The Plight of the Darcy Brothers

by Marsha Altman

  The Abbot threw a severe look toward Grégoire, who lowered his eyes and replied, “I cannot ride in a carriage.”

  “Then how exactly do you intend to travel?”

  “I am told I am to walk.”

  Fine. If the Abbot could be severe in his looks, so could Darcy, who spared the old monk nothing in his gaze. “You cannot walk to Rome. Certainly not with our pressing matter there. It is—impractical. Impossible.”

  “Can he ride? On a horse?” Darcy asked.

  “I… do not know how,” Grégoire said shamefully.

  “He shall not ride in the carriage with you and… your wife.”

  Darcy did not have to look at her to know that Elizabeth was horrified, and that was enough to incite his considerable ire. He reached forward, took up Grégoire's sizable hood, and put it over his head so that most of his face was blocked. “There. Now his holy robes will protect him. May we go now, Father?”

  At last, the Abbot relented. He spoke some words to Grégoire in quiet Latin and handed him a small sack. “Go with God.”

  Grégoire finally joined them, as Darcy gave the Abbot one more cold glance. “Papist.”

  “Heretic.” The Abbot turned away, not willing to engage him further.

  “Husband,” Elizabeth chided, pulling him into the carriage.

  “You are bound to your master, Brother,” Darcy said. “And I to mine. Fortunately, mine is prettier.”

  Formal introductions were made in the carriage. Apparently Grégoire intended to wear his hood and stumble around blindly, so Darcy sighed and reached across to pull it off. “Brother Grégoire, this is my wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy.”

  The monk bowed to her, as much as was possible in his seat, exposing his bald top. He was clearly afraid to look at her. While arguing with the Abbot, Darcy had not been oblivious to the fact that poor, young Grégoire had been ogling his wife. Thinking about it now, he could imagine that Elizabeth was probably the only grown woman the boy had seen since puberty, and she was, in Darcy's opinion, the most beautiful woman in the world. So, since he felt the young man's interest was mainly harmless, Darcy kept his normally possessive instincts in check.

  Elizabeth could not curtsey in the carriage, so she nodded her head to Grégoire. “I believe you would want this—”

  “Oh no, I should have no possessions—” but he stopped when he saw what she was holding—a portrait that he was, at least, willing to inspect. Darcy recognized it instantly.

  “The back, Brother Grégoire,” she explained.

  He flipped it over and squinted at the faded lettering. “'Grégoire Bellamont.' This… this is me.” He looked at the child on the other side. “As a boy.”

  “You do resemble your,"—she looked to Darcy for some approval—"brother. We thought the portrait was of him when we first saw it. Then I saw the inscription.”

  “It was among our father's possessions,” Darcy said to the monk. “You said he held you in some affection. I do not doubt it. It is yours.”

  “No,” said Grégoire, passing it back to Elizabeth. “I do not have possessions.”

  “None?” said Elizabeth in disbelief.

  “What I have with me is borrowed from the monastery collective.” He looked away, as if she was the sun, bunching up his sizable but tattered robes.

  Elizabeth gave her husband a look; he just shrugged and put an arm around her. “We are happy to have you along, Brother.”

  He did not say which kind of brother he meant.

  Having lost time going to Mont Claire, the Darcys did not return to the estate but instead headed south, stopping at an inn at the foot of the mountain. While the Darcys were offered the best room in the house (which, despite having a quaint charm, was hardly impressive by Darcy's personal standards), his brother took the worst. Darcy happened to look in it, and found only a mat and a candle on the dirt floor. Grégoire, clearly exhausted, stayed up for Vespers, which he recited from heart, and then retired.

  “Darcy,” Elizabeth said, watching the sad look on his face as they returned to their cramped chambers. She put her arms around him. She knew she had been hard on him the past few days, perhaps the hardest she had been on him since their wedding day. But the situation had been difficult—almost unbearable— for her, too, not because Darcy might have unknowingly fathered a son before he met her, but because of the physical separation, itself a trial. She wanted, more than ever, for them to be in each other's arms again and not spend another night separated, thin walls of the inn be damned. “He is so hard on himself.”

