Mr. Darcy's Great Escape

by Marsha Altman

  Mounted on the wall were various drawings of her family and her adventures, even the noodles incident that he’d rather hoped she’d forgotten and not recorded on paper. Most of them included Geoffrey, or a person who was probably Geoffrey, because she had no siblings with brown hair, only blond and red. They thoroughly encouraged her drawing, because she did it without being forced to, and it was the most ladylike of all of her chosen activities. He sorted through a pile of them on the desk, trying to figure out what she had drawn. Was it of the dogs? No, it was gray and had fangs—a wolf.

  Hadn’t there been wolves in the woods?

  “Georgiana!” he shouted on instinct and abandoned her room, darting past the servants and his wife without explanation. There was no time to explain. By the time he reached the edge of the woods, where he and Darcy often shot at emerging deer, his heart was pounding, and yet, no sign.

  What if something had happened? Yes, he was responsible for Geoffrey Darcy, heir to Pemberley and Derbyshire, but this was his Georgie, the first child of his union with Jane that he had held in his arms—

  “Georgiana!” Bingley shouted upon seeing her, her red hair a marked contrast to the green field. He could not yet think of Geoffrey, who was standing beside her, holding up a stick.

  “Papa?” she said, confused by his sudden appearance as he ran to her and immediately scooped her up into his arms. He was rendered speechless in his relief for a moment. “I didn’t know where you were,” Bingley said, wiping away the beginnings of tears to regain composure. “You’ve been missing. And Geoffrey—come here.” Geoffrey approached him, and he took his arm to make sure that he was real.

  “We weren’t missing,” Geoffrey defended. “We were right here.”

  “But we didn’t know you were here! What are doing out in the woods? Something could have—” He swallowed, and kissed his daughter before setting her down. “What were you doing?”

  “We were practicing,” Georgie said, holding up her own stick. “It was supposed to be a secret.”

  “What was supposed to be a secret?” But when Georgie would not give, he turned an eye to Geoffrey. “What was supposed to be a secret?”

  Geoffrey made circles on the ground with his stick. “We were practicing fighting.”

  “Fighting!”

  “Like knights,” Georgie said, rushing to her cousin’s defense. “In case we have to go rescue Aunt and Uncle Darcy and Aunt and Uncle Maddox.”

  “You will not have to rescue them,” Bingley said, still overwhelmed. “They will take care of themselves, and they will be all right. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “You’re lying!” Georgie said.

  “Georgie!” Geoffrey said, trying to hush her, but she was apparently willing to face her father, her expression unwavering.

  “I am not lying.”

  “You are. Uncle Darcy and Uncle Maddox are in prison. I read about prison in a book from the study, and it’s horrible. Like gaol but worse.”

  He knelt down, unwilling to be forceful with her, stupefied by her answers. “You are not supposed to know that. Who told you they are in prison?”

  “I heard it,” Geoffrey said. “I heard Mother talking about it to Cousin Anne.”

  “So you overheard it,” he said. “You are not supposed to be listening to other people’s conversations. Who else did you tell? Did you tell Charles? Eliza? Anne?”

  “No!” Geoffrey, at least, seemed horrified by the idea. “Just Georgie.”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” His eldest daughter was unrelenting.

  He sighed, kneeling so he was eye level with both of them. “Yes, it’s true. But they are alive and your aunts and Lord Matlock are going to get them out.” He looked at them staring. “I’m not lying. I believe they will be all right. I believe it.” And he did, because telling himself that was sometimes the only thing that got him through the day, and he was constantly saying those same words to his wife. “And you should, too. God pays special attention to children’s wishes; did you know that? So you don’t have to—fight.” He took the sticks, obviously meant to be swords from their length and width, out of their hands. “If you want to help, pray for them. And if you really want to help, you can stop scaring us out of our wits.”

  “I thought adults didn’t get scared,” Geoffrey said.

