He'd been too panicked to think of that. “It's just stitches. He probably wants me to remove them so that his own surgeon doesn't ask questions.”
“Still. It is not beyond the realm of possibility. And a nicer vision than your head removed.”
“Most things are.”
She fell onto him, giggling. “The prince… in a whorehouse… and I can never tell anyone!”
“No, you cannot. But I suppose, it is a rather juicy tidbit.”
“That is putting it mildly,” she said. “You are no judge of gossip.”
At this, he had to laugh. “A terrible fault indeed.”
“The Prince of Wales! In a Bawdy house!”
“And stabbed by the very doxy who was with him!”
“And you did not recognize him!”
“Did I mention he was drunk, too?”
Caroline laughed into his shoulder. It was a wonderful feeling.
“Well, if he does have me jumped and quartered, at least I will die knowing we laughed about it the week before.”
As expediency was key, the Darcys—all three of them—did not sit idle at the inn but began the long road south. There were places, they quickly discovered, where the spring showers had made the road so muddy that the wagon barely went faster than a man. At those places, Grégoire got out and walked alongside the path, soaking most of his robe but stubbornly refusing to return to the carriage.
“He's as bad as you are,” Elizabeth said with a grin that Darcy tried hard to ignore.
At last the carriage came to a stop entirely, the wheels stuck in mud. Grégoire assured Darcy that they were approaching a drier region, but Darcy remained displeased. Elizabeth had her own concerns, but she held them back, focusing instead on Grégoire, standing alone on the hillside overlooking the valley. When she approached, he put his cowl over his head.
“Come now,” she said. “I am your sister-in-law. And I'm a mess from traveling—hardly a vision of loveliness.”
After a moment he relented and pulled back his hood. Elizabeth couldn't help but notice this was their first moment alone together, as Darcy was on the other side of the carriage, yelling at the teamster in his broken French. Despite the physical resemblance between the brothers, Grégoire was all humility, his gaze often averted, his posture uncomfortable. Or no, maybe he was the same as Darcy, she thought, but without the stout English upbringing. Darcy was uncomfortable around people, despite his attempts to hide it (which quite often made it more obvious), but Grégoire made no such attempts. Whether that was due to the modesty of a monk or the general Darcy lineage was impossible to discern. So she looked out at the countryside, which was quite beautiful, and not at him, which seemed to put him at ease, as he could do the same.
“So,” she said at last, “you are named after your father.” Grégoire, after all, was the French translation of Gregory, unmistakably similar to Geoffrey.
“Yes,” he said. “I believe that was his intention, to name all his sons so, but he was obligated to do otherwise with Monsieur Darcy.”
“Yes, Darcy is named after the Fitzwilliam family,” she said. “He has a cousin named Colonel Fitzwilliam. That would have led to some confusion if Darcy hadn't shunned his baptismal name.” She held back a laugh. “There's a long, silly story behind it. No actual animosity. He and Colonel Fitzwilliam are great friends as well as cousins.”
“I thought it might be a custom, as you are calling him Darcy and he insists I call him that,” Grégoire said. “I am not familiar with English customs. I only know that Father managed to name two of his sons similarly.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “You are mistaken. You are thinking of his—your—sister, Georgiana.”
“No, Father said he had three sons.” He turned, actually looked at her after the silence, and noticed her shock. “Have mercy on me. I assumed you were aware.”
“You are sure?”
“That is what I remember. Though, I was a child, so my memory may not be clear. But—he did say his wife named Georgiana after him, out of spite.”
She did not want to imagine what had occurred in the private chambers of Darcy's parents when Mr. Darcy's liaisons had come out with obvious evidence and exceptionally bad timing. Elizabeth could only think of one person who bore a similar name to Georgiana, someone whom Mr. Darcy had kept close, provided for, and left a living for… “Do not tell Darcy!”
“I am sorry—have I slandered Father?”
“No—no, he has done quite enough of that himself,” she said. “But—if it is—oh, God.” Had two brothers married two sisters? “Do not tell him. Please, I beg of you. Not yet, if he is ever to know at all.”
“I apologize if our existence is so disconcerting—”
“No, no, it is not you, though that was a bit of a shock, but you…” she struggled to find her words, too busy with the gravity of his own, however unknown. “You are blameless. I cannot think of a man who has led a more blameless life.”
“I am a poor sinner like any man.”
“Not like this!” she said, unintentionally raising her voice and making sure that Darcy had not returned his attention to them. Surely he would, soon enough, now that the wagon was almost free. “I will explain it all, but please promise me you will not say a word!”
She grabbed his arms as she said this and almost shook him, and in such a stunned state as he was when she did this, he could only answer, “I promise.”
“Thank you.” With that, she ran off, leaving a stunned monk, and fell into Darcy's arms.
“Lizzy? Lizzy, what's wrong?” he begged. When she refused to answer, he gave a cold look to Grégoire, who shrugged unconvincingly. “What did he say to you, Lizzy?”
“Nothing. It is nothing. It was not what he said,” she said, wiping away tears. “I will tell you at a more appropriate time.”
