Mr. Darcy's Great Escape

by Marsha Altman

  “I am referring to its contents,” Dr. Maddox said. There was still some left swirling at the bottom, and he put his pinky in and touched it to his tongue. “What did I say about this?”

  “I am not to be scolded like a schoolchild, Doctor!”

  “My apologies,” Dr. Maddox said, without the sound of real apology in his voice, “but I am called in to ensure your good health and am therefore, in all good conscience, required to mention when you are ruining it. You know laudanum is addictive. I’ve told you so.”

  “Till my ears have come to almost fall off, yes,” the Prince Regent said. “So I am perhaps addicted. That means it is part of my daily requirement, or I will die—correct?”

  “You will not die if you stop, Your Highness,” he said. “You will feel miserable for a few days, and then it will pass. But the longer this continues, the worse the withdrawal will be. Do you want to spend weeks shaking so hard it exhausts you? Do you want to feel freezing no matter how many blankets you pile over your head?”

  “Those are just physicians’ horror stories.”

  “So you are content to find out.” Dr. Maddox put the goblet on the tray the servant was holding. “You are the guardian of your own fate, Your Highness. I can do no more than to offer suggestions.”

  “You offer them very insistently.”

  Dr. Maddox was again unfazed. It was sad, really, to watch a man transform into a drunken, doped bovine, especially when the man was his patient and his responsibility. “I do, and will continue to do so, because I am apparently the only one loyal enough to you to give you an honest opinion about how you should care for yourself. To my knowledge, you’ve not raised an issue with it yet.” He knew he was treading on thin ice but had realized long ago that the part of the Regent’s mind that wasn’t addled by opium respected him—or at least liked him—for it. “Do you wish to lodge a complaint about my behavior?”

  The Regent sighed. “No, no. Then I’ll have to have you dismissed, and some idiot will come in and kill me with their medicine, like they’re killing my father. I’m sure of it.” For once, he seemed serious. “He was a great man.”

  “He was. Is,” Dr. Maddox corrected himself quickly. “God save the king.”

  “Only God can save the king now.” He looked up at the doctor. “Do you think I am destined for the same fate?”

  He gave his honest answer. “Seeing as it has struck no one else in your lineage, I do not think it likely if his illness operates like any other disease, Your Highness.”

  “The only reason I put up with your lack of proper protocol when in service of a royal is because you tell me the truth,” the Regent said, “even if I don’t listen to it.” He picked up yet another glass from the table beside the chaise and raised it. “Cheers, Doctor.”

  Lacking a glass, Dr. Maddox bowed instead. “Cheers, Your Highness.”

  ***

  The doctor arrived home in the mid-afternoon, when the hot sun was still high in the sky, and the house was relatively quiet, meaning the children were down for their afternoon nap or they were in the fenced garden that he could not help but think of as more of an animal cage. The only person who greeted him was the doorman, who handed him a large, sealed envelope. “From a special courier, sir. Just arrived.”

  He recognized the paper type and the seal instantaneously and disappeared into his study, where he could sit, remove his ridiculous wig, and properly attend to the letter.

  It was in some foreign language, the character set foreign to him, but from the seal, which had been identical to the one from his brother’s letters, the doctor knew it to be Romanian. It seemed very official in its wording, or at least how it was presented on the page, and included with it was a slip of a German translation. That at least he could read.

  It was nearly half an hour before anyone disturbed him. No one generally came into the master’s study except Frederick or his wife, and it was the latter. “Daniel?” Whatever business she had, it must have been immediately put aside when she saw him bent over his desk, trying to read the fine print again. “What is it?”

  “I admit my German is rusty—that or their German is rusty—but it seems I have been invited to Transylvania to visit my brother, by his father-in-law, Count Vladimir of Sibiu.”

  “Why would Brian not write it in English?”

  “It is in the language of an official decree—as if I am being summoned.” He removed his glasses. “As if I am not summoned by royalty all the time. But I would like to see Brian and his lovely wife, Princess Nade—Nadez—Nadezdah—Her Highness. I would love to meet Her Highness.” He squinted. “I’m sure she is a very lovely wife, but could they have not mentioned my lovely wife in their invitation?”

  “I was thinking the very same thing. But Transylvania—I don’t know where that is proper. Hungary, I believe? Or Austria? Near the Black Sea? It is such a small place.”

  “England is quite a small place, without Ireland and Scotland.” He looked up at her with reassuring eyes. “We will of course have to return the favor and invite the count. He will not come, but Brian and Her Highness will.”

  “And I will not have to get the hem of my dress muddy.”

  “Do you have a greater fondness for your brother-in-law or the hem of your dress?”

  She cupped his cheek. “You will be a very beloved husband if you do not make me answer that.”

  Chapter 7

  Summer at Chatton

  As the Bingleys celebrated the anniversary of the birth of their second son, they were hosts not only to their relatives but also to the anxieties everyone seemed to bring with them, however unintentionally. The news from the Continent was bad—Napoleon was moving the largest army in history across Europe to conquer Russia. Grégoire had written on his way back to Austria—he was desperately needed in his monastery, but he would try to stay in communication. Dr. Maddox had no intention of bringing up his own travel plans and worry the family, but he was hardly willing (or able) to stop Caroline from alerting every adult. He sighed and braced himself for the inevitable.

