by C. P. Odom
He started to pick up his pack, and Darcy looked back at his coach. “Please help Major McDunn with his…ah, baggage,” he called, and two of the three men quickly descended.
McDunn smiled at Darcy’s footman when he came up. “I do apologize for threatening to shoot you, Brown. I was a little startled.”
“Quite all right, sir,” Brown said, returning the smile. “All’s well that ends well as my mum used to say. You did give us a fright when you spun about like that.”
McDunn picked up the rifle and the canvas-enclosed item he’d had slung under his pack, giving them to Brown before handing the pack and harness with his body armor to the other footman. But when he started to pick up the three canvas bags by their carrying straps, he gave a startled grunt and quickly released them. He knelt and opened one of the bags.
After a single look inside, he settled back on his haunches and whistled. “Well, what do you know?” he said, his question a rhetorical one. Quickly, he looked inside each of the other two bags and whistled again.
“What is it, Major?” Darcy asked, a bit concerned. “Is something wrong?”
“No, sir, nothing’s wrong. But it’s just one more surprise I’m not sure I can explain,” he said, closing the bags. “But it’s the nice kind of surprise.” He looked up at Darcy and Fitzwilliam. “I’ll tell you more when we get to your house. I think we need some privacy for this. Do you think you could place one of these bags inside the coach, Colonel?”
Fitzwilliam gave a nod as he started to pick up one of the multi-colored canvas bags. He gave McDunn a look of surprise as he lifted it and turned toward the coach. McDunn picked up the other two bags, grunting from the effort, and followed the colonel to the coach. Fitzwilliam slid his bag inside under the front seat then accepted each of the other bags and did the same.
Darcy gave a chuckle as he looked fondly at his sister, who shifted uncomfortably in her seat due in equal measure to curiosity and irritation at being excluded from whatever the three men had discussed.
“Georgiana, may I introduce Major Edward McDunn of the American Corps of Marines? Major, my sister, Miss Darcy.”
Unable to curtsey, Georgiana contented herself with a nod while McDunn, who had not a clue how one responded in this society, tried his best to mimic the bows Darcy and Fitzwilliam had given him.
“I hope I didn’t startle you when your brother woke me up, Miss Darcy,” McDunn said, entering the coach at Darcy’s gesture.
“Oh no, sir!” the young girl said enthusiastically, her worry for her brother and her cousin evaporating at her brother’s introduction. “Your discovery was most exciting! What kept you men in such intense conversation?”
“We will discuss that more a bit later, Georgiana,” Darcy said. “The Major expressed an interest in mortgaging his soul to the Devil in return for a bath and a shave.”
“And a haircut if it can be managed,” the American said, running his hand through his ragged mop of hair with a look of distaste. “As well as a bite to eat if I might further impose on your hospitality. Then we can make a start on answering questions on all sides.”
“All ready up here, sir!” Brown called. He and his companion had finished securing McDunn’s belongings to the top of the coach.
The driver immediately started the coach in motion, and McDunn pointed to the three canvas bags under the seat where he sat beside Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“I think I ought to keep these within reach,” he said. “You’ll see why a bit later.”
“One might think you had discovered gold in your belongings,” Darcy said with a smile. To his surprise, McDunn cocked his head at him with a sober look.
“Keep that thought until we can talk.”
Darcy only nodded at this oblique response. It gave him much to think about during the short ride to his home. He could only hope he might soon find at least a few answers to his multitude of questions.
Chapter 2
After Vizzini cuts the rope being climbed by the Dread Pirate Roberts—
Vizzini: He didn’t fall? Inconceivable!
Inigo Montoya: You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.
— The Princess Bride,
William Goldman, author
Tuesday, October 10, 1809
Pemberley, Derbyshire
At his first glimpse of Pemberley across the valley, McDunn was greatly impressed despite himself. He had not been at all sure what he was going to see when they reached Darcy’s estate since he had no idea how closely the similarities would extend in this world for it and for so many other things. But there was no word to describe Pemberley other than magnificent—in both its size and architecture.
Already, there’ve been enough similarities to astonish me, he thought. Even after what Kaswallon said about alternate worlds, to find one resembling a work of fiction seems impossible. An author wouldn’t even try to write this stuff! I wish I’d been able to pay more attention to what the priest told me in the cave, but the morphine was hitting me too hard. Still, nothing other than an alternate world makes sense. Nothing! Nevertheless, it’s just so…so bizarre!
Then he had another thought and stifled a smile. Whatever the explanation might be, it’s a whole lot better than being dead! Or being alive when the barbs found me!
He turned back to find Darcy’s eyes on him. “That’s a very impressive house, sir, and very attractive. My compliments.”
Darcy nodded in acknowledgement, but McDunn thought he could detect a hint of appreciation in his otherwise inscrutable expression.
“He is very proud of it, Major,” Georgiana said. “He often tells me how fortunate we are to live there.”
“And he even quarters his less wealthy relatives,” added Fitzwilliam beside McDunn, who could hear the warmhearted teasing in his tone. “Where else could I get such inexpensive lodging and board while this leg heals? Though it could be worse. At least I am not stuck on half-pay.”