“Of course,” he said, helping her back into the ready carriage, but not before a stern glance at his half-brother.
She wondered, however, if there would ever be an appropriate time.
APPOINTMENT WITH A DOCTOR
DR. MADDOX SPENT MONDAY mainly in fittings for the proper attire of a royal servant. The haberdasher offered to trim back his hair so that the wig would fit properly. He had to put up a considerable resistance before the man relented and managed to get a wig to fit over his bushy bangs.
His reward, he supposed, was having Caroline see him the next morning in full dress on the way to the palace. She apparently had none of his fears, or if she did, she hid them well. She was the ambitious side of the marriage, and that suited him just fine, because it took some pressure off him. “Don't be nervous. It's not as if you haven't seen him before.”
“Twice now.” But his hands would not stop shaking.
“He must like you.”
“He will not like having stitches removed. That I cannot promise will endear me to him.”
“You worry too much,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. “You're the best surgeon in Britain.”
“A mild exaggeration,” he said. “I love you.”
“You sound so positively grave when you say it like that,” she replied, and saw him off. His trip was relatively short, but he had to be led through the monstrous grounds of Carlton House, his black bag signifying his identity as yet another anonymous servant of the crown. No one paid him any heed or even inquired as to his name. He was merely made to sit and wait for some time on what was undoubtedly the most expensive chair he had ever sat on in his life. He was called and brought into what seemed to be the dressing chambers of the prince, who was dressed but for his ornamentals and his waistcoat.
“Your Highness.”
“Doctor,” the prince replied, without the same formality. “I suppose we should get this bloody business over with.”
“As you wish, Your Highness.” He gave his normal instructions for clean water and soap to be brought for him, and began unpacking his bag as the prince undressed, looking more like the person he had first e
ncountered and not the grand host of a royal ball (and future ruler of England). But Dr. Maddox was a surgeon with a surgical task at hand, because no good doctor in England would touch their patients, out of propriety, much less operate on them. In these motions, he was comfortable, as he rolled up his considerable sleeves and washed his hands.
“I had a surgeon, once who did not believe in soap,” said the prince, now sitting on a chair with his cravat removed and his shirt open.
“Not all soap is beneficial. You can usually tell its inherent qualities by the smell, unless it has been disguised by being mixed with spices and is not, in fact, soap.”
“You are familiar with this?”
“I believe in cleanliness, yes.” He turned his attention to the wound, removing his glasses and hanging them on his breast pocket to do so. “It has healed very well. I would recommend removing the stitches now.”
“Another one used gloves instead of his bare hands.”
“That I cannot recommend, unless they were new gloves,” Maddox said, removing his tools from the kit. “Leather gloves are not washed, so they are exceptionally good carriers of disease.” He pulled up a stool beside the prince. “This is going to be a bit uncomfortable. My apologies, Your Highness.”
“At least the first time around, I was soused. I can hardly remember it.”
“Putting them in is a much different experience,” Maddox said, peering close to locate the first knot and then cutting it with scissors. “Excuse my closeness. I am nearsighted.”
“I know,” said the prince, who grunted as Maddox began to slowly weed out the snipped wire, which was similar to fishing line. “Your eyesight began to decline in your teenage years, did it not?”
“That is true,” he said.
“How long before you lose it?”
The question would be outright rude from anyone else, especially from a sober patient. But this was the prince. He could say whatever he pleased, and apparently he did. “I hope very much to see my children go out.”
“Yes, congratulations are in order for your wife.”
Dr. Maddox was an experienced enough doctor to be able to maintain his work when he wanted desperately to pause. “You have done your research very well.”
“Not me, my intelligence, of course. It's easier for them when I hand them the card. They had practically everything on you by—ow—morning light.”
“Apologies.”
“No, it's my own poor countenance.” There was a bit of blood from the hole where the lacing had been removed. Maddox wiped it away with a towel. “Your brother, they did not find.”
“My goodness. Is he being sought after by the Crown?”
“No, just the local authorities. Still, do you know where he is?”
“No,” he said, and pulled out another snipped cord.
“You are willing to lie to the Prince of Wales?” the prince scoffed, but in a playful manner.
Dr. Maddox, in his serious doctor mode, was not as playful. He was neutral, until his given task was completed. “I am willing to go through considerable lengths for the man who raised me and paid for my education.”
“And ruined you, apparently.”
“Gambling is a vice that has destroyed the best of men,” was Maddox's quiet reply.
“But you are very well educated. Cambridge, Paris, Rome, and all the right licenses from the Royal College. You would be a fine doctor if you were not a surgeon.”
“Then I would not be much good to my patients, if I was of too high a class to treat them,” Maddox said before he realized that perhaps social commentary in front of the future king of England was perhaps not the best of ideas.
The prince managed to laugh though it was subdued by the experience of the stitches, no matter how carefully Maddox took them apart. “I will make no complaints about your patient list. Though, it would not be suitable for a royal doctor and surgeon to be visiting whorehouses. Unless, of course, I was there.”
Dr. Maddox stopped.