  “He was not raised properly.”

  “Not every man is meant to be an English gentleman.”

  “Every man with some money—and he has more than some money—should have a clean set of clothes, should not be expected to walk the length of his country in sandals, should…” he sighed, leaning into his wife. “I don't know. This is beyond my understanding… why is he such a ready student of that life? Undoubtedly because he has been exposed to nothing else.”

  “Or he truly believes it.”

  “He is nineteen. He does not know what he believes.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “You don't know that.”

  “I know I was a fool at nineteen. And twenty. And eight and twenty, certainly.”

  “Perhaps a bit stubborn, at eight and twenty,” she said with a smile. “But you came around.”

  “I had someone to inspire me,” he said. “Elizabeth, I've missed you so much.”

  “As have I you. It was my fault, not to make the connection and assume it of you and not your father.”

  “Because my father was a good man.” He shook his head. “Or, I thought he was.”

  “While I would say to my own husband that I find the idea of an extramarital indiscretion—especially with a lady-maid— inexcusable, that is not to say your father was not generous with Grégoire, or tried to be.”

  “Grégoire is the richest monk I have ever met. With no entails and no family to support, he would be quite an eligible bachelor if he were not celibate.” He smiled. It felt good to be in his wife's arms and to smile. “I cannot excuse my father. I cannot truly believe it, either.”

  “You have quite sound proof.”

  “I know.” He leaned on her. “I know. I just… cannot. Yet, perhaps I will grow into the idea that my father was not flawless.”

  “All children must, at some point. Not to say you are a child, Darcy.” She kissed his hand. “If you were, I would have to call you Master Fitzwilliam.”

  “Oh, God no,” he laughed. “No, never.”

  “Except when you are drunk or muddled, and I think I can get away with it.”

  “Except for then, yes. But otherwise, no.” He added, “And don't think I didn't hear everything you said to me after I was shot, even if I couldn't process it at the time. Eliza Bennet.” A year prior, Darcy had taken a bullet in a fight with Caroline Maddox's former suitor, and Elizabeth and Bingley had conspired to make some amusement out of his post-operative, opium-induced state, in which he mispronounced people's names, to their obvious delight.

  His face, fortunately, was not as severe as his voice. In fact, it was rather playful. Her response was to kiss him, and then all conversation ceased.

  THE ROYAL BALL

  THE FEW DAYS LEADING up to the royal ball were as busy for Dr. Maddox as those leading up to his wedding had been, mainly because he had to manage his normal patient list and wonder how he was to be dressed properly. Fortunately, Caroline was walking on air and did a lot of the work for him, procuring him a sword and setting up his haberdasher appointments. While he was busily nervous, she was busily in a sublime mood, and what little time he had left was busy taking advantage of that, which led to a lot of late nights that had nothing to do with calls for his surgical services.

  When the evening arrived, he was still no closer to finding the source of his invitation. The point was that he had it, and his wife was the happiest he had seen her since their wedding day— a
nd that alone was enough of a comfort, even if seeing Caroline walk into his chambers in her beautiful emerald gown did make him a bit weak in the knees. “You are quite dashing, Daniel.” She kissed him, meanwhile straightening out his collar.

  “I do hope so,” he said. “I do hope I won't be called for military service of some sort,” touching the sword at his waist.

  “It's ceremonial, dear,” she assured him. “But are you saying you would not lay down your life for king and country?”

  “If it is to be between king and country or be a husband to a wife and father to a child, then I suppose I will opt for treason,” he said, and his hand strayed to her stomach, which was hidden behind layers of gown. Fortunately she was not far along enough to make a ball an impropriety.

  “I do not deserve you,” she whispered, and then continued in her normal voice. “Your hands are shaking. Are you nervous?”

  “I've—never been—”

  “—Nor I.”

  “It has been quite a while since I've been to a proper ball.”

  “Do you remember how to dance?”

