It was only when finally he made it to the library before dinner to return the newly finished medical text that he found outdated and not worth the effort that he heard the door close and lock behind him. “Please don’t—,” but when he turned around, it was of course Caroline. One of the things she liked about him was that he was very clever, however awkward being alone in a room with her suddenly made him. “Hello.”
“Tiring, isn’t it?”
He looked away but smiled. “Yes, very. But it is the proper way to do things, and I am a proper gentleman now. Or at the very least, I am dressed like one.”
“You look very pleasing.”
“Thank you,” he said, unconsciously straightening his waistcoat. “You look . . . the way you normally look, which is perfect.”
It was true that she was ready for the New Year’s celebrations with her hair up properly, but that still did not entirely deflate the compliment. He suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands, and it didn’t help at all that she took one of them, and he was suddenly terrified that it was too cold and clammy and shaky and she would toss him out.
“You know the terrified look on your face is adorable,” she said.
“Oh,” was all he could say. “Thank you.”
“Considering you were, less than a week ago, staring at a woman’s—”
“Entirely different. It was a medical procedure. And, um, quite different than—”
“Touching a woman you love?”
“Yes. My experience has mainly been with . . .” He could not look at her, so he stared at her hands. It didn’t help. “Forgive me. My years of poverty have led me to forget a particular rule of conduct in this situation.”
“I can assure you,” said Caroline, “we are breaking it.”
“Not that rule,” he said. “I mean—am I supposed to lie and say I am an innocent?”
“I think—we are not supposed to have this conversation at all.”
“Right. Of course.” And he was relieved because it was a reprieve—but not for long. Within moments, they were up against the bookshelf, locked in an embrace that was breaking all of the rules, and whatever he claimed earlier to have forgotten came rushing back to him.
When they finally broke off she said, “If you claimed now you’d never touched a woman before, you’d be a very bad liar.”
“I am a notoriously bad liar,” he said.
“What was her name?”
The question threw him off. He was fairly thrown off anyway. He cocked his head. “Who?”
“I am making the very noble assumption there was only one.”
He swallowed and answered, “Lucetta.”
“Very Italian.”
“She was. I mean, she was Italian—Roman, actually.” He could not escape her look. “Oh God, must I tell you everything?”
“You said you are a bad liar, so you might as well.”
They did, for propriety’s sake, separate lest someone pick the lock, he supposed. “I was studying medicine in the Academy in Paris, and I went to Rome for a lecture of a very noted physician. And being there and having some funds, as my brother had yet to destroy the family fortune, I decided to take a convalescence there of a few weeks. This was . . . um, eight, nine years ago. And some local girl was very, very kind to a young student who liked the local vintage far too much. The end result was that I did not see as much art as I wished to see before I had to return for classes. But I did learn a great deal of the language that is . . . not found in your average textbook. But, you know, it was a very long time ago. And nothing came of it that would . . . be significant. And there, now you have my whole sordid history, which I do hope you will keep in confidence.”
“I hardly run to my brother about anything and know better than to open my mouth to Louisa. And there are men in this family with far more sordid pasts than you, Daniel, and I have kept my tongue in front of Elizabeth.”
It took him a second to make all of the connections. “How would you even—forget it. Am I forever to be compared to Darcy?”
“Darling, in this family, everyone is compared to Darcy.”
“I would say, ‘poor Darcy,’ but as he was foolish enough to pass you over, my sympathy is limited,” he said.
It was, apparently, the right thing to say because she kissed him again, and it occurred to him that he knew very little about Caroline Bingley. He knew her personality a bit; he knew she was intelligent and graceful and beautiful, but he didn’t know what she was as a woman beyond what she presented to society, which he knew was a façade. He wanted to know what she felt like, what she tasted like—all right, he knew that now.
“Caroline,” he said between breaths.
“I know,” she replied. That was the nice thing. So many things did not need further explanation. They pulled apart again. “Can I confess something to you?”
He gave her a look that made it clear that it was not in question.
“For all of my rather . . . intense courting of various people, I find myself somewhat shocked at the end result.”
“Which is?” he said, with a smirk.
“That after thirty years, three months seems like an impossibly long time.”
He could not bring himself to contradict her.
Chapter 12
Brotherly Love
The first thing to happen after the new year was the removal of Darcy’s stitches, a procedure he described as “not particularly pleasant,” but it did not seem to bother him much. The only result was some minor bleeding to be bandaged, and then he was free to go about as he pleased. Immediate plans were made for the Darcys’ return to Pemberley. While there would be much travelling between the two estates until the wedding, Mr. Bennet would stay with the Darcys and Mrs. Bennet, and Kitty would aid Jane with her three children.
“Have you seen my son?” Darcy said as he burst into Bingley’s study.
Bingley merely held up Geoffrey, who had climbed into his lap and decided to take his nap there. “I couldn’t bring myself to disturb him, he appeared and was asleep so quickly.”
