Mr. and Mrs. Bingley arrived the next morning, bringing the Maddox children with them. They entered a very tense house and a desperate situation. Elizabeth announced it by running up and hugging Jane when she emerged exhausted from the carriage. The mistress of Pemberley and Rosings finally let her emotions flow on her sister’s shoulder as Lord Fitzwilliam brought a stunned Bingley up to date. Upon hearing the news, Bingley embraced his sister.

“I haven’t told the children,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t know what to say to them. Anne has agreed to distract them. And Lydia knows nothing.”

“Lydia?”

“She made a surprise visit.”

Jane didn’t question it. The children were embraced by their mother, and then herded inside as the adults gathered. Bingley immediately offered the obvious.

“Bingley, you cannot go,” Fitzwilliam said.

“Both of those men are my brothers!”

“And your legal connections to them are undoubtedly thorough,” Fitzwilliam said. “In fact, they are somewhat relying on you to stay alive if they do not. Besides, do you speak any languages of the Continent?”

“Not immediate Europe,” Bingley said, “except Latin. But I do think my Hindi is coming along -”

“Charles,” Caroline said, in her way that normally meant, ‘Shut up, Charles.’ Charles looked to his wife for sympathy, and she embraced him, but said nothing.

Lord Fitzwilliam turned to his wife, taking her hands in his. “It seems that despite leaving the army, I must engage in one last campaign.”

“Lord Fitzwilliam!”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam!”

“Richard!”

But he was not all perturbed. “Is everyone done shouting my various names now? Clearly it has to be me, if anyone is to go of immediate relation. I have knowledge of French and am accustomed to traveling in hostile circumstances.”

“I will go with you,” Caroline Maddox said, preparing herself for the courses of exclamations that followed it.

“If I cannot go, then you certainly cannot!” Bingley said.

“Charles,” Caroline said in a way that only the former Caroline Bingley could talk to her brother, “I’ve been to Berlin and I speak German and French. Colonel - excuse me, Lord Fitzwilliam - do you speak German?”

“No,” he said, not looking particularly pleased with how serious she looked about the idea.

“If Mrs. Maddox is going,” Elizabeth said, “then I am going.”

“Yes, terrific. Why don’t we all just take a holiday in a battlefield?” Caroline said.

“You said you wanted to go!”

“I have good reason to!”

“So do I! My husband isn’t even supposed to be in Austria!”

“If she’s going, I’m going,” Charles said.

“Charles!” Caroline and Jane said in exact concert.

“I sense this would be easier if we all drew straws,” Fitzwilliam said with a frown to his wife, who was not so half-flippant about it when she reappeared, having traded duties with Georgiana. “Sorry if we’re being nonsensical, darling.”

“I am not being nonsensical,” Caroline defended. “This is my husband and I have a valuable contribution to make to the journey!”

“And this is my husband we are discussing as well!” Elizabeth said. “I will not sit back and be a spectator any longer!”

“Lizzy!” Jane said, but was ignored.

“Who will run Rosings?”

“Rosings has been functioning on its own for years,” Elizabeth said, “and can remain open even if the Mistress - which, sadly, is me - takes a small journey while other relatives remain.”

“Small journey!”

“If everyone will stop shouting,” Fitzwilliam said, “I will say that I will go, and anyone who foolishly wants to come, I don’t believe I can stop you. However, I would prefer if we are not carting the entire family to Prussia, children and nurses and all!” With that he stormed off, Anne following him with a desperate attempt to talk him out of it.

“I am still going,” Caroline said definitively.

“And your children?” Charles countered.

“Louisa and Mr. Hurst are their godparents. They can stay with them in Town.”

“They cannot be without their mother!”

“They cannot be without their father, either,” she replied coldly. “I will not sit by uselessly any longer!” With that, she rose and stormed off in the opposite direction in a huff. Charles put his face in his hands, and Jane put a hand on his shoulder.

“She’ll come to her senses,” she said. “Just like Lizzy will. Lizzy?” But Jane did not receive the look from her sister that she wanted. “What is it about this house that makes everyone nonsensical?”

To that, she received no response.

***************************************

Dr. Maddox was tired of darkness. The choice stood before him - keeping his eyes closed in a perpetual night, or looking out into a blur that contained some light. He could see as far as his arm fully extended, but no further. If he leaned close enough to the bars between them, he could make out more than the shape of Darcy, rather than when Darcy turned away, or was on the other side of his cell.

He had a system. Every time he found a fresh plate of food, he made a mark on the stone wall behind him with a combination of spit and dirt from the ground.

“How long as it been?”

Darcy’s voice startled him. Darcy was on the other side of his own cell and therefore out of range. Maddox had assumed he was asleep. “I - it depends how often they feed us. And the first few days - week, maybe, I was not recording.”

“How many marks, then?”

“Do you really wish to know?”

“Yes, doctor. I really wish to know.”

He double-checked his count. “Fifty-two.”

There was no sound of surprise or shock from Darcy. Instead, he said nothing. Maddox pulled the blanket tighter around him. That was one notion of the passage of time - it was considerably colder than it had been at their arrival, where at some point, blankets had appeared with food. They were not warm enough and Darcy’s cough persisted.

“So, your turn,” Maddox said. “What other dark secrets do you have?”

Darcy laughed softly. Dr. Maddox could tell he was out of sorts. Not that either of them were in peak physical or mental condition, but when the throbbing pain died down in his hand, and he pressed his head up to the bars so he was close enough to see Darcy clearly, he saw a man who was deeply unsettled. It bothered him that he was doing most of the talking. Not that Darcy was known to ramble on and on - the very opposite, in fact - but it was no good to both of them when they sat in silence. The walls around them were too small to start closing in.

“Come on, Darcy,” he said, pressing against the bars. “Talk to me.”

“I think you know everything I wish to tell.” Darcy added, “You know everything about me.”

“Not everything -”

“You’ve been watching me while I sleep. I know it.”

Maddox shivered. “I will challenge that assumption by two methods. First, if you were asleep, you would not be able to tell in which direction I was looking. Second, you know full well I can’t see you when you are that far away.”

“So you say.”

This, the doctor could not counter, because Darcy had said it with such an unsettling severity that it hung in their shared prison. It was Darcy who actually spoke first, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I shouldn’t have -,” he rubbed his beard. “You were trying to pass the time for both our benefits and I brushed you off. It is not how a gentleman behaves.”

“It was my fault. I asked you for a dark secret. I only meant it in jest.”

“I should have seen that. I’m sorry, doctor - I have ... other thoughts.” He did not want to explain what he meant by that, and he changed conversation immediately. “You promise you will not say a word?”

“Darcy, we’ve said that to each other half a dozen times over the last -”

“Say it.”

Maddox sighed, and turned back against the wall. “I promise.”

Darcy did not speak for a long time. Dr. Maddox suspected him of nodding off, as they both had a habit of doing, until he finally spoke, “My father was not the real heir to Pemberley. He had an older brother.” He chuckled. “Grégoire was named after him. I just realized that. It had simply not occurred to me before.”

“His name was Gregory?”

“Yes.” Again, a long pause before Darcy continued, “I met him twice. Once when I was five or six, and again the summer before my second year at Eton.”

“Where did he reside?”

Darcy answered, “In a private lodging on the Isle of Man. He was sent there when he was about twenty or so - I’m not quite sure. My father rarely mentioned him.” Again, that sick laugh. “When I asked the housekeeper about him, the old one before Mrs. Reynolds, she said he had died - and she really believed it, from falling off a horse or something. That was how elaborate the ruse was.”

Dr. Maddox, now beginning to piece together the situation, merely said, “What was the diagnosis?”

“Monomania.”

“Was he really ill or did the family just want him gone?” That was often the case with troublesome relatives, if a scandal could be avoided.

“He was ill,” Darcy said. “I don’t know what monomania even means.”

“It means nothing. How was he ill?”

“I don’t know the whole of it. He got along quite well with my father when we visited, actually, and my mother. He could carry on a conversation and I remember wondering what he was doing, locked in this tiny apartment on an island when he should have been the master of Pemberley. I thought my parents had conspired against him.”

“But they had not.”

“No. I asked him if they had - you know, children, they say whatever they please. Geoffrey certainly does. He told me that it was not true - that my father was a good man for sending him away. He liked being away, even if all of his nurses were trying to poison him.”

Maddox said nothing.

“The second time I saw him, I had just returned from my first year at Eton. My marks were good, but I had a rough year. I had no friends and I tried to run away - twice. The second time, I got as far as Lambton - five miles from home - before they found me! My father gave me a talking-to, I will tell you that. He wasn’t being cruel - he was just being a father. He told me about all of my social responsibilities. Then, some weeks later when I thought it was mainly forgotten, my father took me to the island to see Uncle Gregory. He didn’t explain why, but he left me with him for a long time. Much longer than when I was a small boy.”

His tale apparently halted, Maddox pried him, “What did you talk about?”

“Everything and anything. He was adept at conversation one moment, silent the next. And he was older and sicker than I remembered - his hair was white and he told me...” he paused. “He told me never to trust anyone. Ever. He said the bigger and richer and handsomer I got, the worse it would be. Everyone just wanted my money or my body or my connections or me, dead. He grabbed me and shook me as he said this. I was bigger and stronger than he was, but I was terrified, so I let him do it. And then he just started crying and did not recover.” Darcy sighed. “He hung himself the following week, on his birthday.”

“I’m sorry.”

Darcy made a movement but from the distant, it was unclear whether it was a shrug or not. “No one knows. The secret died with my mother and father. Georgiana doesn’t know, Elizabeth doesn’t know, none of the Fitzwilliams, even Lady Catherine, know. His name was removed from the records, his portrait burned. There’s not a trace of Gregory Darcy to be found in Pemberley. To avoid a scandal that would ruin the family, of course. Even I understood that, naïve as I was at the time. My prospects would be lessened if it were known that I had a mad uncle. I thought - over the years - about telling someone. Georgiana, certainly. Elizabeth would keep the secret. I despise keeping secrets from Lizzy. But - he made it clear to me in our last meeting that he wanted to die in obscurity, so I decided to let him.” His head clearly turned in Maddox’s direction. “Does that make me a terrible person?”

“Every family has a skeleton or two in the closet,” Maddox said diplomatically. “I still don’t know why my uncle severed contact with my father. All of my memories of my father were happy ones. Brian might know; he might not. I never thought to ask him before he went away. When I was destitute - when Brian left, and his creditors were beating me and taking all of my earnings, and I couldn’t make my rent, I went to my uncle in his estate. I had never been there before, even though both my parents are buried there. I tried to talk to him, but I was refused entrance. I only met my cousin - his son, the current Earl of Maddox - a few years ago at a party, and he does not seem to know the reason himself. Another secret too well kept.”

“Too many secrets,” Darcy said. “I wish my father had told me about Wickham and Grégoire - but especially Wickham. He wrecked so much havoc that could have been prevented - if we knew we were brothers. No matter how despicable he may have been, he would never have tried to seduce his own half-sister.” Darcy’s voice was wavering, not from weakness, but as if he was on the edge of tears. “But some things have to remain hidden. When will you tell your son?”

The question did not require an explanation. “When he’s old enough to know. We don’t know when that will be, but we both dread it. Hopefully, it won’t be until the facts of biology are explained to him, and he realizes he could not have been born two weeks before his twin sister.”

“Who are the parents?”

“His mother ... his mother was a lady - well, the kind of lady that not many would call a proper lady. You understand? I hate having to say it. She deserves more respect than that.”

Darcy nodded. “I understand.”

“Her name was Lilly, and I knew her professionally - I used to treat men who fell ill where she worked, usually from drink or heart attacks. That was how I met Frederick’s father as well. I treated him for a minor wound on his chest. Never asked him his name. I found out later.” He shook his head. “After Frederick was born, Lilly became very ill, and her matron called for me. She had childbed fever, very advanced. She was dead within a few hours. And then, for reasons I’ll never understand, Caroline showed up in this horrible flat in the worst part of London, picked up the child, and said ‘We’re taking him.’ And that was that.”

“Did you contact the father?”

“He made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with his bastard son. Though, he still sends him a gift on his birthday every year. It scares both of us. The thought that he could come in at any time and take Frederick away from us - our son - is...” He put his head in his good hand. “You understand.”

“I understand.”

Dr. Maddox sighed. “At least he has the good fortune to not inherit my vision. I’m told it happens less often in women, so Emily may escape. We won’t know for sure until her teenage years.”

“Some things are beyond our control.”

“So I would comfort myself after a patient died during an operation that I performed,” Maddox said, “even if he was living when I started and dead when I stopped.”

After a while, Darcy said, “Why did you become a doctor?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I wanted to save my eyesight. Not so altruistic, is it? But I suppose you can’t expect that of someone who is four and ten.”

“Considering the doctors who seem to only cheat their patients with expensive tonics, I would consider you a saint by those standards,” Darcy said. “They are cheating them, right?”

“For the most part, yes. A giant scam. They make tons of money.”

“What’s in them?”

“In what?”

“The tonics?”

“Oh, I don’t know - they change the recipes every once in a while. Usually water, something with color, and maybe salt.”

Darcy laughed. It was not a particularly healthy laugh, but it was nice to hear it.

It was better than sitting in silence.

***************************************

Nothing was fully resolved that evening, as Lord Fitzwilliam began to make his own preparations for the journey. Caroline Maddox held her position quite firmly, to the point where it seemed likely that she would not listen to anyone. Elizabeth held her own counsel, undecided herself.

Abandon Darcy, or abandon her children? She was damned either way.

With that in mind she prepared for bed, and was just entering it when there was a knock on the door. “Come.”

The door opened. It was Geoffrey, standing in her doorway. “Mother?”

She rose from her bed, unsure of what to say.

Instead, he took the lead. “I know you have to go rescue father,” he said, with some trepidation, but no accusation.

She opened her arms to him, and took a seat on the bed, enveloping him in her robe. “I am still debating it.”

“You’re not. You’re going to go,” he said. “You should go.”

“You think I should?”

He nodded. He was getting so big now, he barely fit in her lap, and she could still remember when he had been a tiny bundle in her arms. “If I was Father I would want you to come rescue me. You’re the only one who makes him happy.”

She smiled, but it exhausted her. All of her worries, fears, and other emotions threatened to overwhelm her, but she could not cry now, when she had to be strong for the boy in her arms and for the man very far away. “You are very considerate of your father’s feelings.”

“But, I don’t want to be master of Pemberley,” he said, leaning back so their eyes could meet. “Can Uncle Bingley be master of Pemberley for a while instead?”

“Uncle Bingley cannot be master of three places, my dear,” she said. “I fear his head would explode.”

Geoffrey laughed. He had a hole in his smile, where one of his baby teeth had fallen out and the new one had not grown in yet. It made her heart melt, and she kissed him on his head. “You do not have to be master of Pemberley. Yet.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“And you promise to come back with Father?”

“Geoffrey,” she said more seriously, “I can promise to do all that I am capable of to return him, but you are old enough to know that I cannot do everything.”

“But you can try.”

“Yes, darling,” she said. “I can try.”

Chapter 15 – Further Departures

Arrangements had to be made for those leaving the country, however reluctantly their relatives would let them go. The biggest problem facing Elizabeth was her sister, who was more than a little reluctant to leave her spacious quarters at Rosings (“I don’t see why we have to!”) and return to Longbourn. Anne stayed with her mother, and Elizabeth made sure not to be present when they told Lady Catherine the news. She heard the shouting from downstairs, even with the thick walls of Rosings.

Geoffrey was right; she was decided. She could not justify leaving her children, but nor could she bear to sit back any longer. She had been alone for too long, except for the child who would go with her. That, at least, she had had the good sense to keep a secret.

Am I putting the child in danger? Yes. But I can’t have this child without Darcy.

That, in the end, decided the matter.

The Bingleys, assuming care of her children, stopped in Town on the way back from Kent to see her off and make yet more futile attempts to talk her out of it. The Hursts would stay in the Bingley townhouse, which was regularly kept open for Bingley’s own comings and goings, even though he and Jane would officially reside at Kirkland and Georgiana at the Darcy house.

One more awkward conversation was needed. Lord Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Darcy stood before a tense Miss Darcy.

“If – and the chance is so very small – I do not return in time, you know the arrangements?” He was, after all, still her guardian for another few months. “When you turn one and twenty, you may marry as you please, and the inheritance is yours.”

“Mr. Bingley will be Geoffrey’s steward until he comes of age,” Elizabeth said, “but it will not come to that.”

“Please,” Georgiana said, oddly calmly, “make sure that it doesn’t.”

***************************************

After heartfelt good-byes from the Bingleys at the docks, the three travelers watched England disappear behind them. They were straight to Prussia – not the short trip to France that Elizabeth had once taken across the strait. Slowly their home became a blur in the mist, and then it was gone.

Elizabeth Darcy and Caroline Maddox’s unspoken truce of joint worry lasted a full five minutes beyond that. All things considered, Elizabeth would later think that impressive.

Lord Fitzwilliam had just gone below deck when Caroline turned to Elizabeth and said, “You are in my debt.”

“How so?”

“You and I both know no one would have permitted you along if they knew you were with child,” Caroline said coldly. “You are putting yourself in unnecessary danger.”

Elizabeth’s hand instinctively went to her stomach, though it looked to a more casual observer as though she was just adjusting her shawl against the windy ocean. “If you object so much, why did you not say something?”

“I didn’t think it prudent.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. She knew she was lying. “As long as you don’t say anything to Fitzwilliam –”

“Why? Because he would have you sent home, where you should be now?”

“My husband is in Austria, as well. Perhaps you have forgotten.”

“At least I offer some service to the cause.”

“Lord Fitzwilliam could easily hire a guide. He was just unwilling to stand up to you.”

Maybe for someone else, it would have been a compliment, but not for Caroline Maddox. She huffed and faced out again. There was no more land to look at, but it was easier than looking at each other.

“Are we going to fight the whole way?” Elizabeth said.

“I suppose.”

“Because I warn you, I am not in the best of moods these past three months.”

“Neither have I been,” Caroline responded quickly. She sighed, and then replied more softly. “You should not have come.”

“If all you intend to do is raise further objection –”

“Do you want to miscarry again?”

It took all of Elizabeth’s strength not to slap her. Instead she buried her red-hot cheeks in her hands. “What would you know of it?”

“More than you.”

Elizabeth looked finally up at Caroline, only to find her face not so harsh, not that perfect sculpture of a composed woman as she normally was. But she could not bring herself to ask.

Finally, Caroline answered, trying to maintain her composure. “I have been pregnant four times since my marriage. At my age, I was lucky that one survived past the first few months.”

She was genuinely shocked. “Why has no one heard of this?”

“Because the only people I have told have been Louisa and Charles.” She looked away so Elizabeth couldn’t see her expression. “Daniel said it’s perfectly normal. He is so understanding, but it must trouble him. How could it not?”

As much as she hadn’t particularly been inclined to any attention outside of her sister and her husband, Elizabeth at least had had the comfort of her family around with the abrupt failure of her second pregnancy. Caroline, an intensely private woman, had denied herself that. “...I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing for you to be sorry for.”

“You’re not –”

“No. Daniel had the good sense not to leave me in such a state, even if he had not the sense to not go in the first place.” She recovered, her voice more steady. “If I do happen upon Brian again and it is not to everyone’s rescue, I will take great pleasure in slapping him.”

“On this we can agree.”

To Elizabeth’s surprise, Caroline managed a half-smile.

“Perhaps we can agree also to at least be polite to each other. For Lord Fitzwilliam’s sake.”

“For his sake,” she said, and they shook on it.

***************************************

They arrived on the Continent and traveled to Berlin without incident, but found no trace of Darcy or either Maddox brother. It was not as dangerous to walk openly as an Englishman as they had surmised from at home. “An occupied country is never happy about it,” Fitzwilliam said as they made it to Berlin. Despite the anti-French sentiments of the general populace, they could find no traces of Darcy or Maddox’s visit there. Nor did anyone seem to know or care about some corner of Austria. After much talking, they decided that instead of a straight shot, they would make their way to Bavaria and try to recover Grégoire, and purchased a wagon and trained horses for their travels, as uncomfortable as they would be.

“I believe it to be called the Confederacy of the Rhine now,” said Caroline, examining a Prussian newspaper.

“What is this nonsense? Boney can’t redraw the map every year and expect us to keep up with it,” Fitzwilliam said in mock-indignation. “We’re going south and that is that.”

Lord Fitzwilliam’s easy manners at least put some levity in their long drive, made gloomier and bumpier by the well-traveled roads of Napoleon’s army on its way to Russia. They drove often through the night, with one or two people sleeping in the wagon on multiple blankets.

“Look, there, Elizabeth,” Fitzwilliam said, pointing her in the direction of fire lighting up the horizon of the night sky. The moon was in full wane and there was not much light otherwise. “French soldiers encamped. I heard the general is moving five hundred thousand across Europe to fight the czar.”

“Lord Fitzwilliam! Do you mean to frighten me?”

“No,” he said, “I feel merely compelled to point out that we are literally crossing over what will soon be history. And to think, if not for Anne, I would be now preparing to fight them.”

“You think England will go to war?”

“While Bonaparte still lives, it is a certainty,” he said. “The question is when. But you must admit that is not a sight you see so often in Derbyshire.”

“Or Kent,” she lamented. “Were the circumstances different, I might be at ease to appreciate this, but I find I cannot.”

“Of course,” he said. “He’ll be all right, Elizabeth.”

She wished she could so easily believe him.

They stopped only when the horses needed to. While Elizabeth got her full of the German landscape, which had mountains to dwarf everything but what she had seen in Italy, Caroline read from the only book she had taken. At first Elizabeth assumed it was the bible or a book on the Germanic languages, but one day when they were stopped and Fitzwilliam was caring for the horses, she bothered to ask, “What is it you are reading? For I shame myself by having neglected to bring a book. And to think I consider myself an accomplished woman.”

To her surprise, Caroline gave her the kind of knowing smirk she usually only reserved for Louisa. “Troilus and Criseyde.”

“The romance?”

“Hardly a romance. Or, a very tragic one,” she said. “His favorite.”

“I confess to not knowing my husband’s favorite book,” Elizabeth said, sitting down next to her on the rock. “I suppose it could be My Account Ledgers as he spends so much time with them.”

“I always thought it was How to Scowl Indignantly.”

“I’ve not yet found his copy!”

The sound of their laughter must have been so odd that it distracted Lord Fitzwilliam, who gave them a polite but inquisitive smile.

It took them uncountable days – surely, weeks – to reach Munich. For the most part they had bought supplies and stayed out of civilization, so this was a welcome breath of fresh air, despite the fact that the air was not very fresh. The city, clearly, had just been run through by troops, and they were quick to learn that French soldiers were there as late as the day before. The city was dispersed, its residents in shock, many of them not unwelcoming but uninterested in three obviously English travelers. Fitzwilliam hid his pistol in the folds of his greatcoat as Caroline attempted to get directions from a blacksmith. “He says there was a monastery up the street, but it was dissolved a few months ago.”

“Benedictine?”

“Yes.”

“Where did the monks go?”

Caroline inquired, and had a brief conversation with the blacksmith on his porch before returning to them. “Many of them went to Spain, or Italy, he says. He doesn’t know much more than that.”

The idea that Grégoire might not be found settled on them – or, more accurately, unsettled them. Having him lost and learning that there was no massacre of monks was still preferable to a grave for Grégoire Darcy and for them, but it did not give them good feelings.

The abbey was relatively small in comparison to the great cathedrals and monasteries of Europe. It was more of a church that had once had monks, and the town around it on all sides. As Fitzwilliam tied up the wagon, Caroline and Elizabeth entered the church. It was mainly wooden and utterly abandoned. The altar had been looted and most of the vestments were on the floor. Elizabeth searched everything with her eyes desperately, but found nothing.

“They’re gone,” Caroline said. “We are too late.”

Elizabeth looked up at the one stain glass window that remained entirely intact. The portrait was not of Jesus, but of the Virgin Mary, shown as she always was with her head cocked to the side for some reason. The only hole was in her hand, and just then, a bird flew through it and entered the vaulted ceiling.

“Elizabeth!”

She turned, and Caroline, not so lost in contemplation, had located a door. It opened not to a side chapel but to a stairwell leading down into the storage rooms. She picked up a candle from the abandoned altar, lit it against the striker, and stepped down into the darkness.

At the bottom was a door. Elizabeth knocked on the door to the storeroom. Inside were some hushed whispers, and then the door burst open on the other side, and a young woman came flying past, weaving between them both to escape up the steps in a hurry.

“Uhm, hello? Guten tag?” Elizabeth said, and looked at Caroline, who shrugged, before opening the door further.

Inside, Grégoire was adjusting his cowl over his washed out robes next to a mattress and a stone box. “Bitte nicht – Elizabeth?” He squinted in the poor light of the one window as he tied his rope belt. “Mrs. Maddox?” He hurriedly bowed.

Elizabeth was too shocked, but Caroline apparently felt no need to hold back her laughter, except to at least cover her mouth when she did so. “Did you –”

“It’s not – well – I cannot lie, but I can hold my tongue –”

“Did I just see a woman go past? A half-dressed woman?”

“Oh Holy Father, what have I done?” he said, crossing himself. “She – I just – she needed refuge –”

“There are different types of refuge!” Elizabeth was having trouble deciding whether to be indignant or just outright shocked. Darcy, no doubt, would shake his hand and slap him on the back. “Excuse us for intruding –”

“No! No, no, no, you are not intruding, sister, I just...,” he seemed himself unable to fully explain it, even to himself. “I will not make excuses. I am a sinner like any man.”

“Well, you’re certainly more like any man now than you were before, I think,” Elizabeth said. “I will be honest – Darcy would be congratulating you right now if he were here.”

Grégoire sighed and collapsed on the mattress. All of the important possessions of the abbey seemed hurriedly strewn about, including the massive, gilded box behind him. “What have I done?”

“...Finally become a man?” Caroline said, apparently unable to hold it in any longer.

Elizabeth could not hold back her laughter either. “Oh, it is not so terrible after all, is it?”

“I have taken a vow – well, I did take a vow – but everyone else took vows, and they just – walked off.”

“Then you are the last?” she said, sitting down next to him. “The last monk of Bavaria?”

“Maybe not the country, but certainly, the last Benedictine of St. Sebald.”

“Who?”

He gestured towards the box. “His bones. I would not allow them to loot the place. Gold, of course, maybe, but not the holy container of a saint. The relics were brought here last year from the tomb in Nuremberg, in secret.” It was, upon somewhat closer inspection, a traditional reliquary.

“So you have been down here guarding this – saint?”

“Yes.”

“And the woman?”

“Uhm, her name is Bathilda, and she was screaming, because the soldiers –” He shook his head. He could not speak it. He bunched up his robes to hide from the world. “So I came out and they threatened me, but I stood up for her, and they found they could not kill a monk. Though one of them did – cut me a little, with the tip of his blade. Accidentally. It might have gone farther, without His Majesty’s intervention –”

“His Majesty?”

“Uh, yes,” he said. “The Emperor. Napoleon. It seems he was riding past, and saw the whole proceedings, or some of it at least, and called them off.”

“You – you saw Napoleon?” Caroline said.

“Yes.”

“What was he like?”

“How was he dressed?”

“Was he on a horse?”

“Is he really that short?”

Grégoire seemed overwhelmed by their questions, and his general situation. “I did not – we did not speak very long.”

“You spoke to him?”

“A few words,” he said. “He asked me if I would die for this woman, and I said I would. And then he asked who she was to me, and I said no one deserved to die, even this person I did not know. So he ordered his men away.” He shrugged. “Your business was not with Monsieur Bonaparte, was it? Because he is already gone.”

“Monsieur Bonaparte?”

“I answer to no man but God, Mrs. Maddox,” he said. “And my abbot, the pope, and maybe my brother. But that really is it. Temporal forces do not concern me.”

“Obviously not,” Elizabeth said. “Though, you will be concerned by the forces that brought us here.”

“Yes,” Grégoire said, now realizing the oddity of the situation. “Where is my brother? Why is he not with you?”

“He came to the Continent,” Elizabeth said.

“Looking for you,” Caroline added.

“I wrote him – I wrote to Berlin with instructions to forward the message to England. I admit the situation here is a bit desperate, but the army is actually polite to men of the cloth, especially Frenchmen -” “We received none of your posts,” Elizabeth said, “so he came looking for you.”

“Oh,” Grégoire said, looking a little pale. “Why – what has happened to him?”

“For this, I think, you will need to be sitting,” Caroline suggested, and he followed her suggestion.

Chapter 16 – Grégoire’s Story

“I took an oath,” was Grégoire’s reply to the departing brothers and elders of his order. Some were headed to monasteries in Spain, some to safe housing with families, some to Austria. Some were just leaving the cloister.

“You took an oath of obedience,” said the abbot. “This abbey is dissolved.”

“I was ordered to protect the saint,” Grégoire replied. “He remains. So I do.”

The abbot, a native Austrian who was heading to Rome to seek some spiritual solace there, shook his head. “I had wished you to go to Rome, Brother Grégoire.”

“I have already been to Rome, Father.”

“And it can teach you nothing now?”

“It is only that I am needed here right now.”

Again, the abbot regarded him sadly, as the others gathered their things around them. “Your father was English, was he not?”

The question threw Grégoire off. It was not a secret, but only something he had mentioned in Confession before entering the Order. “Yes.”

“Sebaldus was from England, originally.” To this, the abbot gave no further comment. “When you applied for Brotherhood, I consulted with the saint. I may have nodded off in my vigil, but he told me something.” He leaned over, and whispered in Grégoire’s ear.

“It cannot be.”

“It will be a heavy burden to bear, if it is true. Nonetheless, will you pray for my soul when I am gone?”

Grégoire bowed. “Always, Father.”

“Then stay with the saint for as long as he asks you to.” He put his hand on Grégoire’s shoulders. “Go with G-d, Brother Grégoire. And remember that humility is the path to holiness.”

“Always, Father.”

***************************************

Nonetheless, a disturbed Grégoire did not sleep well in his cell that night. He rose early to move the reliquary to safer quarters in the basement below the chapel, and when the looters came, he hid there himself.

Grégoire was too distracted from his prayers by the cries. The voice was too feminine to be Sebaldus. His first instinct, to his surprise, was not to chastise himself to being taken from his contemplations by the voice of a woman, but to respond to a cry for help. But what could he do? “Holy Sebald,” he whispered into the outer layer of the reliquary. “Help me.”

He had no weapon. The church did not spill or touch blood, and for all intense purposes, he was the church, as he seemed to be the only churchman left in this city. He left his sanctuary – and the literal sanctuary – to the streets.

The scene before him was obvious enough. The French soldiers surrounded the woman in question, a woman with her beautiful – damn it! He shouldn’t have thought that! – dress torn and barely holding up.

“Please, Monsieurs,” he said quietly in French, which did get their attention, but they looked at him in disgust. They were bloodied and soiled from battle, their whiskers long, and their tone impatient when they answered him.

“Go home, monk,” said one of the soldiers. “You wouldn’t know what to do with her anyway.”

The girl, who apparently did not speak French, just squealed as one off them grabbed her arm.

“No!” Before he knew it, he had run between them and put himself between the girl and the soldier’s bayonets, which nearly pierced his robe. “Please. In the name of the Holy Father –”

“Emperor above Pope,” said the soldier. “And His Majesty didn’t say anything about spoils of war.”

He pressed his blade, and Grégoire flinched as the bayonet’s blade pierced his chest and drew blood.

“Enough!”

The soldiers instantly turned to the man on the horse, approaching from the south. He rode up carefully, obviously a skilled horseman, with one hand on the reins and the other tucked into his jacket. “Halt! Where are my fine soldiers? Who are these rabble?”

“Sir General –”

“Return to your regiment! Now!” He pulled out his sword, obviously for dramatic effect more than an actual threat.

They did not hesitate. The men departed faster than any of their earlier movements. Grégoire clutched his breast, where some blood had stained his robe, but did not fall over. It was no more than a mild sting, compared to what he had suffered in the past, and he felt the woman behind him clasp his shoulders to support him.

“Brother,” said the man, approaching on his horse. “Are you French?”

“Yes, Monsieur Bonaparte.”

“Do you know this woman?”

He looked back. “No.”

“But you would die for her?”

He wasn’t sure why he answered so easily, “I would.”

The general sheathed his sword. “Your order?”

“The Order of Saint Benedict, Monsieur.”

“And your abbey?”

“Down the road. But – dissolved now.”

“You’d best take her to it. My men will not violate a church. And Godspeed.” He pulled on the reins and rode off.

Grégoire stood there for some time as the woman behind him wept onto his back. Finally the woman – barely more than a girl – turned him around and asked in Bavarian, “Are you all right, brother?”

“I – I will be fine,” he said, putting an unsteady hand on her shoulder. Yes, she was definitely a woman. A half-dressed woman. “Come. To the church, please.”

“You’re hurt.”

“It is nothing.”

They made their way down the abandoned streets and into what was once the monastery, down the pews and through the back chapel, where he guided her down the steps to the basement. “Here.” He had everything that the monastery owned here, what he had managed to bring down, and he gave her a cowl to cover her. “Are you cold?”

“No,” she said. “My name is Bathilda.”

“Grégoire. B-Brother Grégoire,” he stammered.

“And where are your brothers?”

“They are all gone. The abbey is dissolved.”

“And you are sill here?”

He shrugged. “I will defend Saint Sebald. This is my charge.”

“The saint?”

Grégoire gestured to the reliquary. “He is here.”

The woman – Bathilda – stared at the box with disbelief, and then at him, and he stepped away. “Please,” she pleaded. “You’re hurt.”

“I have some bandages – and an ointment – it was in the herbarium, but I think I brought it down –”

“No,” she grabbed his hand, which had more of an effect on him than if a man had done so, and for all the wrong reasons, he was sure of it. It stopped him in his tracks, even with the light touch of it. “Sit and tell me where it is.”

For some reason, he did exactly what he was told, as he instructed her and she found the items in a crate and set them up on the ground in front of his mattress. He had taken to sleeping on a mattress beside the saint, in the middle of the room. “Now remove your robe.”

“I – I cannot.”

“Is your clothing that complicated?”

“No,” he said. “Please – Madame, I can minister myself. If you would turn around –”

She huffed, but did so, and he removed his cowl and his robe, down to his woolen undergarments. The wound was small, or appeared so, and though it did bleed, he did not see any damage that would not heal itself. But when he pressed the bandage to the wound to stop the bleeding, he grunted, and before he was aware of it, she was turned around and by his side again. “Let me, you obstinate monk. What do you think you are hiding?”

“I am trying –” but he found he could not finish the sentence. It had to end with ... I am trying to keep my vows, and he did not want to say it. “I –” but she had already put her hand against the bandages and began wounding them around him. Even though her flesh technically was not touching his, the experience was ... difficult to comprehend. If she noticed he was suddenly speechless, she said nothing of it.

“There,” she said, tying off the bandage. “Now, was that so terrible?”

Not at all, he thought.

“Stop looking at me like I am the devil incarnate.”

Grégoire turned away. This hardly remedied the situation, because she put her hand over his, which had the reverse effect. “Why did you put your life in front of mine, herr?”

“Brother,” he said quietly.

“Brother.”

“Because – because –” and he looked at her, and words failed him. Because he was a poor sinner and his life was worth nothing. Because it was his Christian duty to protect the innocent. Because martyrdom was the foundation of the Church. There were so many answers on his brain but not his tongue. But he didn’t have to answer, because after enough stammering, she kissed him, and he did not pull away. He did not have the mental capabilities; it seemed, to even contemplate pulling away. It was not true that he had never felt a connection to another human being. He had hugged his siblings, his sister-in-law. He tended to wounds. But this was entirely different, entirely beyond the scope of his imaging that it could ever be.

When she finally released him – and he was very much at her mercy – he pulled away to the extent of standing up. She did not follow him. “What?”

“I took a vow,” he said, with what little strength he could muster. He did not have to refer to the nature of it.

“Did you take it knowingly?”

“I cannot honestly say that I did,” he said. “I came to the church when I was very young. But that does not change it.”

She stood up, and he stepped further away. “Am I that frightening?”

“No,” he said. “No, no. I would never insult – I could never insult –” But when he put out his hand, she grabbed it. “Why – why do you keep doing that?”

“Because you’re so adorable when you blush,” she said. He hadn’t been aware that he’d been blushing. “You saved my life.”

“I – There was nothing –” but he was cut off by another kiss. A little voice in his head told him to flee, but that voice was barely heard over the pounding in his ears.

“Tell me,” she said between breaths, “am I beautiful?”

“Yes,” he said without question. He did not see her disheveled hair, her torn clothing, or the filthy monk’s cowl that protected her modesty. He did not see the strain of war and terror on her face. She was an angel. And her touch – he needed more of it. He was tired of doing without, if this was what he was missing.

His senses returned to him sometime when they were on his mattress. He had very little clothing to remove, and hers was not particularly vexing. “The saint,” he said.

“What?”

“Saint Sebald,” he insisted with what little control he had left, and gestured with his head to the box at the head of the mattress.

“I have news for you, monk,” she said, ticking his chest, bare except for the bandages. “He’s been dead for a long time.”

“He is the patron saint of Bavaria. I cannot –”

She groaned, and pulled herself away long enough to pick up a broken piece of what had once been the wall to the confession booth and put it up against the reliquary. “There. Now the bones cannot see us. Satisfied?”

He had to reply that he was. Or, he did not care enough to put up further objection.

*********************************

Everything was new and wonderful, even the strong desire for sleep and the morning light that came when he woke. Grégoire had not seen such a beautiful morning light coming through the tiny window high on the basement wall, at least that he could remember.

“Does it hurt?”

Bathilda was awake next to him, and it took his sleep-addled brain a moment to realize she was referring to the wound on his chest, which had stopped bleeding the night before, sometime that he could not remember, because he was not concerned with it in the least. “No.”

“You have had worse.”

He sighed. She must have, at some point, seen his back. “Yes.”

“Is the Church so terrible to you?”

“No.” He flipped over so he could properly face her. “No, I chose this life for myself. Foolishly, at times. But on the whole, I do not regret it.”

“But they have abandoned you.”

“They fled, yes, but G-d has not abandoned me, and the Saint has not abandoned me. Or, I have not abandoned him, and I never shall.” He kissed her. “If there is a child –”

“So you are aware of the facts of the human condition!” she said in mock surprise.

“I do have a married brother who made sure to enlighten me,” he said. “No matter how little I wanted to hear. The point stands. If there is a child, I have ... ways of providing.” He had also been advised by the very same brother not to reveal his assets unless absolutely necessary.

“How very noble of you.”

“Well, I am a monk.”

They giggled. Only the noises of movement upstairs distracted them.

***************************************

Grégoire finished his story. He hadn’t told it quite as it happened, not altering it as much as making a few exemptions for discretion. When he looked up, it was Lord Fitzwilliam that seemed to be staring at him the hardest.

“You really mean to tell me that you just – talked – to Napoleon?”

He shrugged, staring at the fire. “He is just a man like all of us.” He added, almost confused, “Except for the women.”

“At least now you know the difference,” Elizabeth said, and then buried her face in her hands to hide her guilty grin as she and Caroline burst into giggles.