  For the moment, there was peace. Elizabeth and Jane sat outside, watching the various children who were old enough to chase each other around. “Goodness,” Jane said. “Someone in this family must stop, or we’ll all be insane.”

  “I’m beginning to respect Mama more every day for raising her five unruly daughters,” Elizabeth replied with a smile.

  “Lizzy! You were not unruly!”

  “I have a very painful recollection involving a broken tree branch and a sprained ankle that tells me otherwise.”

  “Oh, I hardly remember that.”

  “I do,” Elizabeth said. “I also remember that Papa was forced to replace our tiny tea set.”

  “Did I toss a cup first or did Kitty?”

  “It is hard to incriminate a most beloved sister,” was Elizabeth’s reply. “But perhaps it was not Kitty.” Jane looked at her, and they both burst out laughing.

  “Oh, Lizzy,” Jane said. “Must you return to Kent so quickly? I must sound very jealous when I say so.”

  “We are not obligated, especially with the Fitzwilliams there,” Elizabeth said, “but we should. Darcy will not forgive himself over the whole event.”

  “Has he spoken to Lady Catherine about it?”

  “No one is willing to bring up the precise circumstances of her fainting spell unless she is willing, and she has made no mention of them.” Elizabeth looked out and watched Geoffrey and Georgie toss a ball over young Charles as he desperately tried to intercept it. “She is not her old self yet, for which we all feel grateful, and then we all feel a great guilt for feeling so. It is a vicious cycle. Who knew, by slowly dying, she could turn the tables on all of us?”

  Jane put her hand over her sister’s in silent understanding.

  ***

  “I am out of practice.”


  “You are not.”

  Bingley and Darcy were a good distance away from the grounds for their shooting. They had discovered shortly after Bingley purchased Chatton that there was a nice area for spotting birds between their two houses, and would often meet there during the hunting season. Bingley was mistaken; he was not at all less of a huntsman than he had been, but Darcy was himself not doing so well, distracted as he was. He would not admit to the weakness, and Bingley, if he noticed it, would say nothing. It was a long-established tradition; that was why they were good friends.

  This time they had implored Dr. Maddox to come, saying that he looked like he desperately needed the fresh air (which he did), but he refused, and they were not surprised. The physician had never been inclined to a sport that involved killing things, or even watching it. He did promise to take a walk. His general countenance was indeed improved by the coming trip to see his brother, whom he sorely missed. Even Napoleon’s invasion of Russia could not dissuade him from traveling to the Continent—yet.

  “I see something moving, in the woods.”

  “If it is a stray child, do try not to hit it.”

  Bingley squinted, “Too large.”

  “Dr. Maddox? Elizabeth?”

  “Too small. Look, there.”

  Darcy turned his eyes to the edge of the woods, where there was indeed something moving about, but was not recognizably a deer. “A wolf?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. I’ve seen a lot of them about recently, but they’ve never ventured to the herds that anyone knows of. I thought you got rid of the lot years ago.”

  “We did. Or we thought we did. I remember the expedition.” During his father’s time as master of Pemberley, a local baronet had purchased a pack of what he thought were dogs, while traveling in Newfoundland, only to discover they were wolves. He did not have it in him to kill the pups as he ought have, and released them to Derbyshire’s forests, assuming they would not survive the winter. They did, and before long the deer population was mysteriously suffering. Darcy was still a young man, barely more than a boy, and thrilled at the prospect to be allowed to go on one of the expeditions to clear out the infestation. “Apparently we did not get them all, and they have recovered some of their numbers. Something to watch over, especially when people come in for the hunt,” Darcy said. “I’ll alert my huntsman.”

  “Are you intending to stay long in Pemberley or return immediately to Kent?”

  “That is the question,” Darcy said quietly, sitting down on a fallen log.

  Bingley put his gun down and took a good look at his brother-in-law. “I am sorry for Lady Catherine,” he said. “It is all so ill-timed.”

  “Yes.”

  “The earl is ill, your aunt is… your aunt, to be polite about it, and Grégoire is in—what is the name of that town?”

  “Munich,” Darcy said. “He wrote when he returned to the Continent that he was going to Munich, to protect some relics there with his fellow monks.”

  “Grégoire is in Munich–”

  Darcy swallowed and said, “Grégoire is not in Munich.” He said it very stoically, but as they always did, his eyes betrayed him.

  At last, they had come to the point. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Darcy said. “All I have is a news report that said the monasteries in that area were all dissolved and the monks were to report to Munich, and from there were sent on their own way.”

  “You can’t trust our papers; you know that.”

  “I do. So I wrote to Berlin for a confirmation and received it. St. Paul’s is no more.”

  Bingley absorbed this information quickly. “And the monks?”

  “Some of them have gone to other monasteries, farther east. Some have gone to Spain. Many have walked out of the convent. But there is no accounting of them.” Darcy was still stone-faced, but unconsciously played with his hands. “Before he left, Grégoire agreed to write to Berlin and have the message safely forwarded from there if something was amiss. If something went wrong, he was to return to Berlin and write me from there.” He paused. “By all calculations, he should have already been there by now.”

