Mr. Darcy's Great Escape

by Marsha Altman

  “I was to present my wife,” Geoffrey said, “but I see little point now. Darling, this is my brother Gregory. Fitzwilliam is outside.”

  “I saw.” He pointed to the window, and indeed, he did have an adequate view of the coastline. “I would so like to meet him.”

  “He was very excited to learn he has an uncle,” Geoffrey said. “Though he had a few questions we could not answer.”

  Gregory just nodded. He looked older—older than he should have been. His eyes betrayed him even when his expression was stiff. He was obviously uncomfortable in Anne’s presence, and she in his. On cue, she excused herself to collect Fitzwilliam, and as soon as she was gone, Gregory sat down and leaned his head against his hand. “She is—quite beautiful.”

  “Thank you. And stop ogling my wife.”

  Gregory smiled. His hands were shaking. “I am sorry my presence upsets her.”

  “Your presence? This is your home, and we came here. Anne came of her own free will.”

  “But she has never been in the room with an insane person before.”

  “Then you have forgotten what a Town ball can be like,” Geoffrey said. However, it didn’t make Gregory’s statement any less true. “Do you want to go outside?”

  “No! No, no going outside,” his brother shouted, then slowly recovered, steadying his breathing. “If you would let me see him, bring him here.” He continued, “We have established how I am doing. How have you been?”

  “Good. Very good.”

  “You have a son. An heir. All is well in the house of Pemberley.”

  “Yes.”

  “You are lying.”

  Geoffrey looked away. “How do you know me so well?”

  “You are so easy for me to read. What did you do this time?”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “You have been known to act like one. What did you do?”

  He shook his head. Gregory was still his older brother, however infirm he might be, and could still say these things. “I have another son.”

  “The other’s name?”

  “George. After the man he thinks is his father. And his father thinks is his father. And Anne thinks is his father.”

  “George?” He frowned. “Wickham? Your steward?”

  Geoffrey put his head in his hands. “Please don’t make it worse.”

  “You have to tell her.”

  “How am I supposed to do that? How would that help? It was years ago! George is four. It was a mistake.” He added, “I’m his godfather.”

  “How appropriate.”

  “Don’t scold me!”

  Gregory stood up. “Geoffrey Darcy, you may be the master of Pemberley, you may be married to the daughter of an earl, and you may be the master of all those beneath you—but I am still your older brother. I held you in my arms the day you were born. If anyone is to say anything to you about your conduct with our parents gone, it is me!”

  For the first time in a long while, Gregory was not helpless, mad, wild, or sick. He was the older one, the bigger one, the stronger one, who towered over his cowering baby brother.

  “I can’t do it,” Geoffrey pleaded. “I can’t tell her. She loves me, and I need her to love me, for Fitzwilliam, at the very least. He should know two parents who love each other.”

  Gregory frowned, rubbing his chin. “What is right for your wife or your child? What a terrible position you’ve put yourself in.” He shrugged, letting his shoulders sink as he voluntarily put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “At least you didn’t run away from everything.”

  If either of them had further comment, it was interrupted by the return of Lady Anne and the young Fitzwilliam Darcy.

  Gregory put on a smile. “Well, well. Who do we have here?”

  ***

  1790

  “Fitzwilliam, you wait outside,” Geoffrey said as he entered the sitting room and knocked on his brother’s door. Books were piled up outside, having been stacked up by someone standing within the doorframe. When the door was opened from the inside, he discovered why. There was no room left in Gregory’s bedchambers for any more books. Every wall was lined with cases. There were stacks of them on the floor. Besides that, the desk, and the bed, there was barely room to walk. “Gregory.”

  “Geoffrey. Sit, sit!” Gregory got up from the desk, freeing the only chair for Geoffrey, who uneasily sat in it as his brother sat across from him on his bed. Geoffrey sighed. They said his brother wouldn’t leave the room, but he hadn’t expected… this. Gregory’s whole life was now confined to that little room. He looked well—for someone who never ventured out of his only door—but there was a tiredness around his eyes that Geoffrey had never seen before. He had a beard, small but already wild, and seemed to be snipping his own hair (after many good years, he was allowed sharp objects again), the results of which did not provide for a good appearance. “It has been a while.”