“And to think,” Fitzwilliam whispered as he leaned in to a blushing Grégoire, “these women were once the worst of enemies.”

“Why would they be?”

“Ah, that is a long story about a young, handsome, and eligible Darcy who could inspire the jealousy of many women. And it seems to run in the family.”

When Grégoire finally understood, he blushed.

As quietly as they could, Fitzwilliam and Grégoire loaded the reliquary and a bag of other assorted belongings into the wagon.

“What did he say to you?” Elizabeth said when she caught him alone. “The Abbot?”

Grégoire shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Maybe it does.”

“No.” He had an expression on his face of utter desolation. “It does not. I took an oath and I broke it.”

“I thought G-d was all-forgiving?”

To this, he turned away, but had no answer.

***************************************

Jane Bingley was not one to panic. She had her moments of frantic motherly instincts, but otherwise was well-regarded as a sane, serene person, and Bingley knew that to be true. So, her busting into his office was a little alarming unto itself.

“The children are missing.”

“How many of them?” They had seven now, after all. This was not the first time he had heard something of this nature – it was just usually from a servant. “We can’t possibly be expected to keep track of them all.”

He knew he could smile it away and Jane would relax. “Just two,” she said, her body language telling him everything. “But they are Georgie and Geoffrey.”

Bingley sighed, putting down his ledger. They were the oldest, almost eight, and had wider boundaries than the other children in all respects – boundaries they readily abused. “They’re probably planning some horrible prank that I will be the recipient of and everyone will be laughing for weeks about it. And honestly, if it makes us laugh, we’re the better for it.”

“I would have agreed with you three hours ago,” she said with some concern.

“Then it is a very elaborate prank.”

Not that he was dismissive of her concerns. He sent out all of the appropriate people to search the house and grounds for them, and by lunch, was becoming quite concerned himself. He entered her room.

There was no trace of Georgiana Bingley in her room, of course. That had been thoroughly checked. He was just so rarely in here. Maybe he should be more imposing. He was a father to a young daughter – he was meant to be distant and her mother meant to be closer, but he had learned long ago that life was not without its surprises. While they both showered their eldest child with love, he had a longer patience for her ... well, eccentricities.

Mounted on the wall were various drawings of her family and her adventures, even the noodles incident that he’d rather hoped she’d forgotten and not recorded on paper. Most of them included Geoffrey, or a person who was probably Geoffrey, because she had no siblings with brown hair, only blond and red. They thoroughly encouraged her drawing, because she did it without being forced to, and it was the most lady-like of all of her chosen activities. He sorted through a pile of them on the desk, trying to figure out what she had drawn. Was it of the dogs? No, it was grey, and had fangs – a wolf.

Hadn’t there been wolves in the woods?

“Georgiana!” he shouted on instinct, and abandoned her room, darting past the servants and his wife without explanation. There was no time to explain. By the time he reached the edge of the woods, where he and Darcy often shoot at emerging deer, his heart was pounding, and yet, no sign.

What if something had happened? Yes, he was responsible for Geoffrey Darcy, heir to Pemberley and Derbyshire, but this was his Georgie, the first child of his union with Jane that he had held in his arms -

“Georgiana!” Bingley shouted upon seeing her, her red hair a marked contrast to the green field. He could not yet think of Geoffrey, who was standing beside her, holding up a stick.

“Papa?” she said, confused by his sudden appearance as he ran to her and immediately scooped her up into his arms. He was rendered speechless in his relief, so she was the first to speak, “Why are you crying?”

“I didn’t know where you were,” Bingley sad, wiping away the beginnings of tears to regain composure. “You’ve been missing. And Geoffrey – come here.” Geoffrey approached him, and he took his arm to touch that he was real.

“We weren’t missing,” Geoffrey defended. “We were right here.”

“But we didn’t know you were here! What are doing out in the woods? Something could have -,” He swallowed, and kissed his daughter before setting her down. “What were you doing?”

“We were practicing,” Georgie said, holding up her own stick. “It was supposed to be a secret.”

“What was supposed to be a secret?” But when Georgie would not give, he turned an eye to Geoffrey. “What was supposed to be a secret?”

Geoffrey made circles on the ground with his stick. “We were practicing fighting.”

“Fighting!”

“Like knights,” Georgie said, rushing to her cousin’s defense. “In case we have to go rescue Aunt and Uncle Darcy and Aunt and Uncle Maddox.”

“You will not have to rescue them,” Bingley said, still overwhelmed. “They will take care of themselves and they will be all right. You understand that, don’t you?”

“You’re lying!” Georgie said.

“Georgie!” Geoffrey said, trying to hush her, but she was apparently willing to face her father, her expression unwavering.

“I am not lying.”

“You are. Uncle Darcy and Uncle Maddox are in prison. I read about prison in a book from the study and it’s horrible. Like gaol but worse.”

He knelt down, unwilling to be forceful with her, stupefied by her answers. “You are not supposed to know that. Who told you they are in prison?”

“I heard it,” Geoffrey said. “I heard Mother talking about it to Aunt Fitzwilliam.”

“So you overheard it,” he said. “You are not supposed to be listening to other people’s conversations. Who else did you tell? Did you tell Charles? Eliza? Anne?”

“No!” Geoffrey, at least, seemed horrified by the idea. “Just Georgie.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” His eldest daughter was unrelenting.

He sighed, kneeling so he was eye level with both of them. “Yes, it’s true. But they are alive and yours aunts and Lord Fitzwilliam are going to get them out.” He looked at their stares. “I’m not lying. I believe they will be all right. I believe it.” And he did, because telling himself that was sometimes the only thing that got him through the day, and he was constantly saying those same words to his wife. “And you should, too. G-d pays special attention to children’s wishes, did you know that? So you don’t have to – fight.” He took the sticks, obviously meant to be swords from their length and width, out of their hands. “If you want to help, pray for them. And if you really want to help, you can stop scaring us out of our wits.”

“I thought adults didn’t get scared,” Geoffrey said.

“I’ll tell you a secret, Master Geoffrey,” Bingley said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We do. Especially when our children and nephews are missing. So please, will you promise to try not scare us like this again?” He was almost pleading with them.

Georgie took the initiative and embraced him, which she could do when he was at her height. “I promise, Papa.”

“I promise, too,” Geoffrey added.

“Good,” he said, still rattled but at least momentarily content. He stood up and took both of their hands. “Now, we must get you home as soon as possible. Mrs. Bingley is very, very worried for both of you.”

“She’ll be upset,” Georgie said as they walked across the field, “when she finds out I was fighting.”

“Then ... it will be our secret,” Bingley said. “You both promise not to go somewhere without telling us, and I promise not to tell her about your little training meeting.”

Her eyes lit up. “Really?”

He finally managed to smile at his daughter. “Really.”

(MARSHA, Don’t forget a warning about the bizarreness of this chapter!) Chapter 17 – The Isle

“I think I like it here,” Darcy said. “I must be going insane. We must make it official.”

“We must,” Maddox said from his cell, not bothering to turn over to face him. What did it matter to him, anyway? He was blind. Well, not blind, or so Maddox said.

I have proof. The marks on the wall. He’s been telling me how many marks he’s made. He couldn’t see them if he couldn’t see. His eyes only fail him at a distance. Darcy leaned over as far as he could, looking between the bars. Maddox still had his back turned away.

There were no marks on the wall.

Liar! Should he shout it? There was nothing Maddox could really do, even if he wasn’t blind or wounded or chained to a wall in a different cell. He could take Maddox. He could beat him senseless. He could imagine the blood flowing.

I’m not a violent man. I wouldn’t do that. “I’m a gentleman,” he said.

“What does that mean?” Maddox said. “Are you a gentle man, Master Fitzwilliam?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Did you kill your own brother, Master Fitzwilliam?”

“I said not to call me that!”

“Answer the question.”

It sounded too much like Trommler. He had to respond, it was instinctual. I don’t want to be hurt anymore. I want to go home. “Yes.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“No,” he said. I don’t know the real answer to that. Does that count as a lie?

“Did you feel any satisfaction?”

There was only his breathing. He could retreat his senses no further. He could close his eyes, lie still, even cover his ears, but he could always hear his own breathing. “Yes. Am I a horrible man? Do I have a soul?” I must have a soul because I’m breathing. I have a heartbeat. I can’t turn it on and off. “I go to church.”

“Is that really the same? Does it really matter? We’re all heretics anyway; the Pope said so. We’re all going to hell.”

“Then I can do whatever I want,” he said. “I don’t have to be a gentleman.” He laughed. “My father was wrong.”

“You are the son of a long line of gentlemen. You are my heir, my only heir, and the future master of this place. Learn well, my son.”

“Liar! You made two others and you didn’t tell me! You never told me!”

“Fitzwilliam,” Maddox said, “you were right about going insane. I might have to give you some tonic.”

“You’re trying to poison me.” He kicked away his food tray. “Everyone is trying to poison me. That’s why my chest hurts.” His chest did hurt, when he tried to take a deep breath of the cold, stale air. There was junk in his lungs, making him cough, hacking up all kinds of things, as if his residence wasn’t disgusting enough. Someone put it there. I didn’t put it there.

“The magic potion, remember?”

“What?”

“The magic potion. It makes you fall in love. Why can’t it make you do other things?”

“Can it fix me?” Darcy asked.

“Do you want to be fixed?”

In which direction? Did he want to see clearly or not at all? “I’m so happy here, little Fitzwilliam,” his Uncle Gregory said. “Your father is not a bad man. Your grandfather was not a bad man. The Darcys are not bad men. I am here of my own free will. Nobody expects anything of me. No one can hurt me unless I let them. Do you know what it is to be safe and warm, nephew? I bet you don’t.”

It would have been so much easier to deal with if Darcy could dismiss it. His uncle was a madman. Everything he said was to be immediately dismissed.

“Do you have friends, nephew?”

“I have George.”

“Do you trust him?”

Darcy had said yes. He had been wrong. His uncle had been right.

“You didn’t answer me,” said Maddox, seamlessly back in. “You have to answer me.”

“I don’t have to do anything!”

“Yes, you do. You have to be a gentleman, whatever that means. You have to be a father and a friend and go outside and talk to people who don’t like you, don’t want to know you, only like you for your money and your looks.”

He shivered. “Elizabeth loves me and she doesn’t like my money.”

“Then you must be the last man in the world, because that’s the person she said she could be prevailed upon to marry, no? You’re all alone.”

“I have you.”

“Seriously, Darcy. Who could I be? Who would marry Caroline Bingley? Not even a poor man with bad eyesight.”

“True.” He flinched. “Wait, then why am I in Austria?”

“Are you in Austria?”

He opened his eyes. He liked his bedroom. It was small and filled with books, so they were right there for him. He didn’t have to get up and go past all the servants and go to the library, past cooks and servants who would chat and make fun of their master. He liked that it was small – secure. No one could attack him here. There was no room.

It was a wonderful day but that was outside, and he could see perfectly well from inside, thank you very much. He could see the ocean and he could hear it if he opened the window, but he didn’t like opening the window and letting everything in. He didn’t even open his door much.

“Mr. Darcy, what are you doing there?”

He was in the hallway. He had gotten up and gone to the hallway. He must have been lost. Silly Darcy, to get lost in such a small, confined place. He was more amused at himself when he smiled at Nurse. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Do you want to shave today?”

Why couldn’t he be the angry barbarian? Then he would have to run around and hurt people. He didn’t want to hurt people; he wanted to be a gentle man. On the Isle of Man. There, it was especially important. On the other hand, he didn’t like the blade in anyone else’s hands, and he was not equipped to shave himself. He knew how to balance a ledger or handle a tenant dispute, but not how to shave himself. What a useless man a landlord is. “No, I think I’ll let it grow.”

Besides, it was so cold, and the beard was keeping him warm. Or, it was keeping his cheeks warm. He didn’t like being cold. He liked being safe and warm. He laughed again; he didn’t know why.

“Maddox,” he said, “do you think our ancestors grew beards to keep their faces warm?”

No response from Maddox. He was just a lump on the straw pile, covered by the thin blanket.

He turned back to his room, full of books and lacking space. There was a knock on the door. Funny, he thought it was open, and a young George Wickham looked up at him, not the third but the second. Or was it the first and not the second? Who was George Wickham – son of the steward George Wickham or the master Geoffrey Darcy? Either way, there he was, his playmate, his friend and enemy at the same time, convenient or not. He called him “little” because he was smaller than him, a boy of fifteen, not fully frown into his own skin yet.

“My father sent me.”

“Which one?”

“He said I should learn from you.”

“That’s all well and good,” Darcy said, sitting at his desk. “What am I supposed to teach you?”

“I’m supposed to learn how to not be like you.”

He could not decide whether to be offended or not. “How so?”

“Because you’re a madman. The master of Pemberley has to be a gentleman.”

“I’m not sure there’s a difference.”

George frowned. “Now you’re scaring me.”

“Am I really? Or are you just amused? Or are you scared because you understand?” Darcy said, pointing to his own chest. “There’s a place inside of you that’s dark. We all have it, the three of us, our little family heritage. There’s a dark place and you can never go there, even though it’s safe there because no one else can get there. It’s inside you. You have a last resort. You have a trap door. You only have to use it.”

“Uncle –”

“You know what I’m saying, don’t you?” He stood up, towering over young George. “You understand me exactly. But you have to ignore it. Father will be so upset if you don’t. You have to be a gentleman. You have to go to balls and make friends and make female friends and find one to make more little Darcys, all with a little black seed inside them. You just can’t water it and let it grow, or it will consume you.” He grabbed George and shook him. “That’s what I’m supposed to say. That’s what Father wants me to say. You have to be one thing. You can’t be the other. You have to keep the darkness inside you. You have to put it away where you can’t see it. George? George, why are you crying?”

George pointed to Grégoire, in his grey novice robes, even younger than him. “He gets to go away. You get to go away.”

“Yes, he’s very lucky, isn’t he?” Darcy turned to Grégoire. “What do you have to say to that?”

“I have given my life to G-d.”

“Don’t be ridiculous; perfectly sensible people can care about G-d without hiding in a monastery. We’re not mindless medieval people.”

“I don’t see you not hiding.”

Darcy turned back to his charge, young George Wickham, son of the steward and son of Geoffrey Darcy at the same time. “So go out and make friends. You get people, George. I can’t do that. I don’t have those skills. I don’t want them. Get as many people as you can.”

“Try not to get your own sister,” Grégoire said, and crossed himself. “You know, by accident. We assume.”

Darcy laughed. “We assume.” It really was very funny. He laughed so hard and George covered his ears. He laughed so hard and in came that cold air, and it hurt his chest. When he coughed up, it was black. The darkness had grown inside him and now it was practically pouring out of him in any way it could. Who knew the seed was in his lungs? It stopped being funny when it started hurting. His chest hurt. His lungs hurt. His throat hurt. His head hurt. He was tired and cold and exhausted from coughing. Exhausted from coughing.

“Maddox,” he said. “I don’t think I’m well. I think you should look at this.”

Maddox did not respond.

“Seriously. Dr. Maddox! How many times did I tell you not to nod off while I’m talking?”

He tried to sit up, but he needed to hold on to the bars to do it. His attempt to stand was futile; his legs buckled from the strain of disuse and he hit not the straw but the dirt ground with an audible sound of his leg iron rattling. He groaned.

“...What?” Finally, Daniel Maddox stirred, looking over his shoulder. He was a mass of black hair, so frizzy. If his beard were longer, he would look like a pirate. “Darcy? Are you all right?”

“No, but I don’t want any of your poisons, Doctor, thank you very much.”

Maddox sat up. “What?” He was squinting. He wiped his eyes and yawned. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“We were talking –”

“When? Yesterday?” Maddox positioned himself against the wall. He had not stood for some time as well. “When – what were we talking about?”

“You liar, you didn’t mark the wall!”

“Fifty-four days, Darcy.” He yawned again, as if he was waking up. “Well, fifty-five now. I really don’t know. It is more of a guess.”

“I could smash your head in,” Darcy said, “but then I wouldn’t be a very gentle man, would I?”

But Maddox was frowning. Maddox did not find his joke very funny. He was trying to see him in the very dim light from the one torch outside their cell. “Look, Darcy, I...” He stopped, a halt in his thinking. Like he had just woken up. But they had been talking! “Listen, if you want, you can see for yourself. You can see from there better than I can see from here.”

Dr. Maddox pointed to the wall. The marks were back. They hadn’t been there before and they were there now. Maddox had been awake before and now he had only been asleep.

They were there, plain as day.

Darcy couldn’t say anything. Nothing came to him.

“Darcy,” Maddox said with a heavy sigh and his ‘doctor’ voice, “Last time we spoke, we were trying to remember the end of The Knight’s Tale. Then I nodded off. Whatever else you said, I’m sorry, but I didn’t hear.” He was still frowning. “...Are you all right?”

He was stupefied; nothing came to him. He was out in the open again. He suddenly remembered he was not comfortable around people, and Dr. Maddox was a person.

“Darcy?”

He shook his head. His brown hair, never trimmed particularly short, was even longer now, and swayed when he moved his head. His beard hid him, but not enough. He could not hide from that uncomfortable stare, even if the man delivering the stare couldn’t see him. It didn’t help. “Uncle Gregory said he was happy.”

“He was a sick man, Darcy. You said so yourself. Or, precisely, it was well-implied.” He said even more formally, “Mr. Darcy, I don’t think you’re well.”

Darcy couldn’t speak. All he could do was nod.

Chapter 18 - Passage into Darkness

“Do we have any real idea of where we’re going?”

Trust it to Caroline Maddox to point out the obvious. “No,” Lord Fitzwilliam said, sitting beside the two ladies at the front of the wagon. Grégoire sat inside it, next to the reliquary buried under blankets and hay and supplies. “None whatsoever. Brother Grégoire?”

“G-d will light our path,” Grégoire said. “Look to your left.”

“That’s not G-d,” Fitzwilliam said, readying his gun as a man with a lantern stumbled out of the woods. The man dropped his lantern and raised his rifle.

“Give me your horses,” he said in French. Even with his heavy overcoat, torn and bloodied, he was still recognizable with his white pants and red colors on his heavy hat. “Just one, please!”

“Stay where you are,” Fitzwilliam shouted as he brought the wagon to a halt. He spoke French, and even though he was not dressed as a soldier, his accent made his nationality enough, “or I’ll shoot.”

The soldier held his rifle up, but had not the strength to aim it properly before he collapsed in the snow, his rifle firing aimlessly. It was Grégoire, of course, who leapt senselessly out of the wagon and landed in the snow, his heavy robes caked in white powder as he lifted up the man and began dragging him back to the wagon. “Lord Fitzwilliam...”

“For G-d’s sake, are we meant to carry every man we encounter, living or dead?” Fitzwilliam said with the remains of his good humor. There was no use trying to talk Grégoire out of his Good Samaritan habits, not while it was this cold and dark. They needed to find an inn, but for the moment, settled on dragging the soldier into the wagon.

“He’s senseless,” Elizabeth said in English.

“Mrs. Maddox, will you please hand me the flask from the front?” Grégoire asked, and she passed it to him wordlessly. “Please, Monsieur, drink,” he said in French, pressing the open end to the soldier, who eventually opened his eyes and drank. Fitzwilliam started up the horses again, and after some time, the soldier came to his senses, after much drink.

“Where are we going?”

“To Transylvania. East.”

“No!” he shouted weakly, attempting to sit up in the moving cart. “Let me off! I can’t go back there!”

“Please, Monsieur, stay still,” Grégoire said, putting his hand on the soldier’s shoulder. “You do not have to travel all the way but you cannot be out here, alone, in this weather.”

“He’s a deserter,” Fitzwilliam said in English from up front.

“Where are you taking me?” the soldier asked, his alarm rising.

“We are only traveling through on some personal business,” Grégoire said to him in French. “I’m sorry, but we can’t give you one of our horses.” He implored the soldier to drink more, but was refused. “What is your name?”

“Aubin.”

“Like the saint,” Grégoire said. “I am Brother Grégoire. These people are my relatives, and sadly, we are on our way East. When it is safe, you can part from us.”

“You were fleeing Russia?” Caroline asked in French.

Aubin looked sideways to her suspiciously, then back to Grégoire in front of him. “Yes. I am a deserter, as he says. I was freezing to death. Can you blame me?”

“It is not my place to judge anyone,” Grégoire said. “Is there an inn nearby, or some sort of town? We need shelter as badly as you do.”

“There is - to the north, about five miles, an inn. I was staying there, but I had nothing to pay them, so I had to leave. And I have to get home - or away from Russia.” He did, after a bit, take another nip. “Are you really a monk?”

“Yes.” Grégoire removed his hat to reveal his tonsure.

“French?”

“Originally, yes.”

“Then what in the hell are you doing with a bunch of Englishmen in Austria?”

“My brother is in Transylvania,” Grégoire said. “It is complicated. Is that near here? Are you familiar with the geography?”

Aubin looked hesitant to reveal more of his identity. “I passed through it - briefly, before my horse gave out from the cold. It wasn’t my horse. I took it from the stocks. It was the only way to make it through the mountains - the Carpathians.” He shook his head. “I am a voltigeur.”

“A skirmisher,” Fitzwilliam said to Elizabeth and Caroline in English.

“We were sent south - through Austria - but it was too cold. I’m from the south of France, so was most of my company. First we started getting colds; then we started dying. We were not prepared. We defeated ourselves.”

“The folly of man,” Grégoire said sympathetically. “Will you show us the way to this inn?”

Aubin nodded.

It was not far. The night was indeed getting colder, even with all of the layers they had piled on before leaving Munich; their teeth were all chattering when they arrived. Aubin would not enter. He wanted to keep going on his journey.

“Elizabeth,” Grégoire begged, “please lend me some coins. I will pay you back.”

“For what?”

“I am going to buy this man a horse. It won’t cost much. What is a horse worth in this season?”

She dropped a few coins in his gloved hand. “Honestly, I would be surprised if you didn’t do something ridiculously charitable.”

Grégoire quickly purchased the horse from the tavern owner, and handed the reigns to a confused Aubin, who thanked him profusely before disappearing into the night.

“Will he make it?” Caroline whispered skeptically to Fitzwilliam.

“It’s best not to speculate on such things,” was all he said as they entered the tavern. Inside they found they were the only patrons, and that the owner and his wife spoke only broken German and no French. Their first language was Romanian, which Grégoire recognized but could not speak. As his hosts prepared a meal, Grégoire had words with the owner showing him the seal on the letter Caroline had received from the count holding Maddox and Darcy hostage. There was much talking and nodding in complex, accented German before Grégoire returned to the table. Before him was some kind of soup, filled with floating hunks of beef bones and sour cream. Caroline was looking hesitantly at her own bowl, and Lord Fitzwilliam was doing the same while gnawing on some extremely buttery bread, but Elizabeth had already finished hers. “What did he say?”

“The man we’re looking for is Count Vladimir Agnita, who lives in the county of Sibiu,” he said, crossing him before taking up his own spoon. “It is only two days’ journey from here, if the weather holds out. If it snows - which it most likely will - then maybe three or four.”

“But we don’t want to go knocking on his doorstep,” Elizabeth said as the wife of the owner served her another helping and she began to devour it.

“No,” Caroline said, finally resigning herself to her own food, only with a healthy helping of whatever was in her wooden cup.

“The innkeeper says that this count is not well-liked by the local princes. One of them even stands to inherit his lands when he dies, his brother-in-law, a Count Olaf Cisnădioara.” He bit off some of the bread, dipping it in the stew. “The owner recommends we see this man, also in Sibiu.”

“The enemy of our enemy is our friend,” Fitzwilliam said. “Hopefully it will be so.”

After eating many small dishes that none of them could identify, but all seemed to contain a lot of butter and cream, and drinking what seemed to be some kind of orange liquor, they were all ready to retire. Fitzwilliam, ever the vigilant soldier, promised to stay up guarding their doors but his rosy cheeks said something else.

A few hours later, as Elizabeth crept out to empty her chamber pot, she found him asleep in the hallway, his gun at his side. When she was done with her business, she began to drag him back to his room, only to find helping hands. “Grégoire -”

“Let me. You shouldn’t lift,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have to do -,” but he had already done it, heaving the snoring Fitzwilliam onto his bed and tossing the blanket over him, “- do everything.”

Grégoire closed the door, leaving them in the tiny wooden hallway in the darkest part of the night. “You shouldn’t take so much on yourself. You’re carrying enough - aren’t you?”

Elizabeth gave him a hard stare, but for once, he did not waver humbly or shyly. His expression was a rather compassionate version of being accusatory. “Did Mrs. Maddox say anything?”

“No, but few people can eat ciorba ruseasca with the bones still in it without a second glance.”

Her hand, of course, inadvertently fell over her stomach. “Please don’t say anything to Lord Fitzwilliam.”

“I am happy for you,” he said, “but I wish the circumstances were different.”

“I couldn’t stay behind,” she said. “I know I’m no use to this mission, but - I just couldn’t. He needs me. I know it. We know it.”

“I know,” Grégoire said. “Just be careful, please.”

“I will,” Elizabeth said, not sure if she could keep that promise, or if she hadn’t already broken it.

***************************************

Miraculously, the snowfall that night was only a minor dusting, and they had clear skies to see the mountains beyond them. When they stopped to ask directions, they learned they were indeed the famous Carpathians, now almost entirely covered in snow.

“Oprire!”

It was fairly clear the man in the fur overcoat and the fur hat approaching them through the snow was local, not French. Grégoire came down from the wagon and approached him. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” (Do you speak German?)

The man was apparently less put-off by the sight of a monk. “Ja.” (Yes)

“Wir sind hier zu übersehen Boyar Olaf.” (We are here to see Prince Olaf)

The guard, caring both a gun and a ceremonial lance, looked cautiously at the odd wagon and its riders. Some questions followed, spoken too softly for them to hear, before they were ushered on.

“We’re to be received by the prince,” Grégoire said. “For good or ill, I know not.”

***************************************

The castle was massive and foreign. It was not medieval, or how they pictured a medieval castle would be, but it was certainly filled with anciently dressed guards. Grégoire was reluctant to leave behind the reliquary, even though it was hidden in a larger container, but the guards reassured him many times, and Elizabeth finally pried him away from it (almost forcibly) because they needed his language skills.

The stone halls were not much warmer than outside, so they were not relieved of their coats, just the very outer layers, before being ushered into what appeared to be a small dinning room. At the head of the table sat the only clean-shaven man they had seen in days, wearing the latest French fashions, with wide sideburns and a mustache. Only an insignia pin on his breast pocket, and the fur around his neck noted any significance as he rose to greet them, speaking in plain French. “I am Count Olaf Cisnădioara. I understand you requested an audience?”

They bowed and curtseyed. Fitzwilliam took the lead. “I am Lord Richard Fitzwilliam of _____shire, and this is my cousin Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy, my other cousin Brother Grégoire Darcy, and a Mrs. Caroline Maddox.”

Count Olaf bade them to sit with a wave of his hand. “Now, I am going to guess that you are looking for the two Englishmen being held prisoners by Count Vladimir.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, quickly explaining who they were as the party was asked to be seated at his table. None of them were interested in eating the food offered as much as they were getting information, but they took some odd drink to be polite. “Please, are they alive?”

“As far as I know, yes,” he said, to the audible relief of everyone present. “Though I have not been to his castle much lately. As you may have heard, he and I have somewhat of a - strained relationship.”

“We’ve heard something like that, yes,” Fitzwilliam said.

“Everyone has one to some extent or another - Vladimir has alienated all of the princes of Transylvania and Wallachia in some way or another over the years. But for me, it is personal. His wife was my sister. Their marriage was meant to be an alliance between our families.” Now it was his turn to look bothered, even sad. “She bore him only one child that lived past infancy, a girl named Nadezhda. After she stopped bleeding, he became fed up with her and had her - my sister - killed. He knows that if his daughter produces no heir, his lands will be mine when he dies, and as soon as my niece came of age, the midwife informed us she doubted Nadezhda would ever conceive. So I suppose he did it as some sort of strike against me. This was - several years ago.” But he was stricken by it, now that he was speaking of it. “But I must go on. Since he had turned everyone against him, no one was willing to offer up their son to be his daughter’s husband. He brought in many suitors from abroad, but as soon as they learned of the situation, they ran before the ceremony could be performed. He became so desperate; he turned to gambling and tricking the Englishman - Prince Brian - to marry Nadezhda. And then Prince Brian had the bad luck to fall in love with her, or so I am told.

“I met him once, during the ceremony of the opening of the hunt, one of the few that Vladimir attends. Prince Brian was married then, I think six months, and he seemed like a reasonable man who was very happy despite his position. But after a year, Vladimir became again frustrated that his son-in-law was not producing an heir, but would find no fault with his own daughter. He conceived a plan to get rid of Brian and bring in a new suitor upon his death. Quite obviously, Brian discovered the plan and ran off. He might have been allowed to escape and be assumed dead but he took Nadezhda with him - and her dowry, which was half of the treasury. Both were blows Vladimir has not recovered from. He put a reward on Brian’s head that I have no idea of how he would actually pay. He sent spies to Berlin, Russia and Istanbul. How he actually came upon your husband, Mrs. Maddox, I know not the particulars of.”

“He sent a letter,” Caroline said, “about Brian’s execution, but didn’t make it clear if he had been executed or not. Dr. Maddox decided to investigate. Mr. Darcy happened to be with him for unrelated reasons when he was arrested - or so we think.”

Count Olaf nodded. “I cannot tell you if Prince Brian is alive or dead, or if my niece is with him. There are rumors that he was seen in St. Petersburg a year ago, but they may be false. Vladimir has put out notices that he is holding Brian’s brother hostage and he must return; the man has either chosen to ignore them, realized that they would just all be killed if he returned, or is somewhere beyond communication. But for the moment, that is neither here nor there. There is the matter of Dr. Maddox and - I am sorry, his name -?”

“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said.

“Mr. Darcy,” he said, strangling the pronunciation through the French and his own thick local accent.

Fitzwilliam was quick to ask, “Can they be ransomed?”

“Not if Vladimir thinks they are still useful - which, if they are still being kept alive, is true. He will do anything to have his daughter back and Brian’s head on a spike. No, it will not simply be a matter of money.” He stroked his chin. “Tell me - do any of you have any experience in acting?”

“Acting?” Caroline responded.

“Yes,” Olaf said. “You see, Vladimir is a terribly traditional and superstitious man, and I can foresee how this would work to our advantage. Yes, it is coming to me now.” He frowned. “There is one other concern,” Olaf said. “Mr. Trommler.”

“Mr. Trommler?” Elizabeth said first. The name was not familiar.

“A Prussian. Count Vladimir’s closest advisor and greatest spy. He speaks a dozen languages, has traveled the world, is a master of deceit, and is very well paid by the count to be his advisor. He is also a master of interrogation, or so I have heard. Has quite a reputation.” At their ashen faces, he changed course. “The point is he must be bribed. He is an intelligent man and will see through any ruse, but he has no real loyalty to the count. And he will be expensive.”

“And why would we not assume he will take the money and then go right to the count anyway?” Caroline asked.

Count Olaf shrugged. “We do not. But it is a risk we will have to take.” He continued, “Trommler sits in a certain tavern very close to here in town every Tuesday night. He has a long dinner but his real purpose is to overhear gossip. He is in disguise while he does so as Theodor Sturdza. Unfortunately I cannot go with you, or it will be obvious, and he will be very annoyed by my intrusion. But we need him - and you must get him, by any means necessary.”

***************************************

There was no reason to wait. Olaf generously gave them clothing to make them appear slightly less conspicuous than they already were, and had someone show them the way, promising to guard their things while they went. The reason behind his generosity was obvious - he wanted to hurt Vladimir and he was willing to go through them to do it.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Fitzwilliam repeated softly as they entered the bar and Grégoire inquired after a Theodor Sturdza. They were pointed to a private room, knocked, and someone from inside told them to enter.

Theodor Sturdza - or Mr. Trommler, whoever he was, was sitting at a lone table picking at his teeth in front of his empty plate. Like Count Olaf, he was fashionably dressed, if in German fashions, and with some allowances for extra cold weather. Shaven, neat, and clean - it was obvious he was a foreigner. He took only the briefest of looks at them before speaking.

“We can skip the formalities,” Trommler said in plain, if accented, English. “Four thousand pounds. Notes only. No checks.”

They sat there in stunned silence as he put his feet up, looking annoyingly relaxed. “Four thousand pounds?”

“Two for each. And the price is not negotiable,” he said. “I am assuming you want both.”

“How do you even know -?”

“Because, Mrs. Maddox, I am not a particularly stupid person, and having two Englishmen sitting in cells several floors beneath my chambers, I would be foolish not to take notice of any Englishmen attempting to quietly enter the country. Especially two women, one of whom has red hair - very rare in this part of the world.” He pointed casually, “And so I must assume you are Mrs. Darcy, though the doctor was far less descriptive about you. And the monkish brother - your brother was looking for you. Odd how both he and you ended up here.”

“It seems you are a very intuitive man,” Caroline said, her tone not at all complimentary, even though it was true.

He shrugged. “Information is my business, and it is not very hard to extract from an English gentleman with little tolerance for pain.”

Caroline barely managed to maintain her composure as she said, “Tell me he’s alive.”

“I’ll tell you whatever you like,” said Trommler. “But he is alive. To my great surprise, neither of them has succumbed to some infection, disease, or starvation - yet.” He sat up. “But tell me - how are your children? The little girl and the little royal bastar -”

Grégoire and Fitzwilliam were quick to catch Caroline and hold her back from her attempts to strangle Mr. Trommler. He made no movement at all except to chuckle at the spectacle. “So. We shall come to the point. I don’t particularly know or care how you go about it, but I will need four thousand pounds worth of some kind of currency tomorrow, at this time, if I am to go along with whatever silly plan you have cooked up to save your husbands. Unless you have any further questions, I must be off.” No one interrupted him as he rose, bowed very politely, and left, closing the door behind him. Then Caroline was finally released.

“Where are we going to get four thousand pounds in one day?” she said after they left the tavern. “In Transylvania?”

They had assumed they would have to ransom their husbands, but it was too dangerous to travel with so much cash. Between them and Lord Fitzwilliam, they only had a little over two thousand.

“I don’t have it,” Grégoire said, “but I know someone who might.”

They both turned and said in unison, “Who?”

“The saint.”

*********************************

Back at the castle, Grégoire removed the cover over the reliquary to reveal a box with heavy gold plates plastered to it. “There’s more,” he said, and pulled loose a small drawer hidden in the wooden base revealing a ton of foreign coinage. He crossed himself. “Holy Sebald, please forgive us for our use of the pilgrims heavenly offerings, but I assure you, it is done only for the highest ends.”

“I shall never have cause to insult the worship of saints ever again,” Elizabeth said. “May we really have this? Sebald will be paid back upon our return to England.”

“I cannot imagine how one who walked the path of G-d would not understand the meaning of charity,” he said. “So I imagine St. Sebald will be most understanding.”

The next day, four thousand pounds worth of local bank notes were left in an envelope at the bar - at which point, Trommler almost magically reappeared. “So, tell me this plan you are supposed to have. Or must I invent it for you?”

*********************************

Dr. Maddox was roused from sleep by the unfamiliar sound. Normally his food tray was slid through a slot in the bars, but this time the cell door was opened with a great creak loud enough that he heard Darcy, who had not spoken in several days, start moving around next to him. He opened his eyes to more light than he was used to, and sat up, holding a shivering arm to protect himself. The arm was quickly grabbed as orders were given in Romanian, he was held up in a sitting position as the man in front of him came close enough to be clearly visible.

“So you are still alive,” Trommler said. No matter how ill or insane he got, Maddox knew he would never forget that voice. “If you want to stay that way, then I suggest you cooperate and not say a word if you’re conscious enough to do so - no matter what you hear. Now, drink up.”

The noxious concoction, clearly poisonous or medicinal in some fashion, was poured down his throat and he had to force himself to swallow before he choked. Trommler disappeared, his grey coat disappearing around the corner into Darcy’s cell as the guards unlocked his leg shackle and tied his arms behind his back. No, he couldn’t go through this again! One hand was already ruined - what would they do to the other?

Trommler had returned, and he hadn’t noticed it because his eyes could barely focus at all as the man held one eye open with one hand and held the lantern up with another. Everything was hazy, and he seriously hoped there wouldn’t be any questions, because all he wanted to do at that moment was sleep. The still sane part of his mind understood that he had been drugged but didn’t process it.

“Remember what I said.” Trommler’s voice was distorted. “Keep your mouth shut; and the two of you may just make it out this night alive.”

Chapter 19 - Muma Pădurii

The scariest part was how excited Count Olaf was about this. He hired a costume designer and brought him express from the city. “Does everyone know their parts?”

“My face itches,” Grégoire said, scratching at the fake fur pasted on his face. “And my head.”

“I’m sorry, Brother, but pricolici simply do not have tonsures,” Olaf said. “Try not to accidentally take it off. The glue isn’t very strong.”

“And if you have to scratch, try doing it with your foot,” Elizabeth said. Despite the utter seriousness of rescuing their husbands, there was no use to resist the temptation to admit the hilarity that was Grégoire dressed up as a hairy wolf man.

“If he manages to pull that off, I want to see it,” Fitzwilliam says. “Why do I have to sit outside in the wagon?”

“Because your French accent is atrocious,” Caroline said, announcing her entrance into the room. Beside the hairy Grégoire and the wart-covered Elizabeth in rags, Mrs. Maddox was stunning in her black gown and corset. Her red hair was uncovered and tied up with matching ribbons in a sort of beehive. With fake jewelry around her neck, she fit the picture of ... whatever she was supposed to fit. “How do I look and why are we doing this again?”

“Because Vladimir is a superstitious fool and I’ve been waiting ten years to get my revenge,” Olaf said. “I’m a civilized man, not a bloodthirsty barbarian. Leaving him in his misery will have to be enough. Oh, and inheriting his estate when he dies.”

“And I’m a what again?” Elizabeth said, still staring at Caroline in wonder. The woman could truly pull off the distinguished look - no matter how desperate the situation.

“A stirgoi - sort of a vampire witch sort of thing,” Olaf said. “You don’t speak French, so just hiss a lot. You’re there for atmosphere.”

They went over the plan again, and as they turned to leave, the count said more seriously, “Remember - if he does bring the two of them forward, they may not be in the best of conditions. It is important that you don’t react. None of you speak English, so you won’t have to talk to either of them. Whatever you’re feeling,” he said, looking carefully at Caroline and Elizabeth, “hold it in. We just need to get them out.”

They both nodded, having a feeling that would be harder than it seemed.

*********************************

Count Olaf had no trouble gaining admittance to the grounds of Count Vladimir after a very tense carriage ride in the evening cold, followed by Fitzwilliam’s wagon. In the carriage, Caroline donned the black veil that obscured most of her face but not her hair, lifting it only to peek out the window at the castle they were approaching.

This is where Darcy is, Elizabeth thought next to her, and without thinking, gave Caroline an innate squeeze on the gloved wrist. We’re coming.

