The Darcys and the Bingleys

by Marsha Altman

  Fortunately for Daniel Maddox, he had a certain agility and ducked out of the way. Unfortunately for Brian Maddox, he had not the same agility and was still standing behind him. He gave a small gasp as the rapier went through his chest.

  Chapter 15

  Scotland the Brave

  “The bell?” Darcy said, perking up his ears.

  “I don’t like this,” Elizabeth said, and in response, her husband grabbed the metal sifter from the fireplace.

  “Please, away from the door,” he instructed, and when she stepped away, he swung at its top hinges, making a considerable indentation in the fine wooden door but not dislodging the hinges. “Damn it! This will take all night.”

  To no great surprise, his wife immediately took up a poker and swung it at the bottom set of hinges. He had no time to protest. “If only I had a hammer . . . or an axe. We’re coming, son.”

  ***

  Dr. Maddox’s first instincts, surprisingly, were to run to his brother who slumped to the ground when Kincaid pulled the blade out. Years of his profession could not undo his inclinations, and he ignored Kincaid almost entirely. Fortunately, the lord did not strike at him again. “What the hell are you—?”

  “Shut up, and get me my bag!” He looked over his shoulder. “Now!”

  “You—”

  “Do it, and I will sign your damned contract!”

  Kincaid was not prepared for this precise situation and somewhat numbly kicked the bag over to Maddox, keeping his blade up. The doctor tore it open and spilled the contents onto the floor next to his brother who he slapped on the face. “Stay with me.” Brian’s response was to cough as his brother took scissors and cut his shirt away, revealing a hole in his chest near the collarbone. Blood was running but not gushing, which meant the artery was missed, but as it was also pooling beneath him, he had been pierced straight through. He probed the wound, and his brother gasped. “Oh, be quiet. You brought this on yourself.” It was hard to tell if the lung had been hit, but he could do nothing for that, anyway. He went for his needle and thread and immediately began lacing it up.

  “Maddox—”

  “You can try to kill me, too, if you want,” Maddox said, without turning to look at the man who had the rapier pressed against the doctor’s back. “But that is your decision, and clearly I cannot stop you either way, so in the meantime, my brother will live to see the day when I can properly slap him in the face for this if I can possibly help it.”

  “I could go after Caroline.”

  “Touch her, and I’ll kill you,” said a voice from behind. It was Charles Bingley in his nightclothes, brandishing a walking stick, which he swung at Kincaid. Despite being an accomplished outdoorsman, he was easily parried by the lord, who, unfortunately, caught the stick and used it to bash Bingley on the head. The master of Chatton dropped to the ground in a heap and did not stir.

  “One patient at a time!” was all Maddox said in response as he began to sew up his brother. “Please!”

  ***

  “All right,” Darcy said, looking at the prospect of a door with the area around both its hinges nearly destroyed. “I think I can push it open.”

  “With your shoulder? Alone? Absolutely not!”

  “Lizzy—” But one look from her silenced him. “Fine. On three. One . . . two . . . three!” Together they slammed their combined weight into the door, and it finally came loose, freeing the Darcys from their prison.

  “Geoffrey!” Elizabeth cried as they rushed to the nursery, which was just down the hall, only to find the door locked. “Keys!”

  Darcy fumbled through his set of keys and found the correct one, which successfully unlocked the door, which had not been bolted.

  “Mr. Darcy! Mrs. Darcy!” Nurse, barely awake, curtseyed. “I was woken by that terrible noise, but I couldn’t—”

  “Open the door, yes,” Darcy said as his wife rushed to her son’s cradle where he was fast asleep.

  “My darling,” Elizabeth said as she took her son into her arms. “My baby. Darcy, my baby.”

  Darcy put his arms on his wife’s shoulders and made his own inspection of his son who was now waking from the commotion. “I think he is all right. Whatever is the matter, it is not with Geoffrey.” He kissed his son and then his wife, who was still sobbing. “I must find the cause of all this. Please, stay here and keep the door shut to anyone suspicious—especially Mr. Maddox.” He turned to Nurse. “Watch over them.”

