Dr. Maddox giggled.
The Regent stood up, walked over to stand over Maddox, who put his glasses back on so he could see him more clearly. “You should know you were missed. Your temporary substitute is terrible.”
Dr. Maddox’s mind couldn’t quite process much of this. “Thank you?”
“And I commend you on your parenting skills. Good day, Dr. Maddox.”
“Good day. Night. Either one.”
He was already asleep again when the supposed apparition disappeared the way he came.
***
Dr. Maddox awoke some time later—how much, he could not tell—to a red blur that eventually became the form of his daughter, scrunched next to him on the couch. “Hello, darling,” he said. He had a foul taste in his mouth, but otherwise felt fine, almost calm, the pain in his hand reduced to a mild throb. He pulled her in and kissed her on the cheek. “I missed you.”
“Mama is very upset,” Emily said.
“Oh? What did your uncle do now?”
“It isn’t Uncle Brian.”
“Oh?” he said, straightening his glasses. “What did I do now?”
“You got a letter.”
Mildly intrigued, he eventually sat up, set his daughter down, and meandered out of his sitting room. He made it only a few steps into the hallway when his wife held up a letter to his face. “What is this?”
“Hmm.” He took it from her—carefully, for it looked to be on very expensive paper—and held it up to his eyes, pushing his glasses up, where they promptly got stuck in his ridiculous wig. “It seems to be a letter from the Crown.”
“Well, read it, why don’t you!”
It was indeed a very expensive document, not folded, and with the royal seal hanging from it. The handwriting he did not recognize, but all of the documents he received from Charlton were always written by the steward or some lesser person.
To Dr. Daniel Maddox,
I will excuse the lack of proper reception on the grounds that you were positively senseless, and a physician’s home staff is not usually accustomed to a Royal Presence. Nonetheless I am relieved with your return, as the substitute surgeon is terrible in numerous ways that I will no doubt enumerate at my next appointment.
Your permission for leave with payment is still in effect for the remainder of your convalescence. When you feel well enough to return to the Service, do not tarry. Say hello to your wife, whom, I am assured, is nothing like my own Caroline.
His Royal Highness, The Prince of Wales,
Regent of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland,
George Augustus Frederick
“Oh God,” Dr. Maddox said, “I thought that was a dream.”
“How could you possibly think a visit from the Regent was a dream?” Caroline shouted. Actually, it was more of a shriek.
“Well, I was… quite senseless,” he said. “I don’t quite remember what was said, something about a tree.” He thought to himself that it was probably better that he didn’t remember what he might have said, as it would just lead to a lot of panic that neither of them could actually do anything about. “Was anyone else here?”
“Nadezhda and the children, but they were not requested, apparently. He came and went, according to the servants.”
“So Brian was not here? He is a prince, you know. They could have chatted about… princely things, I don’t know.”
“You are not taking this seriously!”
“I suppose not,” he said rather calmly. “I think I am honestly too exhausted to care. Besides, he clearly wrote that there was no harm done.” He handed the letter back to her. “Where is Her Highness?”
“In the garden.”
“In the garden? In November?”
“She did grow up in Transylvania,” Caroline said, clearly trying to accustom herself to his unnaturally mellow mood. Caroline Maddox would keep her composure, thank you very much.
The still-befuddled doctor excused himself and put on a coat before opening the door to the small garden in the courtyard, where Nadezhda Maddox was working in the soil.
“Your Highness,” he said in German, standing in the doorway. Instantly his son came around the shrubbery, considerably better insulated than the foreign princess.
“Father! I met the king!”
“Really,” he said, frowning. “You mean the Regent? Come inside; you’ll catch cold.” He turned his attention back to Nadezhda, who rose and turned to him and he bowed. “Was the Prince Regent here, by any chance?”
“Yes,” she said in German, unaffected by the searing winter winds. “Very briefly.”
“Did he speak to my son?”
“He did.”
“So Frederick was asked to join us?”
“No, I believe he ran in to ask you something, and ran out.”
“Oh.” He was not quite sure what to make of it. He wondered if she knew the connection. Come to think of it, probably. “Well… this will probably never happen again, but if it does, keep Frederick somewhere else.”
“Ja,” she said, curtseyed, and then returned to her gardening.
Freezing himself, Dr. Maddox closed the door and turned immediately to Frederick, still bundled in scarves. “What did you say to the Regent?”
“Things.”
“Things?”
“Mother already asked me about it,” Frederick said, annoyed. “He’s very fat.”
“He is, but I hope to God in heaven you did not say such a thing,” he said, trying to maintain some semblance of calm.
“Aren’t you his doctor? Can you make him less fat?”
“I have tried, believe me, but every man is in charge of his own destiny,” he said, kneeling beside his son so they were eye level. “What did he say to you? Do you remember?” He put his arms on his son’s shoulders. “Please, it is important.”
“Nothing! He just said you were smarter than him and his dad can’t see very well, or something. He told me to listen to you.”
“Really?” he said.
“Yes! Why does everyone care so much? He is just a man.”