The castle was indeed very foreboding. Caroline wrapped the shawl around her more tightly as Elizabeth and Grégoire followed behind her, a little better covered but not by much. They all came in behind Count Olaf, who spoke only a moment with the guards in Romanian before they allowed him admittance. He seemed to know his way about the place, and the guards with their lances and halberds nodded to him suspiciously, especially with the party following him. Olaf showed no fear or trepidation as he entered what was the dining hall.

At the head of the long table was a fat, bearded man digging into his dinner of some kind of roast, “Ce este aceasta?” (What is this?)

“Excuse me, brother,” Count Olaf said, pulling up an empty chair not far from him and speaking in French. “You know I would not intrude on your hospitality without a very good reason, but mine is very grave. I am sure you will understand.”

Count Vladimir wiped his hands, shoving his food to the side. He was obviously in no mood for visitors. He was more traditionally dressed than his brother-in-law in half-robes with a gold chain around his neck and an elaborate hat. He did, however, snap his fingers and a goblet of something was brought for Olaf, who politely took a sip.

“You will not believe the tale I have to tell you. It is so terrible!” Olaf put his head in his hands for a moment. He did truly look stricken. “You know - we have not been on good terms, I admit, but you know my daughter miscarried last year.”

“Yes,” Vladimir said, and nothing else as his food as taken away.

“I did not - I did not think anything odd at the time,” Olaf said, nervously running his hands through his hair. “We were both so upset, the Countess and I. But we assumed it was all part of the natural process. But now ... now my son is ill. With what, the doctors know not.” He paused, as if terrified with what he was about to say. “You know I do not believe in magic or superstition. I am an enlightened man.”

“We all are,” was all Vladimir offered, very coldly done.

“We like to think so, yes. But then we see something so incredible before our eyes - we cannot help but believe,” Olaf said. Elizabeth had to suppress a smile. He was really getting into his part. “It seems - a curse has been put on both our families.”

“Ce a face tu mean?”

“I mean - we cannot have children. Our lines have been cursed. You know this - from your own experience, as I understand.”

Count Vladimir took his meaning immediately, various emotions registering on his face before he slammed his hand on the table. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Brother Vladimir, please, be calm,” Olaf said, appearing frightened. “Allow me to introduce you to someone I never wished to meet - or believed in, before last night.” He rose and bowed, shaking, to Caroline. “Vladimir, this is Muma Pădurii.”

Caroline did not curtsey. She approached the table with her “minions” hobbling behind her pulling their hoods up to reveal one warty, disgusting face and one hairy one.

The effect was as intended. Vladimir stood up, then jerked back, knocking over his chair before recovering enough to bow to her. “It cannot be so.”

“It is,” Olaf said. “She cursed our children years ago. It seems my sister made a pact with her.”

“A pact?”

“It is true,” Caroline said in strangely accented French. Olaf had told her to make up whatever accent she wanted, as long as it was odd. “Nicoleta made a deal with me. She knew you would slay her for your own failure to provide a male heir, and she wanted me to exact revenge. So I cursed your daughter and this pitiful man’s as well. And now I will take his son.”

“As punishment,” Olaf said, “for your crimes.”

“You made my daughter barren? My Nadezhda?” Vladimir was entranced by the whole spectacle. “Where is she? Where are you keeping her?”

“I am not. She ran away because she knew you would kill her if she could not conceive.”

“That’s not true!”

“It is,” she said. Elizabeth watched in amazement. Caroline Maddox was a fantastic actress when it required her to be composed and tough. “She’ll return to you when she can conceive.”

Vladimir sat down, trying to compose himself. “I’m not saying I believe you - or Olaf - but why now? What do you want?”

“Your hostages,” Olaf said.

“I’ve never ... had Englishmen.” The line actually called for her to say “eat” but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. “They’re worthless to you, anyway.”

“We’ll see,” Vladimir said, and signaled to a servant, who rushed over, and took a quiet order. “Please - sit.”

Caroline looked skeptically at the chair that was brought for her. She was good at looking at things with disgust. Grégoire yelped for good measure, it came out fairly well, and she finally took a seat.

From the corner door, Trommler appeared wearing a long coat and looking very much the part he was meant to play or had agreed to play the day before. He looked skeptically at Caroline and Olaf before exchanging some words with Count Vladimir in a hushed Romanian.

“Well, she could easily be a vampiress of some kind,” Trommler said in French.

“They exist?”

“Of course,” he said without blinking. “They eat children and they drink blood. That is why they have red hair.” He made a nod to Caroline.

Even Vladimir didn’t seem to believe what his logical, scientific advisor-spy was saying. “I thought you didn’t believe this nonsense.”

“I believe in what I can see and touch, and I have seen and touched such things,” was all Trommler said to that. So he was going to play along.

The count hesitated a moment before whispering again in Romanian to Trommler, who nodded respectfully, and left the way he came. “So,” Vladimir said to Caroline, “you will lift the curse.”

“Yes, if you provide the payment.”

“And why should I do this when my daughter is still missing? Only Olaf would truly benefit.”

“Vladimir! You would save your nephew’s life!” Olaf said, appearing to be horrified.

“You know one does not mean anything to the other, brother,” Vladimir said. He seemed to think he was in control now that he realized he had what they wanted. “I want my daughter back.”

“Why? If it’s just all about an heir, why not remarry and produce a son, with the curse lifted?” For this, Olaf’s voice wavered, but it was barely noticeable.

This, sadly, Vladimir did consider. But this is a man who killed his wife and tried to kill his son-in-law, Elizabeth reminded herself. And holds my husband hostage for no reason. “No one will marry me now.”

“That is hardly my fault.”

Vladimir sighed as Trommler reappeared, whom he looked to for guidance. Behind Mr. Trommler came two guards, but they were not the items of interest. They dragged along and dropped to the ground at Vladimir’s feet two very dirty, very hairy men. Vladimir gestured and the guards pulled them up by their hair so they were kneeling on the floor.

Elizabeth bit her tongue to keep from showing any other expression. She looked only briefly at Caroline; thankful she was wearing a veil over her face. She could at least hide her emotion. Elizabeth had never seen Darcy with a beard or Maddox without his glasses; the chief way to tell them apart was the differing color of their hair as knotted and tangled as it was. But they were Maddox and Darcy. Darcy still had the tattered remains of what had once been his beautifully tailored green vest. Neither man recognized the scene before them or appeared to even be completely conscious.

“So,” Vladimir continued, “I have the Englishmen, but no daughter. You have the curse on your daughter and son, and this person you say is the Muma Pădurii. Surely, if that were true, she could further curse me, no?” He looked to Trommler for support.

“This would be true,” Trommler said, “if she were so bloodthirsty.”

“Then we should ask for an exhibition of her descântece?”

Elizabeth did not know what that word meant, but she could logically conclude that it meant something along the lines of “magic” or “curse.” Caroline gave her the briefest of glances; they were not prepared for this eventuality. Surely they could talk their way out of it?

“I have a much less dangerous solution,” Trommler said, “for all of us.” The rest of them tried to hide their sighs of relief.

“Please,” Olaf said. “I would like very much to hear it.”

“Very simple,” Trommler said. “If you don’t mind,” he said to Count Vladimir, scooping up his now-empty goblet and pulling out a pocketknife. “After all, the Forest Mother is here for the flesh and blood of the Englishmen - a notion too foul for any human being.” He walked casually over to Maddox - recognizable because his hair and beard were black - and grabbed him by the ear. “How about this one?” he said, looking directly at Caroline.

Trommler had gone off-script. None of them had any idea of what to do about it but his intent was obvious enough. His harsh gaze did not waver from Caroline’s as if he could see right through her veil, even while he held her husband’s life in his hands.

Elizabeth watched her flinch, and then slowly nod. Vladimir didn’t seem to notice; that was their only consolation. Trommler cut along his cheek, not deeply, but enough to draw blood. Maddox cried out incoherently, and his head was held over the goblet so the blood could drip into it. It was still flowing, not badly, when his head was set aright and Trommler emotionlessly walked back to the table and offered the cup to Caroline. “I’m sure you will enjoy it.”

All eyes were on Caroline; her expression hidden behind her veil but her body language was not as still. Elizabeth was at her shoulder, close enough to see her trembling. There was no way on earth she could possibly -

Elizabeth looked over at her husband. His eyes were open but he had not acknowledged her or anyone else. He seemed to be aimlessly staring into space. Was it starvation and torture that had reduced him to this state or something else? Either way, she was willing to risk it; she grabbed the goblet from Trommler’s hands, bracing herself before taking a long sniff. She was, after all, supposed to be the strigoi. She then whispered softly to Caroline, “Tell them it’s drugged.”

Caroline took the goblet from her, seizing her own initiative with the idea, and poured the blood out on the stone floor in front of her. “How dare you give me a poisoned drink?”

Trommler stepped back. He recovered well, bowing to her. “Quite right, Muma Pădurii.” He turned to his master. “She could not tell that if she was not an expert in human blood. Your Grace, she may very well be who she says she is and you would be wise to give in to her demands.” The half-glance backwards at Caroline was a vicious smile, if only for a second before he recovered himself again.

Sick man, Elizabeth huffed. That was all right. Her “character” was supposed to be upset at the deception, anyway.

Vladimir sighed. “Very well; just - take them away. They’re no use to me, anyway.”

Caroline did not curtsey. “Our agreement stands then.”

“Yes.” He looked at his brother-in-law. “Olaf - do let me know how my dear nephew makes out.” He did not sound even remotely sincere. He seemed bothered and bored. He waved them off; it was their cue to leave. Olaf rose and bowed politely. The others did not. They followed him with the sounds of Darcy and Maddox being dragged behind them as neither man could apparently walk. As painful as it was, they continued to ignore them as they had been instructed as they were brought outside and helped into the carriage; a rather stunned Lord Fitzwilliam had two semi-conscious, half-dressed men tossed in his snowy cart.

Inside the carriage, Caroline tore off her veil. Beneath it, she was crying. “It’s over, Mrs. Maddox,” Count Olaf said across from her as the carriage started up. Now that he broke character, he looked exhausted and emotional himself. “We have them. We won.”

“Thanks to Elizabeth,” Grégoire said, pulling off the fur on his face.

“That was a stroke of genius,” Olaf said.

Elizabeth nodded, but she didn’t feel like rejoicing. She just felt like sobbing.

*********************************

The ride back to Count Olaf’s manor was mercifully short. Fitzwilliam was already there, having ridden much faster, and was standing in the falling snow awaiting their arrival. “They’re drugged,” he said. “Just mildly. I don’t think it is poison.”

“To keep them from speaking,” Olaf concluded. “Or trying to escape.”

Just inside, a guard was tending to Dr. Maddox’s wound but was practically pushed aside by Caroline who embraced her husband. “Darling,” she said. He responded by resting his head on her shoulder, but one hand - the one that didn’t seem to be splinted to a piece of wood - raised enough to grasp her hand, if only weakly. His off hand, his left hand, the one he had written the letter with.

Elizabeth spotted Darcy wrapped in blankets, coughing into a bucket. She kissed him on the small part of his cheek that wasn’t covered in hair. “Darcy,” she whispered. It was not Mr. Darcy of Pemberley and Derbyshire, or Fitzwilliam Darcy. It was just Darcy, her husband, her beloved.

He seemed to be struggling to say something, but was unable to. She wrapped her arms around him, around a thin frame under the blankets. She didn’t care, for the moment, if he had sores or some kind of disease - she would suffer that infection. They would do everything together - the three of them. “You don’t have to speak,” she said. “Don’t strain yourself.” Instead she just placed his hand on her stomach. Even months of obvious starvation could not decrease the size of his hand, nor could the rope burns on his wrists. Though not visible beneath her shawl, there was a small swelling there of what she hoped to G-d would soon be their next child.

His eyes remained unfocused, and he was unable to verbalize whatever it was in his mind, but his hand caressed her belly, slowly and cautiously, in silent acknowledgement. She had told no one -not intentionally - before this moment. This was how she wanted it to be - Darcy, the father of the child, showing the first signs of joy and affection. It was limited to his hand motion, before he passed out on her shoulder.

It was enough.

Chapter 20 - Soldiers of All Types

It was understood that they could not stay past the night. Count Olaf was overjoyed at having pulled the wool over his brother-in-law’s eyes, but he could not house them for long. He told his men to begin loading up their wagon as the others returned to their chambers.

Elizabeth approached the count, “I know we’ve been such an intrusion, but might I bother you for a -”

“- change of clothes, yes.” He smiled tiredly at her. “It really is no trouble.”

“There is no way we can possibly repay you to the extent that you deserve -”

He put his hand up. “I have already secured a favor from the monk. That is enough.” He turned and walked off before she could ask him what it was.

That left her with what to do with Darcy, while Fitzwilliam studied the maps. Grégoire was still at his brother’s side when she entered her husband’s chambers. Darcy had been sleeping since their arrival. It seemed almost cruel to wake him for something as simple as a change of clothes, but - “Darcy?” she said as Grégoire propped him up. He did not respond to stimuli. His eyes fluttered opened but he made little acknowledgement of either of them.

“Could you hold him up?” Grégoire said, and she held Darcy upright as he cut away the ruined vest and undershirt that had once been white. Grégoire had no visible reaction to seeing most of Darcy’s ribcage, but Elizabeth gasped. “I don’t think we should try to shave him now. The beard will help in the cold.”

“Agreed,” she said numbly, staring at her skeleton of a husband. At least there were no apparent scars or injuries on his body, or signs of disease. “Darcy,” she whispered, wiping the dirt away from his forehead. He groaned something incomprehensible. She couldn’t even tell if it was an attempted word or just a bodily response to the warm water placed on his face, wiping away layers of grime. “It’s all right. We’re here.”

In response, he only coughed.

“He has a wound on his hand,” Grégoire said. “A puncture, but it healed. It’s where all the nerves are gone, anyway.” They got him as clean as they were going to, here and now, especially in his impaired state and with their exhaustion. Elizabeth put a clean white shirt over his head and let him lie back down. His socks were disposed of along with his shirt, and he was finally let to rest, which he seemed to be doing regardless of their ministrations.

As Grégoire excused himself, Elizabeth stopped him. “What did you promise the count?”

“The count?”

“Our host. He said you offered a favor.”

“Oh.” He looked a bit embarrassed. “I - promised to say a Mass so that his daughter will not miscarry. She is with child again.” The part about Olaf’s son taking ill had been false; the part about the failed pregnancy of his daughter last year had been true.

“That was it.”

“Yes.”

He was hiding something but she accepted his answer, too tired to do otherwise. It did not seem pressing. Instead she removed her outer layers and crawled into bed beside her husband, listening to his steady but ragged breathing and occasional cough no matter how many blankets she put over him. But he was here, beside her, where he belonged. Where they were and how they had gotten there, for the moment, did not matter.

*********************************

In the morning, Grégoire was already up when she knocked on his door. Of course, he rose earlier than all of them, no matter how tired he was. In the hallway they encountered a tense Fitzwilliam, still not fully dressed. “How is Darcy?”

“Still sleeping. He called out for you during the night, Grégoire,” she said to her brother-in-law. “Except he called you Gregory for some reason.”

Grégoire shrugged. “Has anyone spoken to Mrs. Maddox?”

“Yes,” Fitzwilliam said with a frown. “Dr. Maddox is not well. He did wake last night when she tried to bathe him, and he started yelling at her. Well, not at her. He didn’t say who it was. Eventually the servants dried him off and he went back to sleep. And his hand - he needs to see a surgeon immediately.”

“How immediately?”

“He has gangrene on one of his fingers. I would say, within a week or two.”

Elizabeth felt a pang of guilt, apparently, Darcy had faired well. On the other hand, it wasn’t his brother who had run off with Count Vladimir’s daughter, “We are expected to leave today.”

“Yes, I discussed it with Count Olaf last night. He says the best thing to do is to make straight for Frankfurt, which is large enough to have a decent surgeon, and from there we can write to Darcy’s man in Berlin and have him deliver a message to England. Beyond that, we’ll have to find passage somewhere along the coast of Hanover. It’s not safe to travel to England anymore, just from it.” His frown deepened. “I’m not positive that either of them are well enough to travel, but we don’t have much of a choice. If we don’t leave before the heavy snows set in, we’ll have to winter in Transylvania.”

At breakfast, Count Olaf joined them as did his wife and son; they discussed various routes out of the country and various places to stop for shelter. It had not snowed the night before - a good sign, he judged. “The only thing I regret,” Olaf said, “is not being able to see the look on Vladimir’s face when he discovered our ruse. Perhaps he hasn’t, yet.”

“And Trommler?”

He shrugged, “That man, as far as I can tell, is the type of person to survive. Unfortunately.”

Their few items were packed and the reliquary was returned to its hiding place in the now well-padded wagon. A hung-over Darcy, still largely incomprehensible, attempted to get up but eventually needed Fitzwilliam to carry him to the wagon.

The only complication was Dr. Maddox, who seemed more aware, at least while he was still sitting, because he looked skeptically at the glass of Laudanum that was presented to him for his hand, which he held to his chest in pain, and shook his head. “No.”

“Daniel -”

“No. No more. Please.” He looked terrified. He was shaking when Caroline rubbed his back.

“I don’t want to make him,” she said to Fitzwilliam, who frowned, but finally agreed.

Their departure from the castle was an odd one. They were eager to be gone, but wanted to say proper good-byes to the man who had so needlessly put himself out and in great danger for them. However, they could not bring themselves to celebrate, and their good-byes were muted.

“Go with G-d, Brother,” Olaf said to Grégoire. “Energie cu Dumn-zeu.”

“Energie cu Dumn-zeu.” Grégoire said as he made the sign of the cross.

*********************************

“Uncle Bingley!”

The shouts of two children, probably racing in his direction with the intention to grab hold of him and perhaps topple him, was enough to make a very tired Charles Bingley smile as he entered his London townhouse. “Prepare yourself; I am about to be trampled,” he said to his doorman as the Maddox children appeared around the corner. “Hello, chil -” But that was about as far as he got before Frederick and Emily Maddox reached his legs, and he succeeded in standing only by grabbing on to a pillar. “Careful! You’re both much too big for this!”

Emily raised her hands in silent asking, and he picked her up with a groan. “You’re getting too heavy, Miss Maddox. I bet you’re going to be at least your mother’s height.” He looked down and patted Frederick on the head. “And you - you’re practically a man now.” Actually Frederick was four as of a week ago, but he was unaware of that fact. His birthday was celebrated with his sister’s. “Look at you.”

Louisa Hurst finally appeared, trying to follow her niece and nephew with a more graceful, womanly entrance. “Hello, Charles.”

“Louisa. How are they?”

“Quite eager for next week.” She turned a stern eye to the children. “And you are both up past your bedtimes.”

With a collective groan, a servant finally herded off the children as Mr. Hurst hobbled in. “Mr. Bingley.”

“Mr. Hurst. How are you both? Is there any news?”

“There’s a package that was passed on by the Maddox housekeeper, but it’s not from the Continent,” Louisa said. “It came last week. No return.”

“To Dr. Maddox?”

“To Frederick.”

He nodded. “Does he know about it?”

“No. We weren’t sure what to do.”

“I’ll handle it,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m later than I said I would be - I was held up at the business office.”

“I thought you hired a manager for that,” said Mr. Hurst. Louisa Hurst had already put in her objections to Bingley reentering the family business, and said nothing at this juncture.

“I did, but - there’s only so much he can do with the embargo. The company hasn’t had a shipment in six months.” He shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about this in front of his sister. “Where is this package?”

“In your study, with your other mail. None of it from the Continent - we checked as it came in. How is Jane?”

“She’s fine. Worried, but fine,” he said, which was his regular answer, and he said his goodnights to his sister as he went into his study. He left the door open, and Mr. Hurst followed him.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Hurst said, sitting down on the chair across from him. “You would think having two children would make the house more lively, but it’s actually been rather quiet.”

“I don’t mind,” Bingley said, as he quickly shuffled through the mail, mainly concerning his business venture, and a few from people who had heard he was in and out of Town and were sending their invitations.

“Any hope for the business, Bingley?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. I either pay the workers for essentially doing nothing, or throw up my hands and let them all go. The warehouse is empty and no money’s coming in.”

“Will you have lost much?”

“Hardly anything. I wouldn’t have gone into it otherwise. Still - I feel bad, not paying men who think they have jobs. These are dock workers, not idle gentlemen.”

“But they’re not actually doing their jobs.”

Bingley just shook his head. “Anyway - let’s see about this.” He pulled the brown package closer to him, and retrieved his pocketknife to cut the strings. There was no return address. “I assume it came on Frederick’s birthday?”

“Precisely. Or, do we really know? Or just the day his mother died?”

“I don’t know. I was never clear on that myself. For some reason, I don’t want to bring it up, even with Caroline.” He severed the strings, and tore off the brown packaging to reveal a box. “I feel sort of guilty, opening his present for him.”

“My understanding is the doctor does it without a second thought.”

This didn’t make Bingley feel much better as he opened the box to reveal a set of toy soldiers, half painted British and half painted French, lying against fine silk. “Goodness.” He spun the box around so Hurst could get a look.

Mr. Hurst picked one up, examining it. “Very nice. Young Frederick will be ecstatic.” He put it back in its place. “Who will this be from?”

“I don’t know. Usually the doctor makes that decision, but I don’t think he’ll be back in time.” He crossed his arms. “I bought Emily a doll - I suppose this year it could come from the Bingleys, alongside her present.”

“Was the doll made of gold?”

“They can’t tell the worth of things. And it’s a very nice doll,” he said, closing the box and flipping it over.

“Looking for the royal seal?”

“We’re not supposed to say that out loud, Mr. Hurst,” he said, settling into his chair.

“Someone should say the obvious,” Hurst said. “I agree with your plan. Louisa and I already bought him something. He’s been trying to find it all week.”

“Jane is going to come down for their birthday, and bring the children.”

“All of them?”

“We thought - well, it might take their minds off the situation. The house might be destroyed in the process, but so be it.” He smiled at that, one hand still on the box of soldiers.

*********************************

Grégoire held Darcy upright; long enough to make sure he swallowed the contents of the container and then helped him back down. Since both men were unconscious, Elizabeth climbed up next to Caroline. “How long do you think we should ride?”

“As long as we possibly can. Out of Austria, at least.”

The four of them traded places through the night and the next day, until they had to stop and pay what seemed outrageously for a change in horses. The road was long and brutal, rarely paved except for the old Roman roads. A week at full speed was enough for everyone, and it was obvious that their husbands needed not only proper food (and a shave) but a doctor. Darcy, in his brief moments of incoherent consciousness, lost most of what they forced him to ingest by the roadside. Doctor Maddox did not wake at all.

The half-ruined wagon rolled into Frankfurt. The best inn they could find was in poor condition from the chaos of war, but it would do. Grégoire was sent off to find a decent doctor, if one was to be found. The reliquary was put in the Maddoxes’ room, as it seemed that the doctor needed any blessings it would bring the most.

At last, after the innkeeper brought up food and drink, Elizabeth was left alone with Darcy. “Darcy,” she said, taking his hand. “You need to drink.”

To her surprise, he coughed and responded, “Maddox, I’ve just had the loveliest dream.”

“Oh?”

“Elizabeth was with me,” he said.

She kissed him on the forehead, and he opened his eyes. They didn’t seem to entirely focus, but enough for him to say, “Oh.”

“That’s all I get for going to Transylvania to rescue you?”

He smiled weakly. “You are ... preferable ... to waking up next to Maddox.”

“I would hope so,” she said, all of the desperation coming out of her. Relieved as she was to find him alive, he was not well. “I’ll help you up.” ‘Help’ was an operative word, because she did most of the work, as he didn’t seem capable of moving much himself, or even lifting his own deteriorated weight, but finally she had him resting against the headboard enough for him to drink. It took him a long time to finish the bottle, but he managed, and seemed to stay awake this time as she put it away.

“Where - where am I?”

“Frankfurt. We’ve just arrived. Grégoire is looking for a doctor as we speak.”

“Doctor -,” he stumbled. “Grégoire?”

“Yes, you have a brother named Grégoire.”

He was too impaired to respond in his traditional way, which bothered her as he answered simply, “He’s here?”

“We found him in the monastery. It was dissolved, but he was still there. He posted, of course, but like everything else, it didn’t reach us in England.”

He made a motion that seemed to be an abbreviated nod. “Maddox?”

“He’s in the next room, with Caroline.”

“Bingley?”

“Yes, I don’t know another Caroline.”

“No ... I mean ... where’s Bingley?”

“He didn’t come. He’s watching the children.”

“Oh.” After some time, he said, “Clearly ... we should have been ... more specific in ‘sending help.’”

“Would you prefer Bingley holding your hand right now instead of your wife?”

“No,” he was aware enough to respond. “But ... you know that’s not the point.”

“I know. But you’re safe; everyone is safe,” Safety, of course, being somewhat relative. She kissed him and let him drift off again, as he clearly wanted to do. She would have been content to just sit there and watch him breathe reminding her that he was, despite his state, very much alive and out of harm’s way, but there was a knock on the door. “Come.”

It was Caroline. “How is he?”

“We spoke. He seemed a bit annoyed we didn’t send Mr. Bingley in our place.”

“How is that not surprising?” Caroline said. “Daniel woke, but only for a few moments.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He asked me to look at his hand and give a description, the bound one. I’m not sure he really knew who I was, or where he was, but he was still trying to be a doctor.” Usually, at this point, Caroline would look annoyed, her half-jesting, half-indignant sort of way and roll her eyes. Instead, she just looked tired. Her hair wasn’t properly put up. She had blood on her hands from where she had handled him.

“Is it bad?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t stay awake long enough to make his diagnosis. But his fingers are bent and one of them is green.” She sat down on the bed, next to Elizabeth. “I told him not to go, and do something stupid, like get captured by a baron and tortured for information he didn’t have. And now -” but her tears prevented her from speaking further.

Elizabeth placed a hand on her back. “But he’s alive. And it’s only his hand.”

“He can’t lose his hand! He’s a surgeon!” Caroline cried. “Of all the stupid things for him to do - he had to go after that insolent brother of his! Who’s smarter than all of us, for staying out of this!”

Elizabeth did not try to talk her out of it. As Darcy slept on behind them, Elizabeth let her sister-in-law cry until she was spent. It took a very long time.

*********************************

It was getting late when Grégoire returned with Doctor Schauss, who spoke German and some French. The priority was with Doctor Maddox, who was finally roused with smelling salts and a good quantity of juice as his wife explained everything to the doctor.

Doctor Schauss removed the bandages and the splint, which was still in place, and Maddox cried out when he did, leaning into his wife. “Herr Doctor, you need a surgeon.”

“How many?” Maddox finally said, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

“Just the small one. And your thumb needs to be re-broken. The important matter, of course, is -”

“Blood loss,” Maddox interrupted. “When do you think we should do it?”

“It’s gangrene, doctor. As soon as possible,” Doctor Schauss said, as if his patient had lost his mind.

Maddox swallowed. “Do you know a surgeon with clean hands?”

“I can get one.”

“Then let’s be done with it.”

The doctor was dismissed to attend to his other patient, at least for the moment. Doctor Maddox, who could not sit up on his own, leaned entirely into Caroline. “I’m so sorry,” he said, in his first real words to her.

“You? Sorry? It’s that idiot brother of yours who should be sorry,” she said, but her usual veneer was cracking. She considered herself fortunate that he could not see her tears. “When I get my hands on him -”

“As noble as he may have been,” he mumbled, “I’m inclined to agree with your sentiments.”

*********************************

It was Grégoire who Elizabeth found up last in the hallway. “What did the doctor say?”

“Darcy will be fine, provided his cough doesn’t develop into something else. And he needs to regain his strength. Doctor Maddox?”

He explained to her the dire situation of the doctor, who would be facing a gruesome surgery tomorrow.

“Is my brother awake?”

“No. But I did tell him you were here. I’m not sure if it took, though,” she admitted. “I was just going to retire. Do you wish to see him?”

“Please.”

She escorted Grégoire into Darcy’s room, where he lay on his side, breathing uneasily in his sleep. His brother made the sign of the cross over him and blessed him, and listened to Darcy mumbling, “Papist nonsense...” into his pillow.

“Be nice to your brother,” Elizabeth said. “He’s a man now.”

But Darcy did not inquire further. He was already asleep again.

Chapter 21 - Risky Business

The first person to arrive in the morning was actually the barber, and Elizabeth Darcy and Caroline Maddox finally could be positively sure that they had recovered their husbands and not some random prisoners. Since Maddox could see no solid shapes, he could not object and got a much closer trim to his bangs than he normally kept as well as a shave. The barber was thoroughly confused by what Maddox said to him when he learned of his cut by feeling the top of his head that he ran out of the room and attended to Darcy. He then proceeded to form the sideburns in the German style, which incensed Darcy to no end and the poor barber had to deal with two angry customers and two apologetic wives before running off with his payment.

“You look fine,” Elizabeth assured him, though she was holding back her laughter as she said it. But in fact, upon closer inspection, he did not look fine. A messy beard and overgrown hair had only disguised how sunken his features were. When she finally acquired proper clothes to change him into, she discovered she could see most of his ribcage. “My darling,” she whispered, and he gave a token kiss to her cheek before collapsing back in bed.

They did not allow her into Maddox’s room when the surgeon and the doctor arrived. They would not have allowed Caroline either, but the two Prussian physicians were apparently not prepared to deal with the frightening will of Caroline Maddox. She simply would not vacate the room; that air about her as if she were the Queen of England and could do and say as she pleased, they could do nothing to contradict her. A tired Grégoire was called in as another male set of hands, and the door was shut. Lord Fitzwilliam was out trying to secure some kind of passage to the coast, and then to England.

Elizabeth did not have to hover outside of the door. The walls were not particularly thick and the rooms adjacent, so she was perfectly capable of hearing all or most of the proceedings while sitting beside her husband. There was very little that was recognizably from Doctor Maddox, who was undoubtedly both drugged and gagged. Most of it actually came from Mrs. Maddox, who was yelling at the surgeon, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” More mumbling. Elizabeth put her ear against the wall. “Don’t you know how to sew? What kind of surgeon are you?” Despite it all, Elizabeth was covering her mouth to hide her inappropriate smile as Caroline proceeded to browbeat the surgeon for his technique. Finally, silence, which was broken only by Grégoire crashing into the Darcy room and vomiting into the chamber pot. Darcy slept on despite it all.

“Excuse me,” Grégoire said when he recovered himself. “Apologies, madam. I just -” He shook his head.

“Is Doctor Maddox well?”

“He has survived,” he said. “But they’ve given him quite a lot of laudanum, and said it is best if he sleeps for as long as possible.”

“I thought he wouldn’t take it.”

He shrugged. “He wasn’t given a choice.”

It was a few hours past and with permission that Elizabeth ventured into the Maddoxes’ room. Most of it had been cleaned up, and Maddox was asleep in bed with his bandaged hand resting on a board. Caroline sat in the chair beside him and rose as Elizabeth entered.

“How is he?” Elizabeth whispered.

“All right,” Caroline voiced in a normal volume. “He won’t like it, but we’re going to keep him under with laudanum for a while.”

Elizabeth glanced at his hand. It seemed to still be there.

“It was just the small finger,” Caroline said, “and only a portion of it. Really, it was nothing compared to what it would be in a month from now. His thumb had to be re-broken. But he will have use of his hand.” She glanced at her husband, then back to Elizabeth. “How is Darcy?”

“He seemed perturbed that we had not sent Mr. Bingley in our stead.” She smiled. “I suppose your brother would have a very hard time becoming a vampiress witch for an evening.”

*********************************

The birthday celebrations of Frederick and Emily Maddox were not muted - there was no way for them to be, with so many children and so few adults to handle them. It was a physical impossibility. Only the age and height factors kept Frederick from lording his presents over Geoffrey but didn’t stop him from pestering Charles III into some jealousy; while Georgie turned her nose up at Eliza’s fascination with Emily’s new doll, and Anne and Edmund ran around with their newfound mobility. With Sarah being passed around, it was almost forgotten how many adults were absent. With the ruckus, only Jane, who had taken Sarah aside to try and calm her crying after having her ears poked by her elder sister, heard the knocking at the door. She quickly passed Sarah Darcy to Mrs. Hurst and disappeared to see to the caller.

Bingley presided over the ceremonies, held in his townhouse, with amusement and delight at the horde of children before him. When Edmund was close to knocking over the writing stand, he picked him up and held his year-and-a-half old son in his arms. Trying to put any worries out of his mind, he only looked up when he heard a gasp.

Jane stood in the entrance to the sitting room, holding an opened letter in her arms. Her eyes were already red and her face wet with tears. There was a silence that pervaded over all of the adults to the point where the children even picked up on the changed mood and quieted down. Finally she recovered from her shock and said with a weak smile, “They’ve been recovered. Elizabeth and Caroline have found them.”

Bingley kissed his younger son and set him on the floor, running to embrace his wife. Slowly, after many cheers and assurances to the children - now not half-hearted - the story came out as Jane summarize the letter in Elizabeth’s handwriting, but signed by her, Caroline, and Lord Fitzwilliam. “After leaving Berlin they found Grégoire in Munich, where he was hiding from the soldiers in the basement of his monastery. From there they traveled by wagon into Austria, and ransomed Mr. Darcy and Dr. Maddox from the count. Mr. Maddox has still not been located - no one knows where he is - but they are all recovered.” Her voice broke several times and she had to pause to recover herself from such raw joy. “Lizzy writes from Frankfurt, where the doctor had to have his hand mended but he will be all right. She sent this letter to Darcy’s man in Berlin, to make sure it got here. By now they should be on the coast, trying to acquire passage to England! Charles, they are coming home!”

Congratulations went around so many times that even Mr. and Mrs. Hurst were all misty-eyed, and the children were ecstatic to the point where they quickly exhausted themselves, which was very helpful for getting the younger ones into their cradles for their afternoon naps. (“I’ve never seem them go to sleep so easily,” said Darcy’s Nurse) Only Georgie and Geoffrey stayed up longer, playing with Frederick’s toys with the real intention of hearing the others talk more frankly. They even attempted to hide behind the settee and be forgotten, but were quickly discovered by the ever-watchful Jane, who immediately sent them upstairs. Celebratory drinks were passed around, and toasts to everyone’s health were made, especially those traveling home at last. Jane excused herself to pen a quick note to Anne about her husband and Georgiana about her brother and sister, while Bingley read the letter for himself. Jane had omitted things in her general reading. There was more to the story of the retrieval of Darcy and Maddox from prison but it was something that would be told properly when they returned, as it was long and complicated and involved a great deal of trickery and use of superstition on their part. He knew enough about Elizabeth to read between the lines - both Darcy and Maddox had suffered greatly during their imprisonment, and were not in full senses. He knew Darcy well enough to know that Darcy would have written the letter himself if he was up to it, but no ailment was described. Grégoire was coming to England for the rest of the war and bringing with him some kind of reliquary for safekeeping, of all things. At least one person of the two was found, he thought to himself.

Dinner was a happier affair than they had anticipated. Dr. Maddox had missed his children’s birthdays, but he would be there for the next ones, and that was all that mattered now. But even joy brought a certain exhaustion, after many toasts (perhaps a few too many), the four of them retired.

“Perhaps we should send a note to open up their houses,” Jane said as she reread the letter in bed while Bingley settled down beside her, feeling a bit lightheaded from so many celebrations with libation. “Or is it too soon? She said they would write again from the coast, if they could.” In the letter, it named the town they were traveling to, but their plans were not fixed because of the war. “Should we try to arrange a ship ourselves? It would much easier from this side of the channel.”

“It would be,” he said. “I honestly ... am overwhelmed.” He leaned over and kissed his wife. “It is as if a weight has been lifted from me. I will confess to you now that I do not want to ever have to be the steward of Pemberley.”

“And Rosings.”

“Oh G-d, yes. Or would it just pass to the Fitzwilliams?” He frowned, and then smiled again. “Well, it hardly matters now. All will be right.”

But Bingley did not fall asleep. He was still awake when he heard the bell ring. He did not require his manservant to rouse him, appearing instead in the hallway, throwing a robe over his shoulders, “What is it?”

“A Mr. Kensington sent an express, sir. Nothing to get alarmed about.” Meanwhile, a servant dashed up the stairs and bowed, handing his master the letter, which Bingley tore open.

“Charles?” Jane’s voice called from the bedroom, “What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, reentering the bedroom. “There’s just a fire down at the docks. My manager decided to post me about it.” He set the note aside. “It’s not near the warehouse. Not that there’s anything in it to burn, but still - I’m going to go down and have a look.”

“A look!” Jane said. “Charles, you just told me the docks are burning and you want to go watch?”

“It won’t be dangerous. He says it’s in a different area. He just wanted me to know.” He leaned over, and kissed her. “I will be safe, I promise.”

“Take someone, will you?”

“Of course.” He smiled reassuringly. “I’ll be back before you know it.” And with that, he stepped into his dressing room to be dressed by his man.

But Jane did know how much time had passed before she heard a knock at the door, because she spent it tossing and turning, listening for sounds, and then staring at the clock as the hours ticked by. When she did hear the bell, she did not wait to be woken. She threw on her gown, rushed down the stairs, and opened the door herself.

The man who greeted her was not her husband.

*********************************

East London was not very safe - it was rioting. This, however, was hardly an unusual occurrence, especially in these strained economic times. The chief concern of the authorities was to make sure the fires did not spread elsewhere; what the poor did amongst themselves was another matter entirely.

The carriage pulled up to the warehouse. He had been there often enough in recent weeks; he knew it to be mainly empty, full of wooden storage boxes that would serve as excellent tinder after a particularly dry autumn. If it did catch, he would lose the building and probably the business, even if it were not much to lose.

He sighed, opening the front door. The fires were on the docks proper, some distance away, so he was not immediately concerned. What he was concerned about were the workers in the warehouse who faced him as he entered. He knew almost all of them by face and some of them by name - they were the men who had no work and no pay. Most concerning was the fact that one of them, a Mr. Graves (the sort of man who hardly deserved the proper title of “Mister”), was pointing a pistol at the head of Mr. Kensington.

“They made me write it,” the old man whispered.

“Let him go,” Bingley said in the most authoritative voice he had, which all things considered, was not very authoritative.

To his great surprise, the man holding him down - a Mr. Goodman, Bingley vaguely remembered - released him and Kensington ran out the back. The gun was then turned on Bingley as the door was shut behind him.

“Look,” he said, clutching his walking stick with full knowledge that it would hardly help him when facing an armed gang in poor lantern light, “I know the company is in dire straits right now because of the embargo -”

One of the men at his side - a younger man he didn’t recognize - clubbed him hard in the leg, hard enough that he howled with pain and collapsed to the ground, fairly sure that he had heard a bone breaking. The same man dragged him up.

“We’re in dire straits,” Graves said, drawing a knife as he approached him. “Yer sittin’ in your posh house, lookin’ over books, while we’re starvin.’ How many courses did ya eat tonight, Mr. Bingley?”

He cleared his throat. “This company is my family’s greatest concern. My father -”

“We don’t care about your father, Mr. Bingley,” said Graves, pointing the knife at his throat. “Or your mother, or your grandfather, or anyone else you care ta mention.”

Unfortunately, he was beginning to grasp what they did care about. Or at least, the lengths they were going to go through to get it.

“Yametekure!” (Hold it right there!)

