“He is a monk,” Darcy said. “His name is Grégoire. He was living in France, but his monastery was dissolved. So now he is in some town called Munich, or was. We lost contact with him.”
“And you came to look for him? You were close?”
“Yes,” Darcy said, not particularly liking the idea of were.
“Does your mother approve of this?”
“My parents are dead,” he added, “Herr Trommler.”
“The monasteries have been dissolved by General Bonaparte. You have heard this?”
“Yes.” He was tired. He was losing whatever game they were playing. “I heard they were dissolved, and I didn’t hear from him, so I came to look for him. I have nothing to do with any of this nonsense with Mr. Maddox. The doctor and I were to part ways in Berlin. We were only traveling together because I don’t know German and I’ve not yet hired a translator. Neither of us has the information you want.” He continued, “I am a very rich man in England. My family would pay anything—”
“The treasure he stole was not just from the accounts. It was a treasure beyond rubies to His Grace,” Trommler informed him. “He stole his daughter.”
“I believe she was Mr. Maddox’s wife.”
“I was at the wedding, yes. I knew their every movement, their every congress, their every conversation.”
“You were a spy,” Darcy said. “Did Brian even know you spoke English?”
“Of course not,” Trommler paced, temporarily blinding him with darkness and light as he stepped in front of and then away from the lantern of the guard. “I also read his lovely letters to his dear brother Danny. They had a somewhat—awkward history, did they not?”
“They did.”
“He wrote him excessively and yet left out so many things that one might have wanted a loved one to know. That the princess could not conceive. That his own life was threatened if she was not with child after their second anniversary. That his father-in-law had no problems with putting his new son’s head on a spike to remarry his only daughter. That he was planning to make off with her and half the treasury.”
“I don’t know,” Darcy confessed. “I didn’t read his letters. All I know is what Dr. Maddox told me, which was that everything was fine. And Dr. Maddox does not lie.”
“His brother is very different then.”
“They are like night and day.” Darcy straightened up, trying to collect his wits. “I don’t want to make small talk with you. You must be stupid to not have figured out that I don’t know anything about what Brian Maddox has done since he went missing or where he might be! There is no reason to press the point. Brian’s ridden to the moon for all I know! And if he were right here, I would strike him for all the trouble he’s caused! Now please tell me what I have to say for you to patch me and let me go!”
Trommler luxuriously took his time with his answer. “His Grace, the count, lacks an understanding of subtlety. He will assume that unless you had been put in some peril, you would hold back. But you have nothing for me and nothing that will satisfy him. So we all have to play our little games while we wait for the bigger prize.”
Darcy really wasn’t very aware of what happened next. He felt like he was floating, between exhaustion, shock, and thirst. This was not supposed to have happened. This was what he had promised Elizabeth would not happen. They unlocked him and dragged him down, somewhere farther into the castle, where there was no light but from torches. He put up no opposition as they put him in a cell and put a leg iron over one ankle, as if he had any serious means of escape once the door was locked. The cell next to him was vacant.
Hours seemed to pass, and Dr. Maddox was nowhere to be found. Darcy anxiously stood and paced his cell for as far as he could with the leg iron, which was about half the actual length. When he was hungry enough, he finally tried the black bread and downed the water too quickly. It wasn’t water, of course, but some kind of watery alcohol, and it went straight to his head. And this was to be his only drink?
Dizzy, he sat back down on the straw and must have nodded off when he was stirred by the creaking of the bars in the cell beside him swinging open, and a body was tossed in. When the iron was attached, they left the crumpled form of Dr. Maddox alone, saying nothing to Darcy.
“Maddox?” Darcy whispered, and when he was sure they were gone, he said, “Doctor?”
No response, and he had fallen on his side, so all Darcy could see was the rise and fall of his chest, meaning he was at least breathing. “Maddox?” Darcy reached for his jar and used the remains of the local drink by pushing the brim through the bars. Fortunately, the doctor had fallen so that his face was in the proper position to be hit by the flow of watery liquor.
This did wake him. Dr. Maddox groaned and rolled onto his back, revealing his bloodied right hand, which he had been holding against his chest. He cursed in several different languages and curled over in pain.
“Maddox,” Darcy said through the bars. “What did they do?”
“My hand,” Dr. Maddox replied. “They smashed it. I can feel—it’s broken. If I don’t—” He could not continue his sentence, distracted by pain. “I-if I don’t splint it—”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I know, I can feel it, oh God, yes.”
Darcy felt helpless, watching the doctor suffer while he had been left alone. “Can you see it?”
“Not well enough in this poor light. I—I can see colors—a-and shapes,” Dr. Maddox said in a pain-induced stutter. “But it’s not distinct.”
“May I bandage your wound for you?”
“If you can, please.”
Dr. Maddox stuck his hand through the bars, and Darcy removed his cravat and bound Maddox’s fingers together. The bleeding stopped, and Dr. Maddox thanked him before passing out.
***
After what felt like many days—or maybe one, he had no idea of knowing—Darcy woke from his slumber to see Dr. Maddox sitting up, slowly taking bread in small bites. “Doctor?”