“That’s all right.” Darcy took his son and handed him to his exasperated nurse. “Sorry to bother you.”
“Hardly. How is the shoulder?”
“I’ve been told it looks worse than it is. Excuse me, Bingley.” He went to leave, but Bingley stopped him.
“I have a favour to ask of you,” he announced.
“Does it involve preventing a marriage?”
“No.”
“Does it involve forwarding a marriage?”
“No.”
“Am I, at any point, to be shot?”
“I daresay, no.”
“I am still hesitant,” Darcy said, leaning on the fireplace. “My favours seem to get me in a lot of trouble.”
“They also got you a wife.”
“So clever you are to point that out,” Darcy admitted. “Fine, Bingley. What is it?”
“Dr. Maddox has expressed an interest in seeing Pemberley. If you would put him up until the wedding, I am sure he would be quickly lost in its libraries and be no trouble to you.”
“Interesting, then, that he has not expressed this sentiment to me.”
“Well, there is, ah, the matter of . . .” Bingley coughed. “He cannot stay at Chatton, and I have no wish for him to return to Town.” He added, “Caroline would go with him, and the problem would not be solved.”
Darcy smirked triumphantly. “So it is a problem?”
“So I have been informed. By various . . . ahem, servants.”
“You are such a noble guardian of your sister’s chastity. Your parents would undoubtedly be proud.”
Bingley’s face turned the colour of his hair. “I can always rely on you to state the obvious, Darcy. Just take him to Pemberley!”
“If he wishes to go, he is a welcome guest. However, I will not be the one to drag him there.”
And so, the train of Darcys, one Bennet, and one doctor set off for the great esta
te of Pemberley. And it was even done without Bingley getting out his shotgun.
***
Maddox was impressed at the sight of Pemberley; only his usual shyness hid some of it.
“If you’re worried about being lost,” Elizabeth assured him, “I still manage it on a regular basis, so there is no reason to be ashamed.”
“And I’ve given up hope entirely,” Mr. Bennet said.
Mr. Darcy was greeted most enthusiastically by his staff, even though he had been gone less than two months. A teary Mrs. Reynolds stopped short of actually embracing him. He maintained his dignity.
Bingley was correct in his assessment that the doctor was a most unobtrusive and pleasant guest. He spent many hours with Mr. Bennet in the library, sharing a knowledge of language and literature that gave Mr. and Mrs. Darcy their much desired privacy.
“I knew a Maddox once,” Mr. Bennet said. “Stewart Maddox. We were down at Oxford together.”
“He was my father,” the doctor said. “The Earl of Maddox was my great uncle. My father’s personal estate and fortune was inherited by my older brother, Brian, who lost it gambling.”
“The ruin of many men,” Mr. Bennet observed.
Bingley and his sister were constant dinner guests despite the weather, and Elizabeth was back and forth to see Jane, who was not ready to leave her twins. All in all, there were more comings and goings than usual, and Darcy’s only objection to the doctor’s presence was that Maddox insisted that Darcy not yet return to fencing and used his authority as a physician to continuously send home Darcy’s fencing master.
One night late in January, Bingley delivered a letter that had arrived at Chatton, addressed to the doctor. Alone with Darcy in his study, Maddox tore it open. “It is from my brother.” He took off his glasses and read it. “He is asking for money.”
“Is this a regular custom of his?” Darcy inquired.
“Hardly. I haven’t spoken to him in seven years. After he lost most of our fortune, he spent the remainder to pay for my medical education and ran off to the Continent, presumably to escape creditors. I’ve not a heard a word of him since.”
“How extraordinarily coincidental to recent events. How much is he asking for?”
“Twenty pounds.” He closed the letter and replaced his glasses. “I have twenty pounds. I have more than twenty pounds.”
“It is still a considerable sum,” Darcy said, despite the fact that Maddox doubted it was a considerable sum to the master of Pemberley.
“But not unreasonable. And he is my brother.”
“So you are not at all suspicious?”
“Of course I am. But considering what he spent in the old days, it is rather small, and he says it is a fee for rent now that he is newly returned to England. And he is my brother.”
“So despite his ruining your entire fortune and social standing, you parted on good terms?”
Maddox looked over at Darcy and answered very defensively, “Our father died when I was but twelve. Brian paid for my extensive education and my doctor’s license, which gave me a potential living. The latter he probably used for loans on credit he did not have. So while we did have a rather heated discussion about the family fortune, we did not say anything we could not take back, and I wished him well on his escape.”
Darcy responded, “You are a more generous man than I. While it’s all too convenient on his part for my tastes, it is your money, and you may keep your own counsel on what to do with it.”
“And I must write him of the wedding if he hasn’t heard. I am unsure of the arrangements, but perhaps there would be somewhere for him to stay in Derbyshire?”
“Of course. He is welcome at Pemberley.” Darcy, however, was not particularly welcoming in his tone.