They all turned away from Bingley without lowering their weapons to see the figure - figures - emerging from the darkness of the inner warehouse. The man before them was dressed in bizarre silk clothing, but more noticeable was his gigantic hat, which must have been made of some kind of stalk, was triangular, with holes in the front for his vision, as it covered most of his face. He had one hand tucked into the folds of his robe, the other easily resting on the hilt of two long swords, or one very long sword and another shorter one.

“This is private property,” he said in cold but perfectly comprehensible English. “Show your permit or get out!”

“Who’re you?” Goodman said, readying his own weapon as the man stepped into the torchlight.

“I will repeat myself once,” said the man, one finger over the hilt of his blades. “Stop threatening this man and get out!”

“Do what he says,” said the woman emerging on his side, wearing a robe and speaking in accented English. Her hair was tied up and covered by a white cloth.

“You and what army, lady?” Graves spat.

“I see you cannot be reasoned with.” The man turned to a box, on which emerged a man, hunched over like a bird on stilt shoes, “Mugen. Iidesuka?” (Are you ready?)

“Sehi.” (Sure)

Goodman, facing a shadowed and confusing spectacle, decided to take the initiative and raised his bat to the man in the hat. Goodman was larger, and fatter, and the man dropped to one knee, drawing his sword enough so that the butt of the hilt slammed right into Goodman’s stomach. He stumbled back and dropped like a sack of grain. The young man who had bashed Bingley’s leg now rushed the warrior but was stopped by a clog shoe to the head, tossed with enough force to knock him aside long enough for the second stranger to leap down and kick out his legs before retrieving his lost shoe. He drew his long, curved blade. “Ikoo! tatakau!!” (Come on! Hit me!), he said to Mr. Graves, who now realized he was facing two men armed with long swords, looking quite ready to swing them, the blade in his hand. Beside him, another thug emerged from the shadows with a gun.

“He’s got a -” but before Bingley could say ‘pistol,’ Graves grabbed him and slammed him against the wall, holding a knife up to his throat.

The young thug did not have time to fire his pistol, though, as he gripped his neck in pain, out shot a spray of blood. Neither of the attackers had moved; he dropped to his knees, the flicker of an edged coin highlighted in the torchlight. The woman, previously ignored, stepped forward with a stack of them, tossing one up and down in her palm menacingly at another member of the mob.

“Don’t yeh dare,” Graves said, his threat on Bingley’s person obvious enough. The proximity of the knife to Bingley’s throat was already drawing blood. He was afraid to swallow.

“Threaten my brother-in-law again,” said the first man, lifting his hat so they could meet eyes, “and there’s no way you’ll get out of here alive. In fact, there’s little chance of that as it is.”

Graves’ response was to toss Bingley at the trio that had disabled his gang in seconds. At least, that was the last thing he remembered before he hit the ground.

*********************************

“Mr. Bingley?” the voice repeated. “Oh, I think he’s coming ‘round.”

“Me-ester Bing-eh-ly,” said the man with a heavy foreign accent.

“Will he be all right?” said the female voice. Different accent, much better English. European?

“I don’t know. I’m not the doctor.”

“Kareshini osake o iidaroo.” (He looks like he needs a drink)

“He probably needs a surgeon, Mugen.”

That voice - that voice was undeniably recognizable - was right. Bingley was in a great deal of pain from the injury to his leg, and perhaps also from the spill. At least his throat hadn’t been seriously cut. He opened his eyes to the spectators, not quite sure of his perspective, but felt as though he was against an uneven brick wall. Above him, Town’s night sky, buildings to his left and right, from what he could see over the ledge, smaller than he remembered. Wait, was he on a roof? Was that were they were hiding? He noticed the man on stilts was sitting, huffing, like he had overdone himself, perhaps by carrying him. He was foreign, strange - but the light was poor.

“Welcome back to the world of the living, Mr. Bingley.”

He doubted it no longer. “Brian Maddox.” All of his immediate questions did not spring to his lips, maybe because he was exhausted, even though he hadn’t been the one fighting. Even in the dim light, the sight of Brian Maddox wearing a lampshade for a hat and a silk bathrobe for a shirt was bizarre enough to jolt him a bit. “Where -”

“Nippon,” Brian said, “Japan, before that, the Rus. I do apologize for my delayed correspondence. I did make every attempt to contact Danny, but it seems he took manners into his own hands while I was occupied elsewhere.” He held out his hand, and the woman walked up to him, wearing the most luxurious and beautifully patterned silk bed robe Bingley had ever seen, tied tightly by a thick sash and a cord. “Excuse my manners. Mr. Bingley, this is my wife, Princess Nadezhda Maddox. Mrs. Maddox, this is your brother-in-law, my brother’s wife’s brother.”

She curtseyed to him. “Mister Bingley.” Her accent, foreign but definitely Continental.

“Apologies for not - receiving you properly,” Bingley said, his voice dragging a bit, “but where in the hell am I?”

“Some rooftop. I hope the family below doesn’t mind the racket. We needed a rest. It’s still a bit of a ways to West End. Speaking of which - Mugen?”

“Nani?” said the squatting man. Now that Bingley’s vision was adjusting to the light, he could see that the man, wearing only a maroon shirt, some sort of loose breeches, and an off-white coat was definitely some kind of Indian or Oriental.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Sa! Igirisuwa konomama tsukareta shiranakatta!” ‘Mugen’ said, standing up and stretching his back. “Kay, we take you, Bing-eh-ley-san.” (Ach, I didn’t know England was going to be so back breaking)

“Wait, I -” but before he knew it, he was hoisted onto Mugen’s back.

“Dokoni itteirundesuka?” (Where are we going?)

“Follow me. Though I’ve never gone this way before,” Brian said with a smile, and leapt over the edge, onto the roof next door. Mrs. Maddox - Princess Maddox - and Mugen followed him with no hesitation. If the idea of jumping about the rooftops of Town in sandals bothered anyone other than Bingley himself, who was carried, they said not a word.

Chapter 22 - Tempestuous Temperaments

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 lowest man on the list of married men she knew she could manage with the death of. 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 was 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 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 the 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 acquired 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 bedclothes.

“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. “He needs a surgeon!”

“Papa!”

“Georgie!” Jane said, covering her daughter’s eyes, “Don’t look. He will be all right.”

Sadly, Nurse was probably asleep. Brian turned to the woman who was apparently his wife and said, “Can you take her into the next room? Ea este al tău nepoată. Ei nume is Georgiana.” (She is your niece. Her name is Georgiana)

“All right,” 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 red headed 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?”

“Mugen says he can splint the leg,” Brian said, “at least, until the surgeon gets here. Do you have the name of one?”

She did have a back-up name, given to the family by Dr. Maddox before his departure. She wrote a quick note and passed it on to a servant for express delivery, along with the address. Then she turned and had to cover her mouth to keep from screaming. The Oriental was standing over her husband’s left leg with a dagger. “What -?”

“It’s all right,” Brian said, as she noticed one of his swords was missing. “Mr. Bingley just took a blow to the leg and we have to get a look at it. It’s not what you think.”

It wasn’t. The Oriental sliced away Bingley’s stockings and breeches as far as the knee, to which Bingley gave a little cry. Jane hurried around to his side and grabbed his hand. “Where does it hurt?”

“My leg. G-d, it -,” he was stopped from coherent speech by the pain.

The Oriental stood over the wound, handing Brian back his short sword as he said something in his language.

“What did he say?” Jane cried.

“He said it is a simple break. It will heal easily,” Brian said so reassuringly calm, despite the look of concern on his face. He turned to a servant, “Can you possibly round up some pieces of wood or something and some neckties? And rope. We’ll need rope.”

The boards were found, and the man named Mugen set Bingley’s leg, which involved a fair amount of screaming on Bingley’s part as Brian and Jane attempted to reassure him. The deed was done long before the surgeon arrived, to his own surprise. Mr. Danby did not know what to make of the barefoot, tattooed, Oriental standing over his patient, but he eventually focused on his patient. “All right, Mr. Bingley, let’s see what we have here.” He approved quickly of the splint, hiding back how impressed he was, and gave Bingley a healthy dose of laudanum before simply proclaiming the job done. Jane was too distracted and simply waved for Bingley’s man to pay the surgeon who told Bingley in no uncertain terms to stay off his feet for a few weeks before leaving.

An exhausted Charles simply put his head back on the pillow Jane put under his head. He would not be moved tonight, while his manservant went to seeing to his comfort. With the drug taking effect, 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 after a blanket covered Bingley’s splinted leg. “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 while 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 ____ now, but I tend to go with Lord Fitzwilliam. 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 also, but it was internal. Darcy had grey 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?”

“The Prussian coast. I’m trying to arrange passage, but it is very difficult, with all of the retreating soldiers.”

Again, if Darcy knew anything about it, he gave no indication. “Dr. Maddox?”

“Another complication; he can’t be moved easily. He has a bad fever. They’re keeping him under with laudanum since his surgery.” He did not know if Darcy wanted to know more; he was very hard to read. “How are you feeling?”

“I want to go home.”

It was simple enough. The frightening part was how desperately he said it. This man was not Darcy. He was a shell of Darcy. Austria had hollowed him out. “As soon as we can get a ship and move the doctor.”

Darcy looked down, playing with his hands. “They were hard on him. I do not know what they did, nor do I wish to. All I know is that I did not see him for days. They kept him for four days.” He looked back up at Fitzwilliam. “You can understand, maybe. You are a soldier. You have seen things.”

“Yes.” He’d actually only seen live combat once, in a pitched battle, but it was enough. “I’ve bought myself out now because of the earldom and Anne. I said, ‘this is my last campaign.’”

Darcy smiled weakly at that, but said nothing.

Fitzwilliam rose. “I’m off to look for a ship. Is there anything you require?”

“I’m well, thank you.” It was a lie, but that was okay.

Fitzwilliam bowed and took his leave with a heavy heart. He knew Pemberley would restore Darcy, and his family, all of whom were now safe. He just knew it would take time and until then, would be painful to watch. “Good day, Darcy.”

“Good day, Richard.”

Fitzwilliam left and shut the door. The inn housing them was small but clean and rather pleasant, except for the strain of war all around them, and the harsh winter winds beginning to blow in. They were all tired; home was so close, and yet, so far. Even Grégoire, first hesitant to leave, agreed to come and take the patron saint of Bavaria with him. “Well, he is from England,” he finally rationalized, “originally.”

“Stay with your saint and Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said. “I’m off to the docks.”

Grégoire bowed, fully understanding the gravity of his charge.

*********************************

Lord Fitzwilliam was gone for quite a while, to the point where Elizabeth was worried that it would be another fruitless day of searching for a ship that was willing to take them home. Napoleon’s blockage was quite strong on this side of it, and while they could go North into more favorable territory, it was obvious that Dr. Maddox could not, for the moment, be moved again. He tossed and turned in his sleep as Caroline put another cold cloth on his forehead.

“It will break,” Darcy assured her. He managed to stand weakly with the aid of a cane and Elizabeth holding up some of his weight, he had insisted on seeing Maddox. “The fever will break and he will be fine.”

Caroline tried to look assured, but failed. Elizabeth passed Darcy off to Grégoire, and had conference with Caroline in the other room. “We must do something.”

“Agreed.” Caroline looked especially tired from tending to her husband, who was getting worse, not better. “Perhaps the docks are the wrong place to look. We could at least ask around.”

Since they knew Darcy would not accept the idea of them venturing out on their own (or would not have the wits about him to protest something more disturbing), they did not tell him. They merely went down into the tavern beneath the inn, a seedy place that they had only walked through, having had their meals sent up. It was awful, but it was the best place in town.

“Yer lookin’ fer passage?” said the barkeep. Surprisingly, many people were also English, in the same proverbial boat or just current residents for one reason or another. “There’s a cap’n over there.” He pointed, a rather rude thing for him to do, but Elizabeth held her tongue as they looked around. The place was mostly empty. There was a French soldier splayed out on a couch, in the corner by the door, smoking a long pipe. There were a few people playing cards, natives speaking German. And at one table - two men, who very much looked like sailors, were devouring a plate of unrecognizable food.

The ladies curtseyed. “Are you the captain?”

“Name’s Jack,” he said. “This here is Handy. Which ‘e is,” he said.

“My name is Mrs. Darcy, this is Mrs. Maddox,” Elizabeth said as they semi-reluctantly seated themselves across from these unsavory-looking men. “We’re looking for passage to England.”

“I heard. You got that lord, been askin’ around,” Jack said.

“Yeh can’t go to England,” Handy said. “Boney’s got ships attackin’ the Grand Old Navy. They’re holdin’ up, but yeh gotta get across them. ‘s dangerous.”

“Please,” Caroline said. “We must get to England. Name your price.”

“And my reception when I return? Fer that I wouldn’t take the royal treasury,” Jack said. “But - we’re all English. Let’s not be unreasonable, ‘haps there could be some ‘greement -” And he slid his hand across the filthy table and over Elizabeth’s.

“Sir!” She instantly tried to withdraw, but he held her hand fast. “Unhand me at once! You know very well my husband -”

“Isn’t your husband lyin’ upstairs ‘cuz he can’t come down? All laid up?” Handy said. He turned to Caroline. “And isn’t yours, Irish?”

“I am not Irish!” Caroline furtively looked around, but the few patrons of the bar didn’t seem interested in what was going on in the corner. She wondered how far it would have to go before they did. When he reached for her, she slapped him, but it had little effect on such a burly man.

“Hey,” said a voice from the other side of the room. It was the smoking soldier. “Yameroo.” (Hold it.)

“What? Hey, feller, stay outta this.”

The man lazily got off the couch, his posture was all slackened and unconcerned. As he emerged into the light of their table’s candle, it became obvious from his obscure expression that he meant business. He also had something strapped over his shoulder that could only be a weapon, probably a sword. He was wearing the long, blue overcoat of a soldier, but a brown tunic beneath. He seemed to be wearing wooden shoes with stilts, different from the Danish clog shoes. He was also wearing a French officer’s hat, turned backwards, and it did not obscure his face, which was decidedly not European. He stared down Handy, the man who had tried to scare him off. “England. They go.”

“What did I just say? Or do you even understand me?” Handy said. “This is just a business manner, and yeh’re in hostile territory, so you might as well take a walk. That is, if you don’t speak in clicks and whistles.”

“Kore de sugita.” (I’ve had enough of this) he said, knowing that they would not have understood a word. “Leave them alone.”

“Or what, Chinaman?”

It was faster than any possible reaction as the man pulled the long sword from his scabbard and swung it at Handy, who was only able to scream and tear himself back, clutching his severed limb as his hand and forearm dropped lifelessly to the ground. The Chinaman seemed unaffected by this, but did not replace his sword, grabbing Jack and slamming his hand on the table with his own slender, tattooed arm. “Now.” He held it so Jack could not escape as his partner thrashed about behind them and the few other patrons hid behind the bar. “I take finger. Count to three. Ichee -”

“Please, sir, I beg of you -”

“Nee.”

“All right! All right! Just - leave me in peace! I’ll go!”

“Is shame,” said the Oriental, with only a hold on Jack’s hand, hurled him across the room to join his severed partner. “Go.”

They did. Following them was the rest of the patrons. The Chinaman turned to the two women, horrified at the bloodshed that they had just seen, and very aware that if Jack and Handy had been at his mercy, so would they. He put his sword on the table. “Maddok-san?”

“I am Mrs. Maddox,” Caroline’s voice was trembling as she unconsciously linked arms with Elizabeth.

He bowed, and pointed to Elizabeth, “Darcy-san?”

“I am Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy.” She rose and curtseyed to him. “Are you looking for us?”

“Maddok-san and Nadi-sama send me. You, go to England?”

“Yes. We were trying to arrange it -”

“He arrives. Ship.” He looked out the window. “Soon.”

“We’d best leave, anyway,” Caroline said. “After all the carnage you’ve caused, Chinaman.”

“Mugen-no-Okinora,” he said. “No Chinaman. Nippon.”

“I’m afraid we do not fully comprehend you,” said Elizabeth, “but our husbands our upstairs, if you would follow.”

“Hai.” He put his blade back in the scabbard and bowed to them.

As they climbed the stairs, they could hear the clonking of his wooden shoes following behind as Caroline whispered, “Why are we listening to him?”

“Because I’d rather listen to him than lose my arm!” she replied and opened the door to their room. Darcy was sitting up uneasily in the armchair. He rose with his cane at the entrance of his wife. “Elizabeth. Mrs. Maddox -” and then he caught sight of the very angry and dangerous looking person following them. “Sir?”

“This is - I have no idea,” Elizabeth shrugged, “but he just saved our lives, if in a very gruesome way.”

Darcy did not seem to have the energy to ask for the details. “Sir,” he said, with a very small and stiff bow, “I am indebted to you.”

“Please, don’t strain yourself,” his brother pleaded beside him. “Sir, we are grateful.”

The man shrugged it off. “Go to England.” He pointed to the doctor, still unconscious on his cot. “Maddok-san?”

“Doctor Maddox,” Elizabeth said. “He’s very hurt. We’ll have to arrange -”

But the man slid past her, without any hesitation, picked up Dr. Maddox and slung him over his shoulders. “We go. Junbi dekiteru?” (Are you ready?)

“If I might inquire -”

“Darcy,” Elizabeth said, grabbing his arm. “I think this man was sent by - Mr. Maddox. I don’t think we have the option of not listening to him.”

For it seems they didn’t, unless Caroline wanted to raise her pistol at the man carrying her husband over his shoulders with surprising ease for someone on clog stilts. Elizabeth gathered what little belongings they had, and put her husband’s arm over her shoulder, helping him follow the Oriental down the steps and out the door as Grégoire carried the box containing the reliquary.

It was a small town and he seemed to know his way to the docks. Aside from their feet against the cobbled stone, they made very little noise. The water was in sight when they heard it.

“Halte!” It was an occupational guardsman, coming up with a lantern and a pistol.

“Nani?” said the Oriental.

Several others joined the guard, with bayonets.

“French,” Darcy said. “We have to go, Chinaman.”

“No China! Nippon, gaijin!” He slid the doctor’s body off his shoulders and onto the ground. “I take care.” He drew his very long sword.

“Darcy, don’t let him,” Elizabeth whispered. “He’ll kill them!”

“Nanika atta?” (What’s up?), came a voice from behind them. A lone figure standing in front of the entrance to the docks, wearing a lampshade for a helmet, from what it seemed in the light. “Mugen? Daijoubu?” (Are you okay?)

“Saikou da!” (Couldn’t be better!)

“Remember what I said,” the lampshaded figure said in the King’s English. “No killing, Mugen.”

“Hai, hai, Maddok-sama,” said Mugen, as he approached the three very confused soldiers. Actually, what he did was not so much as approach as it was to duck off to the side, catch the tip of the raised bayonet between the grooves of his wooden shoes, and stamp his foot down, punching the man in the jaw as he went down. The leader fired a shot with his pistol, but Mugen was already gone from that spot, leaping over him and clocking him from behind with the butt of his sword. The third man might have reached had the lampshade-hatted man not used that time to join him, drawing his sword and swiping it across the bayonet, slitting it in half. Between that and a hit in the head from a flying shoe, all three men had been sufficiently incapacitated in a few brief seconds.

“We should go,” said the man, turning to his English spectators, “immediately. Nady has the ship waiting, but first, tell me - is my brother alive?”

“Barely,” Darcy said. “And if it were not for your wild Oriental there and my own infirmity, I would sock you for it, Mr. Maddox.”

“That I can’t help,” said Brian Maddox, lifting his hat, which seemed to be made of some kind of straw, so they could see his face. “What I can do is get you all to England - now. Mugen?”

“Hai?”

“We’re leaving.” He re-sheathed his sword - he had two of them, attempted to pick up his fallen brother, but the doctor was much taller than him and therefore much heavier despite his recent weight loss, and it was Mugen who took him fully.

There were screams and alarms in the distance. After all, they had caused a ruckus in this little town. They barely made it onto the ship where Fitzwilliam was waiting. “What -” but he got no response as they ran past, with Brian using his small blade to cut the ropes as they went. Shots were fired as the mainland disappeared behind them. The doctor was wrapped in a blanket by a woman in a silk robe and eased onto the deck floor. Mugen, completely relaxed by the whole series of events, merely kicked off his sandals and relaxed against the side of the bow.

“Some - introductions are in order,” said Brian Maddox, removing the hat and revealing an oddly shaved head, long in the back and tied up over the front. “Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy, Mrs. Maddox, Colonel Fitzwilliam - this is my wife, Princess Nadezhda Maddox.”

Upon closer inspection, in the light afforded to them by the full moon and the various lamps on the bow, they could see that despite her clothing, the woman beside him was dark, but certainly not Oriental. She was undeniably European, and curtseyed to them. “Pleased to meet you all.” Her accent was heavy, but certainly excusable. She whispered something in another language, presumably Romanian to her husband, and he laughed.

“No, I assure you, she’s not,” he said, and without explanation, turned to Darcy, “You must sit down. You look horrible.”

“Yes,” he said. “Amazing what months in an Austrian prison does to you.”

Brian did flinch from his usual calm demeanor as he ordered about the hired crew to settle Mr. Darcy down on something soft and attend to the ladies as well. It was only then that he fully turned his attentions to his brother, whom he could not wake. “Danny?”

“Laudanum,” Caroline said, kneeling on the other side of her husband, “and blood loss.”

“His hand?” With all of the bandages, it was obvious. Especially since some of them were bled-through.

“The surgeon had to remove his last finger,” she said, turning green at the memory. “From gangrene. It was the only way to save his hand.”

“He was awake to consent?”

“He demanded it. They tortured him in prison and with the very - unsanitary conditions -” She bit her lip, holding back the tears as she stroked her unconscious husband’s hair. “If only we’d known you were alive, we wouldn’t have -”

“I know,” Brian said. “I know. I wrote every day I was still on the Continent, I swear. I sent couriers and couriers to say we were safe but none of them reached you, because of this ... bloody embargo!” He fumbled in anger and tore at his hair, pulling down the carefully tied topknot. “Danny, I’m so sorry.”

“How did you find us?” Darcy asked.

“Mrs. Bingley filled me in on the particulars upon our arrival from Japan.”

“Japan?”

“Yes. We took the rather long way home to avoid my father-in-law. I think I’ll be happy to never be on a ship again in my life.”

“And your - I don’t know his name, the servant.”

“Mugen. He isn’t a servant. He’s just sort of ... traveling with us,” Brian said, sitting down beside his brother and resting his arms in the sleeves of his silk robe. He added, “And he can understand you, even if he pretends otherwise.”

From his position, Mugen huffed, but said nothing.

Chapter 23 - Dawn Breaks

The sky was getting light when England came into view, first in the form of the waning light of the lighthouses, then the lamps of London. Darcy eventually gave in to his wife’s subtle suggestions as well as his own body’s, and fell asleep on a pile of blankets. In fact, almost none of them were able to make it through the night except the crew.

Elizabeth woke first, from her uncomfortable position leaning against the beam. In the early morning light she was surprised to see Brian Maddox seated on the bow, the longer of his two swords against his shoulder for convenience, staring out at the approaching skyline. His wife was curled up beside him, very much asleep. He managed to rise without waking her to bow to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Darcy.”

“Mr. Maddox. Have you been awake all night?”

“Yes.” He put his sword back in his belt, or sash, or whatever it was, and stepped further out to the edge with her, away from the sleeping crowd. “It seems I am the cause of all of your troubles again, Mrs. Darcy.”

“Not all of them,” she corrected. “But - most.”

He blinked in the light. “I would not take it back. I certainly didn’t ask Danny to come rescue me. I wrote many letters telling him to do precisely otherwise, which he didn’t get, or didn’t listen to.”

“The former.”

“And Darcy chose to accompany him?”

“Darcy was also looking for his brother. He just had the misfortune of running into the count’s authorities first.”

Brian nodded. He had changed, undoubtedly, by whatever he had experienced himself. How, it was difficult to tell. “I am sorry for the difficulties, Mrs. Darcy, but my responsibility was to my wife and I had to see it through. That I do not regret.”

“We’ve heard different tales and I’m sure you have your own, but as I understand it, your father-in-law gave you little option but to run.”

“Yes. We ran so far east to escape his agents that we wound up at the end of the world.”

“’Here there be dragons.’”

He chuckled. “Indeed. Coincidentally, they’re positively obsessed with dragon imagery. In the Orient, I mean. If I must now return to the backward Englishman stance and call it that.”

“How long were you in England?”

“Only as long as it took for me to arrange this ship. The night we arrived and found the house shut up, we went to the Bingley’s and then there was that,” he shook his head. “A long story. Excuse Mr. Bingley’s absence, he is nursing a broken leg.”

“You didn’t!”

“Certainly not! But my brother-in-law has to learn a thing or two about warehouses in Town and facing unpaid workers by himself. Fortunately, we were there in time. Between that and here, I believe, it was three days. Mugen offered to go ahead.”

“By boat?”

“I believe he swam, at least, some of the way.”

Behind them someone said something incomprehensible, which Elizabeth took to be Oriental, indeed, it was Mugen standing there.

“He says he swam about halfway, but it was freezing,” Brian explained. “And then a ship happened by and picked him up.”

“Is that true?”

“Probably,” Brian said, giving a knowing look to Mugen, who shrugged dismissively and walked off without a bow to either of them. “He’s temperamental, but he’s saved my life more times than I can count. So, no argument here.”

“Is he some type of hired warrior?”

“I guess that’s one way to describe him. He wanted to get out of Japan for a while, so he rode with us, all the way to England.” He turned away. “I suppose we should start waking everyone. I can see land there.”

Land. For a brief moment, Elizabeth thought she had never heard a more beautiful word in her life.

Brian knelt beside his brother, putting a hand on his forehead. “Danny?”

Dr. Daniel Maddox opened his eyes, looked up at his brother and whispered, “My G-d ... Y-You’ve ... gone bald.”

Brian laughed. “It’s just shaved, I assure you.” He glanced up at Elizabeth. “His fever’s broke.”

“So ... I’m not hallucinating,” the doctor said.

“No,” his brother assured him.

“And I grew up? Got married? That ... all happened?” he said, gasping. “Not just ... recovering some cataract surgery i-infection?”

“No, Danny. I really did marry a princess, and you have two children, and a royal commission. Oh, and everyone thinks I’ve gone insane. They may be right.”

Dr. Maddox smiled but was too exhausted to say anything else. He laid his head back down on the pillow, with Caroline still asleep beside him.

*********************************

Their arrival was greeted with little fanfare. There was no precise time on the boat arrival, but Jane abandoned her husband’s side (with his encouragement) to be there at the docks. The sun was barely up when they all arrived, truly a dirtied, bloodied, over-exhausted mass of people whom somewhat resembled the people she loved. Darcy of course insisted on walking across the plank himself, if with the aid of a cane and Elizabeth. “Hello, Mrs. Bingley.”

“Mr. Darcy,” Jane said, curtseying. “It is so good to see you.” There was so much joy in her heart, even at seeing this skeletal man beside her sister, but this was not the time to express it. He needed to get back to his house, where Georgiana and his children awaited him. “Brother Grégoire.” He seemed to be carrying a large box on his back.

It was Dr. Maddox who was not conscious and needed to be carried by his brother and Lord Fitzwilliam. All of the men had a few days’ worth of beard on them, except Mugen, who seemed to be wearing a French officer’s coat. “Mr. Mugen -”

“Hai?”

“Your coat. It’s uhm ...”

“Was cold.”

Nadezhda whispered in Japanese in his ear, and he bowed to her. “Gomen nasai.” He removed the coat, bowed to Jane, and kept walking.

“How is Mr. Bingley?” Elizabeth managed to whisper to her as they loaded Darcy in the carriage.

“Cranky, but he will be fine, I’m told. He sends his regrets - he does wish to see both of them, but he cannot be moved.”

Elizabeth hugged her. Only briefly, because her coat was soiled and there was just so much to do, but enough to acknowledge: It is over. We are home.

*********************************

The children were not up when the Maddoxes arrived at their house, and Caroline checked on them both, but did not wake either in their nursery. She didn’t want them to see their father until he was at least cleaned up.

Fortunately or unfortunately, Dr. Maddox seemed to slowly be returning to consciousness when he was carried up to the master room. Brian immediately turned to the shocked servant and gave instructions to contact the physician who had treated his brother since he was a child. “Where does he keep his opium?” he asked Caroline.

“In his study, but no one knows the recipe.”

“He didn’t write it down?”

Caroline shook her head, and turned to her husband. “What is the recipe for your opium medicine?”

Dr. Maddox, his voice stilted by pain, merely said, “No.”

“Well, I don’t care what he says, I’m getting him laudanum.” With that, he disappeared. As servants came and went, forced into a rush to open the house for the master and his wife, the door remained open and there was a knock on the doorframe. Nadezhda Maddox stood there pensively. She was still wearing her silk robes, which Caroline had to admit had the most beautiful prints of flowers on the corners that she had ever seen, but the princess now also had her hair covered in a complex set of veils.

“Entschuldigen Sie,” she said in German. (“Excuse me.”) “So sorry, know small English.”

“Ich kann Deutsch.” (“I speak German”) Caroline replied, continuing in that language, “And so does my husband.”

Princess Maddox - if she was still a princess at all - curtseyed. “I am so sorry, Dr. Maddox.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Caroline said for her husband, holding his good hand.

Nadezhda cautiously stepped into the room, as if she was violating some sacred temple, even if servants were running to and fro anyway. “My failure as a woman caused all of this. If I could only conceive -”

“Your Highness,” Caroline said, not really sure how she was supposed to address an ex-Austrian princess, “everyone has a little trouble. My sister is barren and her husband supports her nonetheless.” Actually, her brother supported Mrs. Hurst, but that was neither here nor there.

“I drove my father mad -”

“Your father was not mad,” Maddox gasped. “Just ... cruel. Not your fault.” He shifted in bed. “I think I have a spare - pair of glasses. In the lab, Darling?”

“Of course,” Caroline said. In the hubbub of returning home, she had almost forgotten. She kissed him on his forehead, picked up the keys from the dresser, and excused herself.

Dr. Maddox immediately opened his eyes and turned them in the general direction of Nadezhda. “Has my brother been a good husband?”

“Yes,” she said. “Brian is the very best of men.”

He chuckled. “I never thought I would ... hear someone say that.” He swallowed. “Thank you. I feel - much better.”

Dr. Hulbert arrived within the hour. Dr. Maddox was sitting up, but only with the help of many pillows, and he did not seem particularly aware of his surroundings. Hulbert checked his hand, listened to his chest, looked in his mouth, and looked carefully into his eyes before giving him an exam with Maddox’s glasses on. Dr. Maddox passed, but he said very little over the course of it. The normal Daniel Maddox was most prodigious about his health and would probably be babbling on about it. Hulbert frowned. “Well, the news is mainly good. Your hand is free on infection and the broken thumb should heal perfectly. Despite the stress on your eyes, your vision has not suffered and you don’t have any cataracts. In fact, the most distressing thing aside from your weight loss is ... lice.”

“Lice?” the Maddoxes said in unison.

“Your hair is infested. I’m surprised the doctor in Prussia didn’t notice it.” He closed up his bag. “And you should tell the other fellow you were with to have himself checked. Now get some rest, Daniel. Mrs. Maddox?”

She gave Maddox’s hand a squeeze and followed the doctor outside, where he shut the door behind them.

“I’ve never seen him like this,” she admitted, finally able to release her worry, if only a little.

“Is he more aware than he was when he was first rescued?”

“He wasn’t even conscious when he was first rescued.”

Hulbert was a much older man, his hair mainly white, but still very spry. “I understand he’s been through a lot in the past few months. He’s malnourished and in pain. He needs rest, but he will recover. Aside from his finger, I don’t think there is any permanent damage.”

She sighed with relief. “And the lice?”

“He needs to be shaved and his head dunked in whiskey. It can be bad whiskey, as long as it’s strong.”

She paused. “The children are here. I don’t want them to see him like this.”

“How old are they?”

“Four.”

“They’ll hardly notice, though, I would buy him a wig of some sort.”

“Mother?”

They turned to Frederick Maddox, standing in the hallway, almost pulling on her dress to get her attention.

“Frederick!” she said, unable to hold back her affection as she knelt down and hugged him. “My darling. I’m home and your father is home. He’s just very tired.” She kissed him on both cheeks and then on the head. “Where is your sister?”

“Sleeping.” He looked up. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Hulbert,” the old man said, bowing.

“Frederick Maddox,” the boy said in a proper little bow. “Who are you?”

“I’m your father’s eye doctor. I’ve known him since he was - well, almost as small as you, but not quite. But he was very young.”

“Am I going to go blind like him?”

Caroline looked at her son in shock, but Dr. Hulbert didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t think so, Master Frederick. His condition is very rare.”

“Frederick,” Caroline said more sternly, “why don’t you have Nurse dress you so you can properly see your father?”

This idea the boy took very well, and disappeared down the hallway the way he came.

“I never told him about it,” Caroline said. “I’ve never said it in his presence -”

“Children are smarter than we think,” said the doctor. “Or, at least, more intuitive. I remember a young Master Daniel whose older brother and I conspired to keep his fate from him. So he read every medical book he could find in English until he figured it out. He was twelve.”

“How long do you think he has?”

Dr. Hulbert was an older man, who used a cane not just for walking outside, and spoke very kindly. “The specialist in Scotland gave him four years. Obviously, I gave up guessing a long time ago. He told me he’s determined to at least see his daughter go out.” He turned his head at the sound of someone ascending the steps. “And if it isn’t - Good G-d, man, what happened to you?”

“Dr. Hulbert,” Brian said, bowing. “In short: Marriage, Russia, Japan. That will have to do for the moment. I have some medicine to shove down my brother’s throat.” And with that, he bowed again quickly and disappeared into Daniel’s room.

“That was short,” Dr. Hulbert said. “I cannot fault him for that.”

*********************************

At the Darcy townhouse, Elizabeth had a real fear that Darcy would crush his sister. Georgiana was so small and so readily embraced him, unaware of how much support he needed to keep standing, and even with his depleted form, it was a lot of weight to take on. The servants fortunately rushed to help their ailing master, and take the box containing the reliquary off of Grégoire’s back.

Darcy’s manservant, Mr. Reed, appeared almost in tears as he attended to his master, removing the torn coat they had picked up in Austria and helped him to the stairs. Darcy responded to queries, but mainly in a “yes” or “no.” The only thing that finally made him stop was his son, standing at the top of the stairs. “Geoffrey.”

Mr. Reed and Elizabeth were there to brace him as Geoffrey raced down the stairs and crashed into his father. “Father! I was so scared, I didn’t know -”

Darcy smiled sadly, but said nothing, only patting his son on the head. There was something removed about his reactions. The mental distance was obvious in his eyes.

Anne Darcy was quick to follow her brother, and was raised by Elizabeth to kiss her father so that he could retreat up the stairs and into his bed. He left in his wake a nervous silence for Elizabeth, still holding her eldest daughter, as Grégoire and Georgiana had their own embrace.

“Father - he’s going to be all right?” Geoffrey said, tugging at Elizabeth’s dress.

“Yes, of course,” she said, hoping her voice carried more assurance than she felt in her heart.

Chapter 24 – Unexpected Guests

A brutal three days passed before Jane received word that Darcy was willing to receive visitors. Unfortunately this did not include Bingley, who endlessly expressed his frustration about being unable to get out of bed to visit either brother-in-law thanks to his leg. Mr. Maddox did come by to briefly visit him in Bingley’s own convalescence, and they spoke for a long time behind closed doors, and when they were done Bingley was in a much better mood. Jane kissed him and took a carriage to the Darcy townhouse where Elizabeth filled her in on Darcy’s current condition, which was, well, but weak. It was some time before Mr. Darcy made his appearance, slowly shambling down the stairs with his walking stick and awaiting them in the sitting room. As Jane entered, he retained his English manners, however a struggle they were.

“Mr. Darcy,” Jane said. “Oh, please don’t -”

But Darcy was still Darcy, and he paid no heed as he struggled to rise to his feet to properly bow to her. He did sit back down rather quickly though, instead of waiting for her to be seated as she passed him a letter. “Charles sends his regards,” she said.

“Of course.” Sadly, both of them were stuck in their own homes for the moment. Darcy would probably recover enough in a few days, but Bingley was told he would be incapacitated for longer.

There was something oddly formal about the situation in the sitting room, despite the three of them, because of so much that could not be said. Elizabeth had prepared her for seeing Darcy, but it hadn’t been quite the same as seeing him with his clothes hanging off him, his face sunken, with no proper sideburns, wearing a brown wig that Elizabeth said was his father’s. He was distracted - by what, she dared not to imagine. His eyes were unfocused and rarely concentrated on her or any particular thing in the room. His usual veneer of intensity was gone, even if his words were formal.

“How is Bingley?” Darcy said. “I’m not - entirely clear on the circumstances of his injuries, though they have been explained to me.” His eyes darted around like he was lost. “It seems much has occurred in my absence.”

It occurred to Jane that she had no idea exactly how much he’d been told, or even if he knew of his inheritance of Rosings. Elizabeth said nothing, but squeezed his hand as Jane spoke, “He is very frustrated at being incapacitated, especially right now. It seems he unintentionally picked a fight with his warehouse manager, who was upset about not being paid.”

“The business is under, then?”

“No, actually. It seems Mr. Maddox returned home not only with his wife, but with a significant stock from the Orient. If not for my husband’s injuries, he would be spending much of his time assessing its worth.”

“I must say that Mr. Maddox has an amazing capacity for appearing only when he is most needed or least wanted,” Elizabeth said. Darcy seemed to half-smile at that. “Or both. Have you spoken to him much since our arrival?”

“A little. He is very busy taking care of his brother. He’s barely left his side,” Jane said.

“And his wife? Her Highness?” Darcy asked.

“I spoke with her through Brian. She speaks five languages fluently, but her English is limited. She and Mr. Maddox - forgive me for saying this - they have been through a lot.” She watched Darcy’s reaction very carefully, but he didn’t seem bothered by it - or all that aware of it - and Elizabeth nodded her on. “The story is that they went east instead of west, deep into Russia, where they were pursued by her father’s men until the coast. They boarded a ship, but had to abandon it when everyone contracted typhus. Their tiny boat washed up on an island in the very north of the Japans, and the locals took them in. From there they had to walk to - I can’t pronounce it, but it’s a port in the south where the East India Company docks. It took them a year, and then three months at sea to return to England.”

“On foot?”

“On foot. Mugen - the man who rescued you - went with them most of the way as a bodyguard. So did another man, but he died in the city. His name is very hard to pronounce or remember.” She added, “They have promised the story in full - when everyone is ready.” She rose. “I won’t take any more of your time, Mr. Darcy. But you do look much better than you did when you arrived.”

“Thank you,” he nodded, not attempting to rise without aid from his servants. It was obvious he was beginning to fade, and she didn’t want to tax him. He exchanged a brief word with his wife, and was then helped back up the stairs.

As soon as he was gone, Jane embraced her sister, who was already starting to cry. “He will be all right.”

“I know. I know.” But that didn’t stop her. “It’s not how he looks. He was so upset when they cut his hair, but I didn’t mind - I just can’t bear to see him so - troubled.” She wiped her tears away. “I told him about Rosings, but he didn’t have a response. The papers are being drawn up and he’ll sign, but I don’t know if he really understood.”

