Mr. Darcy's Great Escape

by Marsha Altman

  Dr. Daniel Maddox

  Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy

  “The letter’s not like his writing at all,” Caroline said. “He rarely writes single lines when a paragraph would be sufficient, and he never has called Darcy ‘Fitzwilliam’ before. At least not in my presence.”

  “Or mine,” Elizabeth said.

  “He would apologize for sending us such an oddly written letter. He would have no hesitation in that.” She stopped only at the entrance of the former Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Lord Matlock.”

  “Mrs. Darcy. Mrs. Maddox! It has been quite some time,” he said as he bowed and they responded with curtseys. While he had come in with his usual broad smile, he immediately sensed the gravity of the situation. “Is there some news?”

  “Only a very odd letter,” Caroline said.

  “More of a puzzle than a letter,” Elizabeth said and, with a nod from Caroline, passed it across to Fitzwilliam, who took a seat in the armchair beside them.

  “Goodness! I had no idea I was in Transylvania!”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “You know very well whom he’s speaking of.”

  “Yes. Hmm.” He rubbed his chin. “Are either of you familiar with code? I suppose you are not. It is largely a military thing.”

  “As much as I enjoy puzzles,” Elizabeth said, “I am not enjoying this one.”

  “Well, I think I have solved it.” He turned to the servant. “Pen and ink, please.”

  Fortunately the servant returned quickly, and Fitzwilliam was quick to fill the pen and put the letter on the sitting room table, where, before their eyes he circled the first letter of the beginning of each paragraph. When assembled, the collection of letters’ meaning was clear.

  P.R.I.S.O.N.

  When the ladies recovered, the mood of the room had changed. Fitzwilliam stood up, pacing very grimly. “I think we’d best call Mr. Bingley. Is he not the executor of Pemberley and Darcy’s fortune?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth managed to whisper. She summoned the servant and asked for more paper. “Why—why is Darcy there? He’d only intended to go as far as Berlin, not to Austria!”

  “Perhaps that was as far as he got,” Fitzwilliam said. “If Dr. Maddox was arrested there and Darcy was with him, they could have easily taken him as well.”

  “Arrested? On what charges?” Caroline said as Elizabeth covered her mouth.

  Where other men would sputter and hesitate, the former colonel was calm, collected, and assuring while still concerned. “None, but it makes no sense for Brian Maddox to be continually away on a hunting trip. Perhaps something has happened to him, or he has fled, and they are being held as hostages to bring him back. If it was simply a money issue, there would be a ransom note.” He walked back and forth in the sitting room as he spoke. “What we can be sure of is that Dr. Maddox and Darcy are alive, or were when this letter was written. The doctor wrote this letter to provide some clues that something was amiss. What we cannot be sure of is either of their conditions or whether Mr. Maddox is alive or not. That seems to be the open question to everyone.”

  The servant returned with paper, and Elizabeth quickly scribbled a note for Bingley to come to Rosings at once. It was hardly more than a few lines, but all that he would need. She sealed it with wax and Lady Catherine’s signet ring, and off it went. She felt numb. The clarity of Fitzwilliam’s explanation, right or wrong, had soothed her temporarily. “What must we do? Should we send money to ransom them?”

  “No. He would have said that outright, so there could be no mistake if that was his goal. But it does not mean that if we send a check, we will get them back.” He stamped his cane down on the floor. “Time is of the essence. If Mr. Maddox is discovered to be dead or is killed upon returning, then the count’s two prisoners—both held illegally—would become worthless to him, and he does not seem the sort of man to let them walk out his front doors. Someone most go and rescue them.”

  “Rescue whom?” Lady Catherine announced her presence this way, her cane muted by the floor rug. “What is all this fuss about? I would prefer if the mistress of my own house acts like a civilized person!”

  “Lady Catherine,” Elizabeth rushed to say, “it is a letter from Dr. Maddox and Darcy. They are held up in Transylvania, and we were, perhaps, being a bit dramatic.”