  “I’ll tell you a secret, Master Geoffrey,” Bingley said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We do. Especially when our children and nephews are missing. So please, will you promise to try not to scare us like this again?” He was almost pleading with them.

  Georgie took the initiative and embraced him, which she could do when he was at her height. “I promise, Papa.”

  “I promise, too,” Geoffrey added.

  “Good,” he said, still rattled but at least momentarily content. He stood up and took both of their hands. “Now, we must get you home as soon as possible. Mrs. Bingley is very, very worried for both of you.”

  “She’ll be upset,” Georgie said as they walked across the field, “when she finds out I was fighting.”

  “Then it will be our secret,” Bingley said. “You both promise not to go somewhere without telling us, and I promise not to tell her about your little training meeting.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Really?”

  He finally managed to smile at his daughter. “Really.”

  ***

  After a long period of solitude, Darcy and Dr. Maddox seemed to acquire the new status of an exhibit. Perhaps lacking anything else to do with them, the count had no qualms about showing off his devious nature and helpless prisoners, mostly to people he was trying to intimidate, but this time, Darcy and Maddox recognized two of the guests from the first meal—Yengi the mystic and his translator, the Russian man named Artemis who spoke fluent French. As usual Yengi said nothing, mumbling while swinging his prayer stick, and Artemis listened to the count speak in Romanian. Since Darcy was less conspicuous and healthier than Dr. Maddox, he grabbed his bars as the tour was departing. “Mr. Izmaylov.”

  With no surprise evident on his face, the gentleman turned in his direction. “Hello, Mr. Darcy.” This time he spoke in a very accented English, though the accent itself was impossible to trace. He seemed to be a man from nowhere, even if he was dressed like some kind of French physician and had a Russian name.

  “I must make a request. We are being held prisoner here—”

  Artemis rolled his eyes. “Yes, I did not imagine with Mr. Maddox absconded, you would stay here of your own free will. But you see, our contract with His Grace is not yet over, and he will not look kindly on us conspiring to free his guests.”

  “I have money in England. I can pay you for your troubles. Both of us can.”

  “My head is worth more than all the gold and silver in the world.”

  “At least for the sake of human decency, you can do something.”

  “I do not traffic in the human, Mr. Darcy. I traffic in the otherworldly.” His eyes glinted when he said it, and it made Darcy shiver. “Though perhaps we can be of some aid, as we have little else to amuse us. You could have a very favorable prediction.”

  Darcy paused, trying to read the foreigner’s face. “You’re a charlatan.”

  “I know that in his altered state, Yengi does believe he is seeing something otherwise hidden. But what he sees is entirely open to interpretation.”

  “Your interpretation.”

  “Precisely. Though it is not so simple. Count Vladimir will not do anything that is not to his benefit. If I say, for example, that if he frees the Englishmen, his daughter will return, and you are freed and his daughter does not return, we will not be able to escape with our lives. But I could say something in your favor that could be used to your advantage later.” He shrugged. “I am afraid it is all I can offer you.”

  “And your price?”

  He str
oked his little beard, which unlike Darcy’s was well-trimmed. “Yengi would like to read both your fortunes.”

  “You just admitted it was nonsense!”

  “Not precisely. And it may well be, in which case it is a very small price to pay. There are some theatrics involved, but nothing beyond your abilities to handle.”

  ***

  For what it was worth, Artemis worked quickly. That very night they were unshackled for the first time and dragged into a room filled with foreign artifacts and told to wait. There were no chairs, only blankets on the floor, and dozens of tiny candles lit the windowless room, but they were mostly in darkness. It was not long before the door was unbolted on the other side and Yengi entered, wearing a massive headdress of silk and a long cloak over his shoulders with flags attached to the shoulder plates. He moved swiftly between them and sat down on the large pillow against the wall, swinging his Oriental incense bearer, which created a great puff of yellow smoke. Artemis, now wearing woolen red robes, followed him closely and set a cloth down in front of him, and on that cloth a gilded, circular mirror the size of a dinner plate.

