Mr. Darcy's Great Escape

by Marsha Altman

  Congratulations went around so many times that even Mr. and Mrs. Hurst were all misty-eyed, and the children were ecstatic to the point where they quickly exhausted themselves, which was very helpful for getting the younger ones into their cradles for their afternoon naps. (“I’ve never seen them go to sleep so easily,” said Darcy’s nurse.) Only Georgie and Geoffrey stayed up longer, playing with Frederick’s toys with the real intention of hearing the others talk more frankly. They even attempted to hide behind the settee and be forgotten, but were quickly discovered by the ever-watchful Jane, who immediately sent them upstairs. Celebratory drinks were passed around, and toasts to everyone’s health were made, especially those traveling home at last. Jane excused herself to pen a quick note to Anne about her husband, and Georgiana about her brother and sister, while Bingley read the letter for himself. Jane had omitted things in her general reading. There was more to the story of the retrieval of Darcy and Dr. Maddox, but the tale would want to be told properly when they returned, as it was long and complicated, and involved a great deal of trickery and use of superstition on their part. He knew Darcy well enough to know that Darcy would have written the letter himself if he was up to it, but no ailment was described. Grégoire was coming to England for the rest of the war and bringing with him some kind of reliquary for safekeeping, of all things. At least one person of the two was found, he thought to himself.

  Dinner was a happier affair than they had anticipated. Dr. Maddox had missed his children’s birthdays, but he would be there for the next ones, and that was all that mattered now. But even joy brought a certain exhaustion, after many toasts (perhaps a few too many), the four of them retired.

  “Perhaps we should send a note to open up their houses,” Jane said as she reread the letter in bed while Bingley settled down beside her, feeling a bit lightheaded from so many celebrations with libation. “Or is it too soon? She said they would write again from the coast, if they could.” In the letter, it named the town they were traveling to, but their plans were not fixed because of the war. “Should we try to arrange a ship ourselves? It would be much easier from this side of the channel.”

  “It would be,” he said. “I honestly… am overwhelmed.” He leaned over and kissed his wife. “It is as if a weight has been lifted from me. I will confess to you now that I do not want to ever have to be the steward of Pemberley.”

  “And Rosings.”

  “Oh God, yes. Or would it just pass to the Fitzwilliams?” He frowned and then smiled again. “Well, it hardly matters now. All will be right.”

  But Bingley did not fall asleep. He was still awake when he heard the bell ring. He did not require his manservant to rouse him, appearing instead in the hallway, throwing a robe over his shoulders, “What is it?”

  “A Mr. Kensington sent an express, sir. Nothing to get alarmed about.” Meanwhile, a servant dashed up the stairs and bowed, handing his master the letter, which Bingley tore open.

  “Charles?” Jane’s voice called from the bedchamber, “What is it?”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, reentering the bedchamber. “There’s just a fire down at the docks. My manager decided to post me about it.” He set the note aside. “It’s not near the warehouse. Not that there’s anything in it to burn, but still—I’m going to go down and have a look.”

  “A look!” Jane said. “Charles, you just told me the docks are burning, and you want to go watch?”

  “It won’t be dangerous. He says it’s in a different area. He just wanted me to know.” He leaned over and kissed her. “I will be safe, I promise.”

  “Take someone, will you?”

  “Of course.” He smiled reassuringly. “I’ll be back before you know it.” And with that, he stepped into his dressing room to be dressed by his man.

  But Jane did know how much time had passed before she heard a knock at the door, because she spent it tossing and turning, listening for sounds, and then staring at the clock as the hours ticked by. When she did hear the bell, she did not wait to be summoned. She threw on her robe, rushed down the stairs, and opened the door herself.

  The man who greeted her was not her husband.

  ***

  East London was not very safe—it was rioting. This, however, was hardly an unusual occurrence, especially in these strained economic times. The chief concern of the authorities was to make sure the fires did not spread elsewhere; what the poor did amongst themselves was another matter entirely.