***
The general instinct to delay the wedding until the thaw was proven to be an excellent idea. Derbyshire endured what the aged Mrs. Reynolds assured them was one of the worst winters she had ever seen, with, at times, even the roads between Pemberley and Chatton impassable. The post stopped entirely for days at a time, and most of the occupants of Pemberley retreated from the long, drafty hallways to the smaller sitting rooms. Darcy dismissed all the servants but those necessary and made sure to have the fires going strongly in all of the fireplaces in active use. Derbyshire was blanketed in white, and to the minor vexation of his parents, Geoffrey Darcy’s first word was not a name but the word “snow.” He banged on the window, indicating that he wanted to play in it or at least see what it was. Darcy immediately refused, but fortunately Elizabeth had a doctor there to assure him that letting his son handle some snow for a few minutes under shelter of the portico columns would do no harm. What he did touch, Geoffrey mostly quickly consumed, which set off another chain of parental worries and more assurances that snow was, in fact, condensed water and harmless when it was clean. Only Darcy’s stern look stopped Dr. Maddox from a long lecture about condensation and how the scientific processes of weather worked.
The wedding preparations were continuing at Chatton, or so Bingley assured them when the Bingleys visited, but on this night, the plans were assumed to be cancelled because it had been snowing for almost a day and not even a courier could get through to inquire as to the attendance at dinner. It was late February, and the weather was sure to break soon, but at the moment, Father Winter was holding his own, and despite all attempts at keeping the fire going, most of Pemberley was freezing. The servants were dismissed to their quarters, and the residents and guests of the house retreated after dinner to a single sitting room. Darcy sat in a chair by the fireplace and tended to it diligently. Mr. Bennet and his daughter were very happy with their books and multiple blankets. For once, Geoffrey was not permitted to run around on the cold floor (for he was now walking, if a bit unsteadily, and had occasion to fall) and stayed securely in his father’s arms despite how much he struggled to escape them before falling asleep.
Georgiana, who was well-educated but not a bookworm like her sister-in-law, had found Dr. Maddox very pleasing to have around because she quickly discovered a great interest in middle English texts, of which Pemberley had a small number that were rarely perused, mainly because the spelling of words was almost entirely different and in some cases so was the letter set.
“That cannot be the same word!” she insisted, staring at the very large bound text before both of them on the table. “It is spelled differently.”
“The fourteenth century was not a time when England had official spellings,” the doctor explained patiently. “This was meant to be read aloud, and as we are often to pronounce words differently in different circumstances, so it is written differently.”
Darcy spoke out of nowhere, “The double sorrow of Troilus I tell, who was the son of King Priamus of Troy.”
Everyone looked at him, but he seemed unfazed by the attention.
“Troilus and Criseyde,” Maddox said.
“Yes. I had to memorise the first ten stanzas for my literature exams,” Darcy explained. “Though, during the oral section, I was allowed to read the text with our current pronunciation if using the original structure of the words, which I do not properly recall now. Admittedly, it has been some time, and I am not accustomed to hearing it spoken aloud properly.” He mused, “I once had to attend a reading of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight spoken entirely in the old accent and readily confess that had I not read it ahead, I would not have understood a word.”
“How bizarre,” Elizabeth said, “that the language should change that much in four hundred years.”
“In Chaucer’s time, I do believe, the Parliament still used Norman French for administration,” her father added. “If we’re all going to trade facts, none of us are much for cards.”
“I am,” Georgiana said, “but brother will never play with me.”
“You make me seem like a terrible brother,” Darcy said. “You have not asked in years.”
“Because I know you detest it! I would not ask that of you. Doctor, do yo
u play?”
“Not well,” Maddox said.
“Good,” Darcy said. “Best to let your wife win. It gives her the perception that she is in the superior position.” The knowing smirk he gave Elizabeth was the only thing that he knew kept her from getting up and smacking him. Dr. Maddox merely blushed, but further comment was interrupted by the bell.
“Good heavens,” Mr. Bennet said. “In this weather?”
“And I have dismissed the porters,” Darcy said, and handed Geoffrey off to Elizabeth. “It seems I must tend to this myself.”
Taking a candlestick and another coat, he left the warm room and walked down the empty halls of Pemberley. It was so cold that even his loyal dogs did not follow him. When he finally reached the massive double doors and unlocked them with his master key, he opened the door to a burst of even colder air and snowflakes. When he recovered, he saw before him a man not in a courier’s livery but wearing a shabby coat and no hat at all, his face red from the cold but standing there very pleasantly as if his hair were not snow-covered and soaking wet. “I’m so sorry to disturb you. Is this the Pemberley estate?”
“It is,” Darcy said.
“Then I am not lost. I heard there are a great many fine manors in this part of the country. I would very much wish to see the master of Pemberley, if he might be disturbed.”
“I am he,” Darcy found himself saying. “And you are . . . ?”
“Hello, Mr. Darcy,” the man said with a courteous and extended bow. “So pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Brian Maddox.”
The Darcys and the Bingleys Page 28