  “It has.”

  “Much has changed.”

  Geoffrey said nothing, but nodded.

  “I am truly sorry for your loss,” Gregory said. “I did not know her—I did not take the time. I should have—I should have let her in. I should have been open.”

  “We were only here a few hours.”

  “I scared her off. It was all my fault. She was perfect—perfect!”

  Geoffrey shook his head again. “That is not my purpose for coming here.”

  “So now you need a purpose?” Those eyes—they said so much about him. Geoffrey watched his brother retreat from him, like he did with everyone else, or had done when he’d known other people.

  “No. I didn’t mean to imply such a thing,” Geoffrey said. “I’ve been terribly remiss in visiting you—before and after Anne’s death. I should have been a better brother.” He looked back at the door. “I should have been a better father.” He sighed; his chest was so tight, his stomach full of nerves. Was this how his brother felt all the time? He had no way of knowing. He would never know. “I need your help with Fitzwilliam.”

  “With his homework? Does he want my advice about running an estate? You’ve come to the wrong person, brother. You should—” But then, it was as if the idea was a light in his head, like a match had been struck. “Oh.”

  “He is my only son, Gregory.” He swallowed. “My only son in wedlock. The only one who can inherit. I cannot—” Words failed him. He stood up and paced, even though there was very little room to do it in. “He must inherit Pemberley. You understand? This must happen.”

  “Good Lord, it is just a building—”

  “It is not just a building!” Senselessly he grabbed his brother. He knew he wasn’t supposed to do that at all, especially to Gregory, but strangely, Gregory was too surprised and weakened to oppose him. “If you had been its master like you should have been, you would remember that! Don’t you understand? You cannot do this to him!” He was shaking him—or shaking the edges of his coat. “Fitzwilliam cannot get sick!”

  The horror of it—even just spoken—was enough to knock him out of his state. He released his brother, who fell back on the bed without complaint and stepped away. “I cannot appear weak in front of him. I must be the shining example.” He leaned against the bookcase. “All of my deeds, all of my failures, all of my mistakes—they can be forgiven if they don’t fall on him. But even I am lost here.”

  “You are mistaken,” Gregory said slowly, “if you think I know what to say to him.”

  “Don’t say—what we’re both thinking,” Geoffrey said. “Tell him—I don’t care. Just talk to him. Advise him. You’ve always been wiser than me.”

  “And look where I have ended up.”

  “You would have made an excellent master of Pemberley,” Geoffrey said. “The best. If not—if you could deal with people. It could have gone so differently.” He shook his head. “Just talk to him. Or
listen to him. Anything.”

  After a pause, Gregory quietly said, “Very well. Send him in.”

  Geoffrey opened the door and went out to retrieve his son, who was pacing in the long hallway. Fitzwilliam Darcy had had his growth spurt, and was now almost as tall as his father, but he did not stand proud. He looked uncomfortable in his own skin, though most boys did at that age, when so much was happening to their bodies and minds. The transition to adulthood could make or break someone. George Wickham had already made his choices, by getting caught with one of the chambermaids. Thankfully, neither Georgiana nor Fitzwilliam were in that part of the house, and the servants had been suitably warned to say nothing while the girl was quietly dismissed. Fitzwilliam rarely spoke to anyone, much less while horizontal. In school, it was even worse. It would have given a normal father who loved his son a moment to pause. Geoffrey Darcy had sleepless nights.

  As Fitzwilliam entered his uncle’s room and shut the door behind him, Geoffrey Darcy slid down onto the floor of the empty hallway and cried.

  Chapter 37

  The Last Monk of Saint Sebald

  Cassandra Darcy was judged by both parents to be the loudest Darcy, a title formerly held by the infant Geoffrey. Nonetheless, even when Elizabeth was exhausted, Darcy never tired of the sound of her coos, murmurs, or wails. “Very well then, you feed her,” said a sleepy Elizabeth as he got up to tend to his hungry child in the early morning light.