  Bingley’s carriage pulled up to the warehouse. He had been there often enough in recent weeks; he knew it to be mainly empty, full of wooden storage boxes that would serve as excellent tinder after a particularly dry autumn. If it did catch, he would lose the building and probably the business, even if it were not much to lose.

  He sighed, opening the front door. The fires were on the docks proper, some distance away, so he was not immediately concerned. What he was concerned about were the workers in the warehouse who faced him as he entered. He knew almost all of them by face and some of them by name—they were the men who had no work and no pay. Most concerning was the fact that one of them, a Mr. Graves (the sort of man who hardly deserved the proper title of “Mister”), was pointing a pistol at the head of Mr. Kensington.

  “They made me write it,” the old man whispered.

  “Let him go,” Bingley said in the most authoritative voice he had, which, all things considered, was not very authoritative.

  To his great surprise, the man holding him down—a Mr. Goodman, Bingley vaguely remembered—released him and Kensington ran out the back. The gun was then turned on Bingley as the door was shut behind him.

  “Look,” he said, clutching his walking stick with full knowledge that it would hardly help him when facing an armed gang in poor lantern light, “I know the company is in dire straits right now because of the embargo—”

  One of the men at his side grabbed him and pushed him against the wall.

  “We’re in dire straits,” Graves said, drawing a knife as he approached him. “Yer sittin’ in your posh house, lookin’ over books, while we’re starvin.’ How many courses did ya eat tonight, Mr. Bingley?”

  He cleared his throat. “This company is my family’s greatest concern. My father—”

  “We don’t care about your father, Mr. Bingley,” said Graves, pointing the knife at his throat. “Or your mother, or your grandfather, or anyone else you care ta mention.”

  Unfortunately, he was beginning to grasp what they did care about. Or at least, the lengths they were going to go through to get it.

  “Yametekure!” (Hold it right there!)

  They all turned away from Bingley without lowering their weapons to see the figure—figures—emerging from the darkness of the inner warehouse. The man before them was dressed in bizarre silk clothing, but more noticeable was his gigantic hat, which must have been made of some kind of stalk, which was triangular, with holes in the front for his vision, as it covered most of his face. He had one hand tucked into the folds of his robe, the other easily resting on the hilt of two long swords, or one very long sword and another shorter one.

  “This is private property,” he said in cold but perfectly comprehensible English. “Show your permit or get out!”

  “Who’re you?” Goodman said, readying his own weapon as the man stepped into the torchlight.

  “I will repeat myself once,” said the stranger, one finger over the hilt of his blades. “Stop threatening this man and get out!”

  “Do what he says,” said the woman emerging by his side, wearing a robe and speaking in accented English. Her hair was tied up and covered by a white cloth.

  “You and what army, lady?” Graves spat.

  “I see you cannot be reasoned with.” The stranger turned to a box, onto which emerged a man, hunched over like a bird on stilt shoes. “Mugin. Iidesuka?” (Are you ready?)

  “Sehi.�
�� (Sure.)

  Goodman, facing a shadowed and confusing spectacle, decided to take the initiative and raised his bat to the man in the hat. Goodman was larger and fatter, and the man dropped to one knee, drawing his sword enough so that the butt of the hilt slammed right into Goodman’s stomach. Goodman stumbled back and dropped like a sack of grain. The young man who had held Bingley up against the wall for Graves now rushed the warrior but was stopped by a clog shoe to the head, tossed with enough force to knock him aside long enough for the second stranger to leap down and kick out his legs before retrieving his lost shoe. He drew his long, curved blade. “Ikoo! Tatakau!!” (Come on! Hit me!) he said to Mr. Graves, who now realized he was facing two men armed with long swords, looking quite ready to swing them, the blade in his hand. Beside him, another thug emerged from the shadows with a gun.

