The Plight of the Darcy Brothers

by Marsha Altman

  “That is not what I mean, and you know it,” he said. “I love you.”

  “And I cannot imagine my life without you,” she said. “I love you.”

  Despite the fact that they were to leave early the next morning, the strain of traveling, and the emotional turmoil the dual situations wreaked on them both, the Darcys found enough peace for themselves that night as husband and wife. By morning, they were ready for the long journey ahead of them, arms clasped tightly together.

  FIRE AND LIES

  “I'M NOT GOING TO have to shave my head, am I?”

  “I don't believe so,” Daniel Maddox said as he found the spot at last, a suspicious lump between brown hairs that he approached with his tweezers. “It appears merely to be a tick of some kind, not lice.”

  “Good,” said the prince. “How did I get a tick? What is a tick?”

  “Perhaps by putting your head on an unsanitary mattress. And I believe it is a type of beetle,” he replied, and motioned to the servant for the bottle of whiskey. “This may sting a bit. Hold your head still, please, Your Highness.”

  The prince managed to do so, and Maddox poured a small amount of alcohol on the site, causing the embedded bug to pull back so he could pull it out. “Scissors.”

  “My hair!”

  “Only a snip,” he said as the servant took the bottle from him and handed him the scissors. The tick was also wrapped in hair, which he snipped, and at last he had the insect in his tweezers. “Jar, please.” When it was handed to him, he deposited the tick and sealed the jar.

  The prince looked around. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Try to determine the species. But you should be fine, sir. Though, if I may recommend, you should keep your head and any other hairy areas away from whatever conditions you previously subjected them to. These things can carry disease.” He looked at the bottle as he replaced his glasses. That was when he noticed a man in a white undergarment charge into the room, enraptured by what he was holding.

  “'And thus sayeth the Lord,' burn it with fire!” said the wiry man with white hair, before walking across the room and back again, and then out the opposite door.

  While Maddox was gathering his reaction to the spectacle, the prince chuckled. “You probably should have bowed to your king.”

  “That—”

  “—was my father, yes. But you did not recognize him, so I'll excuse it this time. And all other times that he's completely out of his head.” The prince gave him an encouraging slap on the back. “You can see why they want me to rule, eh?”

  “I… have no comment.”

  “Discreet as always. Well, everyone knows he's batty, anyway. He called me king once,” the prince said, lifting the whiskey bottle from the table and taking a swig himself. “King of Prussia, to be precise.”

  To this, Maddox had a very hard time not responding.

  When Dr. Maddox returned to his townhouse, his wife was there to greet him. “Charles is here. He's joining us for dinner.”

  “Is there some news?”

  “No, but he had business. Or needed a break from the Bennets,” she said as the servant removed the doctor's complicated and expensive wig, and he fluffed his hair back up. “How's the prince?”

  “You know I can't tell you that.”

  “I was just curious,” she said, kissing him on the cheek as she escorted him to greet their guest. Charles Bingley was in the sitting room, reading a book that Maddox did not recognize. They bowed to each other, and Maddox excused himself to change into proper attire.

  “Georgiana is joining us as well—am I correct in that?” he said at his dressing station.

  “Yes. But Louisa and Mr. Hurst have another engagement, so it's just us.” She lay back on the chaise, and he smiled unintentionally because she was beginning to show. “So how is the prince?”

  “He is fine, and that is all I will say on the matter.”

  “So discreet.”

  “It is what he pays me for,” he said, and excused himself to bathe. By the time he was washed up and dressed, it was nearly time for dinner, and Georgiana Darcy had arrived.

  “I've gotten a letter from Elizabeth,” she said, as they gathered, and Charles put his book away. “She even sent a little picture of Calais. Doctor, have you seen it?”

  “Many times,” he said, as he eyed the card with an etching of the old city walls. He gave it to his wife. “Once, it was an impressive fortress of a city.”

  “So she says. They are going south now, I imagine, to catch a boat to Rome.”

