Mr. Darcy's Great Escape

by Marsha Altman

  “So you do know! And you kept it from me!”

  “Richard, she told me but late last night, and I—”

  “You agreed!” Fitzwilliam made another move in Darcy’s direction, but was held back this time by his wife.

  “Richard!”

  “I did not!” Darcy pleaded, his one eye blinking rapidly. “I would have quit this place altogether, but I stayed to warn you!”

  “Bloody good job you did!”

  “My apologies,” Grégoire said, stepping between them in a half-bow. “But what are we referring to?”

  “Yes, please!” Anne pleaded at Fitzwilliam’s side, but he would not be calmed. At least he was willing to actively stop thrashing his cousin.

  “He…” he stumbled in his speech. “Darcy, you are telling me you did not agree to this scheme against us?”

  “Of course not! Did our aunt tell you that?” Darcy said. “You know she’s delusional! I agreed to no such thing. I told only Elizabeth and we planned to tell you as soon as we saw you, which, I suppose, is now. But I am too late, and I apologize.”

  Fitzwilliam huffed, but seemed to calm down enough to look less aggressive, but no less agitated by what he had been told. Darcy and Elizabeth couldn’t blame him, all things considered. But it was Anne who insistently tugged at her husband’s side. “What is it?”

  “Sadly, I think this is neither the time nor the—ow—place,” Darcy said as Elizabeth tried to attend to his wound again. “It is just one of your mother’s tirades, sadly.”

  “Is that what they are to you, nephew?”

  All turned, collectively horrified, at the entrance of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She strutted about as if nothing was amiss, not even Darcy’s red and swollen face. “Well? Why do you all stand about in such a silly manner? Darcy, I must speak with you at once!”

  “I’ve no doubt,” Darcy said. “But as I have no desire to speak with you, we are in a conundrum. In fact, I cannot think of a person in this room who, knowing your designs, would wish to have any connection with you!”

  But Lady Catherine was not unprepared in her always-ready indignation, tapping her cane on the ground. “Do not suppose to speak that way to me, nephew! Who else have you told? I suppose you’ve told Miss Bennet and that Papist—”

  “Lady Catherine,” Elizabeth said, trying to be the calming voice, if no one else would. She skipped over the name-calling entirely. “Please, my husband has told me nothing I did not deserve to know. The person who deserves to know is your own daughter.”

  “What is everyone talking about?” Anne screamed, and it was the first time either of the Darcys who knew her could ever recall her raising her voice, much less at her mother. “Mama?”

  “Quiet! You are the cause of all of this! If only you could bear children—”

  Fitzwilliam stood protectively in front of his terrified wife. “Aunt Catherine, you will end this nonsense—”

  “You must have children, Richard! Or our family is doomed! My sister’s side is polluted by wanton behavior on the part of her husband and son. You must take a mistress—”

  At which point, Anne fainted. Elizabeth, not feeling so steady herself, ran to her side and caught her, helping her to the stairs. “It is nothing; she is just in a mood—”

  “I am not in a mood!” Lady Catherine shouted, her voice piercing—but unsteady. “I am speaking perfectly sensibly for our family—”

  “Aunt, cease this!” Fitzwilliam shouted back. “I think everyone in this room but you is in agreement that you are alone in your conception of what makes a proper family! Your advice has never been sensible, and we have only endured it because we felt an obligation to do so! But if you are to torture your daughter—my wife—with such ideas, then I will cut off our relations, and you will fend for yourself if and when my brother dies!”

  “You wouldn’t—” Lady Catherine said, grasping her chest.

  “I would! You know Darcy will control Rosings, and he will have no cause to tolerate your constant insults towards Mrs. Darcy any longer!”

  “No,” Darcy said, but in a softer voice, a little put off by Fitzwilliam’s frothing rage.

  Lady Catherine stepped back unevenly. “You—both of you—my nephews—I treated you like my own sons all these years—and now you will cut me off like so, while you embrace those beneath you so readily—I am the wife of a knight of the realm—I am the mistress of Rosings, and I can cast you out with just a—” But the clutch on her dress began to tighten, and without warning, she dropped to the floor with a resounding thud.