  “He’s got a—” but before Bingley could say “pistol,” Graves grabbed him and slammed him against the wall, holding a knife up to his throat. Bingley felt a greater pain when his head hit the wall than from the knife against his throat, and for a moment his world was a burst of colors before his eyes, then returned to a fuzzy version of the man in front of him.

  The young thug did not have time to fire his pistol, though; as he gripped his neck in pain, out shot a spray of blood. Neither of the attackers had moved; he dropped to his knees, the flicker of an edged coin highlighted in the torchlight. The woman, previously ignored, stepped forward with a stack of them, tossing one up and down in her palm menacingly at another member of the mob.

  “Don’t yeh dare,” Graves said, his threat on Bingley’s person obvious enough. The proximity of the knife to Bingley’s throat was dangerous. He was afraid to swallow.

  “Threaten my brother-in-law again,” said the first man, lifting his hat so they could meet eyes, “and there’s no way you’ll get out of here alive. In fact, there’s little chance of that as it is.”

  Graves’s response was to toss Bingley at the trio that had disabled his gang in seconds. At least, that was the last thing Bingley remembered before he hit the ground.

  ***

  “Mr. Bingley?” the voice repeated. “Oh, I think he’s coming around.”

  “Me-ester Binguri,” said the man with a heavy foreign accent.

  “Will he be all right?” said the female voice. Different accent, much better English. European?

  “I don’t know. I’m not the doctor.”

  “Kareshini osake o iidaroo.” (He looks like he needs a drink.)

  “He probably needs a doctor, Mugin.”

  That voice—undeniably recognizable—was right. Bingley was in some pain from being assaulted and then shoved unceremoniously to the ground. At least his throat hadn’t been seriously cut. He opened his eyes to the spectators, not quite sure of his perspective, but felt as though he was against an uneven brick wall. Above him, Town’s night sky, buildings to his left and right, from what he could see over the ledge, smaller than he remembered. Wait, was he on a roof? Was that where they were hiding? He noticed the man on stilts was sitting, huffing, like he had overdone himself, perhaps by carrying him. He was foreign, strange—but the light was poor.

  “Welcome back to the world of the living, Mr. Bingley.”

  He doubted it no longer. “Brian Maddox.” All of his immediate questions did not spring to his lips, maybe because he was exhausted, even though he hadn’t been the one fighting. Even in the dim light, the sight of Brian Maddox wearing a lampshade for a hat and a silk bathrobe for a shirt was bizarre enough to jolt him a bit. “Where—”

  “Nippon, Japan,” Brian said, “Before that, the Rus. I do apologize for my delayed correspondence. I did make every attempt to contact Danny, but it seems he took matters into his own hands while I was occupied elsewhere.” He held out his hand, and the woman walked up to him, wearing the most luxurious and beautifully patterned silk bed robe Bingley had ever seen, tied tightly by a thick sash and a cord. “Excuse my manners. Mr. Bingley, this is my wife, Princess Nadezhda Maddox. Mrs. Maddox, this is my brother’s wife’s brother.”

  She curtseyed to him. “Mister Bingley.”

  “Apologies for not—receiving you properly,” Bingley said, his voice dragging a bit, “but where in the hell am I?”

  “Some rooftop. I hope the family below doesn’t mind the racket. We needed a rest. It’s still a bit of a ways to the West End. Speaking of which—Mugin?”

  “Nani?” said the squatting man. Now that Bingley’s vision was adjusting to the light, he could see that the man, wearing only a striped shirt, some sort of loose breeches, and an blue coat, was definitely some kind of Indian or Oriental.

  “Are you ready to go?”

  “Sa! Igirisuwa konomama tsukareta shiranakatta!” (Ach, I didn’t know England was going to be so back breaking.) Mugin said, standing up and stretching his back. “We take you, Binguri-san.”

  “Wait, I—” but before he knew it, he was hoisted onto Mugin’s back.

  “Dokoni itteirundesuka?” (Where are we going?)