“He needs time, Lizzy. Caroline said Dr. Maddox is the same way.”

“I only wish he would tell me what happened to him, what he’s thinking -”

“Lizzy - was Mr. Darcy ever one to tell anyone what he is thinking?”

That brought a smile to her sister’s face. “I suppose not. He is safe and all are delivered from danger, even Grégoire - Oh, Jane, I never told you about Grégoire!”

“What about Grégoire?”

Her sister was now fully smiling. That in of itself was a burden off Jane’s shoulders. “G-d, I shouldn’t say it but I suppose if I don’t, Caroline will. When we found him, he was - well - not exactly tending to his vow of celibacy. Our timing was most unfortunate for everyone.”

“Grégoire? No! It cannot be true!” Maybe the others were right. Maybe she could only see the good in everyone. But still - this was their family monk.

“He was so embarrassed - it was the only time, or so he says and I think he may be believed. But I admit, we had a few chuckles on his behalf, especially after Darcy has spent so much time chiding him about his monastic impulses, we find him with a woman!” They broke into laughter. “He saved her from some soldiers and she was very appreciative.”

“Lizzy!”

“I know! I shouldn’t be saying such things about a brother! But still -,” She covered her mouth. “It is so good to laugh.”

Jane could not contradict her about that. Unfortunately, she was silenced by the casual entrance of Grégoire. “Is everything all right?”

Neither of them could think of what to say to that. They only managed to stifle their giggles for a few seconds before breaking into full laughter as Grégoire looked on, dumbfounded. They eventually recovered, but excused themselves from enlightening the poor monk.

*********************************

There were many legal matters immediately pressing, and Darcy signed the contracts surrounding the Fitzwilliams’ living in Rosings despite his ownership of the property without reading the contract. He just nodded when it was explained to him, ignored their concerned looks, and retreated to his chambers. He was “not at home” to any further visitors unless it could not be avoided.

One person did appear unexpectedly and was received by Elizabeth very gratefully. Mr. Bennet did not however ask for Mr. Darcy’s presence nor have any wish to bother him. “Being assured that he is back in the country will be sufficient,” he said to his daughter, “for the time being.”

“At least wait until his sideburns grow back,” Elizabeth said. “He is most self-conscious about it.”

“Mr. Darcy? Self-conscious? I’ve never heard of such a thing!” he said. “Now, where are my grandchildren? Your mother will not relent about my superior age, but I am still quite sure my mind is sharp enough to remember having them.”

Elizabeth laughed and asked for the children, who were in the middle of being bathed and was told there would be some delay, as young Master Geoffrey was most resistant to the idea. “How is everyone at Longbourn?”

“I confess I had become so used to your mother not having attacks of nerves that it quite surprised me when you were gone. She did worry for you, though she will not be quick to admit it,” he said. “And Mary prayed most extensively. Unfortunately, it was often out loud and over grace, so I was subjected to many dishes that had gone cold by the time she was done.”

She embraced her father. “How is Lydia? Is she remarried yet?”

“Sadly, she is finding that a widow with two children and little inheritance is not the most pleasing of prospects. But I imagine she will find someone when all the soldiers come back from war, and are too muddled by their experiences to notice,” he said. “It is good to have you back, Lizzy.”

“It is good to be back, Papa.”

“Master George has been enquiring about his uncle most prodigiously,” he said. “He seems eager to renew his acquaintance with his cousin.”

“How is George?” she asked. “The most I’ve seen of him was at Rosings.”

“He is well. Entirely a different person from his mother and father - more like his uncle, I would dare to say. He reads without instruction and he says very little. Quite confounding in some ways, but I am not one to complain about a well-mannered boy. And his sister - well, it does help pass the hours to have Mrs. Bennet up in arms about that cat.”

“She is not too upset, I hope? It was I who agreed to it and convinced Lydia.”

“She would be more agreeable to the animal in general,” he said, “if it was not so intent on playing with the strings of her needlepoint.” He sighed with a smile. “But in comparison to her many speeches about marriage and poverty, I can manage with a few complaints about a kitten.”

*********************************

Doctor Maddox was in his sitting room, trying desperately to concentrate on the words, on the page, in front of him. It was hardly necessary, as he had most of Chaucer’s works memorized and this was his favorite, but he was reveling in his new glasses and the marvel that was a world with sharp edges. That in of itself was enough of a distraction for a while, but not for long. He was still too weak to go out, or attend a lecture at London University, and he did not have it in him to ask others to provide distractions for him. He had learned many years ago to be independent and that lesson was not so easily forgotten.

The task before him, he was finding too difficult. Many times he closed his eyes or dropped the book as exhaustion lulled him into sleep, only to be startled again by a fresh wave of pain from his hand.

“Doctor Maddox,” said the servant, bringing his presence to Maddox’s attention. “Your wife insists.” The man was bearing a tray with only a glass of juice on it.

He grumbled and had to put down his book, which he wasn’t doing much of a job of holding up anyway, to take the glass. The sight he’d seen in the mirror wasn’t pretty, but that didn’t mean he had much of an appetite.

“Darling,” his wife said, entering the room. “Oh, don’t stop on my account. You haven’t eaten anything today, have you?”

“No,” he said after he finished the glass. “Ugh. I think the oranges are off or something. Anyway, my appetite will come back, just not today.” He added, “And please don’t give me that look. I don’t want to argue about the opium again. I’m tired of being cross with everyone.”

“We know you don’t mean it,” she said. She had not come in to have the same fight they’d had every day since he’d regained consciousness. She sat down next to him and he put his arm around her. Yes, having one’s wife leaning on one’s shoulder could be suitably distracting. “Well, you have permission to mean it if it’s to thrash your brother.”

“I’m not capable of thrashing my brother.”

“He doesn’t seem to think that. He is still walking around armed.”

“That is because my brother has gone completely and utterly bonkers. The armed guard is for whenever we all decide to exact our revenge.”

“At least, there, we can call it cultural differences. Though, Nadezhda has given me the impression that Mr. Mugen was an oddity even in Japan.”

“How is she? What is she like? We’ve not - had much occasion to talk.”

“She is a ... strong woman,” she said, not unkindly. They had a shared language of German, so the wives could talk. “She has been through quite a lot. Her father was very kind to her, but he had expectations she could not meet.”

“Maddoxes like strong women,” he said with a smile. “We’re notorious for it.” He looked at her. “Dear, your hair is ... well, it’s more of an orange. I don’t know why they say it’s red. It isn’t.” He kissed her on the forehead. “It’s orange.”

“Thank you so much for noticing it,” she said. “Are you feeling better?”

“I don’t know why I - didn’t, before. So much.” He took off his glasses, and then put them back on again. “There’s so much of it.”

“Yes, dear.”

“What color is Nadezhda’s hair? I don’t - I haven’t seen it. She wears the - the thing -” he waved his arms around his head to indicate the veils.

“I think it’s black. ‘The thing’?”

“’The thing.’” He laughed. “I’m a very articulate man.”

“It is the reason I married you.”

They descended into laughter, and it felt so unimaginably good that it was only in the silence following that he tried, very hard, to focus on the glass, on the table, in front of them. And couldn’t. “You - you drugged me.” He detangled himself from his wife and reached for the glass, but his coordination was so poor that he only succeeded in knocking it over, where it rolled harmlessly on the ground. “The juice.”

Caroline stroked his hair, even though it was still considerably shorter than his usual cut. “Darling -”

“I promised - I promised myself -”

“Daniel,” she said more seriously, “it was years ago, and you weren’t trying to recover from an amputation, however small.” She helped him straighten up and to lie back with his head against the wall, because he found his body too heavy to do it himself. “I know for a fact that you haven’t slept in two days. Look at you. What kind of doctor doesn’t take his own medicine?”

“I took an oath,” he said, expending most of his concentration to say it clearly. Caroline, despite being beside him, was becoming a blur. “Caroline, I took an oath.”

“Well, I didn’t and I’m tired of dealing with an obstinate husband who won’t let his body rest, is making himself sick, and is cross with us because of it.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I did it because I can’t stand to see you suffer for one minute longer. And I don’t regret it. I love you, Daniel, but you sometimes have no idea of what’s best for you, and must cede that authority to your wife. Now, lie down and rest.”

“I - here? Now?” Because, honestly, he was feeling quite wonderful and no desire to just sleep it off. Well, maybe exhaustion was finally getting to him, but this was the first time he wasn’t in pain... as long as he could remember. It was all a little fuzzy.

“Yes.” She helped him lie down on his couch. “I’ll see that you’re not to be disturbed. Now be still and rest, Daniel.”

“Yes, marm,” he said, trying to raise one hand to touch her before she left, but it just flapped up and fell down. She seemed to blow him a kiss as she had the double doors to the room shut behind her. She’d taken off his glasses too, so that didn’t help. Yes, there was no reason to fight it. It felt different this time. He’d been drugged for the surgery, of course, but that was unavoidable and necessary to protect his heart from the pain. And then there was darkness after that, and he was back in England, falling asleep in his sitting room like any lazy rich man with a house in West London, while his wife did some pretty embroidery and his children ran circles around Nurse. Nothing had happened or changed, and all was right in the world. He could, at last, rest.

That was the last thing he remembered until he was listening to the same servant repeat something over and over again. He had the feeling he’d heard it many times now, without any recognition, as he was cruelly pulled out of sleep. He had a crick in his neck from his position. He managed to grab his glasses and put them on to face the very nervous but insistent servant. “Yes?” But it came out more of a yesh?

“The - H-His Royal Highness to see you, sir.”

He was hallucinating. How delightful. “Terrific. Send him in.”

Chapter 25 – Sick Visit

“My G-d, man,” said the Regent. “I’ve never seen you so content. You must be taking some of your own medicine, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” he slurred, gesturing for His Highness to take a seat. He was still lying on the couch, his head propped up by the pillows. “Wife – drugged me.”

“Is this a regular habit of hers?”

“I wish,” he said as they shared a laugh. “Seriously – I – I swore it all off years ago. Years and years. You know.” He closed his eyes. “I’m serious.”

“You are a terribly serious man. It is good for a doctor, but a bit frustrating at times. I imagine you will be in some fits when you come off this stuff and realize whom you were talking to.”

“Oh, I’d be in a lot of trouble,” Maddox said. “First, I can’t even – even get up to bow. You have to do that a lot with royalty.”

“Of course,” said the Regent. “And your patient is probably an incomparable arse.”

“No, but I’m sick of treating his venereal diseases,” he said. “G-d. I told him not to sleep with people who must be so obviously diseased –”

“Come now, Doctor Maddox. Not all of us have your expertise.”

“Must I write an essay or something? Honestly.” He tried to pick his head up as he heard the sound of metal clinking, and saw his son running through the exasperated legs of two guards with gigantic ceremonial lances, barring entrance to the now-open doors. Frederick Maddox was only four and, so, had no real trouble maneuvering around them and racing to his father’s side.

“Aunt Nady wants to know if you want to eat with us later.”

“Where’s – where is your mother?”

“Out. She said she had to get Uncle Brian new clothing because he dresses all crazy.”

“Your Uncle Brian does dress like a crazy person,” he said, petting his son’s mop of brown hair. “Now turn around and say hello to our guest.”

“Yes,” said the Regent. “I would be delighted to make the acquaintance. I assume this is the young master.”

Frederick turned around and bowed politely to him. “Frederick Maddox, sir.”

“You have a sister, don’t you?”

“Emily. But she’s taking a nap.” He said, “Don’t you know any manners, sir?”

“I know quite a bit about manners, Frederick!” said the Regent, and Daniel laughed. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re supposed to stand up, bow and say your name. It’s polite.”

“Did your father teach you that?”

“He did! He taught me everything I know.”

“Well, then,” said the Regent, “he should have taught you that I am a prince and, therefore, not required to bow to anyone but my own father, who can’t tell me from a tree anyway.”

“Really? My father can’t see too well but I think he could tell me from a tree,” Frederick said.

“You are much smaller than a tree,” Daniel said. “That is the giveaway.”

“See? Your father is very clever,” the Regent said, putting one of his hands on Frederick’s tiny shoulders. “He is one of the smartest men I know. You’d do well to listen to him, even when he’s out of his senses, which I suspect he is at the moment.” He patted him. “Now, run along and play or whatever normal children do at your age.”

That was all Frederick needed to scamper off at top speed, leaving confused guards in his wake. The Regent was silent, and Daniel was sure he was close to nodding off when the Regent finally said, “I am not in the custom of visiting my doctors in their homes. Perhaps I should inquire beforehand as to whether they are sitting in a drugged stupor before making my appearance.”

Daniel 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.”

Daniel’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. Whatever.”

He was already asleep again when the supposed apparition disappeared out the way he came.

*********************************

Daniel 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 remunerate at my next appointment.

Your permission for leave with payment is still in affect for the remains 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 G-d,” 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 December?”

“She did grow up in Transylvania,” Caroline said, clearly trying to calm 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 window. 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 Nadezdha, 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?”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Mother already asked me about it,” Frederick said, annoyed. “He’s very fat.”

“He is, but I hope to G-d 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. “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! Okay!” his son said. “Everyone’s so weird 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 Fitzwilliam 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 can not 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 Fitzwilliam 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.”

She 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 month. “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 Scots!”

“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. She is not courting him, and she is not marrying him, and if she wants to hear that herself she can come in here and I will tell her!”

She did allow herself a bit of loss of temper. “May I remind you, Mr. Darcy, that she is nearly of age where she no longer 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 Kirkland, but were unable to physically do so, while Bingley laid-up for at least another week. 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 Daniel’s study. Brian still refused, except when invited to dinner at the Bingley’s, to dress like a civilized man and was walking around in his silk pleated pants and robe. He was totally unconcerned of the opinion of the Ton passing in the streets. His wife did not go out much, but when she did, it was with Mugen, who was even more of a spectacle.

“There’s really no need for the armed procession,” Daniel 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 Mugen, I don’t recommend asking him to leave his sword behind unless you want a geta 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.”

Daniel 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 G-d,” 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 26 - The Tale of Brian Maddox, Part I

No good at being an English gentleman, Brian Maddox decided to be an Austrian one.

It was late in October when he made his way across Austria, far enough south to miss the worst of the early snows and into the hills of Transylvania. His Romanian was passable enough to explain to the border guards, of the count’s lands, who he was. They did seem a bit surprised to see him, but his future father-in-law greeted him warmly enough.

He knew better than to ask to see Nadezhda directly, despite her being the sole reason for his return. There was still a month to their wedding and his understanding of court culture was lacking. He could barely make conversation with his chief servant.

“She is very beautiful,” said the man. There were an awful lot of reassurances going around. Eventually, mainly from inflection, he was able to discern that he had not been the first suitor to run. He was actually the only one who came back. It bestowed on him an appropriate level of caution. Did she have a tail? Was she a witch? Or was it merely the overbearing count? Brian had to find out and quickly.

The wedding was set for barely more than a month away. The first week he did not see his intended at all, and used what little free time he had to perfect his language skills to the local brogue. Most of his evenings were spent in long banquets, where he had more time to practice, or would have if the local spirits didn’t go right to his head despite what he thought was an impressive tolerance. The first few nights, before he learned to quietly water down his mug, he emerged with a horrible headache and not much appreciation for the sunlight or anyone who would bother him. There were instructions, from what was apparently his manservant, Andrei, on how to dress and how to act, if said in a very polite way. He gave up his cravat, but held fast on growing a beard, even if he did allow his sideburns to be a bit wider than permissive in proper society.

Finally, he saw Nadezhda when she was presented to the feast table. Bejeweled and almost entirely covered by veils, he could see her beautiful face and her fine form, but he wondered what her hair would look like out from under the veil. She had not changed from their parting in the spring. She smiled nervously to him as she bowed, and he returned it, though he did not know if she saw it. He hoped she did.

That night, after he was permitted to escape the long hours of feasting and storytelling, he sat down with a glass of imported wine in his chambers and set concerns and fears of his impending marriage aside long enough to ask Andrei when in the hell he was going to see Nadezhda in some kind of privacy. He might have phrased it differently, he might not. All he heard through the pounding in his ears was that it would be arranged.

In fact, it was that very night. Whether his father-in-law knew about it, he had no care. Nothing beyond the bounds of propriety as he knew it would happen, but he was engaged to this woman and had every right to speak to her. He was escorted to a balcony, which was sheltered enough so that it was not terribly cold, without the wind blowing and with the roaring fire from the open doors blowing out. On the other side of the open doorway were guards and - he had no doubt - listening people, but she was standing there and that was enough. “Princess,” he bowed an Englishman’s bow. He would take her hand only if she offered it, which she did not, holding them together somewhat nervously. She was covered, but less ostentatiously dressed, and it occurred to him that he had never seen her hair. If she was like her father, it was probably black. He found himself imagining what it would be like to run his fingers through it, as she curtseyed to him.

“You asked to speak with me?” she said.

“I wanted to speak with you,” he said. “I’ve ... not seen you in a while.”

“You saw me this evening.”

“I mean, privately. Since that night.”

“You remember it?”

“Every word.”

To this, she was startled enough to have no immediate response. He knew he was not being misinterpreted, but he had no idea of her feelings to him, if there were any. Surely, he would be a fool to think she had fallen for some Englishman with barely a grasp of her native tongue in two meetings, only one of them with any shred of privacy. But he wondered all the same. She was clearly a little afraid, maybe not of him, maybe only of the situation. He took that comfort. He spoke softly, enough to hopefully be beyond anyone’s abilities to listen, “I returned only for you, Princess.”

This was a woman who was good at hiding her emotions. Perhaps that was what came with court life, with constant rejection, with failed suitors. He could not tell from her expression the depths or the nature of her reaction, though there was one. He would give anything for the ability to read her better at that moment, something no tutor could impart. “But I have not been a proper gentleman,” he said, to fill the awkward silence, “and asked how you have been, my lady.”

“I have been well. I was a bit - surprised at your return.”

“Everyone was.” He let his hand stray to the balcony rim, which was closer to her hand, without touching it. “Were you happy at the news?” He shook his head. “I apologize. That was too personal a question. My lady, you do not have to answer.”

“But you wish to know it?”

With as much muting to his emotion as he could muster, he replied, “Yes.”

“I was.” And then, when her apparent embarrassment passed, she smiled, but quickly covered her face to hide it.

“Oh, please don’t,” he whispered. “I so wish to see you smile.” This, of course, had that precise effect. “There.” All of his concerns, for the moment, were dashed as he admitted to himself that he was completely and utterly in love.

*******************************************

Their courtship period - which only Brian, in his mind, referred to as such - was slow and complex despite the wedding hovering over him, because he did not want to overstep his bounds. He was advised not to show too much interest in his bride. This he found ironic and somewhat stupid, but he would not stir the pot at this point, even though her father treated him with excitement at their upcoming nuptials as the next great step in the long family history. Although he did see her increasingly at meals, it was never together and they exchanged words only on that balcony and in other places where it was arranged for them. He did not touch her, even to hold her hand or kiss the ring because he did not know what liberties he was allowed, and didn’t feel inclined to ask her.

It was the shy Nadezhda who warned him, “Do not trust your servants. Do not trust anyone.”

With an obvious smile on his face, he said, “Should I trust you?”

“Perhaps,” she said. Her shell of shyness was nearly impossible to penetrate, and he found it easier to lead her on and let her respond in kind.

Between her hints and his improved language skills, he was beginning to understand the situation a bit better. Her father, the count, lacked a certain social ability to get along well with his neighbors. During his reign, his actions had ensured that they were now all thoroughly aligned against him. They would not risk open warfare, but they would not provide him with a suitable candidate for a husband to his only daughter. So he had to look elsewhere, apparently to the point of winning the hapless Brian Maddox in a bet.

It was on one of their later meetings that Nadezhda was more serious. “Brian,” she said, after many insistences that she call him that, “you should consider your situation.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You - ,” She stopped, and to his surprise, placed a tense but tender hand on his arm, lightly bracing against his clothing. “There will be expectations of you.”

“I know. Your father has made no secret that I must produce an heir.”

She shook her head. She seemed to be trembling and turned away from him. Incited by her touch, and out of the concern for her change in temperament, he lightly chanced a grazing of his hand against the outer fabric of her long veil. “What? You can tell me.”

“I have not told ... anyone. Except my father, who will not listen to reason. But - you will keep it a secret?”

“Of course.”

She turned back to him. “You should run, Herr Maddox.”

“What?”

“You should run away and never look back. It is the safest thing for you.”

“My lady,” Brian said, “I have run from many obligations in my life. I decided long ago that this will not be one of them.” He moved closer than he ever had dared. “I love you.”

“I know.” She tried to hide her soft expression in her hands again. “Brian, I don’t think I can bear children.”

“It frightens you?”

“No. But - do not ask for specifics, but the mid-wife believes it, and I would not have you bind yourself to me without knowing the truth. If you marry me, your situation will be very desperate.”

It took a second for him to comprehend. “But - it is not a sure thing.”

“I suppose not. But my father is always unreasonable.”

It did not take a vivid imagination to conjure up an image of what would happen to him if he ever displeased the count. But maybe his marriage would soften his father-in-law? If he made Nadezhda truly happy? “I am willing to take a gamble. After all, gambling landed me in this situation and I find it extremely pleasurable. So - you’ve never told this to another suitor?”

“No,” she said. “I never cared for the other ones.”

He colored by her inflection.

*******************************************

By some stupid baronial custom, Brian did not see his bride for a week up to the marriage. That was a particularly brutal, lonely week for him. He knew everyone around him by now, but he was friends with none of them, not because they were mean to him but because he was, and suspected he always would be, a foreigner. He passed his little available hours writing furiously to his brother, expressing none of the concerns surrounding his marriage and all of the joy. He loved Nadezhda. He could not, for a second, consider running away and not taking her as his wife, for as long as he should live - however short that would be. Who knew, maybe she could conceive. It had certainly never been put to the test. When explained (in detail) his wedding night and the presentation of the sheets, he colored and would have run back to his room if he hadn’t been standing in front of the count at the time.

He had one other, entirely unexpected, horror to endure. A traditional stag party in England, among friends, might have involved some heavy drinking of whiskey and some tales that were not told often outside of such gatherings, but here it was an entirely different manner. First, he had no friends and dearly missed his brother and brother-in-law. Second, the drinking was much heavier, and he had to work very, very hard to keep himself out of the cups. Third, women were invited. Or, appropriately, women of a certain profession (the oldest) were invited, or paid to come and dance. He sat on a pillow next to the count, who slapped him so heavily on the back that it hurt and made him spill some of his mead or vodka or whatever it was, and was told strongly and in no uncertain terms to pick one of them. He excused himself momentarily, and his servant Andrei must have noticed the color leave his face, because the man explained his duties to him politely enough, but made it clear that it was a duty expected of him and he could not refuse.

He was not left to contemplate the situation very long before the matter was forced on him. He haplessly selected a girl in a red costume and was ushered into another room. When they were inside the room, Brian shut the door soundly behind him. He sighed as she sat down on the mattress. “No, please,” he said as she began to remove what little clothing she had, mainly jewelry. “I cannot.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. I assure you.” Despite his inclinations otherwise, he was not immune to a beautiful, half-naked woman being literally shoved in his face. “I - I am a stupid, naïve Englishman and in my country we do not violate our vows, even of engagement. I am promised to the princess.”

“Not until tomorrow.”

“No, the day I returned, I promised myself.” He leaned against the door. “Name your price.”

“I am free, my lord.”

“No, I mean - to go back out and tell the count that I am a virile stallion who made passionate love to you.”

“But you cannot?”

“I can - but not according to my principles. I am sorry.” He bowed. He could not believe the absurdity of it, but he felt compelled to do so. “Your price.”

Seeing he was quite serious she sat up, and her composure seemed to change to a less openly lusty, more subdued person. “I have been paid for my services, rendered or not. But if they are not rendered, the count will have my head on a spike and perhaps yours.”

“Then we will have to enter into the lie together, take some time, and make some noise.” He looked at his watch as he sat down on the mattress beside her. “And decide on a number of times. What do you recommend?”

The absurdity of it had hit the girl as well, as she re-strapped herself. “For your virility?”

“Yes. I do wish his good graces, after all. So I suppose, we cannot settle on one or two.”

“Three would be good, with breaks in between,” she laughed a bit. “Four would be pushing it, five, definitely so.”

“Three, then. That should take ... I don’t know. Some time.” He looked at his pocket watch. “How do you wish to pass it? Food? Drink?”

“I do not eat while working, but thank you,” she said, surprised at his kindness. “I know many interesting stories.”

“As do I. But all of them are quite embarrassing for me. Though, for this favor you are doing for me, I will take the embarrassment. Ask me what you like. Just remember to cry out occasionally for the sake of our rapturous lovemaking.”

She giggled, and leaned against the headboard of a wall. “Very well. Perhaps you will tell me what happened to your leg.”

“Is my limp so famous?”

“Just very noticeable. Did you injure it?”

“It is not my leg.” He pulled his tunic aside to reveal the scar on his chest. “I was stabbed. My brother is a medicine man, and he explained to me that the body is a complex system of these tiny things called nerves, which control your whole body. The stab was near my spine and severed a nerve that goes all the way into my back and causes that awful shamble. But it hardly bothers me, in fact, not at all. Does damage to my dignity, though, but that’s penance for ever trusting that awful man.” He pulled his shirt back up. “I was not always a good man. I doubt I am now.”

“You try to be,” she said.

He smiled. “Thank you.”

*******************************************

If there was one thing Brian Maddox was sure he would never attend, much less be a part of, it was a royal wedding. How luck and fate had brought him here, he had no concept. The weight of the crown on his head was enough to sink him into reality. He was, His Highness, Brian of Transylvania. Only the velvet beneath the crown made it comfortable on his head, and only seeing a similarly attired Nadezhda beside him helped him through a ceremony he did not even begin to understand. His only pain was the sudden missing of his brother and sister-in-law, and wishing they could be there at this strange ceremony.

But he put those feelings aside soon enough. Nadezhda was his. His wife ... he instantly felt a certain possessiveness of her. This was not a woman he was courting. This was his wife, his other half, the person he would, hopefully, share the rest of his life with. He wondered if the Orthodox Priest had said something to that effect.

He was not invited to the wedding dinner. Instead he took a small meal in his chambers, and was invited back to the crowd when his duties were performed, a disgusting notion as that was. That he had to present proof - he shook his head. Well, he would, and that would be the end of it. As his gold chain and crown and outer layer was removed, he took a glass of wine and said a prayer in English to help him to be a good husband, a good person, maybe even a good father ... if it was possible.

With utter silence he was ushered into the Princess’s chambers. To his horror, his wife was stark naked on her bed, as if all he had to do was ... No, as appealing as that was, the terrified look on her face was enough to stop him cold. Well, to be honest, not totally cold, but still - He yelled angrily at the servants to leave them be, and shut the door firmly behind them.

“Nadezhda,” he said, changing the tone of his voice as he approached her. “You’re shivering.” He grabbed her discarded robe and put it up over her. She must have been freezing. “Here.”

“Am I - so terrible to you?”

She was shaking. She did not shy away from his touch, but it was obvious that she did so by fighting her own instincts. Clearly, they had told her something terrible. Not altogether different from what they told maidens in England, probably, which he always thought was outright ridiculous. He finally swallowed and replied, “No. G-d, no.” He sat down next to her, off the end of the bed, holding her hand and nothing else. “Nady, you have no reason to be frightened. Whatever they told you.” She had, he could now see, long black hair, still tied up not in the English way but in many braids. It was silky and beautiful in the lamplight. “I love you.”

“But we have to -”

“It’s not so terrible,” he said. “Trust me. Do you trust me? Of course not, you have no reason to trust me, the silly Englishman. But I am very much in love with you.” He held her covering up when she tried to take it down. “No. We have time.” He was expected back eventually, but not so quickly. Besides, at this point, he didn’t really care what the count thought. “Can I see your hair?”

She looked at him blankly.

“I’ve never seen it before,” he said. “Not - down. Or at all. Please?”

She obliged him, of course, un-twirling her long braids of beautiful jet hair that came down past her shoulder blades. He sat there entranced until she was finished, not saying a word as he cupped her chin and kissed her on the side of her head. “I love you.”

“I trust you,” she said at last. “I do.”

“You shouldn’t, you know. You shouldn’t trust anyone,” he said, teasing her, and she laughed. He saw some of the tension leave with the sound of it. “Except maybe me. My Nadezhda.” He kissed her again, softly, testing on her cheek. She did not turn away, but she was tightened up. “I suppose they told you some horrible nonsense about marital relations, or relations with someone other than me. I suppose, I’m not so impressive, but -” But he couldn’t think of a way to end the sentence. I’m experienced. And I love you so very, very much, and I want you to want me as bad as I do. “Now I’m a little frightened.”

“Of what?” she said.

“I - I’ve never been with a maiden. And certainly, I’ve never been with a wife,” he smiled. “I am, despite all of this Your Highness nonsense, an English gentleman who feels a responsibility to make his wife happy in his conduct.”

“You must have a lovely country.”

“I am painting a very rosy picture, aren’t I?” he said. “No, it’s a country like any other, but I was raised with morals. I didn’t always appreciate them or follow them, but - I can try now.”

“I heard you were nobility.”

“Descended from. But that doesn’t mean you’re noble. My brother on the other hand is so stupidly noble it’s surprising he hasn’t gotten himself killed yet.”

“You miss him?” she said, taking his hand. She must have been reading his facial expressions.

“Yes. But perhaps one day, we will invite him, or visit him. He has a wife and two children, Frederick and Emily. We should have portraits done of us in that royal garb and send it to England. He’ll get a good laugh at that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m the scoundrel in the family,” he said. “I don’t deserve any of this. I don’t deserve to be this happy.”

She leaned against him, which was indeed making him very happy. “Why do you always talk like that?”

“Because it’s true. Your husband was a gambler, a man of vices and a hunted man.” He situated himself better on the pillows next to her, putting his feet up. “When I was eighteen, my father died. We were on bad terms with my uncle, who is the older brother and therefore inherited the earldom of Maddox, so we had no support. I was left to raise my brother Daniel, who was much younger than me, and to manage our fortune. I wasn’t ready for it. I couldn’t be a father to my brother. I wanted to go to University and have fun and drink. So I managed for a few years and then I started indulging myself. While my brother was in school, I gambled away our entire fortune. I took out loans to get him his license so he might be a doctor and have a living, and then I ran from my creditors. I traveled all of Europe, abandoning my brother and my responsibilities. Then when I returned, I betrayed him to someone I held a debt to, and that man might have murdered him if he hadn’t been so good at getting away. I didn’t know that, but I shouldn’t have trusted him, nonetheless.” He pulled back his tunic. “The scar, from where I was stabbed.”

“By your brother?”

“Good heavens, no. Danny would never stab me. By the man who meant to stab him. I was in the way. Now I am a cripple because of it, because even Danny couldn’t fix me, and he is brilliant at his profession. He serves the Prince Regent, who is essentially our king. Then I ran again, because no one seemed to want me around - and for good reason - and then I met your father. And you.” He kissed the hand he was holding. “Then my life changed. Who knows, you may have made me a good man.”

“Can I see?” Nadezhda said, reaching towards the scar. “I mean, can I touch - ?”

“Of course,” he said, and removed his tunic entirely. He wasn’t covered in scars, but he had a few of them, certainly, and her caressing of him was ... making it very hard for him to go this slowly. “I’ll tell you the stories, if you like. Behind them.”

She giggled, and pressed on the line on the left side of his belly. “Tell me.”

“Oh G-d, that’s not a good one to start on. A woman did that to me, a girl in Rome, a ... woman of a certain profession. It was over money from a certain - service rendered. I thought it was rendered poorly, she didn’t. So we had an argument. That’s why I’ll never go back to Rome, thank you very much. And stop that, it tickles,” he said. “Or continue. Whatever you like, Your Highness. I am at your mercy.”

“Hardly!”

“A husband is always at his wife’s mercy. You should see the leash Mrs. Maddox leads my brother around with,” he said, and it took her a moment to realize he wasn’t being literal. “May I kiss you?”

“You do not have to ask. Your Highness.”

This was not the same type of kiss. It was the first time he had ever truly kissed her full and it was incredible. There was very little sense left in him to keep himself together. Go slow. You have all night. But he didn’t want to take all night, not now, when she seemed comfortable with him, or at least the idea of him.

He knew a certain amount about feminine biology, perhaps more than the average man. He was experienced, yes, but he also had once taken the time to peruse his brother’s books on that particular subject, the only subject in the medical world he had bothered to read up on. That volume went missing much more often than Danny misplaced the others. It was in French and was mainly how he became acquainted first with the language, because he had to sit there with a dictionary to try to translate what he was reading. English books were too proper and hadn’t helped him at all. Some things remained untranslatable, but he felt he grasped the basic concepts even if his interest was less than noble. Yes, her first time was going to hurt. There was nothing he could do about that, but he could make it more bearable. Or at least, he could try.

He let his hand slide down her arm and into the crevices of her chest, taking the fabric down with it, and she didn’t seem to mind. Certainly, it would be hard for her to talk with her mouth otherwise engaged. A woman’s body was something to listen to, like an instrument, and there was no outright rejection, just trepidation. No man had touched her like this, he had no doubt. He had no reason to ask. “Can I - ?” he left it an open question. Would she give him the leniency to explore? She nodded, and gave a little gasp when he did. He halted with one hand in a very circumspect place.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

He raised a very surprised eyebrow. “You minx.”

His remaining clothes seemed to come off naturally. She was slowly stripping away all of his mental fortitude as well. She was his wife. He had to take her. He had to do that awful thing that would only hurt once, he promised. He kissed her; he lost his head and couldn’t speak very much. His senses were gone and didn’t return until he was, at least temporarily, satiated, and rolled over in a huffing heap.

“That - was it?”

He turned to his wife. “I’m a bit insulted, my lady, by your implication.”

“I mean - that was the great pain?” she said. He wasn’t mistaken about the whole incident and took great care to wipe up on the stupid ceremonial sheet. “I’ve had bruises that felt worse than that!”

He laughed, and fell onto her. “You’re quite a woman,” he said. “Sadly, I think I must do a terrible errand now.”

“Then go do it,” she said, “and hurry back, my husband. Or I will be very upset.”

Brian Maddox did make his customary appearance at the wedding dinner, and turned his head as the sheet was paraded around, but did take in a good bit of wine, toasting to his own good fortune before excusing himself. He was not heard from again that night. The doors to the Princess’ chambers remained locked for the rest of the night and most of the next day.

*******************************************

For the first few months, there was little that could irk Brian out of his marital bliss. He was given very little baronial responsibilities, as his father-in-law seemed to regard him more of a breeding implement than the future count, but he was required to accompany them for dinners and hunting parties. He had, by regulation, tried to sleep separately from his wife. This regulation was quite regularly broken and no one said a word, though he had no doubt that everyone knew that one or another was sneaking off at all hours, and not returning after the allotted time. Fine by him. He was the prince now. The only one who could overrule him was the count, who seemed to have no issue with his new son’s apparent virility.

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 mid-wife, 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 in many occasions to repeat. He could do something if there was a problem during childbirth, but that was the extent of his knowledge. Second, he 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 Doctor Petronov into the Princess’ 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 Napoleon (no local royalty were). 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 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. Sometimes it carried him through the day without her, occasionally it did not.

The year came and went, and he helped her through three 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,” he 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 explained everything.

“Brian,” she whispered. “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.”

He 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, exasperated. “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 Brian could carry, and a bag containing half of the barony’s treasury, and they left.

*******************************************

Embarrassingly to Brian’s self-esteem, it was Nadezhda whom was the chief reason they survived the first few weeks. She was a far better huntsman than him, having been raised with it as a means of sport in her native homeland. She was also a better cook, so she was largely responsible for the food and he, only the fire, which she often chastised him for being too high or too low to bring the meat to a proper temperature. He had spent more years on the run, and in this he bested her, knowing how to hide (which they did from every passing authority figure, no matter from what country), how to make shelter, and how to treat burns from the frost on a particularly chilly evening. He was surprised that they made it to Saint Petersburg without having to eat their horses, and still managing to stay off the well-traveled roads. There, he was mainly lost. He had been there once on an errand, and his Russian was poor, while hers was fluent.

“I don’t know which one of us is being rescued,” he said to her with a smile as they enjoyed what they considered the luxury of one-room lodging with a pipe stove. The bed wasn’t very large, but neither of them minded. In fact, it helped pass the time.

Paper was expensive, but they had her dowry, and he slowly began to quietly convert small amounts over to Russian coinage, with multiple trips to multiple banks. He spent his spare time, while she shopped for food, writing to his brother carefully not revealing their location, but relaying the events of the past few months. He sent every letter with a prayer as it dropped into the iron box.

“If we stay here much longer, we’ll have to winter here,” he said.

Nadezhda curled up against him. “The sea is frozen by now. We can’t sail to England.”

“Maybe we could skate.”

Nadezhda giggled.

He’d been frightened - she had never been more than a few miles from home, and here she was, fending largely for herself in a foreign country with a foreign husband. She never complained. “I am alone with you for the first time. No spies.”

“That we know of.”

She laughed again and kissed him.

*******************************************

Their degree of tranquility was shattered with enough time for them to make it out of St. Petersburg before it became too cold to do so. For this, Brian was grateful, but in the days to come, he would look back on their weeks in that tiny apartment with great affection, as if it had been their true honeymoon, drab as the surroundings were.

She came home that afternoon and said, “Someone called me by my name.”

He sighed. They had to go, no matter how innocent it might have been. They could not go east and they could not wait for the thaw of the sea to take them to safe harbor. They had to go west, into the terrible steppes of the Rus. They went south as well, where it was slightly warmer, but not enough. They went from village to village. Nadezhda’s horse died, so they sold the meat and rode together on his. They both had a bad cough, and many times were tempted to stop and seek shelter in some village for the winter.

Eventually all they saw was white. “We cannot go further,” he announced. They stopped at the next set of wooden buildings ahead on the road, now disappearing into the snow. With half of Count Vladimir’s treasury in Russian rubles, strapped to a sack beneath his clothing, he took his wife’s hand and they walked into town. He tried his Russian, but their accents were too heavy. The men were wearing beaver fur hats and long black coats, and as far as he could tell they were speaking some unknown dialect when they talked amongst each other. They all had a beard, that was hardly unusual, but the way they talked - they did not speak directly to Nadezhda, however they understood what she said and talked amongst themselves for some time.

“Here,” he said in Russian, holding up some coins. They would probably not take paper money here. “Please. Help.”

“We can’t stay,” Nadezhda whispered to him in Romanian.

“Surely if we give them enough -”

“We can’t stay. It’s dangerous.”

“You are sure?”

“Brian, they’re Jews.”

He blinked. “So? I’ve met Jews before.”

“You have?”

“People are people, Nady,” he said, “people with warm houses. They could have horns for all I care.” He smiled as one of them looked at him. “Hello.”

The men were still talking when another one came out of one of the houses with a long beard, carrying his hat as he was clearly unprepared to be walking about outside, and began yelling at them. It was vaguely Russian, vaguely not. “Yiddish,” Brian said at last.

“What?”

“A Yid. A Jew. They speak it in Germany.”