  “I received a letter from Darcy,” Bingley said. “They must be some way south of Paris by now.”

  “They are going all the way by carriage? If only there was some better way that was as quick,” Dr. Maddox said. “Does Mrs. Darcy mention anything else?”

  “Only that she has little time to write,” Georgiana said, putting the letter away. “Mr. Bingley, what in the world are you reading?”

  The book had mysterious characters on its cover, alongside English ones. “It is a book on the various languages of the Indias. Did you know there are twenty-seven?”

  “Charles, if you intend to learn them all, we must find you another hobby,” Caroline said.

  “Yes,” Maddox said. “Where this Bingley family obsession with languages comes from, I have no idea. Most perplexing.”

  For that he got two looks—a stern one from Caroline for undercutting the chastising of her brother and a thankful one from Charles. Fortunately, the dinner bell rang, and the line of conversation did not have to be pursued.

  Over dinner, Charles announced that everyone currently residing in his household was just fine, and that Georgie had finally said her first word. “Actually, it was a whole sentence.”

  “My goodness,” said his sister.

  “Yes. Apparently she was just saving up or something,” he said. “My wife was right on the floor. I would have been if I hadn't been carrying Geoffrey at the time.”

  “Carrying or throttling?”

  “Carrying, Caroline,” he said. “The second came later, but that is another story entirely.”

  “From Eliza's side, no doubt.”

  “I will have to correct you and say that, with all due respect to Darcy, I've known him since his college days and heard enough stories to say that he may have contributed to a certain child's personality.” He decided to change the subject entirely away from sibling banter. “So, how is our prince? Or I suppose you can't tell us.”

  “I've never yet told you anything about a patient who wasn't a direct relative of yours or mine, and I don't intend to start now,” Maddox said as the second soup course was served.

  “Have you met the king?”

  “As he is not a patient, there I can relent and say yes, I have met the king. Today, in fact. We were not properly introduced, because I was an anonymous servant of his son and the king was completely out of his mind when he came in the room.”

  “Now you have to finish the story,” Caroline insisted in the way that only she could.

  “It is not a very long story. He came into the room half-dressed, told me to kill it with fire—not explaining what he referred to—walked around a bit, and left.”

  “You saw His Majesty in his undergarments?” Georgiana whispered, as everyone was suppressing their laughter.

  “I did. I didn't actually recognize him at the time, and I was not told who he was until he was gone.”

  “Darling,” his wife said, “I must comment that you seem terrible at recognizing royals.” This, she did not explain to their guests.

  Bingley was staying the night, with plans to leave for Derbyshire in the morning. It was not until Caroline retired and Georgiana went home that the gentlemen were left alone, and Maddox finally got to inquire as to Bingley's sudden appearance.

  “Some business, some buying of books, some pleasure,” he said. “Though my sister would not be overly fond of the idea that the Bingley family is still secretly invol
ved in trade. She thinks I am an idle gentleman. Then again, she did not marry an idle gentleman, so maybe she has warmed to the idea.”

  “Perhaps,” the doctor said with a smile as they shared a glass.

  “So I suppose her confinement will have to be in Town. I was going to invite you to Chatton. Perhaps you will not mind a semi-frequent guest?”

  “Of course not,” Dr. Maddox said.

  “She is getting along well? Jane has been wonderful, but I think the twins have worn her out. God help me if she gets pregnant again anytime soon.”

  “Caroline is doing fine,” Dr. Maddox said with a smile, amused at Bingley's concern for his sister. “Her only complaint so far has been that she is going to need her gowns adjusted, because she will not go about the house in nightclothes like so many women. Or, that's how she puts it.”

  Bingley shook his head completely knowingly. “And how is the royal commission?”

  “Not particularly taxing, I must admit. The prince is actually in excellent health, and I am enjoying having London University open to me. There have been a few advances since I was last in school. And something tells me I am about to be a busy man.”