  “Follow me. Though I’ve never gone this way before,” Brian said with a smile and leapt over the edge, onto the roof next door. Mrs. Maddox—Princess Maddox—and Mugin followed him with no hesitation. If the idea of jumping about the rooftops of Town in sandals bothered anyone other than Bingley himself, who was carried, they said not a word.

  Chapter 21

  Brian’s Story, Part 1

  No good at being an English gentleman, Brian Maddox decided to be a Hungarian one.

  It was late fall of 1807 when he made his way across Austria, far enough south to miss the worst of the early snows and into the hills of Transylvania. His Romanian was passable enough to explain to the border guards of the count’s lands who he was. They did seem a bit surprised to see him, but his future father-in-law greeted him warmly enough.

  He knew better than to ask to see Nadezhda directly, despite her being the sole reason for his return. The wedding was coming up soon, and his understanding of court culture was lacking, so foreign to him despite his wide travels. Vlad’s court seemed to truly be in the dark ages, in stark contrast to even his closest neighbors and relatives, who were quicker to adopt the fashionable European culture of the Enlightenment. Brian could barely make conversation with his chief servant.

  “She is very beautiful,” said the man. There were an awful lot of reassurances going around. Eventually, mainly from inflection, he was able to discern that he had not been the first suitor to run. He was actually the only one who came back. It bestowed on him an appropriate level of caution. Did she have a tail? Was she a witch? Or was it merely the overbearing count? Brian had to find out and quickly.

  The wedding was set for barely more than a month away. The first week he did not see his intended at all and used what little free time he had to perfect his language skills to the local brogue. Hungarian nobility spoke French as was fashionable, with some German and Hungarian, but these were the backwoods of Transylvania, on the very edge of the traditional Hungarian Empire, and the count was a very traditional man. He liked to think of himself as a man of the people despite being quite the opposite, so he spoke Romanian, like the peasants who toiled on his land.

  Most of Brian’s evenings were spent in long banquets, where he had more time to practice, or would have if the local spirits didn’t go right to his head despite what he thought was an impressive tolerance. After the first few nights, before he learned to quietly water down his mug, he emerged with a horrible headache and not much appreciation for the sunlight or anyone who would bother him. There were instructions from what was apparently his manservant, Andrei, on how to dress and how to act, if said in a very polite way. He gave up his cravat but held fast on growing a beard, even if he did allow his sideburns to be a bit wider than permissive in proper society. He wouldn’t even give in to the current trend of goatees, preferring a soft, clean face.

 
Finally, he saw Nadezhda when she was presented to the feast table. She was bejeweled and wearing a complex embroidered gown. Brian could see her beautiful face and her fine form, but he wondered what her hair would look like out from under the silk headdress. She had not changed from their parting in the spring. She smiled nervously to him as she bowed, and he returned it, though he did not know if she saw it. He hoped she did.

  That night, after he was permitted to escape the long hours of feasting and storytelling, he sat down with a glass of imported wine in his chambers, and set concerns and fears of his impending marriage aside long enough to ask Andrei when in the hell he was going to see Nadezhda in some kind of privacy. He might have phrased it differently, he might not. All he heard through the pounding in his ears was that it would be arranged.

  In fact, it was that very night. He was escorted to a balcony, which was sheltered enough so that it was not terribly cold. On the other side of the open doorway were guards and—he had no doubt—listening people, but she was standing there, and that was enough. “Your Highness,” he bowed an Englishman’s bow. He would take her hand only if she offered it, which she did not, clamping them together somewhat nervously. She was covered, but less ostentatiously dressed, and it occurred to him that he had never seen her hair. If she was like her father, it was probably black. He found himself imagining what it would be like to run his fingers through it, as she curtseyed to him.

  “You asked to speak with me?” she said.

  “I wanted to speak with you,” Brian said. “I’ve… not seen you in a while.”

  “You saw me this evening.”

  “I mean, privately. Since that night.”

  “You remember it?”