“Darcy,” Dr. Maddox said; his voice in his long sleep, had mainly recovered. “Thank you.”
“How is the hand?”
“I’ve no idea, aside from it hurting to the pits of hell.” Dr. Maddox took a long swig from his jug. They were refilled every day and given fresh bread, so the count had intentions of keeping them alive, at least minimally. “I assume they questioned you. I think I heard it, but… it’s all a bit unclear now.”
“They did,” Darcy added, “not very much. He was convinced I knew nothing of Brian’s whereabouts.”
“I think I convinced them that you do not speak the language and are only here of my stupidity.”
“Thank God for that,” Darcy said. “The former, I mean. Though I do hate you for this. Let’s be perfectly clear about that.”
“Do you have any idea of the time?”
“None. My watch is broken.”
“But I must have been out a few days. I can feel it on my face.”
Darcy, too, had whiskers. “Probably; I tried marking the days, but I have no window,” he said. “If I may inquire—”
“It was a ruse,” Dr. Maddox said. “My brother fled the country long before the execution was ordered. They want to draw him out, and they watched his post, so they knew my address and identity.”
“So he is alive?”
“He may well be, or not. But to their knowledge, he is.”
“Will he come for us?”
Dr. Maddox shrugged. “How would he know we are here? The count overestimates his abilities to be heard. If Brian is hiding somewhere far from here, he’s not getting the palace notices.”
“And his crime?”
“They did not tell me the story coherently. They assumed I was in league with him and therefore knew every detail. But… what I managed to glean from them was that, despite the very happy marria
ge he described, the count was upset that his daughter was married two years and was still not with child. So he gave Brian an ultimatum of three months, or his head would be on a spike.”
“And he ran.” Darcy admitted, “Any sensible man would.”
“The very next day. They might have not pursued, but he took Nadezhda with him.” Dr. Maddox closed his eyes. “Why did he have to pick this moment in his life to become the white knight?”
“So he loved her?”
“I never doubted that he did. And considering the situation… and my own knowledge, if they were barren, the fault was probably hers. Not intentionally, of course.”
“Of course.”
“So if he hadn’t taken her, she would have been subjected to marriage after marriage, with the same outcome, most likely. I don’t know without a midwife’s word on her particular condition. But apparently Brian believed in the sanctity of his marriage more than the count and took matters into his own hands.” Dr. Maddox almost laughed. It was hard to tell what the sound was. “He sounds almost noble.”
“If the story is true, he is. It doesn’t excuse his lack of contact with us, or our own stupidity for coming here.”
“Knowing Brian,” Dr. Maddox said, “he would have only written if he felt it was safe to do so. Or perhaps, the letters simply haven’t reached England yet. I should have waited it out.” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this, Darcy.”
“While I’m inclined to agree with you, I did have my own motivations for the overall trip and would not listen to reason.”
“We both should have listened to our wives,” the doctor said. “I wrote Caroline a letter.”
“When?”
“Unfortunately, after they rather stupidly smashed my writing hand, so I doubt it’s legible. I wrote what the count wanted me to write, which was that we are both fine and are helping him look for Brian or some nonsense, and would she be so kind as to send some money to aid us in the search?” He shook his head.
“So we are to be ransomed?”
“No,” he said. “Even if the money comes, the count will not let us go until Brian is found, alive or dead. But at least we have the consolation that our wives will know where we are.”
“God,” Darcy said. “I hope they don’t send Bingley. He’d stumble right into this trap.”
“He’s smarter than you think.”
“He’s brilliant, but that doesn’t mean the man has a lick of common sense.”
Dr. Maddox laughed quietly. “And if my brother does appear, do me a favor and promise to sock him for me.”
“That,” Darcy said, “I will gladly swear on, Doctor.”
Chapter 9
The Earl of Matlock
Elizabeth Darcy had no regrets about one matter, which was her decision to stay at Pemberley instead of Chatton, Town, or Kent. She had now spent a fifth of her life there, and she soundly identified it as her home, in a way that not even Longbourn could replace. It was where she lived, where her husband lived, where she raised her children, and where someday her son would raise his. Every hallway and piece of furniture and portrait distinctly said Darcy to her. Everything reminded her of her beloved husband.
Georgiana returned with them and was a welcomed sister as much as her own sister, who visited as often as she dined at Chatton, which was almost every night. But even Georgiana seemed distracted. Mrs. Reynolds was distracted. Everyone was distracted. The only one who seemed truly content beyond missing the master of all of their lives was Geoffrey, who did not care for Rosings at all with its lack of playmates. He was not a solitary creature. Well, that he certainly received from me, Elizabeth thought with a smile as she watched him play with his cousins Charles and Georgie. Eliza Bingley preferred more feminine distractions than her older sister and was picking flowers.
The letters began two weeks of Darcy’s departure by special courier. They were in Berlin safely, and they would begin their search as soon as he put down his pen. His familiar script seemed to reinvigorate Pemberley for a brief moment, as if his presence had returned. For that day, she was happy.