  “Transylvania? Never heard of such a place. Must be devilishly difficult to spell. Let me see that letter.” She said it in a tone that could not be denied, and since it was better than explaining the gravity of the situation after the doctor said not to overexcite her nerves, Elizabeth rose and delivered her the note.

  Lady Catherine took a seat and a servant appeared with her reading glasses, which looked more like opera glasses. “Silly man,” she pronounced, perhaps the only person ever to call the grave Dr. Maddox “silly.” “To waste such a paper with his words all over the place. This count must be very rich. I don’t see the problem, and my eyes have always been excellent. They’re having a lovely time there, in their ‘sumptuous’ apartments, while I’m suffering… What’s this? Purple drapes? Purple? What is this travesty! A count should know better. I must write to him at once!”

  As quickly as she sat down, she now stood back up and took off down the hall, the letter in hand. Elizabeth’s move to follow her was halted by Fitzwilliam’s raised hand. “It would be less suspicious if there is a return correspondence while we are gone, especially from someone who does not know the situation. And the last time we tried to talk Aunt Catherine out of anything, it was a disaster.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said, “I think we have had enough for today.”

  Chapter 13

  Pemberley’s Other Master

  Mr. and Mrs. Bingley arrived a few days later, bringing the Maddox children with them. They entered a very tense house and a desperate situation. Elizabeth announced it by running up and hugging Jane when she emerged exhausted from the carriage. The mistress of Pemberley and Rosings finally let her emotions flow on her sister’s shoulder as Lord Matlock brought a stunned Bingley up to date. Upon hearing the news, Bingley embraced his sister.

  “I haven’t told the children,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t know what to say to them. Anne has agreed to distract them. And Lydia knows nothing.”

  “Lydia?”

  “She made a surprise visit.”

  Jane didn’t question it. The children were embraced by their mother and then herded inside as the adults gathered. Bingley immediately offered the obvious.

  “Bingley, you cannot go,” Fitzwilliam said.

  “Both of those men are my brothers!”

  “And your legal connections to them are undoubtedly thorough,” Fitzwilliam said. “In fact, they are somewhat relying on you to stay alive if they do not. Besides, do you speak any languages of the Continent?”

  “Not immediate Europe,” Bingley said, “except Latin. But I do think my Hindi is coming along—”

  “Charles,” Caroline said, in her way that meant, Shut up, Charles. Charles looked to his wife for sympathy, and she embraced him but said nothing.

  Lord Matlock turned to his wife, taking her hands in his. “It seems that despite leaving the army, I must engage in one last campaign.”

  “Lord Matlock!”

  “Colonel Fitzwilliam!”

  “Richard!”

  But he was not all perturbed. “Is everyone done shouting my various names now? Clearly it has to be me, if anyone is to go of immediate relation. I have knowledge of French and am accustomed to traveling in hostile circumstances.”

  “I will go with you,” Caroline Maddox said, preparing herself for the courses of exclamations that followed it.

  “If I cannot go, then you certainly cannot!” Bingley said.

  “Charles,” Caroline said in a way that only the former Caroline Bingley could talk to her brother, “I’ve been to Berlin, and I speak German and
French. Colonel—excuse me, Lord Matlock—do you speak German?”

  “No,” he said, not looking particularly pleased with how serious she looked about the idea.

  “If Mrs. Maddox is going,” Elizabeth said, “then I am going.”

  “Yes, terrific. Why don’t we all just take a holiday in a battlefield?” Caroline said.

  “You said you wanted to go!”

  “I have good reason to!”

  “So do I! My husband isn’t even supposed to be in Austria!”

  “If she’s going, I’m going,” Charles said.

  “Charles!” Caroline and Jane said in exact concert.

  “I sense this would be easier if we all drew straws,” Fitzwilliam said with a frown to his wife, who was not so half-flippant about it when she reappeared, having traded duties with Georgiana. “Sorry if we’re being nonsensical, darling.”