Whatever they were saying, every man hushed when the old man approached them and started sermonizing. Eventually, they all scattered, and a woman emerged from behind him and waved Brian and Nadezhda in. “Thank you,” Nadezhda said in Russian.

The old couple spoke fluent Russian, they soon discovered, and Brian understood more than he spoke, so he was able to follow the conversation fairly well. He offered money, but the man waved it away.

“We need shelter,” Nadezhda said nervously. Aside from his black skullcap, the man did not have horns. “Please.”

“You come from where?”

“Saint Petersburg,” Brian said.

Their host said no more about the obvious lie as his wife disappeared, reappearing with a steel tub of soup, which she portioned off for the four of them.

“I am Rabbi Shneur Zalman,” the man said. “My wife, Sterna Zalman.”

“Brian Maddox,” he replied. “My wife, Nadezhda Maddox.”

“You are English?” the rabbi said in perfect German.

Brian and Nadezhda exchanged nervous glances. “I am,” Brian said in German. “My wife is not.”

“She is Polish?”

“No,” he knew he couldn’t say she was German - her accent was too Baltic. “To the south.”

The rabbi didn’t inquire further, said something in Yiddish to himself, and began his soup. That was their signal. So they dug into their food, drinking down every last hot, salty drop, and washed it down with vodka. Feeling warm again was delightful; Brian only gave a dreamy glance as his wife was removed with the rabbi’s wife, leaving him alone with Zalman. “So, you are from here? Where is here?” He fell into a natural Romanian without thinking, only realizing it after it came out of his mouth.

The rabbi answered in Romanian, “I was born in Liozna. It is Lithuania now, I believe, then Vilna, and then Saint Petersburg. But we are in Liadi, Baruch Hashem.”

“You are - I don’t know - noble here?”

“No,” the rabbi said very modestly. His home did not look like a noble’s. It looked temporary. The walls were bare, the furniture comfortable but plain. “The voivod was who invited me to come here, Prince Stanislaw Lubomirski. Now his son rules. He stays away, Thank G-d. The czar, he always makes trouble.” But he waved it off. Brian noticed that beneath his black coat, he had scars on his wrists. “You will stay for the winter, Herr Maddox?”

“Please. We will pay anything.”

“Did you do something bad?”

He was put-off by the question, perhaps because the strength of the vodka, and his general exhaustion. “I - yes, we are in trouble. But we didn’t do anything wrong. Please, you understand?”

“I was in prison, in St. Petersburg, for giving charity,” said the rabbi, “for three months.”

Brian smiled despite himself. “What kind of charity?”

“I gave money to my homeland. The Turks were very upset.” He must have read Brian’s look of confusion. “My homeland is the land around Jerusalem, in their empire. It is now Palestine. The goyim, they change all the names.”

“Jerusalem? As in, the bible Jerusalem?”

“Ja, the bible Jerusalem,” said the rabbi in German. “Every year I ask G-d to go. Every year He says no. Someday, I find out why.”

Brian laughed.

*******************************************

Brian and Nadezhda quickly learned much about their hosts. Rabbi Zalman - “der Alter Rebbe” - was the leader of the community and had been a big man in Vilna before his arrest. He married into wealth, so he could devote all of his time to study. Their house was plain, but there was a wealth and it was in the library. This was no Englishman’s collection of gothic novels. The texts were gigantic and smelled ancient. Some were still scrolls or hand-bound - all were in languages neither of them could read. “I feel like I’m at home,” Brian said to the rabbi when he first entered.

“You read?”

“Not like my brother. He is a doctor. He reads - all the time. I was going to send him something before I left Austria, but I didn’t get the chance.” He sighed. “He probably already has a copy. It’s an old German poem or something.”

The rabbi spoke maybe a dozen languages. “A doctor is a great profession.”

“I know. I’m very proud of him.”

Brian had some trouble finding use for himself. Nadezhda could at least cook and did not mind doing such a mundane chore. There were no servants to be had, only dozens of students following the rabbi, who seemed to walk to and from the synagogue. Brian offered to find them food when he noticed they ate little game.

“No hunting,” said the Rebbetzin, the wife. “It is cruel to the animals.”

“Then how are we eating meat?”

He got a demonstration from the rabbi himself the very next day, when they slaughtered a calf for dinner. The rabbi calmly herded the calf away from the other animals, took a large butcher’s knife, and slit its throat. It died almost instantaneously as the blood poured into the snow. “You slit the throat just so,” said the rabbi. “It is very hard not to hurt it.”

“What if you hurt it?”

“Then we chop it up for the wild dogs to eat. We don’t eat it.”

“Why would you feed wild dogs? You don’t eat them.”

“When the Jews were sneaking out of Egypt in the middle of the night, not a single dog barked to alert the authorities. So, we feed the dogs, if we can.”

Brian did not question it. He had never taken bible passages so literally.

Eventually they found industry for him - and were grateful for it, so “others can learn.” He cut wood, essential for the freezing Russian nights, and he carted around goods. Fortunately these obviously religious people did not have a rule about sleeping in a different room from one’s wife, and he could collapse guilt-free beside Nadezhda; he found his own way of keeping warm in the long nights. There was far more darkness than light. He was happy to an extent, because he had his wife and he had shelter. As the winter passed, he began to dream of England - its rolling hills, the small hills he had once considered mighty mountains, even the awful smell of the Town square on a hot day. Surely their trail had gone cold? (Everything else had) Once they were in his homeland, they would be untouchable, even if the count wanted to pursue. Nadezhda seemed to silently accept never going home again, why couldn’t he?

He watched the snow melt with an unspoken anticipation. He wanted to go - somewhere - that would bring him home. East? Maybe he could go south, to Mongolia, and then to the Turks?

“You can bribe your way through the Turkish Empire,” said the rabbi, “If you can get there.”

“We can’t go back to St. Petersburg,” he said. “What should I do, Rabbi?”

“If you must go east, go east,” said the rabbi. “We wandered forty years in the desert and we came out all right.”

“The bible didn’t happen yesterday, you know.”

“Every Jew who would ever live stood at Mount Sinai. We are all old souls.” He always said things with complete confidence, at least on spiritual manners. That was why, Brian supposed, the people listened to him like he was the next prophet, even though he made no prophecies. He sat and read, and occasionally wrote on some religious thing he was working on - something about the soul and how to elevate it. It was beyond a vicar’s sermon that was for sure.

At night, Nadezhda and Brian sat in conference.

“We go east?”

“We go east.”

They consummated the deal the best way a husband and wife could.

*******************************************

It seemed silly, to be going off in the wrong direction. Brian’s horse didn’t survive the winter, so they purchased a wagon and two mules, which was the best they could do. The Rebbetzin gave them more preserves than they thought they could ever eat, which was a pleasing prospect. The rabbi gave them the only book he owned in a European language - a copy of some French travelogue, so old it had writing in different hands in the margins and inside the cover. Brian took it gratefully.

“So they didn’t have horns after all,” he said to his wife as they watched the little town of Liadi disappear behind them. “Or drink our blood.”

“So I was ignorant! Like you’re so wise,” she said.

It was not very warm, but it was warm enough to see the roads again, and that was enough. They had come full circle, living outside and traveling until they would both collapse. Brian didn’t try to keep track of the date, or ask it of the villagers they passed. All he knew was that it was warmer, so it was spring. There was a port, to the east, the villagers said. By the time they got there, it would be thawed and ships would come again. They could go to America, it was so close. America? At least they spoke English there. One could get to England from America - that much, he knew. He wondered how far across it was.

It was late spring, almost summer when Brian and Nadezhda Maddox arrived in Magadan. They shuddered to think that they had been on the road almost a year now. Brian had written letters again; he posted them from the first place he saw suitable enough to possibly guarantee a delivery. In this tiny town, there was at least a kind of civilization, where he could get a shave from a barber, and speak to someone in German or French. He saw the ships coming in and began to inquire. There was one bound for this place called Alaska, near America. They booked passage.

A day before they were to leave, he decided to write to his brother again to give yet another assurance that he was safe, his wife was safe, and that they would someday come home when it was safe for them and for the rest of the family. He slipped his message in the box and turned around to see the face of his Romanian manservant, Andrei.

“You are a hard man to find,” Andrei said, holding up a pistol from within his heavy coat.

Brian followed his signal and left the public place, to a more secluded area, but he had already decided his actions. “What do you want?” he said, facing him.

“Do you know how much His Grace would pay to have his daughter returned to him, much less, with your head beside her?”

“Even if you care nothing for me,” Brian pleaded, “you’re leading her into death. You know she can’t conceive. Everyone seems to know it but the count. Have some loyalty to your princess.”

“My princess?” Andrei said. “You assume a lot about my loyalties, Prince Brian.”

“Then ... you can be bought,” Brian said. “How much?”

“I know you have half the treasury?”

“I spent it in St. Petersburg. If you are so good at following me, Andrei, then you would know that.” It was a lie, but he needed time.

“I’m not your servant,” he said. “How little you know of me. Do you even know my last name? It is Trommler.”

“Name your price, Trommler.”

“I’ve already said it. You have most of it, I know. You lived like a pauper in St. Petersburg.”

“St. Petersburg was a long time ago.”

“So you say. I also know you carry the money on your person, beneath your clothing.”

“You have bested me,” he said. “Please - let me -” But he reached with one hand for the satchel, and the other for the gun. Yes, he would risk his life for Nady - without question. He hadn’t spent a winter chopping up wood for nothing. The gun went off and he didn’t care; he grabbed it and beat Trommler on the head with the wooden handle. Trommler dropped like a sack. He was still breathing. If he would stay that way, Brian knew not. He took the gun, still hot, and ran to the flat where they were staying. “Nadezhda!”

She was standing over a pot and the last of their preserves. “Brian! You’re bleeding!”

He hadn’t even noticed. He was honestly too concerned for her, and them. “We have to go. We can’t wait. Andrei is here.”

“Your servant?” She said, grabbing a towel and placing it against his skull. Now that he thought about it, he did feel like something had hit him, though he knew Trommler had not. “You were grazed. You need to sit down.”

“We need to go. Board the next ship. I don’t care where it goes.”

“What happened?”

He could barely breathe. He did have to sit, as much as he didn’t want to, as she pressed the cloth against his head. “He had a gun - he wanted all of our money. I hit him and he fell. T-That’s all I stayed for. Oh, and I took the gun.” He pulled it out. “We have to go before he wakes up.”

“Brian, you’re going into shock.”

“I’d rather do it on a ship.”

She listened to him quickly gathering their things. They abandoned the cart, which had little in it anyway, and took only what they could fit on their backs. Brian could barely walk, Nadezhda had to hold him up, and he shoved a mildly insane amount of money into the hands of the captain of a ship bound for a port in the south. The crew was male with no passengers. “Just keep it quiet,” Brian mumbled, they showed him to a spare room, and brought him a mattress, which he hit rather soundly.

When he woke, they were already at sea. He felt the rocking of the boat and found it comforting. We’re moving.

The days passed quietly. He recovered quickly and checked the ship - no Andrei. They were safe. Nadezhda didn’t venture far outside the cabin, not with a male crew. They mainly stayed to themselves, until their food ran out, they then shared meals with the crew, again, at extra cost.

It doesn’t matter, he told himself. It’s like farthings.

It wasn’t worth that, when they all started getting sick. At first, he thought he was seasick, even though he normally had a strong stomach. He could hardly blame Nadezhda, who had never seen the sea, much less been on it before in her life. But then there were sores, fevers, and the boat began to veer off course because so many crew members were ill...

“Typhus,” he said as he rejoined Nadezhda in their cabin. “Bloody fucking typhus!”

Nadezhda managed a weak smile.

“I may sound as if I’ve gone truly insane,” he said, “and this would not be the first time I would have said something that made people think that, but there’s land ahead. We could take the boat and row.”

“But - the captain -”

“If we stole it - went at night -” He slumped down against the wall. “I know it’s wrong, crazy, and stupid. But if we stay here, we’re going to die.”

She nodded weakly. She always agreed with him. She was never afraid. She was so perfect, so wonderful - she didn’t deserve to die. He would do anything to make sure that didn’t happen - not on his watch.

*******************************************

That night, in a feverish haze so bad he could hardly tell left from right, the two of them took the boat off the side and lowered themselves into the water. Everything proceeded smoothly - most of the crew was below decks, dying. Two had already been thrown overboard.

The waves were heavier than he expected. He tried to row alone. Several times, his strength failed him, and Nadezhda took up his place. He lied down on the floor of the small wooden boat, listening to the waves, falling into the comforting silence beyond Nadezhda’s desperate breathing. That was, until the boat crashed into a rocky coast, he heard the wood splintering and noises from afar. His cue.

Nadezhda had passed out. He rose somehow, his pack still on his back, lifted her into his arms, stepping out of the ruined boat and into the water that went up to his knees. Slowly he waded to shore, his night vision failing him against the torchlight. It was all a haze, and then there was shouting. He set Nadezhda down when she murmured something.

His only thought was of Nadezhda, half-collapsed at his side. He was inclined to join her, not feeling well on his feet. He was very aware, not only of the lapping water against his boots, but the presence of others around him, swords drawn. He drew his pistol, though he doubted he had the strength to do more than hold it up and fire once or twice. “Stay away,” he said in Russian, even though in the poor light, these people did not look Russian. They were positively oriental, with their strange hair in buns, their odd swords, and their eyes. They had left the mainland, he was sure - so they could not be in Cathay - “If you touch her, so help me G-d,” he said in Romanian.

Someone shouted at him. It was an order, but it was incomprehensible. He did not know if they recognized what he held in his hands when they came after him. He’d been in similar straits before, certainly, but not with a wife by his side, and not when he was so utterly sick and exhausted.

How the gun went off, he could not properly recall. It fired harmlessly into the air, gunpowder drifting down as he was knocked in his side by the butt of a weapon, and he collapsed. “Nadezhda...” he whispered. She was gone, and so was everything else.

Chapter 27 – The Tale of Brian Maddox, Part II

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.

There he lay for some time, unable to contemplate doing anything else, as if everything that drove him to ordinary activity was taken from him. 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.

But that did not happen for quite some time. 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 and pants that were wide enough to resemble a skirt, 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 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 Maddox and walked away.

He could not go on. Brian 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 wooden 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. On his bad shoulder too, 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,” he 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,” he said. He should have learned more Russian. Nadezhda was so much better. “Where is she?”

“Doko. Where.”

“Doko,” he 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?”

“Otasuh.”

“Cathay?”

“Nippon. Ryūkyū.”

Did he mean the Japans? How did they ever get here? It must have been closer than Brian imagined. Or they had been truly lost at sea for longer than they thought. He forgot all that when he was helped into the next room and found his wife on a similar bed being attended to by the woman in the tightly-wrapped silk robe. She scampered out, bowing stiffly, like a man, to Brian and Tahkonanna. Brian would have run in, if he could walk without the Oriental’s help. But Tahkonanna stopped him. “Shoes.”

“What?”

“Your shoes. Please.” For the man had already slipped his off.

Brian did so, treading barefoot to his wife’s side. “Nadezhda.” Whether the Oriental took his leave or not, Brian paid no attention as he cupped her cheek. “Nady?”

This seemed to jostle her awake. “Brian,” she said, her voice weak but less clouded than his, possibly because she had the sensibility to be resting when they were both obviously still weakened. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he said in Romanian, kissing her hand. “Now.”

“Your color – you should lie down. Now.”

He was happy to oblige. He was feeling drained and if in this strange country it was terrible for a husband and wife to lay together then they would have to suffer the embarrassment. “I love you,” he whispered, nestling his head into the crook of her neck, and then his strength was truly and wholly gone again.

*******************************************

Now that the immediate problem of locating his wife and seeing that she was being cared for was solved; Brian did not attempt the same feat of moving about again for some time. Nor did they interrogate their hosts, who they saw little of except for the old woman with the food who spoke no Russian. They barely moved at all beyond the basic necessities of life.

“Do you know where we are?”

“Japan, I think. We must have been driven south by the currents.”

“Japan is not so far south from Russia.”

“No?” To be honest, his non-Western geography was not particularly well-researched. “I suppose not.”

They eventually learned Kayano was the head of the village, and Tahkonanna his son, and was fluent from some trade with the Russians. They had every intention of forcing their guests to learn their language. Instruction began immediately; but it was so foreign (and Brian’s Russian not so perfectly fluent to begin with) in nature that they could barely pronounce it.

The days fell into a familiar routine. In their weakness they spent much time sitting on steps of the porch to their hut, watching the villagers go to and fro, and listening to their conversations.

There was one ritual which never altered, not even for Sundays, whenever Sundays were here and if they even existed. Every morning, the man in the blue pants and black shirt would fight Kayano in the sort of town center in front of them. They had determined that he was from a different tribe because he dressed and acted differently and seemed most aloof and unhappy to be there. Every day he took up a wooden sword and charged at Kayano with fury. Every day Kayano fought him off with only his staff, not drawing any one of his three swords. Despite his advanced age, Kayano was wiry, and seemed impossibly accomplished at not only walking on those wooden stilt shoes but also fighting in them. Once, they even saw him block the wooden blade with his own shoe, balancing on the other leg, to which the man in black threw down his sword in frustration, bowed, and walked away.

“His name is Miyoshi,” said Tahkonanna.

“He is not from here?” Nadezhda said in Russian.

“No. He is ronin.” When they looked at him, he shook his head. “Warrior is the best similar word, but not the same. He is not Ainu.”

“Ainu?”

“Us. Not Japanese.”

Brian decided to hold back his remark that they seemed similar enough. “What is he doing here?”

For this, Tahkonanna had to switch to Russian. “Father took away his swords and he cannot leave until he gets them back.”

“Why?”

“He insulted his honor. By law, Father had every right to take his head. He chose this way instead. Now the stupid samurai will win his swords back and take his own head over the shame.” He shook his head.

Brian looked at his wife; they decided to interpret that as a mistranslation because it made no sense and they did not want to offend their hosts. Instead, Brian changed the subject as Miyoshi was knocked to his feet yet again. “Miyoshi keeps saying something to me. I don’t understand it.” He attempted to repeat the Nipponese phrase to the best of his ability.

“‘In the land of the Rising Sun, even if dogs, cats, and bugs can live, there is no law that Westerners can live,’” Takhonanna said.

“Is that true?”

“By law we should have killed you on sight, Maddok-san.”

Brian wondered if they were saving it up.

When he procured a pen - more of a brush - some ink and paper, Brian “Maddok” began to write. Specifically, he was writing to his brother but the utter lack of mail service prevented him from sending anything. That did not discourage him from pouring out every fascinating detail onto the page. It was also nice to write in English again, a language he’d used only to mutter to himself in the last year. He also ticked off the days as soon as he became aware enough of their passing. They had been in Otasuh nearly a month now. As unlikely as it was that any of his posts from Russia had made it to England, he had literally dropped off the map, he doubted if he could find himself on a map.

It was also a comfort. They were gone beyond the known world and certainly beyond the count’s, now terribly extensive, reach. They had found shelter at last. Maybe they could, somehow, return to England. Brian knew that the Dutch East India Company stopped in Japan for the silk trade. When he inquired where, Kayano said, “To the south.”

“How far?” he asked.

“Very far.”

In the evenings, most of the men smoked long, wooden pipes in front of the fire where their language skills increased tremendously. Brian brought up again the most important subject to Tahkonanna, switching back and forth between Japanese and Russian when needed.

“You have discovered you cannot stay here,” his host said, and Brian nodded. “If the authorities find you, they will execute you.”

“And you, for taking us in?”

Tahkonanna nodded.

“Where should we go? Back to Russia?”

“Can you travel to your home from there?”

“No. We cannot go the way we came. We must go to Cathay.”

“The Middle Kingdom does not tolerate gaijin much more than we do.”

Brian sighed.

“Miyoshi-san says there is a port for foreigners. Nagasaki. From there, you could ride a ship to the west.”

“How far is Nagasaki? Did he say?”

“It is the length of Japan. Very far.”

“How would we get there?”

Tahkonanna seemed surprised by the question. “How else? You walk.”

“But – we cannot travel in Japan. As gaijin.”

“No.” The Ainu blew a ring of smoke. “I will ask Kayano-sama.”

Later that night, Brian retired with his wife. No one had any opposition to their sleeping arrangements or if they did, they expressed none. Tonight, they did not do much sleeping. Brian propped himself up and they spoke in hushed tones even though they doubted anyone spoke a word of Romanian. “We cannot stay.”

“I know,” Nadezhda said. “But Lord Kayano is thinking of a plan.”

He rolled onto his back. “I don’t know why he’s being so kind to us.”

“I don’t think the Ainu like the Japanese; or the other way around; or both,” she said. “Miyoshi looks down on all of them. Haven’t you noticed?”

“I have. But he looks down on us too, so it’s hard to tell if that’s not just his general disposition.”

“But he has not betrayed us.”

“That we know of.”

There was a call at the door. It was not possible to knock with the paper sliding doors. Brian had accidentally destroyed his twice already.

“Coming,” he said in Russian, as he closed his sash and went to the door. It was Kayano. “Nani?” (What?)

“Kinasai,” (Come!) Kayano said, with little urgency in his voice. Brian nodded to his wife, slipped on his sandals, followed the old man out the door, and out into the woods surrounding the forest. Kayano stopped in front of an old lantern and a statue of some sort. It seemed to be a sort of shrine. “Now,” he said. “Take this.” He passed him a wooden sword. Brian held it in his hands in confusion. “Now. Defend!”

As slow of an attack as it was, he was not ready for it. He barely got it up in time to block the staff from hitting him, and the force of it threw the sword right out of his hands.

“Get it!” Kayano demanded, and Brian scrambled to the wooden sword. This time, he took a proper stance against him, holding it up in his right hand. “Stupid gaijin! Reverse!”

“Reverse what?”

“Side! Reverse your side!” Kayano insisted. “You are weak on your right. Don’t reveal it!”

He meant, of course, to fight left-handed. “But –” He did not know the proper translation for ‘un-gentlemanly.’ Not that he had considered himself a gentleman in a long time but that did not mean he forgot how to fence. “Not – proper.”

“Left side! Now!” Kayano beat his staff against the ground impatiently. Brian hesitantly took up his left side. Still, the old man was not happy. “Both hands on blade!”

Brian did not attempt to argue this. He put his hands on the blade as he had seen Miyoshi do time and time again even though at least Miyoshi fought properly, on his right side.

“Now. Block!”

He was stronger on his left, but untrained. He barely managed to block again but this time he did not lose the sword.

“Again!”

So it continued. Block, block, block. By the end he was sweating and exhausted, while Kayano’s response was to strike his feet. “Move them!”

“I can’t –”

“Motion!”

Brian stepped back in a sort of shuffle, maintaining his stance.

“The Buddha says change drives the world. Change is inevitable. You must change!” Kayano said, but then more calmly, continued, “But you know this.”

Weakly, Brian nodded.

“You have changed many times. Many, many times. Like a wheel moving too fast.”

Again, he nodded.

“Miyoshi cannot change. Japanese, they cannot adapt. Every day, the same strike! Every day, the same block! Useless samurai. He would be better use to you,” he said. “Change or die.”

With that, he let Brian hobble back to his room, where he collapsed next to his wife and fell promptly asleep.

*******************************************

At the next meeting, it was decided. “Pilgrims,” Kayano said, and the others nodded.

“Pilgrims cover their faces and speak little,” Tahkonanna said. “You will go to visit a shrine in the south.”

“Apologies,” Nadezhda said, “but how will we find our way?”

“Miyoshi-san,” Kayano announced, to Miyoshi’s surprise. The samurai, whatever that meant, stood off to the side of village meetings, his hands in the folds of his robe. Kayano rose, pulled out the two swords on his right side, and presented them to Miyoshi. “You will escort them to Nagasaki. Do you know the way?”

“Hai,” Miyoshi said, obviously shocked at the gesture.

“Then take them there, samurai,” Kayano said, then handed him his swords, which Miyoshi quickly slipped into his belt. “And then, do what you will.”

Miyoshi bowed to him before Kayano turned his attentions back to the couple. “We have obtained a traveler’s permit, some money, and provisions for the road. When you are well enough, you will go.”

“We have no way to repay you,” Brian said, bowing low to the ground from his kneeling position, as he’d seen others do before Kayano-sama, Lord Kayano.

But Kayano just laughed and slapped him on the shoulder before walking off.

Their instructions on how to dress and act like pilgrims began in the morning; first thing to do was to learn how to wear gigantic hats that were little more than overturned rush buckets with slits to see through. These illogical contraptions were not at all heavy and would thoroughly hide their features, but they had to be tied because, to the best of his knowledge, Brian hadn’t seen a buckle or button since they left Russia.

Tahkonanna aided them. Miyoshi went off somewhere and they did not see him but were assured that he would keep to his assignment all the way to Nagasaki. “He is an honorable man.”

“He is bit ...” Nadezhda searched for the word in Japanese. “Rude.”

“He is proud. Samurai. The warrior class. Nobility.”

“What is he do – here?” Brian asked as the village head’s son showed them how to tie up their white pilgrim’s outfits with all the proper knots.

“Doing here,” he corrected. “I don’t know what he did, but he had to leave his lord, a very dishonorable thing. He came here to die. Seppuku. So sorry, I don’t know the word in Russian.”

“Kill himself?” Brian said.

“Suicide?” Nadezhda said in Russian.

“Yes.” He gestured with his hand as if he was holding a sword and thrusting it into his stomach. “Seppuku. A very honorable way to die, the problem action, for one who has brought shame to themselves.”

Then I would be dead many times over, Brian mused. “Are you serious?”

Tahkonanna gave them both a look of mild surprise, which indicated that he was, and they decided not to push the matter any further. “Here.” He handed him what appeared to be a walking stick but upon closer inspection it had an obvious handle and a longer portion.

Brian pulled it apart to reveal a thin sword. “I don’t know how to use this.”

“You’ve never held a sword?”

“Oh, I have, but – never in serious combat. We use guns.”

“Your gun was destroyed, Maddok-san. Kayano-san is your samurai. It is only for emergencies,” he assured him. “Nadi-san,” and he passed her a much smaller one, which could be concealed easily in her robes.

There was another town nearby that had regular trade with the Russians, however illegal. Through them, Brian and Nadezhda were able to convert their fortune to Japanese coinage. Brian offered some to Kayano, who refused. “You will take this instead.” He pointed to his head.

Brian wasn’t quite sure how literal he was being. “What?”

“Memories,” Kayano said. “We have lost. The Japanese came from the south and defeated us. In time, we will be gone. But you will remember.”

Brian understood and bowed.

That night, they shaved his head or most of it. His usually wild mane of hair was particularly hard to trim, as it was naturally frizzy and overly knotted. They shaved off his long, Russian-esque beard, not leaving the sideburns. The only thing they left long was the back, to be sited up in a knot of some kind, and he left the room feeling more naked than he had ever been in his life despite being otherwise covered in clothing.

When he entered his chambers, Nadezhda made no attempt to hide her laughter at his bizarrely-tonsured head.

“It’s not funny,” he said in Romanian with mock-indignity.

“Oh, darling, I’ve not seen you this way for a long time. Or, ever,” she said, holding out her arms as an invitation. He sat down on the mattress beside her as she caressed his face. “Though, your cheeks do feel good again.”

“I had no idea you took such pleasure in them.”

“Now that I have told you, you must be as fastidious in your shaving habits as you can.”

He kissed her. “Of course.”

She continued to massage his face and then his neck. Over their long flight and then even longer recovery from typhus, they had had understandably little time for any intimacy.

“We will have to be very quite,” he whispered into her neck. “I don’t think these walls are particularly good at disguising sound.”

“Then they must be accustomed to it,” she said simply, because she always seemed to take things with greater ease than him. She learned the language better than him. She had no provocation against approaching elders and speaking for herself, and they seemed unruffled by it, here in this tiny barbarian village at the end of the world. She was his Nadezhda and she was constantly surprising him. He had already decided, long ago, that he liked that part of their marriage very much.

*******************************************

“We don’t know how to thank you,” Brian said to Kayano, meaning it somewhat literally. The leader had already refused what little Russian coinage they had, saying they would need it in Nagasaki.

“Taking Miyoshi-san off our hands is enough,” said Tahkonannna. “Good luck.”

“I would say we would never be this way again,” Brian said, “but luck keeps surprising me.” He tightened his grip on his wife’s hand, and though with the bucket of straw over his head, he could not see her smile. He could feel it.

Miyoshi was waiting for them, up the road, as they said their good-byes to the village. Other than wearing a hat that resembled a lampshade which covered the upper half of his face, his traveling clothes were no different from his regular ones. “It will be good if you remain silent,” he said. “Your accents give you away.”

“How far is Nagasaki?”

“Very far. Months.”

They were going to be walking for months? Brian looked at Nadezhda through the holes of his tengai nervously. Could she take it? Could he take it? Miyoshi seemed to have no hesitation at such a long journey on foot, even in sandals.

“Have you ever been there?” Nadezhda asked.

“No,” Miyoshi said.

“But you’ve been close.”

“Edo.”

That was, or so Brian recalled, the capitol. “Are you from there, Miyoshi-san?”

“No.” That seemed to be the end of his answer for a long time, before he added, “I worked there.”

Both of them had enough sense to know this was not something to probe further. The rest of the day was passed mainly in silence.

*******************************************

“Seen enough countryside to last a lifetime?” Brian said to his wife. “Even if it’s in Nippon?”

“It is very lovely,” she said. For it was incredibly beautiful, unspoiled and natural, nothing paved, rarely a sign. They occasionally passed travelers, who either ignored them or moved away at the sight of Miyoshi with his hands (casually) on his blades, but besides that there was no one.

Eventually they took a road that looked barely wide enough to be passable. Nadezhda privately admitted to being a bit exhausted from sleeping in the open, however good Miyoshi was at setting up a shelter with his cloak, and Brian felt that old tiredness seeping into him. “Can we stop here? At an inn or something?”

To their surprise, Miyoshi nodded. That was, until he saw a sign, which he spent some time studying before announcing, “We cannot enter here. We must go around.”

“Will we lose time?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Miyoshi turned away from the posted note. “We have to go around.”

“What’s wrong?” Brian said instinctually.

“There’s a wanted criminal about and that means the police will be searching all travelers.” He added, “We will find another town soon.”

That did not mean they were free of company, as there were people going to and fro. They had to journey some distance off the road to find any sanctuary. This Japan place was filled with forests and rivers, and they were low on food.

“Can we fish?” Brian said, wondering if there was a law or something.

Miyoshi’s response was to remove his ronin gasa and tie up his long sleeves. “Yes. Do you know how?”

“What man doesn’t know how to fish?” Brian replied, and tied a string to the end of his walking stick as Nadezhda worked on the other end, pinning a piece of their remaining bread to it. “There we go. There are fish here, right?”

Miyoshi grunted, which meant that he was unwilling to admit to not knowing. Brian had barely got his makeshift fishing rod into the water when Miyoshi held out a hand. “Quiet.”

“I was being –”

Their bodyguard looked at them seriously, silencing them, and Brian slipped his hat over his face. Miyoshi’s left hand was on his sword hilt and not lightly. He took a few steps straight into the water, which was not especially deep, barely inches above his ankles, and his blade came out fast enough to drop the man who leapt in front of him. In a spray of blood the man fell down into the water, but Miyoshi did not hesitate, drawing back to protect the Maddoxes as the other bandits emerged from the woods, armed with spears and swords.

“You are outnumbered, ronin,” said one of them.

“It does not concern me,” Miyoshi said, his voice as steady as a rock. “Come closer and you shall suffer the same fate.”

“If they want money,” Brian whispered, “give it to them and be done with it.”

Miyoshi grunted. Clearly it was not up for consideration. He was true to his word, because when the first man came forward, he cut his spear in half before letting his swing slice through the man beside him. Brian instinctively put himself in front of his wife, his hand on his walking stick. “Don’t look,” he whispered to her in Romanian, because the water was looking a bit red for his taste. Yet, Miyoshi was unconcerned. His attention was apparently on cutting them all down without thought and he was very good at doing it.

“Don’t move,” said a man behind them, putting a sword to Brian’s shoulder, the tip piercing enough to make him bleed. “Tell your samurai to stop.”

“What do you want?”

“Money. And your woman. Surely worth your life?”

It was Nadezhda who screamed as, without hesitation, Brian drew the sword hidden in his cane and spun around. He meant to at least put some distance between him and the bandit, but it didn’t have a hope of working, as the man laughed and knocked it out of his hands. He was out of his league.

“Haaaaaaaaaaaaaai!”

The cry came from above, the man landing before it was finished. He was different from the others, moving in a red blur from his haori coat, his bizarre sword drawn and ready as he sliced the men’s head off before his stilt shoes hit the ground between them. He then turned to Brian and Nadezhda. His hair was wild and not shaved or even tied up, his clothing different but recognizably Ainu, at least partially. He had tattoos – blue rings around his wrists and his bare ankles. He laughed and ran past them with no explanation, sword still drawn, and with a flying leap, landed on the man who Miyoshi was attempting to fight off. While he stood on him he swung his sword around, missing Miyoshi by inches on one side, decapitating the last bandit on the other while one drowned beneath his geta shoes.

“So,” Miyoshi said, not sheathing his sword, “you’re the villain they’ve put up warnings about.”

“Me? Signs?” the man said. “I’m honored.”

“What did you do this time?”

“Who knows?” he said, and swung at his opponent – Miyoshi. Their blades met and the man leapt off the now-dead bandit and back into the water, catching Miyoshi’s swing in his shoe, stepping down, bringing the sword with it. “See? At my mercy again?”

That was when Miyoshi dropped his sword and drew his shorter blade, hitting the man in the hand with the butt of it, disarming again. “Not so easy, Mugen.” He recovered as ‘Mugen’ lifted his foot allowing Miyoshi to recover his blade. “I can’t do this now.”

“You won’t fight me.”

“Not now,” he said, putting away his blades.

“So, you’re protecting foreigners? The very opposite of the law.”

“You must be very familiar with it, as you’ve never done a lawful thing in your life,” Miyoshi said, stepping out of the now red stream and returning to land and his charges. ‘Mugen’ gave an exaggerated gesture as if he was offended. “We’d best be on our way,” he said to his charges.

“He knows,” Brian felt compelled to point out.

“Yes, of course. I’m not an idiot, no matter what Shiro-chan says,” the fugitive said.

“How long have you been following us?”

“Does it matter?” he said, walking across the water and onto their side of the lake, ignoring the pile of bodies behind him as he put his sword back in its scabbard, which was over his shoulder. “So, Nagasaki it is, then? It’s very far.”

“You’re not invited,” Miyoshi said.

“Ah, but then I could report you, of course.”

“That would mean showing your face to the authorities.”

“Heh! I’m not a wanted man in every village, though I am proud that you think I’m such an esteemed criminal,” the man said. “Besides, it looks like you could use the help, no? All I want is a few good meals. A good deal for you.”

Miyoshi, for some reason, seemed to be considering it. Despite the fact he had just fought this man with ready blades, there was some faltering in his usual stoic expression, and his hesitation forced Brian to push the matter. “Miyoshi, can we trust him?”

“No,” he said. “But it seems he’s coming anyway.”

“Besides, I can fish better than Shiro any day,” the man said, without hesitation and fully clothed, ran to a deeper area of the river and dove in, resurfacing a minute later with a fish speared on a knife. “There.” He removed the fish and tossed it to their shore. “Back in a minute.” And he dove under again.

“Who is he?” Nadezhda asked as Miyoshi watched on in stunned silence.

“Mugen,” he said at last.

“A friend of yours?” Brian dared to ask as yet another fish was thrown at their feet.

“No,” Miyoshi insisted, and said no more.

When Mugen had provided them with a pile of fish they walked some ways down the river, far away from the bodies, and started a fire to cook the fish. A soaked Mugen shook his hair out like a dog and sat down by it, putting up his feet in a mode of complete relaxation, as Miyoshi tended to the fish.

Brian was the first to remove his hat. When Mugen didn’t bat an eye, he encouraged Nadezhda to do the same. “Mugen-san,” he said, bowing to him. “I am Maddox Brian, and this is Maddox Nadezhda, my wife.”

Mugen did open his eyes at this but showed no surprise. “Hai. Greetings.”

“May I ask how you know Miyoshi?”

“I don’t know – he might get annoyed. But he gets annoyed at everything, so who cares?” Mugen said, sitting up. “I’d rather Shiro-chan tell it.”

“Why do you call him that?”

“Because I know him,” he said, thinking he had to explain the significance of –chan to the foreigner. From Brian’s expression, he did not. “He was so formal with you; he didn’t tell you his name? Miyoshi Shiro? How rude. And yet, how like him.”

“You traveled together?”

“For some time.”

Brian quickly realized that Mugen would be a wealth of information about their bodyguard who grumbled at basically everything that came out of Mugen’s mouth but still did not order him away. That, however, could be handled in time.

As night descended on him there were other things on his mind, thoughts that he had been distracted from by the sudden appearance of Mugen, who they gathered was at least partially Ainu, even if he laughed at the suggestion and dismissed it. They had been witness to nothing less than a mass slaughter, even if those men had been bandits. Nadezhda was tense in his arms under their shelter and Brian knew why but could find no words to comfort her. In the nearly three months of being on Japanese soil they had come to feel a peace. That had been shattered by the reality of violence that was taken for granted by the men who protected them. They were not safe.

After he nudged her into sleep, Brian slipped out of his shelter and approached Miyoshi who had taken up watch on a rock, his longer sword resting against his shoulder. Mugen was conked out next to the fire, snoring loudly.

“Miyoshi-san,” Brian said, bowing to him.

“Yes?”

“What happened today –”

“Mugen will not be a problem,” Miyoshi said. “As obnoxious as he is, he is actually quite useful.”

“So I saw,” he said with a swallow. “I also saw you kill five men.”

Miyoshi merely replied, “I am your soldier.”

“Would you have done it anyway? If they attacked you alone for some reason or would you have run?”

“I am not trained to run, Maddok-san. I am samurai. I have every right to kill as I please.” He looked up, and took note of Brian’s horrified expression. “Are you gaijin all so squeamish?”

“We’re not ... adjusted to the idea of such a ... violent society.” He was tripping over his words as much as his vocabulary. He could not upset Miyoshi. For the first time, he was truly afraid of him, aware of what he was capable of, apparently without regret.

“Then what do you do to bandits, then?”

“Try to fend them off, or have them arrested. And then they –” He realized he did not know the word, so he said it in Russian. “Stand trial.”

Miyoshi looked at him blankly.

“Go to prison,” he said in Japanese.

“Ah,” Miyoshi said. So they did have those here. “So you never kill? Even in defense of yourself? Or your wife?”

“Maybe in defense,” he said. “Maybe... a few times; twice.” He shuddered, shivering in his robe. “But I feel horrible about it. I pray for those men’s souls.”

“They attacked you?”

“Yes.”

“Then they knew death was the only possible result.”

“Perhaps they did not.”

“Then they were fools. You cannot suffer for fools, Maddok-san.” At Brian’s silence, he continued, “I will make this clear now. I am to take you to Nagasaki because Kayano-sama asked it of me and I consented. Along the way, I will kill anyone who stands in our path and people will stand in our path. If you find this agreement disagreeable, you can turn yourself into the authorities and be crucified. Then I will have failed and must end my life. So we will all die. That is your choice. If you find my behavior disgusting, it is because you are ignorant in the ways of necessity.”