  Chapter 5

  The Caretaker

  Besides Anne’s scream, there was silence in the room as they stood in shock.

  This lasted for only a few moments before Grégoire pushed past Darcy and Fitzwilliam and raced to Lady Catherine’s side, kneeling beside her and propping her up on his knee. “Lady Catherine?” He felt her chest and looked up at the others. “What are you all standing there for? Fetch some smelling salts!” He had no monastic patience for his gaping brother. “Now! Colonel Fitzwilliam! Get the servants to get cold compresses and a blanket!” While they stared for another second, he sighed and picked up the tiny, quivering form of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in his arms and carried her past them, into the sitting room. The servants were accustomed to making themselves absent during a family squabble, so he was lucky to find one in there. “You! Pillows for her ladyship! Make haste!”

  Everyone numbly went about their tasks as Elizabeth escorted the shocked and confused Anne to her mother’s side. Grégoire was kneeling next to Lady Catherine, holding her withered hand with one of his hands and the smelling salts under her nose with the other. “Lady Catherine,” he pleaded. “Please listen to me. Take very careful breaths. I will count with you—”

  Fitzwilliam returned with a horde of servants, and Grégoire did not take his eyes off his charge as he gave his next orders. “Get a doctor at once or, at the very least, an apothecary.”

  Grégoire took a cup of tea, held it to Lady Catherine’s mouth, and said, “Please, your ladyship, you must drink.” Eventually she was persuaded to open her mouth and swallow the contents of the cup. “There.”

  “Mama,” Anne said, as the servants brought up a chair for her to sit beside the couch where her mother laid, her color gone. Elizabeth stood over, one hand gently on Anne’s shoulder, and could not help but note that Charlotte had been correct—Lady Catherine was older in body and perhaps in mind. Her skin was almost colorless as one bony hand clutched Grégoire’s.

  “What’s happened?” Elizabeth ventured to ask.

  “I’ve fainted,” Lady Catherine said, her voice weak but still defiant. “What else do you think, you witless girl?”

  ***

  The doctor arrived as dinner hour was approaching, but no one felt like eating. Everyone was made to wait outside the room, and a dreary silence descended over them. Finally he emerged, looking quite pleased with himself, to give his opinion. “Her ladyship’s heart should return to normal with bed rest and some tonic water. They sell bottled water from the pumps at Bath in a shop in the town proper—I recommend it, at least three times a day, and no other liquids. And she must rest, of course, for as long as it takes for her to regain her strength.”

  “Thank God,” Anne whispered, leaning into her husband.

  “If her condition changes, please do call me at once,” and with that, he excused himself. Grégoire turned to his brother with a look that Darcy understood perfectly.

  “Come, Anne,” Elizabeth said softly. “I’m sure your mother would appreciate your company. And if she does not tolerate mine, then we will know she has recovered.”

  With that, they disappeared into the room. Fitzwilliam collapsed on the stairs, speechless. Darcy turned to his brother. “What do you think?”

  “I’m not a doctor, Darcy. I am barely an apprentice apoth
ecary. But I think the worst is over.”

  “Thank God in heaven,” Fitzwilliam said. “We almost killed her.”

  Darcy did not contradict him.

  “I will keep a vigil tonight for her ladyship,” Grégoire announced. “Perhaps Mr. Collins will wish to join me.”

  “You’ve no obligation—”

  “I have every obligation,” Grégoire said, “to any soul on this earth.” With that, he bowed to them and went back into the sitting room.

