Mr. Darcy's Great Escape

by Marsha Altman

  A meek Darcy said, “Neither of us left Austria.”

  “You’re wrong,” Dr. Maddox said, still not recovered. “We brought it back here with us.”

  Outside, the rain continued unabated.

  “What do we do now?”

  Dr. Maddox lacked a prepared answer. He had only throttled one other patient, also a relative, and there he felt he was justified. He had reason to lose his head while intoxicated. He had no reason to do so with a disturbed patient. “I don’t know.”

  “So there are no doctors to heal the mind?”

  “It is not possible. In this we are quite inept.” Dr. Maddox was exhausted. Facing Darcy had reopened wounds he thought healed.

  “Then why are you still here?” Darcy’s tone was not insulting. It was more a desperate inquiry. “Why do you not leave me alone?”

  “Because if I do,” Dr. Maddox said, “we know there is only one option before us, and though it might seem a relief to you to remain confined, I will not stand to see your family—my family—suffer it.”

  Darcy stood up and walked to the window for a moment before offering his hand to the doctor, who got to his feet. Darcy couldn’t meet his eyes, distinctly looking away but in no particular direction.

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Maddox said. “I should have been more professional.”

  “It depends if you consider me a patient or a friend.”

  Dr. Maddox half-smiled. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Darcy removed his wig. “I hate this sodding thing.” He tossed it on the bed. His hair was beginning to come in again, enough to cover his head adequately, but he still looked quite different than he normally did. “I can go outside if I want to.”

  “Prove it.”

  Darcy visibly steeled himself before running out of the room. Dr. Maddox followed curiously, but not particularly quickly, as Darcy bypassed his wife, servants, and by-then curious doorman, and ran out the front doors of Pemberley, into the rain.

  “Darcy!” Elizabeth said, chasing after him.

  Dr. Maddox sighed to himself and walked up to the window, watching her disappear into the forest after her husband.

  “Are you in the habit of just letting your patients run away from you, Doctor?” Mrs. Reynolds asked next to him.

  “No,” he said, “but I suppose I can’t be expected to hold on to every one.”

  ***

  Elizabeth lost Darcy, but she never felt like she truly lost him. She knew where he would go, almost instinctually—like a child, he would go somewhere he felt safe. She knew all of his spots. He had, after all, spent the first happy months of their marriage showing her every inch of Pemberley’s vast grounds and explained every spot where he might have fallen, or played, or caught a fish. With the downpour, there were very few options. The trees did little to lessen it. But there was a shelter—near the waterfall—that was so beautiful in the summer. There had even been a bench there, but it was brought in for the winter now. She was lucky it was such a warm December. “Darcy!”

  “Go away,” he said, and she turned to her left. Her soaked husband was indeed sitting under the little wooden canopy, or had been sitting, but he rose in alarm when she approached. “Just—please. Leave me.”

  “Darcy—”

  “I don’t mean you any disrespect—”

  “I’m sure you don’t!” she shouted, which had its intentional devastating effect.

  “How can you know what I feel?”

  “Yes, sir! How, indeed, can I know if you do not tell me?”

  Darcy turned away; she was not sure in anger or in befuddlement. Even with nowhere to escape to, he was doing his best to try, but she grabbed his arm and tugged on his coat. “Darcy,” she said, softening her tone. “I am your wife of nine years, and I take it with insult that you do not share with me your concerns. Please, tell me.”

  He said nothing. He did not move, either away or closer to her. His face was partially hidden in shadow. She waited, and she lowered her hand so that it grasped his, cold and wet, and for a while, there was only the rain to make sound.

  “I cannot,” he said at last.

  “Why?”

  “I cannot explain it.”

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  He turned his head to her at last, his eyes full of desperation and surprise.

  That was enough of an answer for her. “You don’t have to be.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re ill, Darcy.”

  He whispered, “I know.”

  She reached out to embrace him, but again he shied away, going as far to the end of their shelter as he could without being soaked. More than he already was, anyway. “I told you,” she reminded him.

  “I know.” He was, it seemed, fighting his own instincts. “Lizzy, I can’t.”

  “You can’t? You can’t even touch me?” She did not let his hand go, as much as he twisted and tried to escape it. It was her last hold on him, a tether into the abyss. “Have I become too disgusting to you?”

  “No,” he stumbled. “No, of course not.”

  “Then you know your thoughts are irrational.”

  “So you presume to know them?” he spat back.

  “You are making them obvious enough, sir.”

  To this, he had no response. Actually, he did stare at her, rather blankly.

  “Do you still love me?” She wanted it to be with force; instead, it came out as a scared whimper. Damn it! She was madder at herself than him.

  “Of course,” he said, stepping closer to her.

  “As much as the day we were married?”

  “Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

  Without provocation, she crossed the length of distance between them—still considerable—and kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He was not entirely unresponsive, if a little spooked. With enough time that passed, she felt the uneasiness release from him. When she pulled away to breathe, he was still trembling. “I need you,” she whispered. “I need my husband. And don’t tell me he’s still in Transylvania, because he’s right here with me; I can feel him.” She caressed his cheeks, probably the only thing that kept him from fleeing.