  “I am not being nonsensical,” Caroline defended. “This is my husband, and I have a valuable contribution to make to the journey!”

  “And this is my husband we are discussing as well!” Elizabeth said. “I will not sit back and be a spectator any longer!”

  “Lizzy!” Jane said, but was ignored.

  “Who will run Rosings?”

  “Rosings has been functioning on its own for years,” Elizabeth said, “and can remain open even if the mistress—which, sadly, is me—takes a small journey while other relatives remain.”

  “Small journey!”

  “If everyone will stop shouting,” Fitzwilliam said, “I will say that I will go, and anyone who foolishly wants to come, I don’t believe I can stop you. However, I would prefer if we are not carting the entire family to Prussia, children and nurses and all!” With that he stormed off, Anne following him with a desperate attempt to talk him out of it.

  “I am still going,” Caroline said definitively.

  “And your children?” Charles countered.

  “Louisa and Mr. Hurst are their godparents. They can stay with them in Town.”

  “They cannot be without their mother!”

  “They cannot be without their father, either,” she replied coldly. “I will not sit by uselessly any longer!” With that, she rose and stormed off in the opposite direction in a huff. Charles put his face in his hands, and Jane put a hand on his shoulder.

  “She’ll come to her senses,” she said. “Just like Lizzy will. Lizzy?” But Jane did not receive the look from her sister that she wanted. “What is it about this house that makes everyone nonsensical?”

  To that, she received no response.

  ***

  Dr. Maddox was tired of darkness. The choice stood before him—keeping his eyes closed in a perpetual night, or looking out into a blur that contained some light. He could see as far as his arm fully extended, but no farther. If he leaned close enough to the bars between them, he could make out whether he was turned away from him or on the other side of his cell.

  He had a system. Every time he found a fresh plate of food, he made a mark on the stone wall behind him with a combination of spit and dirt from the ground.

  “How long as it been?”

  Darcy’s voice startled him. Darcy was on the other side of his own cell and therefore out of range. Dr. Maddox had assumed he was asleep. “I—it depends how often they feed us. And the first few days—week, maybe, I was not recording.”

  “How many marks, then?”

  “Do you really wish to know?”

  “Yes, Doctor. I really wish to know.”

  He double-checked his count. “Fifty-two.”

  There was no sound of surprise or shock from Darcy. Instead, he said nothing. Dr. Maddox pulled the blanket tighter around him. That was one notion of the passage of time—it was considerably colder than it had been at their arrival, where at some point, blankets had appeared with food.

  “So, your turn,” Dr. Maddox said. “What other dark secrets do you have?”

  Darcy laughed softly. Dr. Maddox could tell he was out of sorts. Not that either of them were in peak physical or mental condition, but it was no good to both of them when they sat in silence. The walls around them were too small to start closing in.

  “Come on, Darcy,” he said, pressing against the bars. “Talk to me.”

  “I think you know everything I wish to tell.” Darcy added, “You know everything about me.”

  “Not everything—”

  “You promise you will not say a word?”

  “Darcy, we’ve said that to each other half a dozen times over the last—”

  “Say it.”

  Dr. Maddox sighed and turned back against the wall. “I promise.”

  Darcy did not speak for a long time. Dr. Maddox suspected him of nodding off, as they both had a habit of doing, until he finally spoke, “My father was not the real heir to Pemberley. He had an older brother.” He chuckled. “Grégoire was named after him. I just realized that. It had simply not occurred to me before.”

  “His name was Gregory?”

  “Yes.” Again, a long pause before Darcy continued, “I met him twice. Once when I was five or six, and again when I was sixteen.”

  “Where did he reside?”

  Darcy answered, “In a private lodging on the Isle of Man. He was sent there when he was about twenty or so—I’m not quite sure. My father rarely mentioned him.” Again, that sick laugh. “When I asked the housekeeper about him, the old one before Mrs. Reynolds, she said he had died—and she really believed it, from falling off a horse or something. That was how elaborate the ruse was.”