The time afforded her to get to know the Maddox children, who normally stayed in Town year-round and were now almost five. Caroline was invited to Chatton by her brother, and after some hesitation she shut up the Maddox house and came to Derbyshire. Though their history never made it easy, Elizabeth and Caroline were at least united in their underlying fear of disaster. As for the children, Emily was a delight, more like her uncle than either of her parents in her enthusiasm for everything. Frederick was much like Geoffrey had been at his age—exceedingly mischievous and defiant, but even more so. His brown hair was appropriately long and wild for his age. When comparing the children, one could not but speculate on the possibilities and limitations of doing so.
“Has Mrs. Maddox ever said who his parents were?” Elizabeth asked her sister when she thought it was appropriate, as they were sitting on the terrace, enjoying the warm days of summer.
“His mother was a patient of Dr. Maddox,” Jane said. “She died of childbed fever. The father I know nothing about, but they do seem to know who he was—or is.”
The second letter was another relief, though Darcy did express frustration at not having anything new to report. Dr. Maddox also sent his own letter to his wife, which she said had relatively the same contents. The men would write again next week.
“Next week” came and went. Elizabeth was now sick with worry, distracted and dizzy. Her mood, she admitted to herself, was not the best, and she had to try at times not to be cross with her children or burst into tears spontaneously. Odd, that Caroline seemed calmer. Well, the former Miss Bingley had always been adept at hiding her feelings. She couldn’t blame her for that.
With no news after two weeks, she sent another letter to Berlin, this time by a courier, to make absolutely sure it would get there. Her hands were shaking when she wrote it, sealed it, and sent it off without saying anything to anyone.
Dearest Husband,
When you receive this message, if you have not located Grégoire, I beg you to return home immediately. I am with child.
Your Loving Wife,
Elizabeth Darcy
The very next day, she received a letter by courier. It was not the one she wanted.
***
When Darcy woke, Dr. Maddox was already awake. It really didn’t seem to matter when they slept and when they didn’t, without any change in the daily schedule of food in, waste out, and nothing else. They didn’t even know if that was occurring in the day or evening.
Dr. Maddox was holding his hand up to inspect it. Satisfied, he set it down in its resting place on his lap. “How do I look?”
“From here? Terrible. But if we were to break free, I think we would fit in better with the natives now as hairy as we are.” Some time must have passed, because they both had significant beards.
“I hate you,” Dr. Maddox said. “I—I don’t know why I feel compelled to say that.”
“Because we’re sitting in prison.”
“Perhaps.”
“And we’re going mad.”
“Perhaps.”
“Well… I hate you, too. God, that does feel good, even if I actually don’t. Though when we get out of here and find your brother, I may very well do something drastic.”
“Not if I get to him first,” Dr. Maddox replied.
“He could probably take you.”
“Why does everyone assume that? I’m tall, you know.”
“But he’s wily. It is the safe bet.”
Dr. Maddox laughed, and Darcy found himself weakly joining him, because it felt immeasurably good.
“So… know any good stories?”
“I can’t do the Bard justice with just my memory.”
“Neither can I, though if we’re here long enough, we m
ay just have to do him the injustice of making the bits up that we don’t remember.”
“There’s always some sordid story from one of our pasts.”
“Oh, but I have no doubt that Mrs. Maddox has told you all of those,” Darcy said. “Or the ones she knows about.”
“Why does everyone think my wife a horrible gossip?”
“Because your wife is a horrible gossip.”
To his surprise, Dr. Maddox laughed again. “My God, we’re both insane already and it has probably only been a week.”
“Utterly hopeless.”
“She did tell me some stories, by the way.”
“She did?”
“Apparently, Charles is a talkative drunk, and has the convenient problem of not remembering it later. Or so she says that he says. If you know what I mean.”
“Ah. So I have no secrets from Caroline Maddox.”
“None; even the thing from University.”
“What thing from University?”
Dr. Maddox looked at him slyly. Or, more accurately, he looked slyly in Darcy’s general direction, “The thing that you threaten Bingley’s life over when he threatens to bring it up.”
“What?” Darcy paused. “Oh. Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “University is a strange time in a man’s life, experiments with all kinds of things.”
“I won’t deny it. I did some things that if Brian had any sense in him, he would have pulled me out.”
“Really?” Darcy grasped one of the bars between them.
“No one has ever thought to inquire how I obtained that famous, obscure recipe for my opium concoction. The story is the most logical one. I was looking for a good way to consume a vast quantity of opium without having to smoke it. I never cared for smoking. Bad for the lungs, I think, like breathing in a fire. But I could never get the flavor right without ruining it. But I did try very hard and learned a great deal of wonderful things about… say, my hand.”
“Your hand?”
“According to my dorm mates, I spent nearly the course of a day staring at it and taking notes. They thought I was making some great discovery, but later it just turned out to be doodles, and something about a rainbow that I’ve never figured out.”
Mr. Darcy's Great Escape Page 9