  “Lizzy,” he said, “are you admitting to a weakness?”

  “Not a weakness,” she said. “A need. A want. I want you, Fitzwilliam Darcy. If you’ve been so paranoid to that end about your wife’s concerns… there, you were quite correct. I won’t stand for it any longer.” She kissed him again, more insistently, less wary of his own reaction, which this time was strong enough to illicit a response of shock. He was quite willing to be the recipient of several more, to be backed up against the rock wall, to let her hands wander and find his.

  “Lizzy,” he said. “This isn’t a good place.”

  “Would it shock you to hear that I have little care of that?”

  “Very little you could say… could shock me.”

  They removed their overcoats and spread them on the ground, which would serve its purpose. This was not their first amorous adventure beyond the bed, but this was the first time she made it abundantly clear, in words, that she wanted him—needed him—and she would not wait a moment longer.

  It didn’t matter that it was cold, raining, and quite a bit damp, even on the high terrain, under the shelter. Nothing mattered beyond husband and wife, finally together after a long separation, first physical and then mental, but ultimately dissolved.

  ***

  It was growing dark as the Darcys ran across the great lawn of Pemberley, Darcy holding his overcoat over his wife in a futile attempt to shield her from the rain. The door opened to a horrified Mrs. Reynolds. “Mr. Darcy! Mrs. Darcy! We’ve been looking for you all afternoon!” There was a slight and unintentional scolding tone to her voice, as if they were two children who had run off and gotten themselves all so
aked and muddy. They certainly must have appeared that way. “I will call the maids.”

  “Please do,” Darcy said. “We are quite exhausted, Mrs. Reynolds, and I believe my wife would like to retire for the evening. Will you have our meal sent up and have Georgiana informed of the arrangements?”

  “Of course, Mr. Darcy. We shan’t have you catching a cold. Either of you!”

  “We were caught by the weather,” Elizabeth said, a bit amused at the way Mrs. Reynolds fretted about, as it seemed to bring out a smile from Darcy.

  Her husband, smiling.

  “Is Dr. Maddox still here?”

  “He’s in the library. Since he does not know the grounds, we discouraged him from following you.”

  “Give him our thanks,” Darcy said.

  “And serve the poor man some food,” Elizabeth said.

  They did have an acute interest in returning to their chambers. As if being wetter was a good idea, both master and mistress submitted to a hot bath and then finally a dry change of clothes before the tray appeared, whereupon they dismissed everyone and shut the doors.

  They were exhausted, as could only be expected from a physically and emotionally draining day, however well it had ended. Elizabeth found that, even after hastily finishing off the meal and retiring to bed with her husband, all of her fears and worries of the past months were not so easily discharged. Darcy stroked her hair, but said nothing, lost in his own thoughts as well.

  “Did you consider sending me to Bedlam?” He sounded a bit worried, but not overly so.

  “No,” she said, resting on his shoulder. “It was thought of but not seriously considered.”

  “I do not mean to be the way I am,” Darcy said. “My father was not like this.”

  “I did not fall in love with your father,” she replied. “All things considered, I might not have wanted to. You are willing to admit your faults. Though sometimes it takes a bit of badgering.”

  She felt him laugh. Just a little, but it was enough to create a rumble in his chest.

  “Perhaps I have not been… completely rational with Georgiana,” his voice was pained, “or—anyone. But allow me to at least concede to one person at a time.”

  “Do you have any real objections to Lord Kincaid?”

  “I have objections. They keep running through my head, and I cannot dismiss them. It is very hard for me to do.”

  “Somehow you’ve already managed it. Darcy, you are stronger than you believe yourself to be. You have survived so many things—gunshot wounds, death duels, prison, and a headstrong wife—that you can survive Austria. Maybe you can survive the idea of Georgiana in love and happily married to a Scot.”

  “He has your good opinion, apparently, and your good opinion is not so easily won—”

  “It is to polite people with social abilities—”

  “—that perhaps I will concede that your judgment is better than mine in the matter of Lord Kincaid.”

  So. There it was.

  “Let me sleep on it,” he said, as she hugged him tighter. “A momentous decision should be made after a good night’s rest, preferably beside one’s wife.”

  To this, she put up no argument.

  Chapter 30

  Christmas Returns to Pemberley

  Caught between his desire not to leave Pemberley and his desire not to endure being the host of many guests, Darcy eventually mumbled to Elizabeth that she should decide with the Bingleys on the Christmas celebrations.

  “What do you want?” she asked, knowing it was not a simple question.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted after a moment. “What do you want?”

  “Well,” she said, repositioning herself on the pillows, “I think either would be good for you, and I love Christmas at Pemberley.” She leaned in. “It will be small. Just close family.”

  “So, Pemberley will be overridden by a horde of small children.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “Precisely.”

