the bets got higher, there were fewer and fewer takers to fight. Georgie sat on Mugin’s shoulders. “Are you gonna fight him?”
“Could get in trouble,” he whispered.
“But you would win!”
That was enough incentive for Mugin, who passed her to Nadezhda. “Don’t get yourself killed. Because if you do, we’re running. We’re not taking your corpse with us.”
“Ha. I know.” He stepped into the ring, still mostly covered.
This was not the kind of place where they wrote down (or even asked) the names of the challengers. Mugin got into the same pose as the champion—two balled fists up in front of his face, and the bets were being shouted against him, especially when they saw him in stilt sandals.
The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Page 21