  “Every good gentleman knows how to dance.”

  “Then you are only obligated to stand up with me, or perhaps someone else you run into that you know. So, you may do as you please. You are not an eligible bachelor whom women will be chasing after while you stupidly dance with every one, which only serves to confuse them as to your intent.”

  “I will assume you are speaking of your brother.”

  “Charles may have had blinders on to everything but the fun of dancing with a pretty girl, but he did manage to land one with a great deal of sense. Still, the process was both amusing and embarrassing to watch.”

  “And you?”

  “And me? I was not so silly.”

  “I did not presume that you were. But what did you do while your brother gallivanted about?”

  “Made jokes about it with Darcy. To no avail.”

  “Good luck for me, then.”

  She laughed, and that in itself put him more at ease. It was well timed, for the servant entered just then to say that their carriage was ready, and it was time to depart.

  The Royal Ballroom was in full display and decoration, dwarfing Pemberley and everything but a vague memory from his trip to Versailles, but that had not been during a ball, when the room was filled with people dressed as opulently as the windows. This was above both of them, and their invitation was checked. But after appropriate introductions were made, Caroline quickly made herself a welcome addition to the gaggle of chatty ladies. She was in her element; there was no doubt about that. That her husband was not was irrelevant to him, so long as she was happy.

  “You are Brian Maddox, no?”

  He bowed to the man in front of him. “Daniel Maddox, sir.”

  “Ah, the doctor.” The man bowed. He was wearing a gold chain and various insignia. “Excuse me—I am Lord Stephan, Earl of Maddox.”

  They did look a bit alike, if vaguely, and seemed to be in the same age range. “Very pleased to meet you, my lord.”

  “My lord! Please, we are cousins. I must be Stephan.” He smiled. He sort of reminded the doctor of his brother, minus all of the debts, lying, theft, and the limp, as far as he knew.

  “Daniel.” They shook on it. “I must introduce you to my wife, as soon as I, uhm, find her—”

  “Probably chatting away with the rest of them. Best to let them do it, yes?”

  “Perhaps.” Instinctively, Maddox took the glass of champagne that was offered to him—for his nerves. He knew very well that alcohol was a poor tonic, and tended to make things worse rather than better, but he saw no other options. He had to sit it out. “I am unfamiliar with these events, I admit. Is His Majesty to make an appearance?”

  “He does, on occasion, but only when he's sane. But you probably know more about that than I do. Where was your degree?”

  “Cambridge and the Academy in Paris,” Dr. Maddox said, sipping his drink. “But I'm no mind doctor. No, it was just idle curiosity.” The sudden burst of trumpets made his stomach turn. “What is that?”

  “Probably the Prince of Wales arriving. Fashionably late, of course.”

  The doctor nodded and finished his drink, which was quickly taken from him by a near-invisible servant. The general activity in the ballroom stopped, people cleared away, and conversation died down—slowly enough—to make way for the present head and future king of England, George Augustus Frederick, the Prince of Wales. His title was announced, and combined with the music, Dr. Maddox found the sound quite deafening. Between his general nerves and the champagne, the doctor was a little light on his feet.

  That was until the prince entered, and Dr. Maddox saw him clearly. The doctor was ready to swoon entirely; only grabbing onto his newfound cousin's arm kept him from doing so.

  Dinner in the Bingley house was an ordinary affair with current guests in residence, so that meant a lot of talking on Mrs. Bennet's part and a lot of nodding silently while rolling his eyes on Mr. Bennet's part. Bingley was at the head of the table, with his wife at the other end and their guests between them. The Hursts and the Maddoxes were in Town, and Bingley, being used to the most unwelcome houseguests, was more than happy to welcome the Bennets to Chatton for Mary's term. That did not, however, always make their visit easy.

  “Mary, you must eat something!”

  “Mama! I've eaten!”

  “So little!” Mrs. Bennet had eventually made the transition from a mother concerned about her daughters' future welfare to a mother concerned with the immediate issue of her daughter's pregnancy, especially now that the rest was out of their hands. “Mr. Bennet!”