“I do wish you would be a bit more circumspect about bringing up family affairs in front of strangers, Richard,” Darcy said, his face deadpan.
“Stop it, you two!” Georgiana said, trying to suppress a giggle. “They do this all the time, Major. It is usually in the privacy of the family, however.”
“Nonsense, Georgiana,” Fitzwilliam said, his teeth flashing in a broad smile. “The major is a military man. He understands completely!”
***
McDunn looked about him with interest when he was escorted to a bedroom by one of the male servants. What he had seen since arriving at Pemberley had been quite elegant in his less-than-expert opinion, and this bedroom was no exception. It looked quite comfortable in size and furnishings though it was not nearly as gaudy as he had expected.
“Good evening, sir,” came a voice behind him, and he turned to find a tall, thin man in his middle years, dressed similarly to Darcy. “My name is Jennings, and I am Mr. Darcy’s personal valet. He asked me to look after you until he can select a suitable valet for you.”
McDunn’s eyebrows rose at the implication that he was due the hospitality accorded to Darcy’s own class. He had rather expected something different, remembering the class-consciousness inherent in Austen’s works.
“That is very gracious of Mr. Darcy,” he said in response.
“Mr. Darcy is a very thoughtful employer, sir,” Jennings said. He looked him up and down before continuing. “I suspect you will want to bathe first before getting shaved. May I ask whether those stains on your clothing are blood?”
“They are,” McDunn said, looking down and fingering the holes in his BDU tunic again. “And they’re kind of ripped up and worn.”
“I shall inform the staff, sir. They can usually remove such stains as well as mend the…uh, tears. I take it the clothing is meaningful, and you do not wish to dispose
of it.”
“I’d prefer not to if it can be helped. And there’s some other clothing in my pack over there. But I need to warn you: we were in the field for six months without a break. Everything may be infested with critters as well as dirt.”
“I understand, sir. It can be managed. Now, if you would simply leave your washable items in the dressing room, the hot water should be brought up directly.”
***
As McDunn sat in the barbering chair while Jennings clipped his hair, it felt exceedingly strange to be waited on. He had never known anything like it. But it had felt so wonderful to stand in the copper tub, lathering time after time while a servant poured buckets of blessedly clean, hot water over him to rinse off the suds and dirt. When most of the grime was gone, the calf-deep water in the tub was filthy with dirt, powder smoke, and other unnamed contaminants. Some of the dirt was ground so deeply into his skin, especially on his hands and knuckles, that it would take more than one bath to get rid of it.
“I believe you should step out of the bathtub so it can be emptied, sir,” Jennings had said judiciously. “Then you can do one final lathering and rinse with new water.”
Well washed for the first time in months, McDunn felt gratifyingly fresh even though it had been difficult to fit his frame in the copper bathtub when he sat down to wash his head and hair. And Darcy’s valet seemed to know what he was doing with his scissors though it had taken some convincing to make him understand McDunn really did want his hair as short as he described.
“But it is not at all fashionable, sir,” Jennings said, looking quite distressed. “Gentlemen wear their hair short but not nearly as short as you wish.”
“Ah, but remember: I’m an American, Jennings.”
That seemed, for the first time, to alter the man’s calm expression, and his lips twitched upward the slightest bit.
“As you say, sir,” he replied and proceeded with the haircut.
***
The two Darcy siblings and their cousin turned as the butler announced, “Major McDunn, sir.”
“Thank you, Hamilton. Please show him in.”
The enigmatic man strode in, looking taller and even larger than he had on their first meeting. At the same time, his martial erectness and almost dangerous appearance had been softened by the fashionable attire Colonel Fitzwilliam had loaned him.
McDunn laughed softly at the looks on his hosts’ faces and did a slow turn, showing that the borrowed clothing fit him tolerably well. Since he was taller than the colonel, his trousers showed evidence of hasty tailoring. But his shoulders and chest were comparable in size to Colonel Fitzwilliam’s, so his shirt and frock coat fit well. In fact, except for his moustache and his close-cropped hair, he looked as though he might be just another visitor to Pemberley and nothing at all like the mysterious stranger they had found lying in the meadow.
“I had to keep my boots, though one of your people did an excellent job of cleaning them up,” McDunn said. “My feet are larger than your cousin’s. And I would still be struggling to dress myself if you hadn’t provided the assistance of your valet, for which I thank you, Mr. Darcy. It was difficult enough trying to figure out the fastenings, and I won’t even mention my mystification at watching Jennings tie this thing he called a cravat. But I understand your surprise at my appearance. I was a bit stunned when I took a look in the mirror. It was almost as though I belonged here.”
“Well, I think you look very handsome, Major,” Georgiana said.
“Especially in those fine clothes,” Fitzwilliam said with a teasing smile.
“Except for the major’s hair and moustache, of course.” Darcy said, smiling. “But please, have a seat. I know you must be hungry.”
“I thought beards and long hair were in fashion about now. And yes, I am famished.”
“Not so,” Darcy said, as he held the chair for Georgiana. “Beards and long hair started disappearing about ten or twelve years ago. Most men of my age are clean shaven and favor shorter, more natural hair.”