  “Dr. Maddox, if you would,” Artemis gestured for Dr. Maddox to take the seat opposite the chanting Yengi, and Artemis took the doctor’s hand and held it out. Only then did Yengi open his eyes and, without ceremony, produced a knife and cut his palm, producing a small trickle of blood. Artemis caught it in a silver dish, and to the disgust of both Englishmen, Yengi drank what little there was to be had. Then he started hissing, his arm flailing back and forth as he tapped the mirror. Artemis knelt beside him, as Yengi’s voice was a hoarse whisper, and said, “Darkness. He sees darkness in your future.”

  “Death?”

  “No. A long darkness.”

  Yengi pointed to his eyes and tapped incessantly on his temple.

  “Blindness. A long blindness. Long life for the healer. Happiness. Blessings. Three stars in the sky.” Artemis motioned for Darcy. “Come.”

  “I am not giving my blood to a madman,” Darcy said in English, knowing Yengi couldn’t understand him.

  “Do you want his help or not?”

  Darcy looked to Dr. Maddox, who was holding his hand and already retaking his place to the side, and with an encouraging look, assumed the seat across from the mystic. Yengi hissed as he cut him, but it wasn’t very deep, only a surface wound to draw blood. Darcy felt his own bile rise in his stomach as Yengi swallowed it, but he kept it down. The mystic’s head jerked back and he began muttering again, his finger dragging the plate around and making a clacking sound.

  “Indignant. Open your eyes,” Artemis translated. “Fear. You have great fear of shadows, but you are surrounded by light. The light will protect you. Look in your dreams. You will never be alone. Look to the true heir.”

  “What does he mean by that?”

  As silly a question as it might be to ask a hallucinating mystic, it was never answered. The door swung open, and Count Vladimir entered, flanked by two servants with Trommler hanging in the back. The servants carried a wooden chair, shorter than his usual ones but still massive, and they pushed Darcy out of the way and set it down before Yengi, who was either swaying intentionally or shaking. It was very hard to see, with the colored incense going and the limited light. The count was accustomed to the sight he was seeing and immediately offered his hand. Yengi drew a great deal more blood, and the count squeezed his hand in a fist so that it would drip into the dish, providing more than a few drops. Yengi drank it, then took the remains and sprinkled them over the mirror before he began his usual incoherent diatribe.

  “Four moons… approach,” Artemis said. “A man with gold is coming. A great fortune.”

  “And my daughter?”

  Yengi flung his arm out, possibly in distaste but possibly not, as it was rather hard to interpret. Artemis continued, “She goes around you. Circle. All the way.”

  “That means she must return!”

  “Around. Around,” Artemis said as Yengi drew circles with the blood. “Dangerous games. Prisoners die, your own death is near. They live, you prosper, many years of peace. Many.” Yengi cried out and his head dropped, but he was still sitting up. Artemis checked under his eyes and said in French, “I’m sorry. That’s all he has for tonight.”

  “What is four moons? Four months?”

  “I don’t know. I imagine if it is something else, as always, you will know them when you see them.” He bowed to the count, who took his leave. Trommler left last, but not before aiming a skeptical glance their way.

  Yengi appeared to be sleeping, or at least in a trance. Artemis removed his cloak and put it over his companion’s shoulders. “That was all I can give you for now. Trommler already thinks me a charlatan. If he knew I was doing something for you, it would be the axe for all our necks.”

  The guards arrived to escort Darcy and Dr. Maddox back to their cells, not offering a moment’s reprieve. They cleaned their hands very carefully with the water they had to wash with, but the bleeding had stopped. Where Darcy was merely frustrated, Dr. Maddox was more contemplative. “It was interesting.”

  “It was superstitious nonsense.”

  “But clever superstitious nonsense. He was deliberately vague or just good at making accurate guesses. Or Mr. Izmaylov was.”