  “Darcy—”

  “I love you,” he responded, and left the nursery. The hallway was silent except for the banging on the door to Georgiana’s room. “Georgiana!” he said and quickly unlocked her door, which was of course locked.

  “Brother!” she screamed as she emerged, also in her nightgown and robe, and hugged him. “What is going on? I heard all this noise!”

  “I have no idea what is the matter, but you should go to the nursery and stay with Elizabeth.”

  “Is she all right? Is my nephew all right?”

  “They are fine, just understandably upset. She woke and found our door barred, and we had to destroy it to get it open.” He said very firmly, “Go to her, and stay there unless I call or there is a fire.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Go, please.”

  She did as she was told. Since there were no more banging doors, that left the guest wing, servants’ quarters, and that business about the bell. Something was afoul in the halls of Pemberley, and its master would not stand for it. Instead of going to the front door, he took a sword from the wall above the fireplace in a sitting room and followed his instincts to the guest wing.

  The scene before him was inexplicable. Dr. Maddox knelt on the floor next to his fallen brother, covered in blood, sewing him up as women seemed to embroider things, if those things involved human flesh. Standing over him, a roguish-looking Lord Kincaid held a rapier. Behind him, an unconscious Bingley slumped on the floor.

  “Mr. Darcy,” Kincaid said, “somehow I thought our paths would cross again.”

  “Despite some people’s inclinations for revenge, I, in fact, never cared to see you again,” Darcy said, raising his weapon. “I do not associate with filth.” He did, it seemed, fence filth, despite his inclination not to. He had two wounded men on the ground, one who needed his concentration, and a lot of people missing, and he knew that even with an uninjured right arm he had not the stamina for a long battle, having expended almost all of his energy just getting the bedchamber door open. He was already breathing heavily, and he hoped Kincaid did not notice this, but if their previous matches were any indication, he was an observant man. “I have no idea as to how you managed this, but I will be a great host and will give you the chance to leave Pemberley now, unharmed, to contend only with the proper authorities and the miserable weather.”

  “And do you think in your state that you can best me if we were to duel?”

  “I believe in my state that I can try,” he answered with his usual determination. And that was when they both heard the great battle cry that overruled further conversation. Both fighters were distracted long enough to properly see the man in the great tartan cloth swinging from a chandelier and landing next to Darcy.

  “For the Bonny Prince!” cried the man, in full antique Highland costume—great kilt, white shirt, and a blue beret. He was carrying a wooden circular shield and a basket-hilted claymore. “God, I’ve always wanted to do that!”

  “William?” Kincaid finally stuttered.

  William took his place beside Darcy, holding up his sword and his shield. “Lord Darcy of Pemberley, I assume?”

  “Mr. Darcy, thank you.” With two swords now to face Kincaid, Darcy felt a bit more confident, especially because he could barely hold his own sword up. “Might I inquire—”

  “Lord William Kincaid,” he said.

  “My brother,” Kincaid said, “making a fool of himself, apparently. Where did you even get that? Aren’t great kilts still illegal?”

  “I knew I’d catch up with you
sooner or later,” William Kincaid said. “This is for Fiona, brother.”

  Apparently, Lord Kincaid—the villain of the two—had been holding back at the club in Town, because he was a sufficiently accomplished swordsman to parry not one but two blades and to avoid tripping over Bingley’s body in the process. It was only when he was bashed from behind with a broom that he gave pause long enough to strike properly, and he practically fell into both of their blades. As he fell first on his knees, then straightforward to the floor, behind him appeared Caroline Bingley, wielding her impromptu weapon.

  “Miss Bingley!”

  “Caroline!” Dr. Maddox looked up long enough from his gruesome work to replace his glasses and turn to her. “Are you all right?”

  “Is my brother all right?” she asked, and motioned to Bingley. Darcy dropped his weapon and ran to Bingley, turning him over. Charles Bingley groaned as he returned to consciousness, clutching his head.

  “Bingley, are you all right?” Darcy said, kneeling beside him.