Brian didn’t know what to say. For once, his clever tongue failed him. Miyoshi was so perfectly serious. The ideal world around them – so beautiful and peaceful – was marred by a severity of law, or lack there of. Which it was, Brian couldn’t tell. By Miyoshi’s count, his actions were lawful and it was clear he would not hesitate to repeat them. He cared little for either of them and yet he would leave a trail of bodies in their wake to get them to shelter in the foreigners’ port. “I cannot understand it. It is so different from – well, the rest of the world.”

“It is Japan. It is not the rest of the world.”

He could not bring himself to dispute that unshakable logic, at least, not at the moment. “So sorry, I did not understand.” He still didn’t, but he returned to bed less uneasy. At least Miyoshi was on his side. And specifically, having Nadezhda literally at his side was enough to lull him into sleep.

*******************************************

Their trip around the village was not terribly costly. Mugen knew his way around much better and directed them to a quiet inn and bath house of some sort.

“Seems we’ll be like the Romans,” Brian said to his wife in Romanian. “Will you be all right by yourself?”

“For a bath, I’d do almost anything,” she said, and they parted. The bath was an open hot spring, separated by gender by a wooden wall. Brian waited until his wife had gone, but hesitated in his robe and sandals at the carved stone steps leading down in the water.

“Shy gaijin,” Mugen said, leaning against the rock wall, completely nude. Fortunately the night and the water disguised his lower half. Next to him was a meditative Miyoshi, eyes closed. “Come on. We want to see if you barbarians have tails.”

Brian colored. “We don’t.” Us? The barbarians? Although he did feel particularly barbaric in his filthy state.

“We won’t try anything, Maddok-chan.”

“I won’t,” Miyoshi said, not opening his eyes.

Brian sighed, untied his obi, and slid into the water as quickly as possible. “Ow! Hot!” he said in English purely on instinct.

“Baby,” Mugen said.

The water did, when he was adjusted to it, feel immeasurably good. Tension that he had unknowingly been holding in began to be released, and he took his own position across from them against the rock wall. For a while there was silence and steam, and when he finally opened his eyes, he saw the hundreds of fireflies that lit up the sky above them. I hope Nadezhda sees this. It occurred to him that over the past months – no, for maybe two years now – he had rarely had a waking thought that did not involve her in some way. I am a very lucky man, despite everything.

“Maddok-san?”

“Brian,” he said, stirred out of his stupor. “My name is Brian.”

“Bri-ayn,” Mugen sounded it out. “Is Maddok-san really your wife?”

The audacity of the comment received only a raised eyebrow from Miyoshi. When Brian calmed a bit, he realized it was a reasonable question. Why would a husband and wife be on the run together? They would more logically be lovers. “Yes. We were married in the sight of ...” He pointed upwards, not knowing Japanese for G-d.

“So what is the problem? Ah, right, family didn’t approve.”

“Actually, family did approve,” he said, mimicking Mugen. “Nady’s father is a ... so sorry, large landowner with title?”

“Daimyo,” Miyoshi offered.

“Daimyo. The marriage was arranged, and we were very happy. But ... it is personal.”

“Aha!” Mugen splashed in the water. “You couldn’t get it up!”

Brian’s ears were burning when he answered, “No! That wasn’t it!”

“So insistent. Shiro-chan, think he’s telling the truth?”

“He is,” Miyoshi said. “Stop bothering him. He is not your plaything.”

“And who is my plaything?”

Miyoshi gave an odd grumble and turned his head in disgust. It struck Brian as very odd, but he didn’t mention it. “Can I ask you a question, Mugen-san?”

“I’ll answer yours if you answer mine.”

“The tattoos – are they religious?”

Mugen lifted his arms out of the water. “What? No. I was in prison.”

“It’s a mark,” Miyoshi said, “of a convict.”

“What did you do?” Brian said, having no compulsion against asking him if Mugen was going to do the same.

Mugen, however, had no problems with the idea. “I got caught raiding a supply ship. Now, you answer mine.”

Brian huffed, and then said, “The – daimyo – was upset that we cannot have children.”

This was news even to Miyoshi, as it had not been asked of them when they were in the village. There was only a hint that he was interested in this new information on his face, but as usual, he said nothing.

“Excuse me,” Brian said, and after dunking his head under for good measure, he did excuse himself, put his robe and hat back on, and returned to his assigned room. Nadezhda was waiting for him on the first real mattress they had slept on in what seemed like weeks, even if it was on the floor. “Hello,” he whispered in Romanian as he joined her.

“Brian?” She willingly took him into her arms as he took his place next to her. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he mumbled. “Just ... I get overwhelmed, sometimes.”

“By what?”

“You,” he answered, because it was the truth. “Last time I had to care for anyone, someone I truly, truly loved, I utterly failed him.”

“Wasn’t he a child?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think I’m a child?” she said in her subtle way of teasing him.

He smiled. “No. I assure you, I do not.”

*******************************************

Mugen was far more talkative than his companion, if Miyoshi could be called that. He was also, at the same time, spry and lazy. He would oversleep and then be called in a second’s notice. He made crude jokes, or just chewed on a grass stalk, or complained that he was hungry. For a slim man, he ate quite a lot.

“Why are we protecting two people who can protect themselves?”

Miyoshi only responded, “I was hired to protect them. You have no obligation.”

“Sa! You know what I’m saying!” Mugen huffed. “They have weapons, you can teach them to fight. What, you think only samurai should know bushido? Who knows, maybe it would be good for gaijin; better than to have them stand there while we fight.”

“Mugen-san has a point,” Nadezhda interrupted. “With respects, Miyoshi-san, we would like to contribute.”

“Yes,” Brian said. “Otherwise I am just carrying around a very heavy walking stick.”

“You are supposed to look injured.”

“I can limp without the stick. I do it anyway.”

To this, Miyoshi’s response was to turn and walk away. Mugen ran in front of them, preventing them from pursuing. “Let him go. He’s always like this. He’ll give in eventually. It’s his pride that holds it up.”

“Why don’t you teach us?”

He looked surprised. “Me? I don’t know bushido.”

“If you didn’t learn in Japan, where did you learn to fight?”

“Hung-shu,” he said, “in China.”

“What were you doing there?” Nadezhda asked as they continued walking, following Miyoshi who had begun ahead of them.

“After I got out of prison, I went to the Middle Kingdom,” he said. “It didn’t seem like I was wanted here; wasn’t really wanted there, either.”

“How old were you?”

“Uh, don’t know. Must have been about ...,” he rubbed his chin, which had the beginnings of a goatee. “Kyowa 2 Year so – I was seventeen, eighteen maybe?”

“That was when you got out?”

“I went in Kansei 8,” he said. “I was a kid. Maybe twelve. Very short.” He looked at their stares. “I was an orphan. I wasn’t killed because I was a kid. They sent me to prison instead. It was hard but it was better than being dead.”

“Kyowa 2 ... and this year is?”

“Bunka 8. Why are you obsessed with numbers?”

“We’ve been trying to guess how old you are,” Nadezhda said with a smile. “That you keep renaming your years doesn’t help.”

“Barbarians,” Brian said jokingly in Romanian, and then continued in Japanese, “So you must be twenty-eight, or so?”

“Maybe.”

“How old is Miyoshi-san?”

“He is – hey! Shiro-chan!” Mugen ran ahead of them, circling around Miyoshi, who stopped. “What year were you born?”

“Kansei 1, pest.”

“He’s lucky I like him,” Mugen said, running back to them. “Or I would kill him.”

“You can try,” Miyoshi said, without looking back at him. It was obvious from his voice he was serious, but he was always serious.

“The way you joke always makes me so comfortable,” Brian said, using his free hand to count off the years. “So Miyoshi must be – twenty-two.” He hadn’t realized his bodyguard was so young; barely more than a boy, really. “I’m twice his age.”

“Is someone jealous?” Nadezhda said in Romanian.

“As long as you’re not looking at him,” Brian replied with all the severity he could manage through a screen of stalks. Then he broke out laughing.

*******************************************

When they ventured far enough south, the weather began to change for the worse, merely with the passage of time. “We’ll have to find an inn,” Miyoshi said “to spend the winter.”

Brian was too exhausted from walking so long to put up any complaint. His back, which usually was fine with walking, was starting to bother him from the strain of his unnatural limp, and there was only so much that Nadezhda’s backrubs could do, no matter how much he enjoyed them.

They put it off until it became impossible to travel further in the snow. They found a quiet inn that was empty but for the owner and his wife, whom were willing to shelter two foreigners and their samurai guardian (and that thug following them around) for the right price. Considering their lives were on the line, Brian could hardly fault them for the “right price.” They didn’t seem to have names, but none of the peasants did.

“Peasants don’t have names,” Miyoshi said one night as they sat around the hearth. “Only nobility or people in a clan.”

“Like Mugen?”

“Mugen is a peasant,” he said. “He got a name when he was in China. Moo-shin. His ego wouldn’t allow him to relinquish it.” As he spoke, he was running an oiled cloth along the length of his katana with great devotion.

“Talking about me?” Mugen said, entering with a plate of food. Even in the cold winter months he was barefoot.

“What clan are you from, Miyoshi?” Nadezhda asked.

He huffed, and didn’t answer.

“Fuma,” Mugen said. “Shiro, you can’t hide it anyway. You’re wearing their insignia. They just can’t recognize it.” He turned to Nadezhda. “Fuma is a very powerful clan; used to be even more powerful centuries ago.” He stuffed rice into his mouth. “Still very powerful. Close to the government. Ever meet the shōgun, Miyoshi-san?”

Miyoshi closed his eyes, put away his blade, and with great care, rose and walked out onto the patio, sliding the door closed behind him.

“Why do you do that?” Brian said. “Why do you make him upset? You know our lives depend on him.”

“Because I can’t respect people who carry around their shame like it’s a badge of courage,” Mugen said. “What he did was so terrible he can’t even speak of it.”

“What did he do?”

“Ask him. Besides, I don’t know the whole story. I only know what he used to do in Edo.”

“Which was?”

Between mouthfuls, Mugen said, “He was an assassin.”

Brian gently took Nadezhda’s hands off his back, rose, and excused himself. He took his walking stick with him. “I’ll be back.” He opened the door to the patio, limped through it, and closed it behind him.

Outside, the snow was lightly falling over the small garden. Miyoshi was standing on the rock path to the well, almost oblivious to it falling on top of him, but it was probably hitting the heavy layer of wax that kept his topknot straight and his hairline from growing back. He at first did not react at all to Brian’s approach, the shuffle in the snow. In fact, Brian had removed the wooden staff and held up the sword to swing it before Miyoshi even made a movement, spinning around and simultaneously drawing his blade, meeting Brian’s and forcing it down. Brian fell forward, only to be caught by Miyoshi’s strong hand, which pushed him back so the Englishman stumbled backwards and collapsed in the snow, his blade falling to his side. Miyoshi said nothing, his frame blocking the moonlight, as he replaced his sword.

“You’re not the only person who’s ever done anything bad,” Brian said. “If I was not a barbaric foreigner, I would have committed seppuku in shame at least ten times now.” He attempted to get to his feet and was surprised when Miyoshi offered a hand. He was taller than the samurai, in reality, but being a cripple didn’t make it seem that way. “Do you want me to list all my offenses? Because it’s cold and we’ll be here all night.” He bent over to collect his sword. “I ruined my family’s standing, made my brother destitute, ran from my creditors and all responsibilities, drank, gambled, consorted with prostitutes, lied, cheated, stole –” As he straightened up, Miyoshi was holding the wooden sheath to his sword cane. “Thank you.”

“I was a personal assassin for the shōgun,” Miyoshi said. “My family is very powerful, but I was more interested in bushido than I was in politics. I didn’t want to be an administrator. I wanted to be a real samurai, so they found another outlet for me.” He watched as Brian closed his blade in its case and set it down to support him. “I was very good at it. If I had been as ruthless in politics as I was at doing my job, I could have gone far.

“I was not his only assassin, of course. I have an idea of the numbers, only those that are employed within my clan. We have short lives, but not necessarily for the reason you think. One night, I was given a mission to punish a couple that had married against the wishes of their parents. One of the fathers was an imperial notary - very close to the shōgun – one of his spies, I believe, on the emperor. I didn’t question it until I met the couple as they tried to make it to the port. They intended to escape to China, but had not found passage, and that night they pleaded for their lives. The husband was my age – his wife, maybe the same, I’ll never know.” He turned away. Brian was glad his hair had grown back because it was protecting him from the snow before it soaked in, though this was still nothing compared to Russia. “As you may suspect, I did not complete my mission. They escaped to the mainland; I will never know how they survived there, or if they did. I returned to the palace, reported to the shōgun, and requested permission to commit seppuku.

“He refused. I was to be executed like the worst type of criminal – I was to be crucified. This I could not accept. My pride was greater than my ability to follow orders. How I made it out of the palace, I will never fully understand. I pledged to Amitabha that I would succeed on my mission to commit seppuku, if only He would grant me exit and help me fell all in my path. He did, and I ran north. Mugen, I already knew from some past assignments. He popped up and helped me get fairly far, and when he refused to be my second, I realized I had to continue. I made it as far as Otasuh, where I reached the standstill with Kayano that you witnessed. From there, you know the story.”

They had calculated that Miyoshi Shiro was twenty-two. What had Brian been at twenty-two? He had been raising his brother, trying to manage their funds, and see to the education of a boy who was losing his vision. He took him north to Scotland for a dangerous cataract removal surgery. Danny, who had yet to hit his growth spurt, cowered at the sight of the table they had to tie him to so he wouldn’t move his head. Brian was forced to talk him into it. The surgery was successful but an infection followed throwing Danny’s life into danger instead of just his eye. When his fever finally broke, and his young body defeated the infection, Brian brought him home to London exhausted in a way he could not describe. While still unacceptable, the stupor into which he fell as soon as his brother left for Cambridge was, on some level, understandable. “You don’t believe in redemption, Miyoshi-san?”

“I do believe in redemption. A samurai’s redemption is in his death.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Yes,” Miyoshi said without hesitation. “Whatever it may seem to you, I made by pledge to the Amitabha Buddha and I will keep it.” He spat. “What do your gods expect of you?”

“Repentance.”

“And how do you go about doing so?”

“Prayer; admitting that you were wrong. Not as dramatic, but still ...” He shrugged. “It is our way. If I had taken my life, I never would have met my wife. For me, I think this was the best way.”

Miyoshi turned back to him. “Put your sword in your obi, like I do.”

Brian did so, sliding it into place. His blade was straight and Miyoshi’s was curved but the effect was largely the same.

“Kneel.”

Swallowing, Brian did so.

Miyoshi knelt across from him, some distance away. “The first lesson I was taught is to expect attack at any moment. You must first learn to draw your sword from a sitting position. The release of the blade is the deciding moment of the battle. Now, do as so...”

*******************************************

They left as soon as it was possible with the weather. The landscape changed, slowly, as the road became endless again.

They were forced to take a breather in another nameless, small town, for other reasons. Nadezhda’s courses had descended again – this was the first time since the winter – and she was rendered an invalid for those terrible three days. The two of them stayed in their room at the inn, keeping the door shut to everyone but Mugen and Miyoshi, who seemed to be finding enough to do in town.

As usual, by the third day, Nadezhda lost her lucidity from exhaustion, pain, and blood loss. The Japanese seemed to have very little to offer in the way of herbs or medicines, but they had numerous teas and broths. “Here. Try this one,” he said, holding another bowl up to her mouth. “I don’t know what it is, but it smells good.”

On the fourth day she regained her sense, but not her strength, and remained in bed. Her hair was uncovered and not in braids, which was a rarity, and he loved to run his hands through it. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” She smiled weakly.

The door slid open behind them without a call, which meant it was Mugen, who shambled in. “Any food around?” He had his own room with Miyoshi, but it was connected and neither of them had been in last night.

“Here,” Brian said, not bothering to put up a fight and offered up a bowl of rice. He had once asked them where they went at night, and the answer was the obvious one, that he had so politely overlooked.

“Well, where would you go at night if you didn’t have regularly-available tail?” Mugen had answered, and that was the end of the discussion.

Now, he was more polite. “How are you, Nadi-chan?”

“Better,” she answered. “I’ll be able to travel again in a few days.”

“Sa! It doesn’t matter to me,” Mugen said.

“Does anything matter to you, Mugen-san?” Brian asked with a smile.

“Food, women, and money for the other two things,” Mugen said, grabbing at the globs of rice in his bowl with the chopsticks. “Maybe Shiro-chan; I like picking on him and he hasn’t killed me yet. He has tried, though. So, Nadi-chan – you can’t get pregnant, right?”

Brian gave Mugen a cold stare, but Nadezhda merely said, “No. Brian, he’s going to do it again.”

“What? Oh,” Brian said, and turned again to Mugen. “The three-way is still a no and will always be so. You can stop asking.”

Mugen huffed. “Gaijin are no fun.”

*******************************************

“- doko doko yukuno –”

“Mugen.”

“- Hito mo nagarete –”

“Mugen!”

“- doko doko yukuno - ,” Mugen’s singing was only stopped by Miyoshi’s blade inches from his neck. Mugen took his hands down from beneath his head and stopped walking. “You complain about everything. First I’m not allowed to gamble with our money, and then I’m not allowed to sing –” He turned to Brian and Nadezhda. “What’s wrong with my singing?”

“The song was good,” Nadezhda said.

“The first hundred times,” Brian added.

“So why don’t you sing something, Brian-chan?”

Brian put his hands together in a prayer position. “I am merely a pilgrim. I would not know any English sailing songs. And those are all I know.”

“He has a point,” Miyoshi said, replacing his blade. “We should get moving.”

“That’s all you ever say!”

“It’s true,” was Miyoshi’s defense.

They continued on, the path sloping down, until they were forced to take a break in the shade of some trees. It was not unbearably hot, but nearly there. There was still an occasional passerby on the road, so Brian kept his hat on, doing his best to cool his brow beneath it with cloth. “Nady, do you want –”

Miyoshi raised his hand. Even Mugen stopped making noise.

“Shiro-no-fuma,” said the voice from behind them. “I thought it was you.”

Miyoshi stood up. “I’m sorry, you are mistaken.”

They turned to the fat man with only one sword. He held up a scroll while samurai emerged from the woods, flanking him. “Ha! I remember you from court. Do you know how many dagos the shōgun put on your head? I never thought you would come as far south as this. Did you know this is my prefecture? No, I suppose not.”

“I am sorry,” Miyoshi said, turning away from them and gesturing with his head for the others to move along, “but again, you are mistaken. I am a samurai to these pilgrims and we must be on our way.”

The man wasn’t listening. “When I heard a Fuma samurai was this high, I knew it had to be you. So you might as well admit it and surrender to me, and I’ll let the pilgrims go.”

All eyes were on Miyoshi, who stood quietly, his expression hidden beneath his ronin gasa. His hands were limp at his sides, not on his swords. Was he planning his battle strategy or contemplating the offer?

“There’s too many of them,” Brian whispered to Mugen, watching the samurai emerge. There were half a dozen, all similarly attired, and more behind them.

“You think that way, you give up before the battle begins,” Mugen said, one hand on the hilt of his sword. “You can run or stay, whatever you think is best. No one will think less of you for it.”

“Will he fight them? It’s ridiculous.”

“As opposed to giving in? It’s more honorable to die in battle. This prefect knows that.”

Brian felt Nadezhda’s hand over his in silent confirmation.

Miyoshi did not speak. Instead he removed his hat and tossed it at the head of the closest samurai. Before the warrior recovered, Miyoshi had drawn his katana and cut his head off.

“Get-” but the prefect got no further before he got a flying geta shoe to his head. It distracted him long enough for Mugen to jump in front of him, retrieving his shoe in one hand and stabbing the fat man in the shoulder with the other. He pushed the dead prefect, spurting blood all over him, off his blade with his foot.

“Is that all you have!” Mugen shouted. It was not a question.

‘All they had’ was quite a lot. Nearly a dozen samurai now surrounded Mugen and Miyoshi. “Kill them!”

“Halt!” Brian shouted, drawing his blade and stepping forward. He and Nadezhda threw off their tengai hats. “You are disrupting this mission and we cannot allow that.”

“Foreigners!” said the nearest samurai, but the revelation had its intended affect. Miyoshi took the time to slay him while he wasn’t looking and Mugen slid beneath another two, cutting off one’s leg with his free arm and somersaulting on the other.

“Kill the foreigners, the ronin, or the convict? Hard decision, samurai!” Mugen mocked when he was back on his feet, parrying the swinging blade with his own and punching the samurai in the face hard enough to draw blood.

“Stay back,” Brian said.

“I suppose someone will have to rescue you,” she said. Or at least, that was what he thought she said as Brian raised his sword and charged at the nearest samurai, who was too busy attacking Miyoshi from behind to see him coming.

He would always remember the sound of metal cutting through flesh, muscle, and bone. Everything else about that battle was a bloodied haze. He tried to remember what Miyoshi had taught him, at least long enough for the real warriors to do their work. He saw the coins from behind, tossed by Nadezhda, and a man fell merely by the coin landing in his skull, right between the eyes. The blood sprayed in Brian’s face and he was sure, as he went to wipe it, something hit him from the side, hard enough to make the haze turn to black.

*******************************************

He had not felled them. Even though Brian was sure of it, the samurai stood all around him, in full ceremonial armor, more than they had on before. They stood in a circle around his body, saying nothing, their long spears planted firmly in the ground.

“Is this it?” he said, not fully aware of what language he was speaking. “Is this how I am to die?”

They stood in silence.

“Have I already passed? Did I say good-bye?”

They did not move but he felt as if they were moving closer.

“Please, tell me I said good-bye. I owe her that. ‘Tis nature for a wife to outlive her husband, but I cannot bear it.” He sighed, but there was no pain. “I have to wish her well. I suppose she deserves more than a scoundrel like me.”

He did not move himself from his position on the ground, which he realized was empty, he felt as if he was floating.

“But – I have not been a scoundrel. I have been a good husband. At – at least, I’ve tried. Good Lord, I’ve tried. In every way I knew. Granted, all I knew was how to cut and run but ... I’m quite good at it.” He looked up at the masked samurai warriors without moving. “You think I will accept this? You think I will not try to flee one last time?”

They did not answer him.

“You are pulling me down and I won’t go. I have but one love in this life and not even all the soldiers of Nippon can take her from me.”

Their poles became longer, as their bodies melted.

“See? Even you can not intimidate me, the hapless, lame gaijin! Now bring me my Nadezhda and leave me alone!”

Because, he had to see her one last time. The poles were the only thing he could see now and the haze surrounding them, as his eyes slowly focused, and he realized he was looking at the bars of a window. Prison? No, just the Japanese way of things. He was, most definitely, looking at a window. Though he was not alone, the samurai were gone. Beside him he heard labored breathing, but it was a very long time before he could bring himself to turn his head, for his own aches had returned.

On one side, Mugen, without his jacket or shoes, unarmed; so odd to see him that way, not at the ready. He looked like a wild beast, but a wild beast that was uneasily asleep.

On the other, Miyoshi, wearing a different kimono, in a similar position.

“They are asleep.” The shadow crossed over him as her figure sat, in front of the light, next to him on the mattress. “We are alone, in a way.” She kissed him on the forehead. “You should drink, darling.”

He could not, of course, refuse her. With Nadezhda’s help, he was able to sit up enough to drink from the bowl. When he was let back down, some of his senses were regained. “Where – are we – in prison?”

“No.”

“How –”

“Miyoshi Shiro is dead,” she said. “Or so the authorities believe. He took all of the men seeking him with him, but he died in battle. His body can be identified by his clothing, but the fugitives made off with his swords when they saw he was lost.”

It took him a very long while to understand, but she was patient. “You switched his clothing with one of the soldiers?”

“Yes.”

“We all escaped?”

“We went north. I paid the innkeeper to say so while she harbors us and you recover.”

He smiled. “A scheme truly worthy of the Maddox name.”

“Have I ever been unworthy of it?”

To this, he could give no proper response but to return her kiss.

*******************************************

In what, they later learned, was the spring of 1812, Brian and Nadezhda Maddox arrived in Nagasaki. They saw it first on the hill overlooking the port town and the ocean beyond it. The ocean that would lead them home. Brian sighed and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

“Are we going to go already? Lazy gaijin,” Mugen said. “We didn’t come for you to admire the view!”

But they had come, however long the last length had been, riding in a wagon that moved more slowly than a man could travel on his feet, as they recovered from their injuries. When they were well enough, they abandoned it and took up the road again.

“Foreigners are still not allowed in Japan,” Miyoshi explained as they descended down the path that would lead them to the massive wooden city before them. “There is some wooden city where the traders live – out on the water.”

“Really take things to extremes, don’t you?” Brian said. Miyoshi just smiled. A vast improvement.

Half a day’s walk was Dejima, the artificial island beyond the massive stone walls of the city’s edge. The sun was already setting and the gates that kept the foreigners from the Japanese and the Japanese from the foreigners were closed. One last inn, before their parting, however it would be. Brian realized then he’d spent little time contemplating how they would split apart or if Mugen and Miyoshi could enter the city at all.

They took two rooms at the inn overlooking the waters. As Nadezhda went to find dinner, Brian sat down at the window and stared at the Japanese-style houses of the floating city, but the people he could see there were not Japanese. They had hair in colors – red, blond, brown. They wore pants and waistcoats. They had sideburns. Brian had just been mindlessly shaving, because it was easier to manage his tengai with. Tomorrow, he wouldn’t need his basket helmet anymore. It would all be over.

There was a call at the door. “Come.”

It was Miyoshi. “Maddok-san.”

“Miyoshi-san,” he said, uneasy at the stance of his old protector, which was tenser than normal. “What is it?”

Miyoshi removed his katana from his belt and held it up before Brian. “I would be honored if you would be my second.”

Brian’s immediate response was a blank stare.

“You cannot present innocence of bushido after all this time, Bry-an,” Miyoshi said, his eyes lowered, his voice intense. “My final task is completed. You are safe in Nagasaki and you will be returning to your homeland soon.”

“Not that soon.”

“I have no wish to delay it.” He did not lower the offered sword. “It is the only way.”

“After all this time, Miyoshi-san, I still cannot say that I do not find the custom outright nauseating and against my very beliefs.”

“Your beliefs are not relevant. It is a matter of honor.”

“And Mugen has no honor?”

Miyoshi, for a moment, faltered; his eyes flickering up before he forced them down again. “Mugen refused. Please, I have no one else.”

“This goes against my beliefs, my morals, my G-d – everything,” he said, and reached out to also hold the sword. “You understand that.”

“Yes. But you do me a great honor.”

Miyoshi relinquished his own grip, and the blade fell to Brian’s. He bowed stiffly. “Thank you.” And he was gone, closing the door behind him.

Brian placed the katana, respectfully, down as if he was afraid to touch it, and then ran outside to the small patch of grass to be sick.

*******************************************

“I can’t do it.”

“You can,” his wife said as she dressed him, like a man-servant. It turned out that the pleated hakama pants a swordsman wore were complicated in their tying and she readily offered to help him.

“It goes against our beliefs. Both our beliefs, I’m assuming, Nady.”

“Of course,” she said dismissively, “but not Shiro’s. This is his country and he is the master of his own soul. He can do as he pleases. Who knows – he may even be right.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You will just be relieving his suffering, darling.”

“Mugen wouldn’t do it.”

“How could Mugen be expected to do it?” she said. “Take the head of his own lover?”

Brian stared at her, dumbstruck. To this, his beloved Nadezhda only laughed. “What? This is news to you?”

“I – I – assumed –”

“Assumed what?”

He colored. “I had no idea.”

“Really? Despite the fact they’ve taken a room together almost every night in an inn? Despite the fact Miyoshi would have never tolerated someone like Mugen from his first appearance unless there was something between them otherwise?”

“B-but they’ve both been ... active. In – you know; houses.”

“I didn’t say they were – how do you say, monogamous.” She turned her head. “Am I the only one of the two of us that realizes we are so far from Christendom and all the beliefs we hold to be commonplace?”

“Apparently so,” he said.

*******************************************

Mugen did not attend the ceremony. As they stepped onto the porch, they found him slumped against the wall; he only huffed when they passed by.

They had to walk a good distance away from the city proper. Nadezhda held his hand. He allowed himself a moment’s respite from his horrible thoughts to realize she looked beautiful in a kimono instead of pilgrim’s clothes, with an umbrella over her shoulder to protect her from the sun. He smiled at her before returning to his grief.

Miyoshi dressed all in white, his instruments laid out on the ground before him.

“I will make one last attempt to talk you out of this,” Brian insisted.

Miyoshi ignored the request completely. “I grant my swords to you, Maddok-san. Both of them.” He turned his head down. “I have not completed my death poem.”

“We have time.”

“No.” He smiled. “I have always been terrible at poetry. A gentle art I never mastered.”

“No great sin.”

Miyoshi nodded. He seemed content. Brian could not deny that, much as he wanted to, as Miyoshi passed Nadezhda the jar of water, which she, as previously instructed, poured over the drawn katana in Brian’s shaking hands.

“It has been an honor serving you, Maddox-san.”

Brian’s voice wavered as he said, “It has been an honor to have you as our protector. One I can never repay.”

“You know how,” he said calmly, clasping his hands together “Namu Amida butsu.” His sword, carefully drawn against his stomach, was impossibly quick.

Brian saw his friend suffer. The rest came naturally.

*******************************************

A sudden appearance was made by Mugen in the clearing, after Brian had cleaned both swords and placed them in his obi, to help bury the body and the head. He appeared without word and the two of them worked in silence. According to custom, he was not placed deep in the ground, creating a mound, where offerings could be left. Nadezhda placed Miyoshi’s prayer beads, which he had given her the night before, on the grave. The three of them bowed their heads and said, silently, their good-byes and prayers for the soul of Shiro-no-Fuma, Miyoshi Shiro, in three different native tongues, but as one.

*******************************************

Descending the steps, only the great courtyard was left to cross before reentering the gates of Dejima. Mugen came with them. Brian did not ask him why. He was too drained, the weight of the two swords on his belt too heavy as they approached the gate.

“Tomare!” (Halt!) The samurai guards said as they approached. “Only foreigners, their servants, and officials beyond this point.”

Brian and Nadezhda removed their tengai as Brian answered in perfect Japanese, “I would like to speak to the head of Dejima and be granted entrance.”

The spears were uncrossed, and a runner sent ahead of them, as the three ascended the bridge. When they came down on the other side, a man in a brown waistcoat and wearing an admiral’s black hat was standing there. “MIJ ben Opperhoofd Hendrik Doeff.”

Brian bowed. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Dutch,” he replied in Japanese. “I am an Englishman,” he said in English, which sounded strange as he heard it come from his mouth. “My wife is from Austria.”

Nadezhda bowed.

“Then we’d best continue in the local tongue,” said Doeff. “I am Commissioner Hendrik Doeff, in charge of Dejima for the Dutch East India Company and under the authority of the shōgun.”

“Brian Maddox,” Brian said. “This is my wife, Princess Nadezhda of Sibiu, Transylvania.”

“An honor, sir, and Your Highness,” Doeff said, removing his hat and bowing deeply to Nadezhda.

“This is Mugen,” Brian said, and Mugen bowed.

Doeff paid him little attention, “You are welcome here, of course, but I am a bit surprised to find an Englishman and a member of the Austrian aristocracy –”

“We came here by way of Russia,” Brian explained. “Landed in the north. We made our way down with Mugen-san’s help.”

“I see,” Doeff said. “Well, I assume you mean to return to Europe?”

“Whenever the next ship leaves, we would like to go to England.”

“You are aware that Emperor Napoleon’s blockade –”

“That is still going on?”

“Yes sir, it is,” Doeff said. “In fact, it is more severe than ever. But I can show you to an Englishman who can catch you up – one of the sailors. The next ship leaves for the Continent in a month. Welcome to Dejima, Your Highnesses.” They interchanged English and Japanese words when needed as Doeff led them into the bizarre hybrid city that was Dejima – Japanese buildings with European people.

“You never said you were royalty,” Mugen said from behind him.

“Nady is,” he explained. “I just married her.”

Nadezhda swatted him with her fan.

The man’s house they were shown to, was a man named Henry Moss, a first mate currently off-duty. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” he said after they were introduced. “You’ve gone native, I see.”

“I suppose,” Brian said, one hand instinctively falling near his swords. “We are in need of some shelter for the next month. All of our money is in Japanese currency.”

“That’s no problem here, obviously. In fact, if you want to do business with the locals, it’ll probably help you,” Moss said. “And rent is cheap, what with the war going on. But what you look like you really need, sir, is a whiskey.”

Brian exhaled with delight. “Oh, G-d, yes.”

*******************************************

As much as there was the temptation for idleness, the next month was extremely busy for all of them. Mugen did not leave their side, mainly because they kept sharing their food with him, but also because he helped Brian on various missions back in Nagasaki.

“Now I have an idea and it may either be incredibly stupid or make us a fortune. Or both,” he said to Nadezhda, and she just nodded with amusement.

Slowly but surely, a good percentage of the fortune he had carried for so long was spent on Japanese goods. The tengai came into use again, as Brian played the ronin looking to buy for his master and Mugen played the part of his servant. Selling to their own, the Japanese salesman had significantly lowered prices, and Brian secured a place on the ship for almost ten trunks of embroidered and raw silk, and various other items he would either want to remember the place by or for sale to the East India Museum in London.

Their last night, they spent in town behind the closed doors of a private room of a Japanese tavern, drinking hot sake with Mugen. “What am I going to do?” he said. “I’ve been freeloading off you forever?”

“You will manage to freeload off someone else, I’m sure,” Brian said.

“So ... you’re not drunk enough for –”

“No, Mugen!”

Mugen pleaded, “Nadi-sama ...”

She shook her head. “Mugen, our affection for you runs as deep as a mighty river of your song poetry. That said we’re not jumping into bed with you.”

“Sa! No fun, either of you!”

As they emerged into the early morning light, Mugen showed his own affection the same way he did with Miyoshi, which was leaving in an angry huff.

After they slept a few hours, it took the rest of the day to load the last of the trunks on the Dutch ship that had agreed to stop in England. It was actually a Danish vessel, neutral enough to cross the complex waters of the channel. Still clothed in their kimonos, Brian and Nadezhda watched the lines untied and the ship begin to sail.

“Wait up!”

“Mugen?”

The ship had moved away from the edge of the dock, but the clunk-clunk of Mugen’s geta were unforgettable as he launched himself over the water and grabbed on to the edge of the boat, a large pack on his back. “Get me up, lazy gaijin!”

The husband and wife exchanged glances and each grabbed an arm hauling him over the edge and onto the floor of the bow. They heard shouting in Japanese, and looking back at the disappearing dock, they saw several local policemen waving their swords and juttes. “Get back here and pay your debts!”

“It took you half a day to get in debt?” Brian said, and Mugen just shrugged haplessly.

“Apologies,” he said. “Can I go to England with you for a little while? Just until they forget about me?”

“Mugen, they’ll probably forget about you in a few hours and this ship takes months to get there and back!”

“So?” Like everything else, he waved it off like it was nothing. “Even better for me.”

Brian turned to his wife, who just smiled, and he couldn’t help but join her.

Fun Historical Facts

1. Otasuh is an Ainu village on the west coast of Karafuto. 2. Kayano is named after Shigeru Kayana, the first Ainu to become a member of the Japanese Diet in 1994. 3. Ryūkyū was the Edo-period name for the island now known as Okinawa. 4. Miyoshi is a member of the sect of Buddhism known as Pure Land Buddhism, which was popular in Japan. They worshipped the Amitabha Buddha. 5. Miyoshi’s real name – Shiro-no-Fuma – means “Shiro of the Fuma Clan.” 6. The name Moo-shin roughly means “Dream Mind.” 7. The song Mugen sings is called Hana, and the translation of the full lyrics from the first two verses (of which he sings part of) is: “The river flows and goes far/People also flow and go far.” 8. The tossing of small coin-shaped objects, often made from old coins but with their edges made sharp and ragged, was a common form of weaponry for those with good aim. 9. Homosexuality (and bisexuality) were not unknown or uncommon in feudal Japan, though most people kept relatively quite about it. 10. Hendrik Doeff is a real historical figure. He was a Dutch scribe who was made Commissioner of Dejima from 1803 to 1817.

Chapter 28 - The Harvest Festival

The Darcys returned to Pemberley as quietly as was possible, which was not very quiet, and Elizabeth discreetly tugged on her husband’s hand as he observed the crowd greeting him as if he was a distant, uncomfortable observer. He did nod and acknowledge them in every necessary way required of him, and then retired to his chambers until dinner. Though he did not express it, he was obviously most displeased that they had delayed the harvest festival until his return, which meant he had to preside over it. Decorations were thrown up as quickly as possible and he made only a minimal appearance. Georgiana was also in a state of despair, but managed to put on a smile as Elizabeth reassured her that Darcy would come around. Still, Elizabeth imagined to have one’s future put on hold by an overprotective, elder brother was clearly its own strain.

Settled at Pemberley, Darcy’s physical recovery continued but he remained retreated from everything except the basic civilities required for social life. He saw his children, but didn’t play with them; Georgiana and Grégoire were officially charged with distracting Geoffrey and Anne from their father’s infirmary. Sarah Darcy was not old enough to notice.

There was also the other matter, that of Elizabeth’s own increasing girth. Since Austria, Darcy had made no attempts to involve her in conversation about her condition. When she brought it up he was polite but uninterested. She knew that her own emotions were not as they normally were, after both the strain of what was happening with her own body and what was happening to their family, but that could not help her dismiss her fears.

There was the matter of who to confide in. Jane, no doubt, would be supportive but would she be helpful? Elizabeth was tired of crying. She did not want a shoulder for that - she could probably do it on Darcy’s and he would comfort her, if only she didn’t give the reason. For once in her life, Elizabeth did not turn to her sister.

Actually, that was not entirely true. There was one resident also hurt by Darcy’s infirmary, whatever it was, and it was Georgiana. Georgiana Darcy, a child no longer, was sitting on her heels impatiently but so patiently. She loved her brother, yes, but he was not her responsibility. Elizabeth doubted that in the throws of love she would have so much patience for her own father if he had not consented to her own marriage, but Georgiana suffered in silence.

In their time as sisters, Elizabeth and Georgiana had treated each other as such, and the younger of the pair had blossomed, but perhaps, now was not the time to stop unconsciously looking down at her.

Her mind guiltily set, Elizabeth found Georgiana in her sitting room, reading. The book was in French. “Georgiana.”

“Elizabeth.” She set it aside as if she was ashamed of it.

“What are you reading if I may inquire ...?”

“Oh, it’s - I borrowed it from Mrs. Maddox. It’s a history of Scotland. They were allies for many years, the Scots and the French, against the English.” She picked it back up and caressed it. “It makes me feel nearer ... somehow.”

“I understand.” Elizabeth could, in fact, imagine it. “It will pass.”

“It shouldn’t have to.”

“I mean - Darcy. He will give in.”

