The Darcys and the Bingleys
Page 33
“I may, then, just have to go deaf as well as blind,” the doctor replied.
“See? Not so hard, is it? And if you ever need an insult to hurl at a Bennet, former Bennet, or your illustrious brother, just ask your wife, as she always seems to have one at the ready.”
“I have no wish to insult my family.”
“I fear you are too good to your family.” But Darcy finished it with a more meaningful look.
“Brian will not bother you again, not unless you travel to Bulgaria and gamble with him. And even then, I hear he is a terrible gambler, and you will just take whatever money he has from him.”
“And he is entirely untrustworthy and will attempt to take from you whatever income you receive.”
Dr. Maddox would not be cowed—not on this subject. “He lacks judgement in all matters of money and assessing people, but he raised me since I was barely more than a boy, Mr. Darcy. Surely you can imagine how this would inspire some lingering affection. He is my brother, and I will love him until the day he is killed by one of his creditors and I am not there to try and save him. That does not mean I did not imply to him that I would not love him more if he were very, very far away from all of us.”
“A wise implication.” If he had anything else to say, it was interrupted by the music starting up. “Best of luck.”
“I think you mean that a little too much, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy did not contradict him as they entered the chapel.
***
Darcy’s claim that his wedding present was merely literary was not entirely accurate. When the Maddoxes returned from Vienna, the doctor was called to sit for an eye examination so the proper lenses could be prepared for him for his own personal microscope, which took another month to complete. Its worth incalculable, he kept it in his laboratory, and Caroline Maddox was being constantly called in and asked if she wanted to see something up close, which she did not, especially because it was usually a bug or a sample of some noxious liquid. She assured him that, while she did love him very much and thoroughly enjoyed being Mrs. Daniel Maddox, it did not mean she had any desire to see the insides of a flea, however fascinating they might be.
They were also back in time for the Season. The Bingleys did not attend because of their infants, and the Darcys did not attend because Mr. Darcy never attended unless he absolutely had to, and now he had not only Caroline’s but Dr. Maddox’s promise to keep an eye on the very eligible Georgiana Darcy who dined often with them and sent letters to Derbyshire about the happy couple. She also remarked on what the inside of a flea looked like (which she admitted to being a little disgusting and thoroughly blamed her brother for it).
“She was not this way before I married you,” Darcy said to his wife, now just barely showing her pregnancy.
“Yes, I suppose I am thoroughly to blame for this, of having two women assaulting your personal honour,” Elizabeth replied, handing him back the letter. “And once Geoffrey says proper sentences . . . well, who knows.”
“Yeffrey!” Geoffrey said, standing on his father’s lap and banging up and down on the writing pad with the ink pot he had somehow gotten hold of.
“So close, and yet so far,” Darcy said.
“Just like his father.”
“I can pronounce my own name now,” he said. “I just don’t want to.”
“So our second son is not to be named Fitzwilliam?”
“I would not subject him to that,” he replied. “But the other two, if they are girls, you may name as you like, as I have no objections to any female names.”
“I am not having triplets.”
“I believe you have no say in the matter.”
“And I believe the same can be said of you.”
“I was thinking very . . . triplet-y . . . thoughts when we . . .” He looked up at his wife, then turned his son properly around to face her. “Son, memorise this look, as it is very important to understanding your mother. It is the look of someone who is very annoyed and wants me to stop talking and start apologising. I should probably do that.”
“You probably should,” said Elizabeth.
“If only she would come over here, and then I could kiss her without getting up, because you are getting a bit big to be carried about, and then maybe—” But he did not have to say any more because Elizabeth did come over to his side of the desk and let him kiss her on the cheek and then took their son in her arms.
“Oof! You are getting heavy, darling,” she said.
“Mama!” Geoffrey said, because saying anything seemed to excite him.
“Mo-ther,” his father corrected very patiently.
Geoffrey squealed and pointed. “Fisser!”
Elizabeth laughed so hard she nearly dropped her son. Darcy put his head down face-first on the desk. Geoffrey Darcy looked on, completely unaware that he, by making them parents, had been the final means of truly uniting them.
THE END
Acknowledgements
It would be unfair of me to not first credit Jane Austen with creating most of these characters two centuries ago, thereby letting them fall into public domain to be used and abused at my whim. I’m proud to say I share two things in common with one of the greatest novelists of all time: a love of these characters and an autoimmune disorder.
This novel could not have happened without Brandy Scott. More accurately, it could have happened, but it would have been full of spelling and consistency errors. If you meet her, shake her hand and don’t tell her that some people charge for their editing services.
This novel wouldn’t be on the shelves without Deb Werksman—who actually went through the trouble of reading the manuscript and turning it into a book—and her assistant, Susie Benton, for the crucial essentia. Thanks go to my agent, Katie Menick, who undoubtedly put in more time to work on my career than was financially feasible for her.
To everyone at FanFiction.net I owe a great deal: the people who left comments, the people who found mistakes, and the people who just raised my hit count (and therefore my self-esteem) by visiting the page. The same goes for private sites where the story was also posted in a very unfinished form and my historical questions were answered by people more knowledgeable than I. Thank you, Giulia Longhin, for helping me with the Italian translations.
Renata Miller took time out of her busy schedule reading graduate literature papers (which we padded with huge quotes to reach the page expectation) to read, review, and correct my manuscript. Thank you, Professor Miller.
Thank you, Lindsey Abrams, the head of my MFA program at the City College of New York, who was my thesis advisor and let me use this manuscript as my thesis so I could have time to work on it while earning three credits.
Special thanks go to my parents, who encouraged me to pursue a career in the low-paying field of writing, instead of encouraging me to become a doctor or a lawyer.
To Rabbi Yehuda Henkin, who told me I was funny and that I should write a humor magazine: Rabbi, this was the best that I could do. It’s not as glossy, but I’m told it makes people laugh. To Rabbi and Rebbetzin Weisberg for the encouragement.
To Dr. Goodman, thanks for all the Klonopin. Now if you could stop mentioning my writing in therapy, that would be nice.
Thanks also go to Mrs. Mary Anne Dietrich, my fourth-grade reading teacher, who was the first nonparental authority figure to officially tell me I should be a writer.
To Felicia Haberfield, thank you for the moral support on a particularly crucial afternoon.
To anyone else I forgot, let me say this: You have no idea how fast this deadline came down on me, and I did not mean to forget you. I really didn’t.
To the Holy One, blessed be He, King of the Universe, for that thing He did that time at the place. He knows what I’m talking about.
About the Author
Marsha Altman is an author and historian specializing in Rabbinic literature in late antiquity. She has a bachelor’s degree in history from Brown University and an M.F.A. in Creative
Writing from the City College of New York. She works in the publishing industry and is writing a series continuing the story of the Darcys and the Bingleys. She lives in New York.