  “A proper gentleman has little to do with infants,” Bingley said. “Or any sort of real business. Me, I am the most terrible proper gentleman in the world.”

  “I, as well.”

  To that, they raised their glasses and clinked them together.

  Bingley's other business, quickly dispensed, was advising Georgiana away from Chatton for a while, as the Wickhams had responded and would be in shortly. To this she had little comment, and with that dispatched, Bingley made the long journey back to Chatton by horseback, with the books being sent up behind him to arrive before his guests did.

  Bingley supposed that, in another world, he would be a friend to George Wickham. Both men were excessively good at being hospitable and charming, and on the surface, they got along excessively well. (If their first meeting was stricken from the record.) If Bingley could bring himself to forget all of the past injustices this man had been party to or been the villain in, he could very well have enjoyed his company.

  He was also busy looking at the Wickham children, a girl about one and a boy about three. They were named George Wickham (the third) and Isabella, and Bingley tried to keep his staring at a minimum, because he was unwilling to explain to anyone that he was looking for familial similarities. There were few to none. True, George Wickham and Fitzwilliam Darcy did not resemble each other, or the ruse (if there was a ruse at all and it was not Bingley's idle suspicions) would have been given up long ago. Darcy, by portrait, favored his mother, and Wickham his. So Bingley said nothing as he greeted them—not that he would have if the two children had been exact images of Darcy.

  There were many introductions to be made, because Mr. Bennet had met neither of these two grandchildren, and Geoffrey and Georgie had never met their Aunt Lydia. When asked, Bingley merely said Jane was resting and would join them later. The Bingley twins were brought in, and there was much comparing and speculation about height and intelligence by brightness of the eyes and all that. Mrs. Bennet was in heaven, being surrounded by her grandchildren and finally getting to see her precious Lydia without going alone to Newcastle. Mr. Bennet did seem to show some affection when holding his grandson George, even if he gave the father of that child a very cold glare every time he could.

  And then there was the business of Mary. They had decided to not hide her condition, as at this point it would have taken a bit of camouflage. The squeal from Lydia nearly broke most of the men's eardrums, and the three of them found it advantageous to retire to the next room, where Mr. Bennet sat happily with one of his three grandsons in his lap.

  “Welcome to Chatton, Mr. Wickham,” Bingley said. “It does get a bit… crazy here. Sometimes.” He was just glad Geoffrey and Georgie had returned to their normal skin tones and that he didn't have to explain that incident.

  “I can imagine. Quite vividly, actually, with all of the people in the next room. Lovely house, though. So I hear the Darcys are on the Continent?”

  “Traveling, yes.” Bingley did not elaborate. “They will be back in time for various—events. My sister is also approaching confinement.”

  “My apologies if I forget her name. Carol?”

  “Caroline. Caroline Maddox, now. Her husband is a physician. They live in Town, near my other sister and her husband.” In his arms, his own son began to whimper. “What is it? Do you want your mother? You're running her ragged… you know that?” He quickly passed his son off to Nurse.

  “How old is he?”

  “Sixteen months. And his sister is Eliza, if it all got too confusing.”

  “Of course. Named after Elizabeth. Isabella is named after my mother.”

  Well, Wickham had that part right. Probably.

  It took a long time to get all the children put down or in their right places before the adults could sit down for dinner, with Bingley at the head of his massive conglomerate household. Jane joined them just in time, having regained her color, and Bingley found himself holding her hand often as Wickham did his best to delight them with military rumors. Not that hearing about disturbances in France was going to put anyone at ease with the Darcys there, but Wickham probably missed that subtlety and no one was willing to point it out.

  Mrs. Bennet was delighted in having her daughter at her side “at a proper table” again (implying, however unintentionally, that the Wickham table was not so proper), and when his mother-in-law was happy, Bingley was inclined to feel some of it. Mr. Bennet kept quiet but was not as standoffish as Bingley and Jane had expected him to be, taking a great delight in hearing tales of his grandchildren, regardless of their parentage.