  ***

  The next morning, Mrs. Charlotte Collins had just finished feeding her youngest daughter and her husband was getting ready with his gardening tools when there was a knock at the door. She turned to her husband, who scurried to the door. “Hel—Mr. Darcy!” He bowed even lower than he usually did, and Charlotte smiled to herself as Mr. Darcy entered and bowed. “Mr. Collins. Mrs. Collins.” As usual, he was quite to the point. “Lady Catherine collapsed yesterday and is quite ill. Mr. Collins, my brother has been sitting in vigil for almost a day now. I would be grateful if you would take it up in his place so that he can rest.” He did not stand on ceremony. “Mrs. Collins, my wife, I believe, could also use some support. Do you have enough staff here to care for your children, or should we send some servants?”

  “We have a very competent nurse,” Charlotte said, a little shaken, “thanks to Lady Catherine.”

  Never had they made such quick time to Rosings. Everyone there seemed more than a bit shaken as long as Lady Catherine was still resting and not insisting that she was fine. Darcy dragged Mr. Collins up to Lady Catherine’s bedchamber almost physically, where Grégoire was kneeling before the bed. He and Anne on the other side rose at their entrance. “Mr. Collins will take your place. Please.” He pulled his brother out of the room. Grégoire could barely stand on his feet. “Now, you are going to break your fast and then go immediately to sleep.”

  “She—”

  “She has a nervous condition and will be fine. Though perhaps not ‘fine’ in a sense we would all prefer, but physically, yes.”

  ***

  It did not take long after the doctor left for the Fitzwilliams to come to a decision. “We will be staying at Rosings,” the colonel said. “The servants say there have been many fainting spells. We wish to monitor her.”

  The Darcys also decided to lengthen their visit, at least until Lady Catherine seemed to be stabilized. She spoke little unless spoken to but seemed very much to enjoy the presence of her daughter and Mrs. Collins.

  “While she may not have been willing to admit it,” Elizabeth said to her husband, “I think your aunt has grown fond of Charlotte over the years.”

  Darcy said nothing, staring out the window, watching his children play on the grass.

  ***

  The calendar was not their ally. Grégoire looked anxiously at the calendar, and Darcy put a hand on his shoulder. “I know. You must go.”

  “I don’t wish to leave her.”

  “You’ve no obligation.”

  Grégoire played with his rosary in his hands nervously; clearly he felt differently. Together they left the darkness of Rosings interiors for the sunlight of Kent in early summer. “I used to play out here as a child,” Darcy said. Rosings Park had a vast expanse of land, including the ruins of what had been a church of some kind with Greek-like columns. “We called this the temple. Sometimes we called it a castle. Richard and I much preferred being out of doors as my mother and father visited Aunt Catherine.” He looked up. “We used to climb that—Geoffrey!”

  For his son was sitting up in a tree, resting on one of the stronger limbs. “What?”

  “What if your mother saw you? Do you know how dangerous that is? Come down from there right now!” Darcy demanded, and then turned to give Grégoire a cold stare as his brother laughed. “You’d understand if you had children. Geoffrey! Now!”

  “You were just saying—”

  “I know what I was just saying, but you are coming down this instant!”

  Geoffrey huffed but did begin his climb down, which included one swing from the branches and landing in his father’s arms. “I was just having fun.”

  “Why don’t you play with Amelia?” Darcy suggested. Amelia Collins was a year older than Geoffrey.

  “Amelia doesn’t want to play with me,” Geoffrey said as his father put him down. “She says it’s because I’m a boy.”

  “In that, she is quite correct. You are, in fact, a boy,” Grégoire said with a smile.

  Geoffrey stuck his tongue out at his uncle, mainly because he so easily got away with it. “Georgie plays with me, and she doesn’t care. She doesn’t sit around with ribbons and dolls and nonsense.”

  “Georgie has known you since the day you were born,” Darcy said diplomatically. “You are the same age and know each other well, unlike Miss Collins. That, and she seems to enjoy frustrating Bingley’s laundress by soiling every outfit she has with mud.”

  “No one will play with me here,” Geoffrey said, tugging on his father’s legs. “Can I go to Chatton?”

  “No, we are staying here for a bit longer, I’m afraid.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Darcy said and found himself speechless.

  “Because? Just because?” His son looked up at him.

  Darcy shrugged. “With Lady Catherine, a ‘because’ is all that is required.”

