Mr. Darcy's Great Escape

by Marsha Altman

  One other habit did not waver, which was to write to his brother. He was besotted, and he knew his letters were probably dreadful because of it, but he cared very little. The point was, he was writing to Danny, and it made him feel less lonely, when he did feel lonely, at least for his brother and his extended family.

  He did leave out any anxieties he had, and there were few, until the third month. He was barred from Nadezhda’s chambers by her maid, who would not take any reasoning for quite a while before she gave in to his demanding stare and allowed him entrance. He found her not in her bed but hunched over on a bench, weeping and clutching her stomach, surrounded by servants who looked very upset by his intrusion.

  He ignored them all. “Nadezhda—” He ran to her side but was bodily stopped by an older woman.

  “Please, Your Highness,” she said. “This is a woman’s business.”

  “This is my wife’s business! Will you not allow me to comfort her?” he shouted, and Nadezhda tried to wave him off as he took a seat beside her and kissed her on the forehead. “Nady. Tell me what is wrong.”

  “Nothing is wrong,” said the woman. “This is quite normal for her. It is her affliction, and you have no business in it.”

  “And who are you to say that?” he said, putting an arm around his shivering wife.

  “The midwife, Your Highness. Please. She has dealt with this for years.”

  It took a moment, but slowly it came together for him. It occurred to Brian that for not a single night had he been separated from her, when he should have been by basic necessity for a few days a month at the very least. He knew that much—and much more—about feminine biology. Though many women were told they were ill during this period and had some pain, it was nothing like this, something manifesting like a physical ailment. There was something irregular about her system, and he was damned that he did not know what it was. This was what she had spoken of before their marriage. But she did bleed, so maybe she could conceive.

  “Nady,” he whispered in her ear. “Do you want me to go or stay with you? I will do as you wish, but I wish very much to stay and help you.”

  “You cannot help me,” she whimpered. “No one can help me.”

  “I will search the ends of the earth and speak to every doctor, but until then I will not be satisfied that no one can help you,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek. “Do you wish me gone now?”

  Her face was hard to see with her hair so loose and so bent over, but she did manage to whisper back, “No.”

  He kept vigil with her through three horrible days of pain. When she was too tired to speak, his mind wandered to all the possibilities. She was not undeveloped, so perhaps she could conceive, perhaps it would be the best thing for her. This was what she had dealt with since the end of her girlhood? And yet, he could not bring himself to write to his brother. First, Daniel Maddox was too proper and modest to be any sort of expert on woman’s matters, something he was forced on many occasions to repeat. He could do something if there was a problem during childbirth, but that was the extent of his knowledge. Second, Brian could not bring himself to break the illusion that all was well. He was, when she recovered, very happy with her, and did not for a moment regret his choice to marry her. What he could do—and what her father did not seem to have the sense to do—was demand, quite adamantly, that a decent doctor be sent to examine her.

  A man did arrive from Russia. Brian had said France, but at the moment, he settled and endured the harsh looks from his father-in-law when he allowed Dr. Petronov into the princess’s chambers. In fact, he held her hand for the inspection, which was apparently unpleasant. The doctor, who spoke no Romanian, had to speak through a translator to Brian, whose Russian was equally bad, but essentially the conclusion was reached that while she was probably not totally and utterly incapable of conceiving, it was a highly unlikely prospect, and there was no way to be sure.

  Brian called for another doctor. This one came from Prussia, looked utterly confused at the whole matter, and made the graver conclusion that she could not conceive, and in fact, would not live a normal lifetime. Brian, out of sheer mental necessity, had to dismiss the latter idea as too radical of a pronouncement.

  The count took the news dismissively. He wanted to hear nothing of his daughter’s failings, nor would he hear of calling a French doctor. He was not endeared to the young upstart Napoleon. Brian, feeling helpless, resolved that if his wife had a very narrow and unknown time for conception, he would do his best to happen upon it by sheer persistence. Nadezhda, no longer the terrified girl he had found on their wedding night, seemed happy with at least that prospect. She was, in front of her father, still the same little girl, but her mood changed behind closed doors, and she opened up to Brian. Her life was beyond sheltered, her only activities beyond the castle walls being the hunt, and she wanted to hear all of his wild tales. Inside her chamber or his, behind closed doors, there was total bliss.

  Two years came and went, and he helped her through seven more devastating “afflictions.” He was now established in the palace, and though his position carried weight with everyone but the count, his father-in-law did not waver in his blind insistence on his daughter’s health and his son’s failures—though certainly, there was enough palace talk to know his son was particularly prestigious in the area of being with his wife.

  On the anniversary of their marriage, when he much preferred to dine privately with Nadezhda, Brian was called to a hunting expedition. The cold and snow did not bother the locals at all, and he had adjusted to it as well, though he still stubbornly insisted on being clean-shaven, and had to cover his face. It was there, when they were mainly alone, that the count clamped a hand on Brian’s well-covered shoulder and said, “Three months.”

  “Excuse me, my lord?”