  “He said you were going to go blind.”

  “Yes, he did. That was easy to conclude. I have rather thick glasses, but I’m rather young for them, and most men go a bit blind as they grow old. And as for the three stars—that could be anything, but Artemis easily could have asked the count how many children I have, and assumed my wife is young enough based on my own age to conceive at least once more. Even if he didn’t, three is a small enough number that I could find something in my life to apply it to.” He rubbed his own beard. “Now you are afraid of darkness. Who isn’t? And where we don’t like darkness, we prefer light, so he said something good about light. And as for the true heir, it could be literal, like Geoffrey, or metaphorical in some sense. You’re a wealthy Englishman. You’re probably concerned about the heir to your estate. Artemis isn’t wrong about that. But the point was, he essentially told the count not to execute us and implied that if we were freed, he would at least hear from his daughter.”

  Darcy conceded, “There is that.” He resumed pacing. “There’s no way he could have known about my uncle. I told you that in confidence, and the guards don’t speak English.”

  “The walls may be thinner than we think. Trommler is a very clever man, and so is Artemis, even if they don’t work together—or not that we know of. But no, I would not assume that. That would take actual prophetic powers.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Darcy said, but somehow wasn’t satisfied. He turned on his side and went to sleep. And that night, he slept poorly.

  Chapter 16

  The Isle

  Darcy dreamt.

  “I think I like it here,” Darcy said. “I must be going insane. We must make it official.”

  “We must,” Dr. Maddox said from his cell, not bothering to turn over to face him.

  What did it matter to him, anyway? He was blind. Well, not blind, or so Dr. Maddox said. I have proof. The marks on the wall. He’s been telling me how many marks he’s made. He couldn’t see them if he couldn’t see. His eyes only fail him at a distance. Darcy leaned over as far as he could, looking between the bars. Dr. Maddox still had his back turned away.

  There were no marks on the wall.

  Liar! Should he shout it? There was nothing Dr. Maddox could really do, even if he wasn’t blind or wounded or chained to a wall in a different cell. He could take Dr. Maddox. He could beat him senseless. He could imagine the blood flowing.

  I’m not a violent man. I wouldn’t do that. “I’m a gentleman,” he said.

  “What does that mean?” Dr. Maddox said. “Are you a gentle man, Master Fitzwilliam?”
r />   “Don’t call me that.”

  “Did you kill your own brother, Master Fitzwilliam?”

  “I said not to call me that!”

  “Answer the question.”

  It sounded too much like Trommler. He had to respond, it was instinctual. I don’t want to be hurt anymore. I want to go home. “Yes.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “No,” he said. I don’t know the real answer to that. Does that count as a lie?

  “Did you feel any satisfaction?”

  There was only his breathing. He could retreat into his senses no further. He could close his eyes, lie still, even cover his ears, but he could always hear his own breathing. “Yes. Am I a horrible man? Do I have a soul?” I must have a soul because I’m breathing. I have a heartbeat. I can’t turn it on and off. “I go to church.”

  “Is that really the same? Does it really matter? We’re all heretics anyway; the Pope said so. We’re all going to hell.”

  “Then I can do whatever I want,” Darcy said. “I don’t have to be a gentleman.” He laughed. “My father was wrong.”

  “You are the son of a long line of gentlemen. You are my heir, my only heir, and the future master of this place. Learn well, my son.”

  “Liar! You made two others and you didn’t tell me! You never told me!”

  “Fitzwilliam,” Dr. Maddox said, “you were right about going insane. I might have to give you some tonic.”

  “You’re trying to poison me.” Darcy kicked away his food tray. “Everyone is trying to poison me. That’s why my chest hurts.” His chest did hurt, when he tried to take a deep breath of the cold, stale air. There was grime in his lungs, making him cough, hacking up all kinds of things, as if his residence wasn’t disgusting enough. Someone put it there. I didn’t put it there.

  “The magic potion, remember?”