  “I—I think so. Did I miss it?”

  Darcy’s response was a look. He turned impatiently to Dr. Maddox who turned away from his brother and to Lord Kincaid the elder. “Help me turn him over, please—someone.”

  William and Darcy helped flip Lord Kincaid over, and Caroline gasped and fell against the wall. “Is he alive?”

  “Yes,” Maddox said, pulling his shirt open. Kincaid responded by unintentionally coughing up blood in his face. “But both his lungs are pierced. I cannot repair organs. Lord Kincaid, I am sorry to give my prognosis—”

  “How long does he have?” Darcy interrupted.

  “I don’t know. Not long.”

  “He will not . . . he will not die on Pemberley grounds,” Darcy said, losing a bit of composure to exhaustion. “No offence, Lord Kincaid, but your brother is—”

  “A rogue, I know,” said William Kincaid. “I will take him if someone will show me the way.”

  “I will,” Darcy said, and before anyone could protest, he continued, “I am the only one of us who knows the extent of Pemberley. If he must die in Derbyshire, it will not be on any great estate.” He handed the set of master keys to the recovering Bingley. “Go to the servants’ quarters and unlock them or unbar them or whatever must be done. And tell Elizabeth all is . . . well. Doctor, does your brother need more tending?”

  “Yes, I must repair his back or he will bleed to death.”

  “Then do so. The servants should be along to aid you.” And with that, Darcy turned to William, who took his dying brother over his own shoulders, and the two of them ran down the main stairs, Bingley following them and turning off to the servants’ quarters.

  Dr. Maddox turned back to his brother with grim expression. “Brian?” Brian did not respond in words but in a coughing sputter. “Stay with me. I am going to flip you over.” But he found it was not an easy task to do. Another pair of arms helped him. “Caroline—”

  “What?”

  “I can’t—you shouldn’t see this,” he said, as he prepared the scissors to cut away the back of Brian’s shirt. “It’s . . . unpleasant.”

  “Not ladylike?”

  “Really—I—I must insist—”

  She responded by handing him his pliers with an indignant scowl.

  “I love you,” he said, and went to his work.

  ***

  “Let me understand,” Mr. Bennet said as he sat in the parlour in his bed robe, being served tea by a harried servant. On the couch sat his daughter who would not release her grip on her son, who had fallen back to sleep in her arms. Next to her, Bingley was tended by the servants and sat with an ice pack on his head. Beside him, a nervous Georgiana wrung her hands as they all waited for Darcy and Lord William Kincaid to return. “Not only did I sleep through being locked in my room and the return of the infamous ill-willed suitor, but I also missed a Highland battle in the halls of Pemberley?”

  “Yes, Papa. Though it is my own fault for not rushing to unlock your door. I only went to the nursery, and Darcy to Georgiana, and then . . .” Elizabeth said. “Come to think of it, Mr. Bingley, was your door not locked?”

  “It was.”

  “And Miss Bingley’s?”

  “I did not ask her.”

  “So . . . you broke down your door?”

  “No,” he said, repositioning the ice pack. “I picked the lock.” He was not prepared, with the innocence of his phrasing, for the stares he was to receive. “What? Is there some reason why a respectable English gentleman should not know how to pick a lock?” The looks were enough of a response, and he sighed and leaned back. “Can I tell the story at a time when my head is not ringing like the inside of a church tower?”

  They barely had time to agree to his terms when the master of Pemberley reappeared in the heated parlour, soaking wet and looking as if he would topple right over. This time there was a horde of servants to attend to him before he could even be seated in an armchair with a tub of water put beneath his feet and covered in blankets.

  “Lord James Kincaid is no longer with us,” he announced with the appropriate gravity. “The constable will be here in the morning or whenever he can make his way here to look into the matter.” After all, a member of the nobility, even as an escaped criminal, was dead, and it was hard to determine who exactly had killed him.