  “And Isabel did the cutest thing the other day…”

  For Lydia, it seemed, had grown into her accepted role as a mother, at least to a presentable extent. However much she whined about money and living conditions in her letters, she did none of it at the table.

  The gentlemen retired to the library. Wickham excused himself to smoke when Mr. Bennet mentioned a particular physical intolerance for the stuff, leaving Bingley and Mr. Bennet alone to share a glass of port. “How was Town?”

  “Fine.”

  “Did you see Miss Darcy? Does she have any news?”

  “Very little we do not have.”

  “Yes, yes, all of the letters seem to match up,” Mr. Bennet said. “Sort of.”

  Bingley lowered his glass.

  “What I mean to say, of course, is that I've noticed that the letters we're all getting are slightly different when lined up. As can be expected on some level, because Lizzy will only write calming letters to Mrs. Bennet and more pertinent material pertaining to Mary to me, while Mr. Darcy hardly says anything at all beyond their itinerary. Which, if you look at the map, has a lot of inconsistencies.”

  “You've—been studying this?”

  “I am perhaps bored in my old age,” Mr. Bennet said, knowing that was no excuse. “Or maybe I smell not quite a ruse, but something else going on. Judging from your reaction, you have your own suspicions.”

  Bingley frowned and leaned against the bookshelf. “I will not lie to you. I think Darcy has discovered some family business there that he did not expect to find. But it has nothing to do with Miss Bennet's situation, and I don't think there is any real 'ruse' here. In fact, I have a feeling everything will come out when they return.”

  “Perhaps,” was all Mr. Bennet had to say to that.

  STUMBLING BLOCK

  THE DARCYS MADE HASTE south, as fast as the carriage would take them, often through the night, until they were all equally exhausted. The roads had dried up as the weather changed, and they made better time. Grégoire did not insist on walking beside the carriage and was eating more, so he was managing better, though he did rise earlier to hear local masses when they stopped in towns with a proper church. Despite the roughness of the carriage ride, with enough pillows, they al
l got very good at sleeping along the ride, and Elizabeth remarked that yes, she had seen quite enough French countryside.

  As they passed beyond the reaches of real English presence, Darcy took Grégoire aside one night in yet another nameless, rundown inn. “If we are attacked, I am prepared, but I am only one man. Elizabeth's life is paramount to me, as is her honor.” He did not explain what he meant by the last bit—if Grégoire missed the reference, he wasn't going to spell it out. “I'm not asking you for anything beyond translation. Obviously, I assume you are a pacifist. The church does not spill blood, does it?”

  “No,” Grégoire said.

  “Then, at least, stay behind me, if God forbid, something should happen.”

  “God forbid.” Grégoire crossed himself.

  Darcy was more than aware of the danger of the roads. He would have had a whole honor guard for his wife, if not for the fact that, frankly, he had little faith for his and his wife's welfare in the hands of someone who fought for hire in these regions. These concerns he did not express to Elizabeth, a rarity in his case. He was responsible, as a husband and a gentleman, for protecting his wife.

  His fears were not unfounded.

  They were traveling through the night again, in an attempt to reach Marseilles by the next morning, when they could finally rest aboard the ship that would take them to Italy. The moon provided little light, and the coachman said there was nowhere to stop for miles, so the decision to continue onward was made for them. In fact, it was so late that Darcy was asleep with Elizabeth leaning on him when the faint sound of a pistol was heard. It was in the distance, maybe even far away enough for them to remain uninvolved, or so he judged as he snapped awake. Elizabeth and Grégoire were slower risers, and without explaining anything, he dragged the monk out of the carriage. Darcy was carrying his sword and pistol, neither of which he had ever used in his life beyond basic instruction. But he was good enough with the sword, if it came to that.

  “Darcy?”

  He whispered, “Elizabeth, stay in the carriage.”