  “You have three months.” He gave him a shove that could be interpreted as friendly or not. Brian did not have to question what the answer to “Or?” was.

  Returning, he did not join them for dinner. He took a glass of wine in his room before joining his wife in her chambers, dismissing the servants but this time taking extra care, for he was sure they had their looking-holes and places where they could hear. As he climbed into bed with her, he pulled the covers over their heads and whispered what her father had said.

  “You have to go,” she said.

  “I know,” Brian said. “Immediately, preferably. But I cannot leave you.”

  “I will be fine.”

  “Nady,” he said, “you are my wife, and will be until the day I die. So either I stay and have my head on a spike, or you go with me, because you cannot be with another man. Surely, your father has one in mind or will find one.” He ran his hand along her hip. “You are my wife. But the question remains—would you put your life in danger for me by leaving? It would be very dangerous.”

  “It would be dangerous for me to stay,” she said. “I’d end up like my mother, after all.”

  His blank look must have asked for more.

  “Brian,” she whispered. “My mother did not die in childbirth. He had my mother killed because she could not produce a son.”

  She said it so matter-of-factly, as if it was nothing. The silence pervaded them for some time before he stammered out, “He—he killed your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “A-and you don’t despise him?”

  “I don’t remember it. I was too young, and he’s taken down all of her portraits. Besides, he is my father. He can do what he likes.”

  Brian grasped her hand very tightly. “No, he cannot. Nady, you must go with me.”

  “What will he think?”

  “I don’t care what he thinks. I hope he goes mad with rage and falls on his own sword,” he said. “It is not in question. You are going with me.”

  “If you go alone, he might decide not to chase—”

  “No,” he said, e
xasperated. “I will hear no more of it. I will not abandon you to him, and I cannot stay, for it is basically the same thing. So I am going, and you are going with me.” He lowered his tone again. “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow!”

  “I am experienced at escaping. It must be tomorrow. Hopefully, I can take your dowry with me, as is my right anyway, and we will have some money for the road. We cannot go west, because he will expect it, because England is west. We must go to the Russias. You speak Russian and I will learn. It will be very dangerous, but it is weighing one danger against the other.” He kissed her. “Say nothing of this to anyone.”

  “Then how will you get my dowry? Do you trust your servants?”

  He frowned. “No.”

  “Well, I trust Anya, my maid. If I give her your keys, she can get access to the vault without suspicion, perhaps, and take what she can.” She cupped his cheek. “I have known her almost all of my life, Brian. If there is anyone here I would trust beyond you, it is her.” She pulled away. “But… she will be questioned, when it is obvious we are gone.”

  “Then don’t tell her in which direction we are going. Don’t tell her anything unnecessary, and she will have nothing to tell. Give her money to run, if you want her to live,” he said. “We will go to St. Petersburg or something. It depends on the weather. But we will manage.” Somehow. “Are you scared?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because,” he said, “I am, but not enough to prevent me from doing this. My life is nothing without you, so you are my only concern.”

  “Then, we will be a little scared together, but we will spread it out,” she said, and hugged him close. They fell asleep that way, after a long night where talk was not needed, but touch was.

  The next evening, they took two horses, an assortment of as many weapons as Brian could carry, and a bag containing half of the barony’s treasury, and they left.

  Chapter 22

  A Man Walks into a Bar…

  Jane Bingley had been raised to expect hardship in her life. Her life, for the most part, had been a pleasant surprise. She was quite happily married to a man of no small means who loved her, and she had four adorable children. Her sisters seemed to have had some, if not as much, luck as she in finding mates or a life that made them content. It was sad enough for Lydia to lose her husband while she had two children to raise. In rare moments of perfect honesty with herself, Jane would admit that perhaps Wickham was the easiest death she could have been asked to deal with. But Mr. Darcy was another story entirely. Lizzy loved him, her husband treasured him as a great friend, he was uncle to her children, and she admired him despite all that he put Lizzy through. His death would be unfathomable, with Geoffrey so young—or at all, really. He had lived through so much, why not continue? Dr. Maddox was loved by everyone, never said an unkind word about anyone. He was, somehow, the perfect husband for the former Caroline Bingley, who was now a reasonable companion, even a friend. Their lives were all so locked together in an intricate web of relatives by blood and marriage that it could not stand another hole. To lose two of them at once because of some miscommunication overseas—that was unfathomable.

  Despite the weight removed from her shoulders with Lizzy’s letter earlier that day, the evening brought an ominous tone she could not shake. Then a flustered Brian Maddox appearing at her door, bearing his mysterious princess bride and some kind of Oriental guard, was no consolation. They had apparently, quite innocently, arrived from the Japans that evening, gone straight to the Maddox townhouse (with no knowledge of the events occurring because of them—they had been at sea for months!), only to find it closed down in the absence of both mistress and master. The Mr. Maddox who arrived at the Bingley house was distraught and would not entertain questions about his appearance until he heard her story about his brother and Mr. Darcy, which distressed him greatly as he repeated it back to his wife and servant in Oriental. He then inquired after Mr. Bingley, was alarmed, and said he would see that he was safe.