  “Sadly, some things remain out of my own extensive capabilities,” he said, handing her to her mother. Elizabeth could not help but be relieved, not just that everything was finally in order, but that new life had awoken new life in Darcy’s eyes. He loved all of his children, but the timing of Cassandra’s arrival brought something out of him that had been asleep. The only thing missing was his sister, but her letters indicated nothing but the best. She was happy in her new home and quite occupied giving the old castle a much-needed woman’s touch. As Georgiana was still by birth a Darcy, not a single word in her letter could be doubted.

  Even though Geoffrey was eight and growing quickly, the Darcys were spared the burden of hiring a governess for a time. Grégoire was a natural teacher, and his knowledge was not just restricted to the Good Book, though that would do for the moment, with the children so young. Charles and Eliza were old enough to understand, and Anne and Edmund just liked to listen.

  “Enough for today,” he said, closing the book and shooing the children away as he saw his brother approaching. Grégoire leaned against the tree, removing his spectacles as Darcy sat down next to him.

  “You work very well with children,” Darcy said. “You should consider having some of your own.”

  “You may have this conversation with me as many times as you wish, and I will sit patiently through it, but my answer will always be the same,” Grégoire said with a smile. “I have no desire to leave the Church.”

  “I couldn’t imagine you as anything but a clergyman,” Darcy said, “but in case it passed your notice, we have a system in England where clergymen can have families.”

  “And I believe that system is full of clergymen who became so because they were a younger son and desired a living.”

  “But they do get to enjoy themselves,” Darcy said. “I heard about Munich.”

  “About the abbey? What about—oh.” Grégoire reddened under Darcy’s amused stare. “Please—it was a mistake.”

  Darcy slapped him on the back. “Manhood is not a mistake, little brother. It is a very wonderful thing.”

  “Please be silent.”

  “Why, you might even imagine it happening multiple times—”

  “Please, please, brother—”

  “Quite possibly on a regular basis—”

  “Darcy, please,” Grégoire said, covering his face with his hands. “There is more to life than the physical experience.”

  “But it is part of life.”

  Grégoire frowned. “I made a promise—to my abbot, myself, and to God. I have always believed I was meant for the contemplative life.” He added, “And I still believe it.”

  “The world doesn’t agree with you,” Darcy said. “Where can you go? Spain? Rome? Egypt? Why can you not consider Pemberley your home?”

  “Because I am not a priest. I am a monk, Darcy. I am part of a brotherhood. What brotherhood, I do not for the moment know.” He shook his head. “I cannot explain it, but I know it. It is what I stand on, as you stand with your wife and your children.”

  Darcy sighed. Somehow the question he had unknowingly been asking had been answered. “As long as you’re running to something, not away.”

  His brother smiled. “That, I assure you, is true.”

  ***

  The summer passed peacefully for the family at large, even though the world around them was in chaos. Derbyshire was quiet, and Bingley’s business was thriving under new leadership. He was back and forth between Chatton and Town, often staying at the Maddox house outside London. Georgie begged him to come along, and he could hardly deny her anything. She became especially close to her Aunt Nady. Everyone privately knew that Nadezhda would never have children, as Brian had taken her to nearly every doctor in England to confirm it. If her nieces and nephews adored her, so much the better. Brian and Bingley would sit in the office and work out the details of unloading their stock, and Georgie and Nadezhda would play in the grove.

  “Look! Look! I can do it!”

  Georgie did finally manage the handstand—for about five seconds before she went toppling over. Mugin caught her from landing flat on her back by grabbing her legs and holding her up. Fortunately she was wearing boy’s breeches underneath for this exact purpose. “Very good. Nadi-sama?”

  “I can’t do that. Very good, Miss Bingley.”

  “Heh.” Mugin released Georgie, who managed to flip back to being upright again. “Now, with one hand!”