McDunn grinned and took the seat Darcy indicated at the small, square table. He ran his hand appreciatively over the short stubble of hair on his head. Unfashionable or not, he had wanted his hair short again. He was used to it after spending years as a marine. He had even kept up the same standard of grooming when he attended college as had so many other returned veterans.
At first, he had been rather anxious to have another person shave him. McDunn had always done it himself just as everyone did in the Corps, and he hated having such a wickedly sharp straight razor in the hands of a stranger. But being shaved by Darcy’s valet turned out to be quite pleasant. In fact, the sharp razor had made short work of his several weeks of beard, guided by a hand much more expert than his own. The man was a magician with his tools and made no argument about his moustache, merely trimming it as McDunn desired.
“It’s what I’m used to as a marine—my marines, that is, not yours. It’s short by tradition these days—my days—though it originally was implemented to curtail pests. That problem went away some time back, but short hair remained.”
“I believe that is one of a thousand questions I might wish to ask,” Darcy said. “But I think we ought to postpone all our questions until after we dine.” He glanced almost imperceptibly at the servants bringing in the dishes, and McDunn nodded in understanding.
During the meal, McDunn watched the others closely to pick up what he could of the etiquette of the day.
Mom would be beside herself with glee if she could see me having to observe proper table manners, he thought. But his contemplation was tinged with the same melancholy he always tried to suppress when thinking of his murdered family. It had been four and a half months since the Memorial Day Massacre, but it was only now that he might be able to start dealing with all he had lost. Before this, the Expeditionary Force had their hands full with fanatical opponents who seemed to care nothing for their own lives if they could take one or more Americans with them into darkness.
McDunn rigidly forced himself to dismiss these morbid thoughts and turned his attention to Darcy’s sister. She was more lively and curious than he would have expected from Austen’s portrayal, but perhaps she might turn meek at barely being saved from an elopement by her brother’s eleventh-hour rescue.
Good old Jane and her many, “nick of time” coincidences! he thought. I couldn’t help noticing that much, though I’m no Regency scholar, no matter what Dancer thinks.
His thoughts came to a screeching halt by another savage stab of grief, this one piercing him particularly deeply when an image sprang into his consciousness of Dancer’s lithe, graceful body lying dead and twisted on an unknown hillside.
Everyone, he thought bleakly. Everyone I ever knew, as well as the country I served, is gone.
He forced himself to shove his grief into a corner until he had some time for solitary contemplation and, instead, fixed his mind on Jane Austen.
Maybe I’m being a bit harsh on good old Jane because I really enjoyed her books. I’ve read them many times over the years though not since heading off to the university. But I made sure I had e-copies on my tablet before we came over here.
But how long can my tablet last, even if it re-charges from sunlight? There sure won’t be any replacing it when it croaks! I’d better get busy backing it up to my other two tablets and use them instead. My personal tablet will probably last far longer that way. It was made to be really rugged, after all, even if it’s a civilian model, and I know it cost Mom and Dad too much. But I couldn’t refuse the gift! They were so glad I made it home from the Marines and was heading off to the university.
His attention was drawn back to Darcy’s sister, who was having fun teasing her much older brother and cousin.
What should I do if I see any of Miss Austen’s crucial coincidences? Should I make sure Georgiana is
n’t ruined by George Wickham? Or should I simply stand back and allow events to occur?
After all, he thought, everything turned out for the best, even though most everyone—Darcy, Elizabeth, Jane, even Georgiana—had to endure a considerable amount of—what’s the word? Yeah, angst. I remember one girl at my high school found out I had read Pride and Prejudice, and she made the interesting point that one of the biggest reasons for the enduring popularity of the book was angst. “It was the angst that made Darcy and Elizabeth’s love deep enough to bridge the social gap separating them,” she’d said.
So it might be better if I just observe. I’d probably just make things worse if I tried to stick my oar in anyway. I may be worrying for nothing since the events in this world might not follow Austen’s storyline at all. And there’s no guarantee I’d even have a chance to see anything significant from the novel. Darcy might put me off his land as a lunatic after hearing even a sanitized version of how I got here!
Nevertheless, these people are real, living, flesh-and-blood persons with all the foibles and inconsistencies that go with it. They aren’t puppets dancing to the tune of an author lost in an endless variety of possible worlds. They could be hurt.
None of what he had seen thus far, other than the similarity of certain names, had been mentioned in Austen’s novel, which left unanswered the question of why the Siege Perilous had sent him to this world. Because of his own religious beliefs, McDunn was convinced the Siege Perilous could only exist as an artifact of divine inspiration. Nothing else made sense to him, especially if one rejected, as he did, the premise of the universe simply being a cosmic accident. He had always believed in a universe created by a divine Creator, but now he wondered why the Lord who created a universe of suns and planets might have decided an infinity of parallel universes was needed to make his Creation complete.
Talk about twisting my mind into pretzels and getting sucked into areas of thought with no way to reach a conclusion! he thought before a more mundane question occurred to him. Is there a Jane Austen alive in this world of her creation? If so, she surely wouldn’t be writing and publishing anything like P&P, would she? Talk about inconceivable!