  “Walking?”

  “He promised he would not walk. The roads are not safe.”

  Bingley frowned. At last he brought himself to say, “He will turn up.”

  Darcy said nothing.

  ***

  In the afternoon, they celebrated Edmund, who sat on his mother’s lap and watched the proceedings with no comprehension whatsoever. The children did manage to be herded in without too much trouble. Only Georgie complained about the ribbons in her hair itching, and Frederick seemed sullen in his jealousy, but everyone else was managed well enough before being dismissed so the birthday boy could have a nap and the adults could prepare for dinner. Dinner itself was not a terribly long affair, and the only missing relatives mentioned were the Bennets. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were getting a bit old to travel, and did not come up to Derbyshire for every birthday and holiday, or they would be forever in transit, and the Townsends were newlyweds.

  Shortly afterwards the men and women separated, as various children had to be put to bed. The port was served in the library; only Darcy didn’t partake. It did seem to him a bit odd to be in Bingley’s presence after a family meal without having to speak over Mr. Hurst’s drunken snoring, but the Hursts were in their summer house in the south.

  “I am, if you would, in need of some advice,” Bingley said rather calmly. Finally, no grave matter to be discussed. “Financial advice.”

  “Marry well and get a royal commission,” Dr. Maddox said, mainly because he liked port. “I’m sorry, but that is all I can offer.”

  “Buy land,” Darcy said.

  “That is not the answer to every investment question!”

  “It’s not as if there’s going to be more of it,” Dr. Maddox pointed out.

  “Do not get on his side!” Bingley said. “No, this is not related to land.”

  “Then out with it,” Darcy said. “We could use the distraction.”

  “Thank you.” Bingley took another swig of his drink. “Part of my inheritance, completely separate from my personal worth, was a few remaining shares in my father’s company in the textile trade. He sold most of it off shortly before his death, when it was worth considerably more than it is now, but he maintained a few shares—I suppose, for sentimental value. Now they are practically worthless with the embargo. In fact, I calculated that I could regain a controlling interest in the company for less than four hundred pounds.”

  Darcy was skeptical. “And your purpose in doing so would be?”

  “Obviously, if the company became profitable again after the war, the shares would then be worth a great deal of money,” Dr. Maddox said, and got two looks. “What? I did take economics at Cambridge.”

  “The problem,” Darcy said, “is that if the company goes completely bankrupt before the end of the embargo—and we have no idea when that will be—then its assets will be liquidated, and you will be out four hundred pounds. More to the point, if you become the owner of the company, you will have significant responsibilities to keep it afloat, or you will be firing workers and selling warehouses—and workers do not care for losing jobs. It is the same as having tenants, only far more dangerous. You will have to employ a very competent man to run the company, and the expenses will pile up.”

  “True,” Bingley said, “but nothing beyond my ability to handle.”

  “If you are so sure,” Darcy said.

  Breaking the silence of Bingley’s enthusiasm and Darcy’s disapproval, Dr. Maddox said quietly, “Perhaps you should ask Mrs. Bingley.”

  Both men stared at him.

  “I don’t presume that she would look over the account ledgers,” he said, “but certainly, this venture would send you to Town more often than she is accustomed to. So it
would be a concern for her.”

  “This is true,” Darcy said, knowing Jane would be a cool head.

  Fortunately Bingley didn’t have to answer, because a servant entered and approached him, whispering in his ear. “Excuse me for a moment. My children are being put to bed.”

  Dr. Maddox raised a glass to him as he bowed to his guests and left. He noted Darcy’s scowl. “Come now. We can’t all be idle gentlemen. I would go mad if I had nothing to do all day.”

  “I would hardly qualify owning land and having tenants as having ‘nothing to do,’” Darcy said. “But that is neither here nor there, I suppose.”

  “Yes.”

  Darcy sighed, paced for a bit, and then seemed to change his composure. “Doctor,” he said, taking a seat by the fireplace, looking very uncomfortable. “I understand your brother is doing well, though the invitation seems ill-timed, with all the soldiers moving across the Rhineland.”

  “It does,” Dr. Maddox said, sad but still a bit put off. He’d never spoken much alone with Darcy. They liked each other well enough, but they lived apart, and most of their conversations were related to someone’s medical condition. And there was the matter that their wives were not the best of friends.

  Darcy hesitated before speaking. “I assume you are going anyway.”

  “I am to be provided with an escort from Berlin, to make sure I arrive safely.”

  Darcy said nothing. The doctor didn’t push him, nursing his port until Darcy finally spoke, “My brother is… out of contact.”

  “You’ve not heard from him? The post is very bad.”

  “I’ve not heard from him, but I’ve heard that his monastery is dissolved and that the town surrounding it had been overrun with French troops.”

  Dr. Maddox tried to hide his alarm. “When was this?”

  “A few weeks ago. I confirmed it as not being total nonsense with a man I know in Normandy, as we’re still getting letters from there, but I haven’t heard from Grégoire.”

  “Would he have gone back to his old monastery?”