The prince just continued, “This would require, of course, a considerable shortening of your patient list, and you would have to be on the University's medical board. That could be arranged, though it might require you to attend a lecture or two. But I suppose that with your level of scholarship, you are not adverse to the idea of being invited to lectures? Especially if you were a paid guest?”
Maddox stammered, “No, Your Highness.” He needed to focus. He still had a task before him—the removal of the last two stitches and then the stopping of the small trickle of blood and the bandaging of the wound. Fortunately the flesh had healed nicely and was free of infection.
“It would tie you to Town rather strictly. I know your wife has a brother in Derbyshire who is related in marriage to the Darcys of Pemberley and that crowd, but for the most part, you would be required to remain in the general—ugh—vicinity. Was that the last one?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” he said, pressing the towel against the wound. “Please press down until I say to stop.” He set his pocket watch next to the bowl and washed his hands again.
“Thank God for that. How long is this to be?”
“About three minutes. Time for the blood to clot,” he explained. “A very simple procedure. Avoiding infection is really the most difficult thing.” He turned back to the prince.
“You haven't said anything about my offer.”
“It—I am working, Your Highness, and your immediate health is my first concern,” he said, too shy to admit he was shocked by the forwardness of the offer. Caroline had suggested it multiple times over the weekend as a possibility, but just because he had removed some stitches? Did he want to be tied to the royal service? He would finally be able to provide for Caroline properly, not using up his savings as he currently was. It was the ideal position. “There. Let me see it, if you would.”
The prince removed the towel, and no blood came up. Maddox took a very careful look, checked the cloth for anything other than blood, and then pronounced him relatively healed. All that was required was a quick bandage to keep any possible blood from staining the prince's shirt, and he was done.
“Will it leave a scar?”
“A very small one,” Dr. Maddox said, repackaging his bag. “In response to your offer… I don't know quite what to say.” He replaced his glasses and this time looked more generally at the prince, who was straightening his shirt.
“Most men would jump at that offer for the reasons that I have already given.”
“This is true. I do not say it is not enticing. But I cannot, in good faith, refuse a patient I have been treating for some time. I can shorten my list and stop visiting those houses, but I still have those I treat who are perhaps not proper patients of a royal physician.”
“And for that, you would give up a lifetime of financial security and probable knighthood at the end of it, if you didn't accidentally kill me with some prescription?”
Dr. Maddox considered it. “I suppose I would. How very foolish of me.”
“Or how very noble of you. Well, my offer stands, Doctor. Whatever your patient list may be. Infect me with cholera, though, and there will be severe ramifications.”
“Of course.” He collected his things and was getting ready to bow when he realized the prince was offering his hand. To shake. He was shaking hands with the Prince of Wales. He was touching him in a nonsurgical way. “Then… we are agreed.”
“I will have the papers drawn up, and if they are to your liking, you may consider yourself a royal doctor, Dr. Maddox,” said the prince. “My father wants his staff treating me, of course, but as his staff can't treat him, I'm eager to find my own.”
“I am honored, Your Highness.” This time, he did get his chance to bow.
The most direct route was not a terrific one to travel, especially with the state of the roads that had endured decades of revolution and government mismanagement. The Darcys spent many a night in a roadside inn, the two of them on a bed that barely fit one person, muc
h less them both. That was the only part of the accommodations that seemed to bother neither of them. Neither did they complain about the food, which was fantastic.
Grégoire did not break bread with them during the day, instead maintaining the rule of contemplative silence during his meal, which was rarely more than bread and plain cooked meat. He joined them separately for their dinner, because then he could talk, and they quickly discovered he was most convenient for sniffing out—literally—wines. That was, after all, his main occupation at the monastery, even if he didn't partake of wine himself, except when there was nothing else to drink. He put his very discriminating nose in many a glass before they found the best wine in the tavern, and Elizabeth and Darcy tasted the finest vintages of their lives.
One night, Darcy indulged himself in an extra glass beyond his norm, and they retired early. In their tiny room, in whatever nameless travelers' inn, Darcy sat before the fire, not drunk but with his eyes red and his mood more at ease than it had been since their trip to the old d'Arcy estate.
“Darcy,” Elizabeth said, taking his hand, which was warm and inviting. “There is something I would be remiss if I did not discuss, but I fear it will not be something you want to hear.”
He waved off her concern with look that he gave people when he wanted them to keep talking.
“Grégoire said something to me in innocence, not knowing the ramifications. And his memory may not be perfect, please keep in mind–”
His mind seemed to click on. “What is it, Lizzy?”
“He said that you—the two of you—are not your father's only sons.”
At this, Darcy began to smolder quietly. She knew this. She had expected it, but she had yet to see him in a better mood, so she decided to chance it. She detested keeping secrets from him, especially secrets he had every right to know.
Hiding his emotions, Darcy replied quietly, “And he chose to tell you over me?”
“It was by happenstance. He assumed you knew.”
“How would I know? I am only just discovering this.”
“Because—Darcy, because you know your other brother. Because Georgiana is named after him, and because he, too, received a generous living from Mr. Darcy while he was alive and was left one after his father's death.”
The Plight of the Darcy Brothers Page 11