  Dr. Maddox, now beginning to piece together the situation, merely said, “What was the diagnosis?”

  “Monomania.”

  “Was he really ill, or did the family just want him gone?” That was often the case with troublesome relatives, if a scandal could be avoided.

  “He was ill,” Darcy said. “I don’t know what monomania even means.”

  “It means nothing. How was he ill?”

  “I don’t know the whole of it. He got along quite well with my father when we visited, actually, and my mother. He could carry on a conversation, and I remember wondering what he was doing, locked in this tiny apartment on an island, when he should have been the master of Pemberley. I thought my parents had conspired against him.”

  “But they had not.”

  “No. I asked him if they had—you know, children, they say whatever they please. Geoffrey certainly does. He told me that it was not true—that my father was a good man for sending him away. He liked being away, even if all of his nurses were trying to poison him.”

  Dr. Maddox said nothing.

  “The second time I saw him, I had just returned from a year at Eton. My marks were good, but I had a rough year. I had no friends and I tried to run away—twice. The second time, I got as far as Lambton—five miles from home—before they found me! My father gave me a talking-to, I will tell you that. He wasn’t being cruel—he was just being a father. He told me about all of my social responsibilities. Then, some weeks later when I thought it was mainly forgotten, my father took me to the island to see Uncle Gregory. He didn’t explain why, but he left me with him for a long time. Much longer than when I was a small boy.”

  His tale apparently halted, Dr. Maddox pried him, “What did you talk about?”

  “Everything and anything. He was adept at conversation one moment, silent the next. And he was older and sicker than I remembered—his hair was white and he told me…” he paused. “He told me never to trust anyone. Ever. He said the bigger and richer and handsomer I got, the worse it would be. Everyone just wanted my money or my body or my connections or me, dead. He grabbed me and shook me as he said this. I was bigger and stronger than he was, but I was terrified, so I let him do it. And then he just started crying and did not recover.” Darcy sighed. “He died the foll
owing week, on his birthday.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Darcy made a movement, but from the distance, it was unclear whether it was a shrug or not. “The secret died with my mother and father. His name was removed from the records, his portrait burned. There’s not a trace of Gregory Darcy to be found in Pemberley. To avoid a scandal that would ruin the family, of course. Even I understood that, naïve as I was at the time. My prospects would be lessened if it were known that I had a mad uncle. I thought—over the years—about telling someone. Georgiana, certainly. Elizabeth would keep the secret. I despise keeping secrets from Lizzy. But—he made it clear to me in our last meeting that he wanted to die in obscurity, so I decided to let him.” His head clearly turned in Dr. Maddox’s direction. “Does that make me a terrible person?”

  “Every family has a skeleton or two in the closet,” Dr. Maddox said diplomatically. “I still don’t know why my uncle severed contact with my father. All of my memories of my father were happy ones. Brian might know; he might not. I never thought to ask him before he went away. When I was destitute—when Brian left, and his creditors were beating me and taking all of my earnings, and I couldn’t make my rent, I went to my uncle in his estate. I had never been there before, even though both my parents are buried there. I tried to talk to him, but I was refused entrance. I only met my cousin—his son, the current Earl of Maddox—a few years ago at a party, and he does not seem to know the reason himself. Another secret too well kept.”

  “Too many secrets,” Darcy said. “I wish my father had told me about Wickham and Grégoire—but especially Wickham. He wreaked so much havoc that could have been prevented—if we knew we were brothers. No matter how despicable he may have been, he would never have tried to seduce his own half-sister.” Darcy’s voice was wavering, not from weakness but as if he was on the edge of tears. “But some things have to remain hidden. When will you tell your son?”

  The question did not require an explanation. “When he’s old enough to know. We don’t know when that will be, but we both dread it. Hopefully, it won’t be until the facts of biology are explained to him, and he realizes he could not have been born two weeks before his twin sister.”