  “What?” he said, looking as though she had never said anything like this before, which was amusing to watch. “Oh, I'm not foolish enough to tell a woman with child what she should or should not be doing. Do you ever remember me telling you to eat more or less?”

  “Then you should know to back me instead of this foolish business of always contradicting me!” said his wife. “She must eat more! I will call for a midwife, if I must, if no one here will hear sense! Mr. Bingley?”

  “Hmm?” he said, attempting to imitate Mr. Bennet's exact “surprised” dinner expression. According to Jane, in private, he was getting rather good at it. “Oh yes. Midwife. I'll call for one in the morning.”

  “Mama, I am not unwell,” Mary insisted. “I am just full.”

  “You always ate like a bird. Proper for a lady, I suppose, but a lot of good it has come to. Now Lydia—and Lizzy, they are eaters. Could eat a horse.”

  “Mama!” Jane said, as her husband broke out into laughter. “Charles!”

  He mumbled an apology and covered his mouth.

  Of course, Mrs. Bennet was ready to fill the uncomfortable silence. “Now perhaps Lydia can finally see Derbyshire. Mr. Bingley, would you treat your mother to finally being able to see her daughter and grandchildren without having to travel to Newcastle? Because Mr. Bennet has forbidden them to Longbourn and Mr. Darcy has forbidden them to Pemberley… and I would like to see them.”

  “She would talk, though, Mama.” Surprisingly, this came from Kitty before anyone else could say it. “About—you know.”

  “Kitty! Have some respect for your sister! Who would she tell, the regimentals at Newcastle?” She turned her attention back to Bingley. “Mr. Bingley, would you please be so kind as to invite the Wickhams to Chatton? If only for a short while?”

  The rest of the Bennets openly cringed at the idea. Bingley hid whatever he was thinking and merely said, “I will put it under serious consideration.”

  “Oh, do not be so stubborn! You have no dispute with Mr. Wickham. And when is Mr. Darcy so far from Derbyshire that we can afford to invite him?”

  “My dear,” Mr. Bennet said, “Mr. Bingley is the master of Chatton and can invite and not invite whomever he pleases and for whatever reason, if I need remind you.”

  Bingley sat back in his chair, looking a bit lost in t
hought. “I will consider it. I would hardly want to get in the way of you seeing your own grandchildren, Mrs. Bennet.” Actually, he didn't want to get in the way of Mrs. Bennet and anything. She did have a point about neither Darcy nor Elizabeth being even on the same island as Wickham. When would they have a chance for that again?

  But something else was occupying him, and he was largely silent for the rest of dinner. Bingley had only met George Wickham once, on the day of his wedding, but knew of him extensively by reputation. He had no reason to be hostile to Wickham, if he ignored the past, but that was not what bothered him.

  “Charles?” came Jane's voice, shaking him out of his apparent stupor. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh. Oh, yes, I'm fine,” he said.

  “Tell me later,” she whispered, and dinner continued. He would not escape her. That was also on his mind as they wrapped up dinner, all through the evening, and as they got all of the children to bed.

  “What was that about?” Jane said, as she helped Geoffrey put on his nightshirt. They were in the other nursery, the twins already asleep. Thank God, they were now sleeping through the night, because Jane refused a wet nurse and handled her children personally, which made it terribly hard to sleep at times.

  “What was what about?”

  “You were—thinking.”

  He placed Georgie in her cradle and tied up her nightcap. “Am I not allowed to think?”

  “Was it about Wickham?”

  “Should we really discuss this in front of the children?”

  “Where we discuss it does not concern me. Do you have an issue with Wickham coming or not?”

  “No. To be perfectly honest, aside from me once helping Darcy to toss him out a window, we've never had an uncivil conversation. We barely know each other, and I'm sure he would be on his best behavior.”

  “What was that about—?”

  “The point,” he said, briefly interrupted as he leaned over to kiss his daughter good-night, to which she giggled, “is that I was thinking of something else. But it is not for me to say.”