  “I should send word to Jane,” Bingley said. “But I was waiting for—Caroline.” The last bit was meant as a greeting, as Miss Bingley entered with a shawl obviously covering a gown that was bloodstained. Bingley succeeded in rising to greet his sister. “How are you?”

  “I? I am fine,” she said with her usual dignity, marred only by fatigue. Dr. Maddox appeared behind her wearing a different shirt.

  “Doctor.” Bingley greeted him, and Darcy himself rose before collapsing back into his chair again. “Your brother—”

  “I’ve done all I can. We will have to wait it out, but I think he will be fine.”

  “Until the constable arrives,” Darcy mumbled.

  “As master of Pemberley, you may press what charges for theft that you wish, but Caroline and I have agreed not to pursue the matter further. You may take my word on it when I say he is suffering enough as it is for his crimes.”

  As they would later learn from other sources, Brian had asked, then demanded, then begged for his brother’s legendary opium concoction, and Dr. Maddox had very uncharacteristically refused his patient’s request every time.

  Chapter 16

  The Chief of Clan Kincaid

  Jane Bingley arrived at Pemberley with exceptional speed, even when the missive containing the current events did not ask her attendance. With the lateness of the hour, only her sister was there to greet her in the doorway. “Lizzy.”

  “Jane.”

  They embraced, and for a moment, no words were spoken.

  “Everyone is all right,” Elizabeth said, clearly meaning “everyone relevant.” “Papa has just retired, and I’ve put Geoffrey to bed.”

  “My husband?”

  “Oh, it’s my fault,” Elizabeth said, putting her hands over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have let them go.”

  “Go?”

  “The men, into a room to discuss things with Lord Kincaid—the younger brother of James Kincaid. I shouldn’t have left them alone.”

  “Lizzy,” Jane asked, “Whatever do you mean?”

  ***

  Behind closed doors in the parlour, four gentlemen sat around a small table, which was now loaded almost to capacity with wine and whiskey bottles. Mugs and glasses had been nearly forgotten, and there was quite a bit of drinking straight from the bottle, but at the moment, three of the men were cheering the fourth on as Darcy finished the contents of the drinking horn with a long gulp and promptly collapsed back in his chair, the horn hanging by its chain around his neck, a dazed expression on his face.

  “Cheers!” Bingley raised his empty glass.

  “To the new chief of Clan Kincaid!” said William Kincaid,
still in Highland garb but having lost his hat when he tipped over. “Chief . . . wha’s his name again?”

  “Darcy,” offered Maddox, who was having trouble trying to balance an empty bottle on his palm upside down.

  “Chief Darcy! Hail to the Chief!”

  “Silly man,” Darcy said. “Listen to how he says ‘to.’ ‘Heil too tha Chief!’” he said, doing his best to imitate the Scottish burr. “Is there a rule for how long I must contain the wine?”

  “Shut up, English! And what kind of English name is Darcy, anyway?”

  “’s French,” slurred Darcy. “Dah’arceee.”

  “What? You’re not even a proper Englishman? Then what’s all this nonsense about?” He turned to Maddox, grabbing him by the arm with an unintentionally harsh twist. “You—you’re English, right?”

  “By birth,” Maddox said, taking a deep breath so he could speak clearly. “But . . . you know . . . the name is not . . . ’s Welsh.”

  “I’m English!” Bingley protested, raising his glass again.

  “You?” Darcy said. “Look at you. Look at your hair, man! You’re as Irish as . . . as . . . a famous Irishman. I can’t be bothered with th’ history!”

  “He probably has peat bogs growin’ in his backyard,” William said.

  “Hey!” Bingley said, pointing at the Scotsman to his left. “Hey!” he repeated, apparently not completely in his full wits. “Hey, stop it!”

  “So none of us are proper English?” Maddox inquired.

  “Aye,” said William. “To the Bonnie Prince! To the Jacobites!”

  “Didn’t your prince escape by dressing as a woman?” Darcy said smugly, rocking back on his chair.

  “Stop being so smart all the time!” Bingley said. He slammed his hand on the table, which rattled the bottles. “You—you Frenchman! Go back to Napoleon!”