  Jane did not go back to sleep when the three guests left, despite the hour. There was no chance of that now. She did not wake the Hursts, who normally slept like the dead, and she prayed Edmund and Sarah would sleep through the night and not wake their siblings and cousins.

  She did go upstairs, where her lady-maid was waiting, and was quickly dressed so she could properly go downstairs and sit before the roaring fire. She tried pacing but eventually settled in the armchair, occasionally glancing at the clock. She could not reasonably expect them back so soon if they were walking there, which they appeared to be doing. It was the docks, after all.

  “Mama?”

  Stirred from her half-slumber, she opened her eyes to little Georgiana standing before her, dressed in her nightclothes.

  “Georgie!” she said. “Did something wake you?”

  Her daughter shook her head.

  “You shouldn’t be walking around without slippers. The floors are very cold, and you could get sick,” Jane said. Georgie’s response was to climb up into the armchair with her, wrapping herself with the edge of Jane’s shawl. Now that she was so much older, it was becoming harder and harder to do this, and Georgie had always been so differing in mood anyway that Jane could not recall many incidents where her eldest daughter wanted to be held by her mother. Eliza was different, more physically demanding of affection. Georgiana said nothing, just nestled into her mother’s side. Jane was tempted to ask her what was wrong, but she had no desire to get her daughter worked up when she didn’t seem distressed, while Jane herself had her own fears to deal with.

  There was no noise from Georgie. Jane was about to check if she was asleep, when the door burst open before the servant could open it. Brian Maddox entered, carrying Bingley in his arms, blood staining his clothing. “He’ll be all right,” he said in response to her gasp. He laid Charles down on the sofa. “Someone should look at his head, though. Not because he’s dizzy. Just because he’s Charles.”

  “Papa!”

  “Georgie!” Jane said, covering her daughter’s eyes. “He will be all right.”

  Sadly, Nurse was probably asleep. Brian turned to the woman who was his wife and said, “Can you take her into the next room?” He added in Romanian, “She is your niece. Her name is Georgiana.”

  “Yes,” she said in accented English. She curtseyed to Jane. “I take Georgiana.”

  “Thank you,” Jane said. “Georgie, this is Princess Nadezhda. Go with her for a while.”

  “Will Papa be okay?”

  “Karega naoshitekureru dekiru to omoimasu,” (I think I could patch him up) said the Oriental, who turned to the terrified, little redheaded girl before him. “He okay. Promise.”

  Nadezhda finally herded Georgiana into the next room, and Brian continued his conversation, “Tashika ni?” (Are you sure?)

  “Nani, saki ni kowareta hone ga nakatta to omoimasuka? Kimi, ude o kowattemiru, sukideshouka?” (What, like I’ve never had a broken limb before? Try breaking your own arm; would you like it?)

  “Please!” Jane said, noticing her husband was returning to consciousness. “Will someone tell me what is going on?”

  “Mugin says he’s familiar with broken limbs.” Bingley was still in a daze. Brian said, “He’s just been roughed up is all.”

  An exhausted Charles simply put his head back on the pillow Jane put under his head. He needed to stay still, while his manservant went to seeing to his comfort. Charles opened his hazy eyes once more at the crowd of people standing over him. “Mr. Maddox?”

  Brian knelt beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You just rest, Mr. Bingley. When you’ve regained your health, I’ve a business proposition for you.”

  Georgiana was brought into the room. “Papa!”

  “Georgie,” he said, his speech slurred. “My little Georgie.”

  “Your father will be all right,” Jane said, more sure
of it now than she had been before. Georgiana kissed her father on the cheek; he was asleep before she left his side to go back upstairs.

  Jane would not leave her husband, but they did move out of earshot as Brian briefly described what had happened. She sensed he was leaving out details, such as how blood got on his strange silk clothing, but the point was her husband was safe. Now there was the less immediate, but no less important, problem of the rest of the family stuck on the Continent.

  “For that,” Brian said, “we have a plan.”

  ***

  “Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Darcy said, not attempting to rise from his armchair as Fitzwilliam entered Darcy’s room at their current inn. Elizabeth had said that having him up and out of bed was an accomplishment unto itself. He had weathered the trip to the coast but still wasn’t eating enough to regain his strength. His stomach was not used to the foods they were giving him.

  “Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said, “I suppose I should tell you, it’s Lord Matlock now, but I tend to go with Lord Richard. You may call me whatever you like.”

  This seemed to be new information to Darcy, even if his reaction was muted. That or he hadn’t absorbed it the first time he’d heard it. “I’ve missed much, it seems. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” He knew Darcy had lost something also, but it was internal. Darcy had gray hair coming in around his ears and in some of his hair. His cheeks were sunken, his expression scattered and distracted. “Anne is staying with her mother at Rosings. We intend to continue to care for her—with your permission.”

  It took Darcy a moment to process this. Fitzwilliam frowned; maybe he was bringing up too much at once. Darcy just looked away, “Of course.” His mind seemed to wander towards less complex topics. “Where are we?”