  “Awww! Mugin-san!” Georgie groaned.

  “You must practice,” he said. “At your age I was—how old are you, Jorji-chan?”

  “Eight!”

  He looked to Nadezhda, who held up eight fingers. “Ah. Well, I don’t know what I was doing at that time, but I am sure it was hard!” He tried to stare Georgie down, who switched tactics and immediately looked up at him with her sweetest, most heart-melting expression. “You’re too clever, you know that?” he said, patting her on the head.

  “You’re a softie is what you are,” Nadezhda said. Between their accents, their English was barely understandable to the average Englishman, but Georgiana was accustomed to both of them.

  “You tell anyone, and I’ll kill you,” Mugin said. “It goes for you too, little ookami.”

  “Mugin, do you really have to leave?”

  “There is only one ship.”

  “But you can stay here! Forever! Aunt Nady’s staying!”

  “Nadi-sama is a gaijin. She belongs with her husband, in a gaijin country.”

  “Besides, I believe Uncle Brian needs my help doing… anything,” Nadezhda said. “That man needs a good woman.”

  “I need a good woman,” Mugin said. “For a night, maybe two, depending on how good she is.”

  “Mugin!”

  “What? She didn’t get it. Did you, Jorji-chan?”

  “Get what?” Georgie asked as she put her hair braids back together.

  “See?” Mugin said with a broad smile. Nadezhda just folded her arms and shook her head.

  ***

  “Daniel? Daniel!”

  Dr. Daniel Maddox groaned, moving only enough to reposition his head. “What time is it?”

  “Two in the afternoon,” Caroline said, entering his chambers. “The servants are not aware of your return time last night. They were all asleep.”

  “It was—very late,” he said. “Early. Light in the streets.”

  “The Rege
nt had a late night, I take it?”

  “His Highness always has late nights. You’d only need to read the gossip columns to know that. Which you do, as I see them crumpled up on our nightstand.”

  Caroline sat down on the bed, pushing up against him so he would make room as she scratched his head. Ever since his hair had come back in, he adored that. He was like a cat, she’d say. “He had a late night with some emergency, I mean.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, his voice still slurred from sleep. “Or perhaps he was so drunk he rather abruptly fell asleep standing and tipped onto the Prime Minister’s lap.”

  “What happened to patient confidentiality?”

  “As the man in charge of the Courier was right there, I doubt it’s confidential,” he said, turning onto his back so he could see her properly. “Is there a reason you woke me? Am I late for something?”

  “Do you know what today is?”

  He blinked. “The twenty-seventh? No, it must be the twenty-eighth—why?”

  “The twenty-eighth. Four months.”

  It took him a moment. “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  He smiled, pulling her in for a kiss. This close, he could see her perfectly. He didn’t need to; he knew Caroline. He could see her from far away, when his eyes were closed, when she was in another room—she was his wife, and he knew. “You know,” he said between kisses, “technically, this could be four—and—a half—”

  “I know,” she said. She didn’t resist being pulled down, or his hand stroking her belly. They hadn’t made it to four months since Emily, when the morning illness lessened and her body truly began to change. Once her body had made it three-and-a-half, but never four. “I want to announce it.”

  “Right now? At least let me get dressed—”

  “No, silly man—next week, when we go up for Edmund’s birthday.”

  “Oh right. Of course,” he said. “What was I thinking? I was distracted by something.”

  ***

  Anne had a few months left to her increasing, which so far had been successful. She suffered only the normal aches, pains, and illnesses of a woman with child, but she had the experienced Mrs. Collins to aid her through the worst of it, and the best doctors lined up in case anything went wrong. As she approached confinement, even the normally subdued servants hummed with excitement at the idea that Rosings and the Fitzwilliam family might see an heir. Though nervous, Lord Matlock was otherwise in the best of spirits, at least in front of his wife. Mr. Collins offered to sit in vigil, but when Grégoire mentioned fasting alongside prayer, Mr. Collins lost interest in the idea and decided to put his faith in the Lord to do what was right.