  ***

  As soon as Lady Catherine was recovered enough to start barking orders again, Grégoire had to say his good-byes.

  Darcy pressed a coin into his hand. “Write us when you arrive in Berlin, please. The roads are not safe. And open a box there to write to us from Austria.”

  “I promise.”

  “And if there is open war—you will return.”

  “I am a poor monk and a Frenchman. I cannot see why anyone would have issue with me.”

  Because Grégoire only sees the good in everyone, Darcy lamented. One of these days it would have regrettable consequences.

  Chapter 6

  The Missive from Austria

  “Papa! Papa!”

  Emily Maddox, nearing five years of age, ran to her father and reached him before his servants did, grasping tightly his leg. She wasn’t yet big enough to topple him, but reached just below his waist in height, and she held up her arms in a silent indication of wanting attention.

  “Let me at least get my coat off,” he said as he shrugged off his greatcoat, handing it to the servant before picking his daughter up. “There. I will assume from your welcome that you may have missed me.” He kissed her cheek. His day with the Prince Regent had been long and grueling, going well into the night, and he was just now, in the morning, returning to his home.

  “No fair!” his son announced, crashing down the stairs and rushing up to him. “I want to be picked up!”

  “Well, I can hardly take you both at once, so you will have to wait your turn,” he said, patting Frederick on the head.

  “I’ll take her,” Caroline said, emerging from the sitting room. They exchanged kisses and a child. “She’s been waiting by the window all morning. In fact, Nurse has just informed me that it is time for their naps.”

  “NO!” the children cried in unison.

  “I’m not tired! Papa, please!”

  “I don’t need a nap!”

  Dr. Maddox gave an amused sigh. “What did your parents do when you were their age, darling?”

  “They threatened to make me watch over my brother,” Caroline said. “Nurse!”

  The nurse quickly appeared and escorted two reluctant children to their nursery, leaving the parents alone. “How was the ball?”

  “Fine.”

  “You can at least tell me something interesting about your patient,” she said. “But I suppose you will not.”

  “Would you prefer gossip or me to keep my
job?” he said, grinning at his wife. “Is the post here?”

  “Yes; nothing significant.” When the doctor frowned anxiously, Caroline gave him a sympathetic look. “You know how the post is. Especially since Napoleon is near the Rhine.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better about it,” he said. “If there are no callers, I am going to sleep.” He put his hand on the railing. “Oh, and Miss Darcy has been called to Rosings to attend to her aunt until further notice, and so will not be joining us for dinners.”

  “You didn’t tell them, did you?”

  He gave her a sly smile. “Of course not.”

  ***

  Dr. Maddox did have a caller the next day, when a messenger arrived whom he was roused for. He hurriedly put on his formal dress and wig, kissed his wife, and was off.

  He was not a man to panic. Even the sight of a passed-out would-be king did not start his adrenaline pumping. The servants were dashing all about as he entered, and the squire hovering over his fallen master as Dr. Maddox calmly set his bag down, opened it, and pulled out a small bottle. “What did he have for lunch?”

  “Nothing unusual,” the squire said, apparently annoyed at Dr. Maddox’s nonchalance at seeing his patient on the floor, having rolled off his chaise at some point.

  “What did he drink?”

  “He had some wine with his bread and some whiskey before, but as I said—”

  “Bring me his cup, if you would, sir,” he said, kneeling next to the Regent and holding the salts up to his nose. The heavy-breathing prince took one breath before stirring in an angry snort. He was immediately helped up by his attendants into the chair at Dr. Maddox’s motion.

  “What in bloody hell—” His Royal Highness, Prince George Augustus Frederick, heaved a sigh and rubbed his forehead, bruised from the fall. “Oh, thank God, they’ve called you.”

  “Your Highness,” Dr. Maddox bowed, but he was more concerned with the goblet he’d just been handed. He took one sniff and held it up indignantly. “What is this?”

  “You need a new prescription for your spectacles if you don’t know what that is, Dr. Maddox.”