“Yes,” he said, laughing softly. “I suppose he is.” He pulled his son in and, despite some resistance on Frederick’s end, held him as tightly as he could. “I love you, son. Always remember that.”
“Yes!” his son said. “Everyone’s so queer today.”
He laughed, feeling his eyes tear up. “I wish that was the least of it.”
***
Darcy had no wish to visit Rosings. He did not make it known by words, but by expression that he had even less desire to be sociable than normal. He had irrationally resisted having his head shaved before giving in at the doctor’s insistence and would not even be seen until his sides were beginning to grow back. He made his desire to return to Pemberley, as soon as possible, readily known. In fact, it was often all he said in a day that was not a monosyllabic answer.
There was one remaining issue that needed settling in Town. Sensing his reaction would not be an easy one to handle, Elizabeth had instructed Georgiana to keep the business with Lord Kincaid to herself, and instead fill him in on whatever else he was willing to listen to with a rather blank expression on his face.
Lord Matlock came by once before leaving with the papers for Rosings and reassured Elizabeth, “He needs time.”
“I’ve never seen him—”
“He’s in a state of shock. It will wear off.” He added, “It cannot be made to happen any faster.”
When she decided it could be avoided no longer, Elizabeth sat down with Darcy in the study and carefully explained the long courtship between Georgiana and the earl, William Kincaid. She modified some of the dates, so it would not seem that Georgiana had already been in the earl’s acquaintance while Darcy was still in England, to soften the blow.
There
was a brief silence before Darcy, devoid of any passion or emotion, simply said, “No.”
She was not quite sure what to say to this. “Husband, you must further explain your answer.”
“I am not obligated to do so.”
“You are assuming too much of my abilities to read you. Do you mean you do not wish to consider this now, or you reject my consent for the courtship, or you simply do not believe me?”
An expression passed over his face. “You know what I mean.”
“Lord Matlock also agreed—”
“He was her guardian when she was a child,” he said coldly. “He is not her brother. This matter does not concern him.”
Elizabeth tried to be patient with him. She was told, quite clearly, by the doctor that being made continuously upset was bad for her condition, as if that had not happened enough times already in the last few months. “I am merely saying that I counseled with the next available authority in your absence, and we both agreed upon speaking to Lord Kincaid that the arrangement was entirely acceptable—”
“There is no agreement!” he shouted. It was a fearsome thing even without him moving much to do it. “Georgiana is not marrying—or courting—that Scot!”
“Do you have a complaint to lodge against Lord Kincaid’s person?”
“I am not lodging a complaint!” he said. “This is not a court where I petition for a movement. He is not courting her, and she is not marrying him, and if she wants to hear that herself, she can come in here, and I will tell her!”
Elizabeth did allow herself a bit of loss of temper. “May I remind you, Mr. Darcy, that she is no longer of an age where she requires your consent?”
“Georgiana would not do something I did not consent to,” he said. “I know her, and I know she would never do such a thing.” She wanted to respond (even though he was technically correct in this regard), but he continued, “If she is so intent on marrying this man, why doesn’t she make the request herself? Why must it come from you? Do you think you need to protect her from me?” His voice was now officially above the norm. “This is my sister, whom I have given my life to protecting! Do you think I do not have her best interests at heart? Or that you, of no blood relation, would have better ideas?”
“Mr. Darcy!”
“Mr. Darcy what? Yes, yes, I am Mr. Darcy!” he said. “You think yourself more intelligent than me? You think I’m mad?”
He did not break his stare, so it just hung in the air like a stale thing; the silence that followed it was unbearable as Elizabeth covered her mouth to hide her sob. Darcy’s expression softened when he heard it, and he rose, came around the desk, and held her hands, which was as close as he’d come to voluntarily touching her in days, despite their sharing a bed. “Lizzy.” But his eyes were still unreadable. They were not soft or hard. “Just—no more talk of this. Please.”
The way he said it, she could not deny him. Very uncomfortably, she said, “All right.”
She dealt with Georgiana’s tears later, in privacy, while her husband slept. In the morning, they departed for Pemberley.
***
The Bingleys were set to depart for Chatton but were delayed slightly by Bingley’s delicate head injury, as a carriage ride was not immediately recommended. As Dr. Maddox recovered, Brian Maddox spent much of his time at the Bingley townhouse. “We’re going into business together,” he said to his brother in Dr. Maddox’s study. Brian still refused, except when invited to dine at the Bingleys’, to dress like a civilized man and was walking around in his silk pleated pants and robe. He was totally unconcerned about the opinion of the Town passing in the streets. His wife did not go out much, but when she did, it was with Mugin, who was even more of a spectacle.
“There’s really no need for the armed procession,” Dr. Maddox said. “We are in England.”