  ***

  Before the decorations were up or any guests arrived, Darcy invited and entertained a visitor at Pemberley. The winter winds had set in, but it bothered neither man as they strolled around the dying gardens. Lord Kincaid was accustomed to the northern winters, and Darcy to a cold cell. For them this was a mild fall day. Darcy took off his gloves and wrung them out as he walked. “My behavior, however indirectly to you, was of course inexcusable.”

  “The timing was poor,” Kincaid said politely, to soften it.

  Darcy stopped in his tracks and turned to Kincaid. He stumbled over his words, his usual ability at words failing him. “Georgiana is everything to me. I mean—not everything, but she is my sister.”

  “Miss Darcy has only the highest respect and admiration for you, Mr. Darcy.”

  He liked that Lord Kincaid was formal and proper about it. It made him secure in what, he had been assured many times, had been a courtship within every boundary of propriety. “I was told the circumstances of your meeting, but I’m afraid I was told a lot of things upon my return—I’m really not normally so deficient in the retention of information.” He trailed off. He had come fairly close to destroying his gloves by now. “If you would indulge me, Lord Kincaid.”

  “Happily,” he replied. “This spring I decided I could put it off no longer and came down to my session of the House. One day, I found myself quite lost in the West End, where I came upon the only familiar face I had seen since my arrival, that of Miss Darcy. It was a beautiful day, only her lady-maid escorted her, and she offered to show me on my way. I inquired as to your family and the Maddoxes, and that was our conversation. That might have been the end of it, but we ran into each other again, at the theater, where she was attending with Dr. and Mrs. Maddox, whom I got to talking to during intermission.” William Kincaid had, after all, been at their wedding. “It was on the way home that I realized that within the strictures of polite society I had no proper way of seeing her again without applying to you, but you were not in London, and so I fell into a state of despair. I asked my sister-in-law Fiona to come down, but she refuses to leave the Highlands, saying the one time she left it was to marry my brother, and what a disaster that came to be.”

  “Yes, of course,” Darcy said.

  “A few days later Dr. Maddox was good enough to invite me to dinner at his house. I did want to know how his brother was getting on—but of course, he had little idea. When Miss Darcy did come up in conversation, I said how nice it was to see her again and left it at that, even though I was eager to say more.”

  Darcy just nodded.

  “When I was invited a second time, as my home was no place to host anyone at the time, Miss Darcy was there, and we chatted. We came to a mutual understanding that we might see more of each other through the Maddoxes. We did wish to apply to you about this, but you were busy with your aunt, I believe, and she didn’t wish to—”

  “Yes, yes,” Darcy said, waving it off.

  Kincaid continued, his walking stick making a soft sound on the stone pathway. “So, unfortunately, it was all kept very quiet until you abruptly left for the Continent and Miss Darcy went with Mrs. Darcy to Kent. Not being able to write her or even run into her, I was in despair.” He tried to meet Darcy’s eyes, which was a challenge in that Darcy kept avoiding contact. “Your sister is the kindest, sweetest, most beautiful woman I have ever met. She is all goodness, and she is a great companion. It took me only a month to realize I could not do without her, and wrote to Mrs. Darcy that I happened to be in Kent. I hoped Miss Darcy would be informed, but if not, I was resigned to wait longer. I was invited to meet the new Lord Matlock and his wife, and that was when I applied to court your sister.”

  “I never thought a Darcy would fall for a Scot,” Darcy said. He wasn’t sure it was polite or why he said it, but he did.

  “I never thought I would fall in love with an Engl
ishwoman.”

  The way Kincaid called Georgiana a woman again and again—it made Darcy stir. She was five and twenty, and out—she deserved to be considered a woman, not a child. She would always be his little sister (and she would always be shorter than he was), but she was not a child. Elizabeth was right—she deserved to be treated as an adult who could make her own choices. “Are you applying for a courtship or her hand?”

  “I wish to ask her myself, first,” he said, “but I have not yet done so. This conversation should have happened in the summer and so had to happen first, did it not?”

  “Do you believe she will accept?”

  “I surely hope so. I will be heartbroken if she does not.”

  Marrying an earl was not a bad prospect for Georgiana. She would bring wealth, and he would bring land and a title, provided his estate was not in complete disrepair—which, Elizabeth assured him, it was not—further fortune in investment. Derbyshire was not so terribly far from the Lowlands—he had many Scots servants and tenants. She could easily marry farther south, far away from him. But so young? Elizabeth had been twenty when she married him.

  How long could he deny his sister something she truly wanted? She was not a little girl; this was not a flight of fancy, or did not appear so. Their courtship had apparently been long—nearly eight months—and arduous, with her moving about and his being unable to follow. All who knew him were willing to stand up and testify that he was genuinely interested in Georgiana, if not in love with her. He was young, but not too young—in his late twenties, as Darcy had been when he married. He had been an earl unofficially for almost a decade and officially under English law for several years, since the death of his brother. He was responsible, polite, and proper. He was probably within shooting distance if he ever hurt her. Despite everything that had happened in the last few months, the image of hunting down a wild Scots in a full kilt brought a smile to his face. “If she responds favorably to your query… I will consent to the marriage.”