His brother, with two swords in his belt, merely said, “I promised to carry these swords, and I will. As for Mugin, I don’t recommend asking him to leave his sword behind unless you want a sandal to your head.” He added with a smile, “He will do it. I’ve seen him do it.” He reached into the folds of his robe and removed an envelope, which he passed over the desk. “I know this is little consolation for my absence when you needed me, but I did write when I was in Japan. There was no post at all, but I wrote to you, in hopes of someday delivering it. Some of it may sound like nonsense, but it is all true. Except, of course, the things I left out.”
Dr. Maddox nodded. “Thank you.” Brian bowed and left.
Dr. Maddox was not heard from for several hours, until it was nearly time for dinner, and Caroline knocked on the door. “Come.”
“Your presence is required for dinner, Dr. Maddox,” she said, her eyes passing over the pile of rice paper letters in tiny handwriting. “What in the world is that?”
“Brian’s journal, in the form of letters to me,” he said. “It’s really quite fascinating.”
“Oh God,” she said. “First my brother with India, and now your brother with the Orient. Am I to have any normal dinner table discussions ever again?”
He passed her one of the piles. “Here. So you can at least contribute to the conversation.”
Caroline gave him an indignant look. She did, however, take the letters—not returning them until late the next day, when she requested to see the rest.
Chapter 27
Brian’s Story, Part 3
1810
The peace was positively beautiful. The chirping of unfamiliar birds, the sound of cooking and rustling outside, the sounds of the ocean not far away… Was he in Brighton? No, it was too bright for that. And his surroundings too wooden, too square; the woman facing him was not a proper English nurse. She forced broth down his throat, salty and fishy, then bowed and disappeared, leaving him on the white mattress on the floor.
He was vaguely aware that he was alone, and from the windows, that it was daylight. He was stripped of everything but his undergarments and shirt, but he was not chained down. They must have made a guess that he was incapable of movement, much less escape.
There he lay for he knew not how long. Slowly it came to him. Nadezhda! If they’d done anything to her, they would pay. Surely they realized she was his wife? What had he done, to throw her alone among such savages? He had to get up, he had to recover his strength, and he had to save her.
He sat up only with great dizziness and sat there until it passed. When he finally managed to get to his feet, Brian could only stay upright with the help of the wall, which seemed to be made of bound stalks. His limp was more pronounced than usual as every part of his body screamed out. He slowly shambled over to the doorway, where he found a richly colored silk robe more ornate than anything he had ever worn in his life and a pair of sandals made from the same grass-like stalk.
There was no guard outside. He wandered onto the porch, grasping the railing for support. Several times the world went into a haze, but then refocused, and he continued down the porch looking for another room, maybe containing his beloved.
There was a man around the corner, dressed differently, and obviously Oriental. He was wearing a black robe, pants that were wide enough to resemble a skirt, and sandals, and his head was curiously shaved like a balding person, with long hair in the back tied up in a knot above it. He seemed to pay little attention to the limping figure of Brian Maddox, looking out at the ocean instead, resting his hands within the folds of his robe. Then, from nowhere, he said something in quite a forceful voice to Brian and walked away.
Brian could not go on. He knew that much. He rested, if only for a moment, on the wooden steps, warming himself in the sunlight. The world went out again, or almost. He must have nodded off, because the man in front of him had appeared out of nowhere and was poking him awake with a stick tied up with gourds. This man was different—paler, with a long white beard and truncated pants like breeches but no proper shoes, just w
ooden sandals on stilts.
“Speak—speak Russian?” Brian finally murmured.
“Yes. A little,” he answered.
“Where is Nadezhda?” It was then that Brian noted that the man had not one but three curved swords in his rope belt, one hanging on one side and two on the other. He said a bit less forcefully, “My wife. Please.”
“Not Russian, gaijin?”
“I ask again,” he said in his own semi-broken Russian. “Where is Nadezhda?”
The man hit him on the shoulder. Right on that injured nerve that went all the way down to his leg. He must have known—but he could not have known. The man only smiled and walked away with his stick rattling from the various implements tied to it, leaving Brian to writhe in pain.
“You should have known better,” said the man next to him, a man dressed similarly to the old man, but younger, his Russian perfectly fluent. “You cannot make empty threats.”
“It was not empty,” Brian growled.
“You have no force. You are injured and sick. And you have no respect for Kayano, who declared that your life be spared.”
“I—apologize,” Brian said, trying to remember his Russian in an agitated state. “Sorry.”
“Gomen nasai.”
“What?”
“Sorry. Gomen nasai,” he said more clearly.
Brian understood. He knew enough smatterings of languages to understand when he was being taught one even if he didn’t know which one it was. “Gomen nasai.”
“Good.” The man offered his own hand and helped Brian to his very shaky feet. “She is your wife?”
“Yes.”
“Not your lover? Running away?”
“No. But we are—run away,” Brian said. He should have learned more Russian. Nadezhda was so much better. “Where is she?”
“Doko. Where.”
“Doko,” Brian said, it coming out more impatiently than he would have liked.
“Follow,” said the man. “I am Tahkonanna.”
“Brian Maddox.” He reached out to shake hands, but apparently, the man didn’t know what that meant so he retracted it. “Where am I?”
Mr. Darcy's Great Escape Page 28