“He shouldn’t have to give in,” Georgiana said with a surprising amount of anger. “He’s my brother, and I’m in love with a man who will care for me and isn’t terribly far away from Derbyshire. Why should he resist? I am sick of his protectiveness.” She put her hand over her mouth. “Forgive me. I don’t understand him sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Elizabeth said. “But - in regards to yourself, to all of us, may I ask you something?”

Georgiana looked up at her. “Of course.”

“Do you think Darcy is well?”

Her sister-in-law did seem to grasp the severity of her meaning, because she looked down at the book again, and then off, before answering, “I don’t know. I’m perhaps not the best person to ask.”

“You’ve known him all of your life!”

“But he’s always been distant - or he was, before he was married. You know he’s been more a father to me than a brother.” She shook her head. “I cannot judge.”

“But you suspect.”

“Everyone suspects.”

“Everyone? Pray, who is everyone?”

“I heard some chatter in the kitchen - about how odd he was acting. Mrs. Reynolds came in and yelled at them all for talking about the master that way. Servants just talk - I know they do.” Georgiana continued, “They didn’t say - anything specific. There was a rumor going around that he yelled at one of the under-gardeners, but I know that wasn’t true. They inflate everything; brother would never yell at the staff. Never!”

It did not settle Elizabeth. It had the opposite effect, but she made every attempt to hide it to continue the conversation. “Has Darcy said anything - odd - to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Off. Strange.”

Georgiana frowned. “I think he meant it in privacy.”

“You don’t have to say it, then.”

“But,” her sister-in-law considered, “he didn’t say it was private. I just don’t think he meant to be heard. That’s ... fair, isn’t it?” She looked to Elizabeth for approval and was nodded on. “He said he never left Austria. He said he never will.” She paused before going on. “My brother has had problems all his life ... all that I’ve known him for - with people. You know that.”

“Quite well, yes.”

“Not problems, I should say. I mean, he’s always dignified, and he’s never cross unless he has to be. He doesn’t care much for people he doesn’t know. Or, that’s the way he put it once, a long time ago, before he met you. I think he meant he was scared. He couldn’t admit it, not to me certainly, not to anyone. People he knew, he liked. Everyone else was different. I thought he was just shy and was too much of a gentleman to admit it. The master of Pemberley can’t be shy. It isn’t allowed.” Her voice was wavering. “You don’t think he’s well, do you? Something rattled him Romany?” Before Elizabeth could respond, Georgiana said, “Should he see a doctor? Not Doctor Maddox, I suppose.”

“No,” she said. “I’ve ... thought of it. But I cannot bring myself to subject him to that. Besides, even Doctor Maddox’s opinion of psychical doctors is poor.” I’m not sending him to Bedlam, she thought. I’m not giving up what little of him I have left. “He needs to ... talk to someone.”

“Then of course it should be you!” Georgiana said. “Lizzy, you are the only person I know who can alter anything in him. You do that just by being yourself. The brother I knew before he met you and the brother I know now - or, at least, six months ago - are like two different people. Believe me when I say, if anyone is to reach him, it can only be you.” Something in her voice said quite clearly, as if through some psychic means, Please reach him, for all of us.

Determined to do so, Elizabeth returned to the house, went into her study, and sat down to write the hardest letter of her life.

*********************************

The reply came express, given the nature of it and how much they were all obviously suffering, especially Darcy. Elizabeth followed the instructions immediately, which were simple enough.

The first person she spoke with was his manservant. Over the years, Elizabeth had spoken to Reed many times, usually about some preference of Darcy’s or inquiring as to his location. She was fully aware that there were things about Darcy that Reed knew which she was not privy to. He had been at Darcy’s side since he was ten and five; he had been through the occasionally-referenced, but never explained, wild years at University. He was certainly better at assembling clothing than Darcy was for himself.

Never once had she even thought of invading one of Darcy’s few areas of privacy to ask Reed about personal affairs. At least when she did, she had an easier way to begin the conversation. Darcy had taken to shaving himself since his return; he was quite inept at it, often with a nick on his chin or uneven sideburns. For someone who cared deeply for the way he appeared before others, this was a radical departure from the norm, and he expressed no discontent with Reed’s service to him as of late.

“Mr. Reed,” she said, announcing her presence in Darcy’s dressing room.

“Mrs. Darcy,” Reed said, quickly bowing. “Is there something I can help you with, madam?”

“Yes. To be plain, I think you know why I am here.”

Reed said nothing, but his face said everything.

“I do not believe in regularly violating my husband’s privacy or his trust,” she said, “but I think we will make an exception in this case.”

“If he comes -”

“He’s with his steward,” she said quickly, “and he will be for a long time. Now, why has he suddenly taken an interest in shaving himself?”

Reed hesitated, setting aside the greatcoat that he had been getting ready to hang. “He is getting better at it.”

“I noticed.” She sat down, hoping that would ease the formality of the situation. “Please, Mr. Reed, for his sake.”

He nodded solemnly. He thought he was betraying his master in this conversation. “Master Darcy has ... a certain disinterest in being touched, by a blade, or a person.”

She had more than noticed this, but she only nodded for him to continue.

“He dresses himself, except for his cravat, and he doesn’t sit still for me to do it. I pick out the clothing, but he puts the clothing on.”

“Has he ever done this before?”

“Not since he was six.”

She had noticed that Darcy’s clothing occasionally did not match so carefully, but she had barely noticed it because it also didn’t fit well on him with the weight he had lost, very little of which had been gained back. “What else?”

“Well ... madam, I suppose you know he’s been refusing all his social calls.”

“Yes,” she said uneasily. “The largest gathering was the shearing festival and he left early for business with his steward.”

Reed looked away, unable to meet her eyes. “Madam, that is not entirely true.”

“What?” She knew it to be true - he had just returned and was only half-interested, but that was expected. He left midday for some business emergency taking supper in his study and not reappearing until the end of the day, when only a few guests remained. She would not say he loved the festival, but he was proud of his lands in Derbyshire, and happy to see his tenants and laborers enjoy themselves, so he was rarely absent for it.

“He did not see his steward.” Reed was clearly uncomfortable revealing this. “He stayed in his study, and drank tea in an armchair after he had settled down.”

“Settled down?”

“Mrs. Darcy, I apologize - I should have been more insistent that he call a doctor - then at least you would have known -” Reed was an older man, not easily intimidated. He was quiet, calm, and reserved - the sort of man Darcy easily had at his side and trusted. To see him so unnerved was significant. “He said he was having trouble breathing. I tried to help him out of his coat, and he nearly tossed me across the room. He recovered quickly, and, madam, he did apologize so profusely. He asked for something to soothe his nerves. I went to get something from Mrs. Reynolds, but I didn’t tell her whom it was for. When I returned, he had settled down, he sat quietly for the whole afternoon and said nothing.”

“Did he eat dinner?”

“No, madam, he said he had lost his appetite.”

“Mr. Reed,” she said, “has anything like this ever happened before?”

“No, Mrs. Darcy,” he insisted. “Never.”

“My husband is not a lover of large gatherings.”

“Not every man has to love noisy crowds. It is simply in his character, always has been. Miss Darcy is also very shy, if I may say so.”

“You may say so.” Elizabeth thought. “Were you on staff here when he was a small boy?”

“Yes, madam. I was in charge of arranging the servants for his guests. Before that, I worked as a footman in charge of his father’s carriage.”

“Do you remember him ever being ill? In Town, perhaps?”

He paused. “Yes, I do remember that I was once sent to find a doctor. We did not have a doctor for the townhouse, at least for young lads. Master Darcy must have been five or six, while he was walking with his mother, he passed out, and then again in a shop. They never discovered why. Mr. Darcy - his father - was obviously very concerned and they departed Town immediately for the sake of his son’s health. But - it never happened again.”

If Darcy had keeled over anywhere in Pemberley someone would have seen and immediately reported it. It would have been the talk of all the servants for quite some time. That was not what she suspected happened here. “Has he said anything to you about any of these recent events?”

“No, madam, but that should not be a surprise. He is not a master to rattle away to me about his concerns.” He added, “But I know he’s unwell.”

“How?”

“For all of the reasons we’ve just discussed, madam. He is very uneasy, more than he can hide. Do you think something rattled him in Austria, Mrs. Darcy?”

“That is precisely what I must discover,” she answered.

*********************************

Elizabeth did not go through all of the servants. Such a thing would have caused an uproar of gossip, which was the last thing she wanted. The servants had enough on their hands with a master out-of-sorts and a house that had been shut up for months. Plus there was the threat of Darcy discovering her investigation, if he hadn’t already. She spoke with Mrs. Reynolds, who yielded far less than Reed, as she did not know her master on such intimate terms, but could be trusted to be discreet. Mrs. Reynolds seemed relieved that Elizabeth had noticed it (how could she not?) and seemed to be doing something about it, but ended the awkward interview with an even more awkward plea “not to send the master away.” Elizabeth knew Mrs. Reynolds was not concerned with the scandal it would cause, that would taint the children and the whole household; she cared for Darcy and wanted to see him well. An asylum was not somewhere where people went to get well.

Slowly she made a list of symptoms, drawing from Doctor Maddox’s suggested list from his letter. General anxiety. Irrational behavior. Trouble breathing. Anxiety in large crowds. Fear of touch. Fear of sharp objects. No desire to leave house. No interest in normal activities. And finally she forced herself to add to the list - paranoia.

What a terrible word.

With some explanations, she finally finished the list and sent it off to Town with long explanations of some of the items. She received a quick reply a few days later, that extremely discreet inquiries would be made. Doctor Maddox was not a doctor of the mind, and seemed to hold the whole profession in little regard, but he knew enough of them in his service to the royal family. He also knew not to use Darcy’s name, because not every doctor in Britain had his high moral standards involving confidentiality.

If Darcy knew anything, he said nothing. He said little at all. He did have a lot of business to conduct, having been gone for half a year, and often spent hours with his ledgers in his study. He made it clear, without words, that anyone interrupting him - even his wife - would be regarded as an intruder. At the end of very late nights, as she stayed up waiting for him, he slipped into bed clothed and with barely more than a good night. Her enforced celibacy continued. He was often up and about when she awoke, no matter how early.

So it continued, for two unbearable weeks, until the Maddoxes came up to visit Kirkland. Darcy pleaded business to excuse himself from the call. He had not been outside Pemberley’s doors in nearly a month. Elizabeth did not fight him this time and went to call on the Bingleys - and Doctor Maddox.

The months had obviously been better to the doctor, who had returned to his old pallor for the most part. He didn’t look the best she had ever seen him, now minus half a finger and with grey hairs coming in at the roots where there had once been black, but he was a man who had returned to health and society. “Mrs. Darcy.”

“Doctor Maddox.”

He waved off the servant and closed the door before settling into a seat next to the table between them. In his hands was her letter, now a bit rumpled from use. He glanced through its several pages before putting it on the table and turning his attention to her. “Have there been any changes I should know about?”

“No.”

“Well, then,” he said. “I spoke to Sir Richard Gregory, former doctor of physic research at Oxford and the current head of the staff in charge of His Majesty.”

“I am impressed,” she said, “and grateful.”

“We do cross paths on occasion,” he said. “He agreed to review the case with me, and studied my set of notes without the patient’s identity. He is one of the few mentalists I respect as a doctor. That said, I cannot honestly say I recommend his advice.”

“So he reached a diagnosis?”

“He said he could not without examining the patient. Then again, he’s had half a dozen different diagnoses over the years for His Majesty. It isn’t quite like looking at a wound or listening to a cough, as you can no doubt imagine. Eventually he said monomania, but that is really a diagnosis for someone whom the physician - and the family - wishes to be committed.”

She knew the blow was coming and been attempting, for these weeks, to brace herself for it, even when it sent Mrs. Reynolds into tears.

“This is why I do not care much for psychical doctors,” he said grimly. “If Darcy is, to be plain, not fit to reenter society, then taking him away from it will not amend the situation; it will make it worse.”

“Do you think he is unfit?”

“I think he’s unwell.” Maddox had no hesitation saying it. He never seemed to have a problem speaking with the formality of a doctor. “Consider his history. Some people are ill at ease in society. We call women shy, and we expect men to bear it. Which is exactly what he did, though, for most of his life he had few friends, and most of the ones he had he lost over time. However, this is not something that would generally concern me - as a physician - a year ago. He is more withdrawn than some men, but that is not a great flaw in his character by any means. In fact, I have always regarded Mr. Darcy as one of the most upstanding gentlemen I have ever met. He is not cruel, he is not malicious, and he is not abusive. He does not turn his anxieties into anger. For the most part, he has managed them. Then, of course, we had Austria.” Now he did lose some of his composure, if subtly so. “We tried to keep each other sane by talking about anything. We recited poetry. We told stories. We recited as much literature as we could remember, but there were long hours, and there was a darkness there - metaphorical and literal - that could not be escaped. Eventually you just ... gave in.”

Elizabeth put her hand over her mouth. She wanted to cry. It seemed odd that she was more upset than Doctor Maddox, who was speaking of his own experiences. “But - you are well.”

“I am a different case entirely. First, I have none of his past history, including his early problems when being introduced to society and the ton. I think now, looking back, we can make the logical conclusion that all of those unfamiliar people overwhelmed our young Darcy and he fainted. It was in two public places that it happened, and you said it was his first trip to Town, a new place for any boy raised in the comforts of the country.

“Second, I have withstood loneliness and torture before. Not on that scale, but I lived alone. Many years in poverty in the East End, surrounded by disease, and hunted by Brian’s less scrupulous creditors. In a way, I was more acclimated to the circumstances.” He paused. “Third, I have had troubles of my own.”

She said nothing, a silent plea for him to continue, even though it would be improper for her to ask. It was so intensely personal, perhaps the most personal thing he could admit and he was not a man who readily talked about his personal life. If anything, he was more discreet than Darcy on most subjects.

Nonetheless, he did continue, “I have had trouble sleeping. I now take a concoction that was recommended to me, by the very same doctor, every night before retiring, minus some of the recommended ingredients, as I’ve always been more hesitant about ingesting non-food items than most doctors are ready to prescribe. It does help me get a dreamless sleep.” He looked down. “I do have ... some irrational fears. Obviously it has not crippled me from general society or my occupation, but it is still something that Caroline and Brian have been helping me through.” He sighed. “The chief difference between me and Darcy is the desire to return to normal life.”

“What did the king’s doctor recommend - beyond Bedlam?”

“Some pills that he gives the king, which I see no sense in, as they obviously don’t work and the king has a completely different condition, more of a disease than something the result of trauma. The one suggestion I would actually follow is a certain tea, which mixed with certain ingredients, can be very calming. When mixed with others, it can help a person sleep. I will venture a guess that he is not sleeping well. That, at least, I think we can convince him of.” He continued, “Beyond that, my own recommendation - though I am no expert of the psychic realm - is to talk to him. After all, he should not be excluded from his own treatment.” Before she could respond, he said, “If you would permit me, I wish to speak with him.”

“He might not take well to it.”

“Maybe not. But we have at least some common ground on which to chat,” he said grimly.

Chapter 29 - Out of Austria

The next day, a terrible downpour descended on Derbyshire. It was not the gentle May showers that the children enjoyed playing in before Nurse discovered them, but the cold, harsh rain of early winter, not quite snow yet, but cold enough to be almost sleet.

Elizabeth seemed surprised when Dr. Maddox made his scheduled appearance, even though the walk from the carriage to the front door had him thoroughly soaked. “Mrs. Darcy.”

“Doctor,” she curtseyed. “I did not expect you, to be honest. I would not want you to put your health at risk.”

“I was more concerned for the carriage driver than myself. Please alert me if he takes ill, but I never miss my appointments.”

He was rushed by the servants, who attended to his coat and hat and provided him with all the towels he needed. Beyond that, he was not interested in wasting time. “Where is he?”

“He’s not yet left the bedchamber. He is not seeing visitors. I told him Bingley was coming and he said to say he was busy with his ledgers.”

It was half past noon. Dr. Maddox refrained from comment. “Do I have your permission to intrude on the master’s quarters?”

To his surprise, Elizabeth blushed as they climbed the grand staircase. “Mr. Darcy has always preferred the mistress’s quarters.”

Again, no comment. “So I have your permission.”

“Yes,” she said, as they headed into the private wing of the master and mistress of Pemberley’s rooms. “I dismissed all the servants except for his manservant, who is aware of the situation.” She added, “I think Darcy has his suspicions.”

“They are not unreasonable suspicions at this point,” he said as he was brought to the doors that led to her chambers. “Thank you, Mrs. Darcy.”

She was emotional as she had to leave him to his business. As a physician he was normally accustomed to this, but not so much with a relative, especially when he had little idea of what he was doing. “All will be well, Mrs. Darcy. Time heals all wounds.” The quotation was not actually true, as he had certainly never seen anyone’s leg grow back, but it seemed to comfort her enough for him to enter the room and close the door behind him.

The sounds of rain and thunder filled the room, as everything else was perfectly quiet. Darcy, sitting in an armchair that was turned to face the window, could have easily heard the shuffling on the carpet and said without turning around, “I do not recall summoning you to my private chambers.”

“As you seem to be unwilling to greet guests, I had to resort to more drastic measures,” he said, slowly approaching Darcy’s end of the room. It was terribly dark, the only light from the dreary sky and a candle by the bed stand.

“Maddox,” Darcy said, his voice less harsh, but not lightened. “Doctor. Please don’t come any closer.”

“We lived together in a space half this size for months; I can hardly believe that you are so bothered by my presence.” Without Darcy’s permission, he strode up to the window, his hands behind his back. He did not eye Darcy like a specimen, but looked only briefly enough to tell that he was dressed, even if none of his clothing matched, and he hadn’t shaved in a day or two. Beside him was a tea tray on a stand.

“So, I am not to expect a straightjacket? Or are you the distraction while burlier men sneak behind me?”

“No,” Maddox said quietly. “Nothing of the sort, I assure you.”

“You have no bag, I see.”

“I have no instruments that can help you, Mr. Darcy. I am only here to a write a prescription and I can do that in any room of the house.” Again without permission, he pulled over the other armchair formally by the fireplace and placed it on the other side of the stand.

“People die from those magic pills,” Darcy said. “I am not a fool.”

“That is why I so rarely prescribe them,” Maddox said, sitting down and pouring him self a cup of tea. Darcy was apparently stupefied by his presence, lacking all of his usual healthy demeanor and assertiveness. “It’s actually just a recipe for a tonic that aids in a night’s sleep.”

“You wish to drug me?”

“I wish to recommend it. I assume you’ve not been sleeping well.”

“So I am to have no secrets from anyone?”

“It is not a secret. It is plainly written under your eyes.” He sat back, dish in hand. “I did not know of it until it was prescribed to me by my own physician. I take it every night and it works wonders for me.” He sipped the tea, and then put down the dish. “The tea is cold. Should I ring for more -?”

“No!” Darcy said, alarmed. He recovered quickly, saying more passively. “No. You shall not. These are my chambers, in my house, and I will decide who rings for what. Am I not the master of Pemberley?”

Maddox said softly, “It seems more that you have made yourself a prisoner of Pemberley.”

Darcy did not respond in anger. He didn’t fret or fidget. He merely retreated into himself, gazing out the window. That, at least, was unchanged from the old Darcy. “I can leave if I want to.”

“I don’t think you can.”

Darcy considered this for a moment, gathering his answer. “I know you think I’m mad. I know you’ve been watching me since our return.”

“Then apparently you knew about it before I did, for I was only informed of your suffering a few weeks ago.”

To this, Darcy had no answer. He did look eager to give one, but words seemed to fail him.

Maddox turned and looked into his eyes. Darcy’s eyes were the only part of his body not slackened, that betrayed the turmoil inside him. “Darcy, I am not here to have you sent away or to encourage your family to do so. I came here primarily to give your housekeeper instructions for a drink that will help you sleep. My secondary motive was more in line with your suspicions, but not quite so wild. Your family is concerned for you, and did contact me, and did answer my questions about your behavior.”

“So there is a conspiracy.”

“I would not use that term.”

“I would call any amount of people planning behind my back to do something against me a conspiracy. You can call it what you like, Doctor. I really don’t care.”

“I’m going to ring for more tea.”

He rose, but as he did, Darcy grasped his arm very tightly. “Please don’t. Have pity on me!”

There was a sudden surge in Daniel Maddox and he left his formal doctor mode entirely. “Have pity on you!” The shocked Darcy slumped, at this wild deviation from the mood, as he faced a towering man with a loud, raw voice. “You! You, who sat in a cell while I entertained you, while I wanted to die from the pain in my hand, as my flesh rotted away from infection! You, who were not so easily discarded by the count, who was looking for someone to mindlessly, take his frustrations out on!” None of this was calculated. In fact, it was the very definition of sudden. His mood had varied, unexpectedly, since he had returned but he had restrained himself in company. But now he grabbed Darcy by his vest and nearly pulled him out of his chair. “Do you know what they did to me? First Trommler and then the count? Did you sit in a chair for three days without food or water as he used something - I don’t even know what it was - something with water and some kind of electric current, whatever that is! I can’t even get in the bath now! I sponge myself instead! And yet I have to go on, like nothing happened, because I don’t own a great estate that I can hide in and turn into my own private cell! All because I’m not rich enough to ignore everyone beneath me, even my own wife!” He found himself, when he had shaken the life out of Darcy and shouted more than he had in his entire life in one breath, quite woozy. He released the petrified Darcy and stepped back, first leaning against the window and then, when his legs failed him, sliding down to the ground, with his hand over his face.

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

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

Outside, the rain continued unabated.

“What do we do now?”

Daniel 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 on 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.” Daniel 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,” Daniel 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,” Maddox said. “I should have been more professional.”

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

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.

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 lesson it. But there was a shelter - near the waterfall - that was so beautiful in the summer. There was even 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 was, anyway. “I told you,” she reminded.

“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?”

“N-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. His answer was not entirely unresponsive, if a little spooked. With enough time that passed she felt the uneasiness pass out of 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 Romany, 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 insistent, 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 for 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. “Master 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 soaked 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, Master 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.

Her husband; smiling.

“Is Dr. Maddox still here?”

“He’s in the library. Not knowing 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 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.”

“What are they?”

Darcy sighed. She felt that too. She wanted to feel all of his emotions, his tensions, all of the things he so desperately wanted to keep hidden. “That he is a fortune hunter. That he is mad. That he is marrying her to take his revenge against me for killing his brother.” He kissed her on the head. “But of course, now that I say it, I can see that perhaps none of those things are true. It sounds so silly when I say it.”

“Then say it,” she insisted. “Tell me and make it only a silly thing.”

“That 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 this.” She did not have to refer to what this was. She could not, because they did not have a name for it, but they knew it now for what it was. “Maybe you can survive the idea of Georgiana in love and happily married to a Scots.”

“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. “Can you do this?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I can try.”

She covered his hand with hers and felt it twitching. “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 rung them out as he walked. “My behavior, however indirectly to you, was of course inexcusable.”

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

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, continuing their walk. He had come fairly close to destroying his gloves by now. It was Kincaid that was intruding on their world, so disordered as it was at the moment, but it was Darcy who felt embarrassed and shy. “If you would indulge me, Lord Kincaid.”

“Happily,” he replied. “This summer 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 Fitzwilliam and his wife, and that was when I applied to court your sister.”

“I never thought a Darcy would fall for a Scots,” 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 Englishwoman.”

The way Kincaid called Georgiana a woman again and again – it made Darcy stir. She was four 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 him), 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 was 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 along – nearly seven 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.”

The smile on William Kincaid’s face could only be genuine. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy.”

Because he didn’t want to be touched, Darcy bowed. When they returned to the warm house waiting them, he discarded his torn gloves.

*********************************

Elizabeth, as always, found him first as he headed up the stairs, her look a question.

“I will retire for a bit before dinner, for as long as there is peace in this house,” he said. “If you wish to join me, I think now would be a good time for Georgiana and Lord Kincaid to accidentally be alone.”

Only Elizabeth could embrace him so quickly and without warning, kissing him on the cheek. “I love you.”

He did not reply. He was tired, mentally. He did not want to sleep so much as rest. He dismissed Reed, shed his waistcoat and scarf, sitting down on the settee with his head in his hands.

“He’s a good man,” his wife said, sitting beside him. “You did the right thing.” She took one of his shaking hands in hers. It dwarfed hers, it was his scarred and numbed hand, but it didn’t matter. “If you want to, you can practically shoot him from here.”

“At least we are thinking the same thoughts,” he mumbled.

*********************************

“Yes,” Georgiana said; her height and weight being the only things that prevented her from tackling William Kincaid with her enthusiastic hug.

Overwhelmed himself, Kincaid blinked the tears out of his eyes and kissed her on her forehead. It was the first time they had really touched. He decided that he despised the laws of English propriety more than anything else about the country, if only for the frustration they’d forced on him. He was sorely tempted to cart her off like a wild man and be married on a glen somewhere, just them and the vicar, like olden times. But if he had to wait for her brother to reappear, so be it. She was worth it.

Marriage hadn’t been particularly on his mind when he went to London, though he was getting to be of age where the others around him were giving him that knowing look. He was so exhausted from the fight with his brother over Fiona’s marriage – where he felt it was just to take her side – and then James’ death that he put it aside. He was the younger brother; and was busy running the estate in James’ absence and then officially afterwards. He went to London, only most reluctantly, to find it as full of smog and soot as he had been told, but still very sophisticated, far more than Edinburgh, and he was so blindsided until he met Georgiana. She was no longer the girl she had been when they had briefly met seven years earlier. She was a woman, she was out, and she was beautiful. Her brother was an extremely honorable man. William knew he was in love, but he also knew that it would be an uphill battle, and this time with no surprise entrances and quick resolution.

“I feel awful for leaving my brother,” she said, “especially now.”

“Your brother will want a formal engagement period and there can be no proper wedding until the spring,” he assured her, however un-assuring that news was for other reasons. “By then, he will be much recovered, I am sure.”

“He did grant his consent?”

“Yes,” he said. “Though, technically, could I not have gone to your other brother?”

“Oh!” Georgiana laughed. “Oh, I have a terrible idea.”

“If it brings a smile to your face, it cannot be so terrible,” he said.

*********************************

The first person to hear of the engagement of Lord Kincaid and Georgiana Darcy was not her beloved elder brother, resting upstairs, or her dear sister-in-law, also absconded. They found Grégoire in the chapel, where he spent most of day. Beneath the altar was the reliquary of Saint Sebald, though they were hardly making it public knowledge.

“Grégoire!” Georgiana said as she rushed into the room and he stood to greet her. William kept pace but stayed behind for a moment as she curtseyed formally to her confused younger brother. “May I have your consent to marry Lord Kincaid?”

The look of puzzlement on Grégoire’s face was truly priceless. William bit his lip to hold his laughter and bowed. “... D-Do you need my consent?”

“Well, you are my brother.”

“Oh. Yes. Uhm,” he scratched his head. “Yes, yes, of course.” He bowed again to Lord Kincaid. “You ... have my consent to marry my sister.”

“Oh, thank you!” she said, hugging her overwhelmed brother. That was approximately when William and Georgiana lost it and their laughter only seemed to relieve Grégoire.

“Do you need me to perform the ceremony or something?” he said, still quite befuddled.

“No, thank you, I’m a heretical Presbyterian,” William Kincaid said.

“Oh. Well, I’m a Papist monk but I shall enjoy attending the ceremony anyway.”

*********************************

The guest list quickly became paramount to the preparations to the holiday. Lord Kincaid could not be respectably invited; he would spend the holidays as he normally did with his family, in the north, to return as soon as it was possible.

Darcy entertained another guest the following day. Though they had been in correspondence, he had not actually seen Bingley since his arrival from the Continent, as neither was able to visit the other for different reasons. “My G-d, man.”

“Yes, yes, I know, I’m an idiot,” Bingley said as he limped over, leaning on a crutch instead of his broken leg. “Needlessly putting myself into danger. At least I managed to do it without leaving the country.”

Darcy managed a thin smile as Bingley was helped into an armchair. “It is good to see you.”

“The same. You scared the daylights out of me. I do not want to be steward of Pemberley and Rosings for the next ten years.” He gladly accepted the drink that was offered to him.

“Thank you for caring for my children. I hear they actually behaved themselves.”

“I was thinking Geoffrey was a bad influence on Georgie, but it may actually be the other way around. It’s rather hard to tell,” he said. “I am willing to have Christmas at Kirkland, if you wish it.”

Darcy waved it off. Bingley was perhaps the one person whom he had no concern about looking nervous around. “I’m very eager to be at home. We would just prefer to have a smaller list this year.”

“Understandably, but there is one matter – Brian and Princess Nadezhda.”

Darcy said nothing. He could think of nothing to say.

“I know – it is awkward. I believe Mr. Maddox is truly penitent about his disappearance and the havoc it caused. But he did save my life.”

“He has a strange habit of causing mischief and then making up for it in the most dramatic way possible.”

“He certainly does. Nonetheless, my sister and Dr. Maddox won’t come without them. This is Nadezhda’s first Christmas in England. They don’t even have a house yet.”

Darcy knew the right decision. Why was he having so much trouble making it? “...All right, but no swords. That is my only condition. Besides, it is Christmas.”

“I’ll see to it myself,” Bingley said. “Oh, and Mugen would come with them.”

“Who?”

“The man who rescued you? In the tavern?”

Darcy shook his head. “I’m sorry, I –” He leaned on his hand. “You know.”

Bingley did know. Or, Bingley did understand. “He’s their friend from Japan. He barely understands English. He’ll be no trouble, they promise.”

Darcy nodded numbly. He didn’t want to talk anymore.

Bingley got to his feet, or the foot that he was allowed to stand on, and the crutches. “It is good to have you back, Darcy.”

It was only because of Bingley’s smile and his tone that only spoke of his words being genuine that Darcy was able to stand and shake his hand before his friend left.

“There,” he said to Elizabeth as she rejoined him, “is a man I did not realize how much I truly missed.”

*********************************

Despite all things to prevent it from happening, Christmas was held at Pemberley that year. The guests were hosted at Kirkland but festivities were at Pemberley. Three miles away, the Maddox clan had their challenges. In fact, just about everyone upstairs could hear the shouting.

“Ore no katana wa hanasenai. Kenrin ga nai,” (I’m not leaving my sword behind. I have no right to do so) Brian’s voice was defiant.

“Tadashikamo. Kare wa samurai da to omoimasu kara.” (He’s right you know; if he thinks he’s a samurai)

“Mugen, kare o ganbaranaidekudasai. Anata mou katana to ikemasen,” (Mugen, stop supporting him. And you’re not going armed, either)” Nadezhda said. “Oshujin ni daremo okorasenai. Koko wa Igirisu desu. Daremo anatatachi ni tatakawanarimasen!” (No one is upsetting our hosts! This is England. You won’t be attacked!)

“Shoshiki, Pemberley de mou semerareta ...” (Actually, I have been attacked at Pemberley before ...)

“Brian, Atashi o shitagatte!” (Brian, you will do what I say!)”

“Shitaganakereba, nani?” (Or what?) Brian decided to challenge his wife.

“Sou dattara, Mugen no mae de hanasenai!” (Or – something I can’t say in front of Mugen!)”

“Oi. Hazukashinaide...” (Hey, don’t be embarrassed...)

“Mugen, uruse!” (Mugen, shut up!), the Maddox couple said together.

Outside, Daniel Maddox just scratched his hair - what little there was of it, barely enough to start curling. “Should I interrupt?”

“I did inform you of the incident with the man in the bar losing his arm, did I not?” Caroline said.

“Oh. Yes. Well, I’m sure this will sort itself out in time. Why don’t we wait as far away as possible?”

They eventually emerged proving that Brian remembered how to dress like an Englishman after all. Princess Nadezhda had procured a more modest style of dress than the English gown and still walked about with her medieval headdress. Mugen finally emerged sans sword, wearing Brian’s black robes, blue pants, and sandals, which must have been some kind of Japanese formal wear. “Person attack, I hit his head with fist.” he said warningly to Bingley.

“I will make sure our host is informed,” was all he said in response.

An enthusiastic Elizabeth and Georgiana and a polite, somewhat mellow, Darcy greeted them. Dr. Maddox took one quick glance at Darcy’s pupils and kept moving. Dinner could not help but be a celebratory affair. Elizabeth had formally announced her pregnancy (as she was to the point where it was impossible not to), and Georgiana was engaged, a notion to which Darcy had no comment. In fact, he hardly said anything the entire meal, which was not entirely abnormal for Darcy; if he did it without his usual intensity, or even seemed to be nodding off at times, no one said a word.

They retired to the sitting room after the children were sent to bed, overeager for Christmas, while the adults waited for midnight mass.

“Will Mr. Mugen be joining us?” Elizabeth asked Nadezhda.

“Do they have Christianity in Japan?” Bingley asked.

“They did, at one time,” Brian answered, turning to Mugen. “Mugen, are you religious?”

“Three,” he said.

“The trinity?” Grégoire offered.

“No. Have three religions, gaijin. Not need more.”

“Well, is one of them Christianity?” Dr. Maddox asked.

Brian translated for Mugen. When Mugen replied, Brian and Nadezhda both colored. “I’m not translating that.”

“Now you’re not being fair,” Caroline said. “Tell us what the Oriental said.”

“I really don’t think –”

“Now you’re just teasing us, Mr. Maddox,” Elizabeth said, “unless it was crude.”

Brian sighed. “I explained what we meant by Christians, and he said, ‘Oh, those are the guys we crucify.’”

Mugen had a sort of gloating smile as he guzzled whatever the servant had filled his glass with.

“So ... no, then, he won’t be attending,” Bingley said.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“This may be mildly inappropriate for the night Our Lord was born,” the doctor said, “but it is very ironic.”

Caroline stifled her laughter, or tried to, as she nudged her husband.

*********************************

When the hour did come, the carriages were prepared for church, and as they stepped outside, they saw white. It was beginning to snow very lightly, in that sort of beautiful way when it comes down, in soft, slow clumps.

“Happy Christmas,” Dr. Maddox said to Darcy as the others stood admiring the sky. “When I said, ‘Take at night’ –”

“Shut up; it was only two cups,” Darcy whispered back. “All right, three.” He wavered under Maddox’s stare. His speech, now that he was actually talking, was a little slurred. “Four. That was it.”

“Generally you should not venture from the written prescription. It could be dangerous,” Dr. Maddox said, slapping him on the back. “But for tonight, I’ll excuse it. Happy Christmas, Darcy.”

“Happy Christmas, Maddox.”

Chapter 31 – The Hunt

Darcy’s first words on Christmas morning were, “We did bolt the doors?”

Elizabeth rolled over. “Yes. Why?”

“Because if I have to endure another Christmas of our children bolting in here –”

She kissed him. “One day, you will miss it.”

He smiled and rubbed her swollen stomach. “But not very soon.” His voice was steadier than it had been. She could still sense the anxiety he had not yet let go, even as it dissipated. “We did get the children something, didn’t we?”

“Yes. We did.”

“As long as there’s no inquiry –”

“Geoffrey has wanted toy soldiers so he can play with Frederick. Anne is to have a new doll and Sarah is getting a stroller whether she wants it or not.”

“Thank you.” Banging on the door interrupted any further conversation; a very low banging on the door. “And it begins again.” But Elizabeth’s laughter made it all worth it.

*********************************

The Darcys and the Bingleys had one tradition that was inevitable – the regular jealousy of the other children, because the Bingley twins also received their birthday presents. They tried once to break it up during a different time in the day, but it hardly mattered and so the adults just shrugged.

The most interesting presents in terms of surprise came from Brian and Nadezhda, of course, having newly returned from the very exotic Orient. The moment Charles the Third was distracted, his father immediately picked up the wooden top of a fat man that would remove and put back on the mask in his hands when the cord was pulled. “Yes, Charles, I know. It’s lovely,” Jane said to her husband in the exact same voice she used with her children when he demonstrated. He turned to Caroline, who just rolled her eyes.

Georgie had already opened her new set of colored pencils and disappeared into a corner for a bit before approaching Mugen, who remained off to the side for most of the morning.

“Mr. Mugen,” Georgie said, startling the Oriental as she approached him. So far, she was the only child who seemed to be able to do that without some apprehension. “Happy Christmas.” With that, she handed him a piece of paper with a drawing on it.

“What is-a this?” he said in obvious confusion.

Nadezhda Maddox decided to come to his aid, peering over his shoulder. “It seems to be a picture of you, Mugen-san.” For, it was. Georgiana Bingley was an accomplished artist for someone her age, even though she’d drawn him squatting with pencil-thin limbs and shoes nearly triple their normal height. “A present.”

“Oh,” he said, and turned to the little red-haired girl in front of him, and bowed. “Gomen nasai. Demo, kanoyoni nanimo o mottekuremasendeshita.” (Thank you. But I don’t have anything for her)

“Sore o suru no o nozomanai to omoimasu,” Princess Maddox assured him. (I don’t think she expects you to)

“Idea!” he announced, and whispered in Nadezhda’s ear. Brian, now showing some interest, approached them and upon hearing their discussion called for paper, ink, and a brush. When they were retrieved (it took some time for the servants to find a brush to Maddox’s specifications), Mugen knelt beside the sitting room table, bunched up his sleeves, and tipped the brush meant for restorative painting work in the ink. “Name?”

“Bingley Georgiana,” Brian said.

“Bing-el-ey Geor-gey-ahna,” Mugen said, and began to draw upon the paper with smooth strokes. The other children, and some of the adults, turned their heads as he formed complex and unfamiliar characters, one after another, going down to the bottom of the paper before handing it back to her. “Here you go.”

“He’s written your name,” Nadezhda explained. “In Japanese.”

Georgie took her present and squealed. “Thank you! Happy Christmas!”

Mugen bowed as Georgiana ran to show off her present. “Papa! Papa!”

Unaccustomed to such behavior from his normally reclusive daughter, Bingley handed Edmund off to Nurse before examining the paper himself. “How interesting!”

One could count the seconds before every child, cognizant of what had happened, wanted one. Mugen obliged, though the warrior did not seem quite sure what to do when surrounded by a pack of overexcited children yelling at him in a foreign language. “So sorry, name again?”

“Geoffrey Darcy.”

“Dar-cee Jeff-er-rey,” Mugen said, taking a second to figure out the letters for that.

“It seems your companion has brought his own set of gifts,” Darcy said to Brian. “In fact, I doubt ours are comparable. He is writing their names, yes?”

“My lettering is not particularly good, but I believe he is attempting to,” Brian assured him.

After the Christmas feast, some overexcited children were put to bed and the roads were deemed too dangerous from the snow for a return to Kirkland. That wasn’t entirely true, but Darcy was feeling charitable, though he excused himself for most of the afternoon. Elizabeth eventually found him in the chapel with Grégoire, but did not disturb them. She waited instead until Darcy emerged. “Did you know he knew all along? Georgiana told him in June. June!” He shook his head. “Little bugger.”

“Darcy!”

“What? He is smaller than me.” His hapless smirk was too endearing for her to say anything against him, and he knew it.

*********************************

The next morning, the snow finally ceased and Derbyshire was incased in white powder. The guests had had necessary items brought from Kirkland, which was truly not that far away, and stayed the night, staying up much later than was good for them and resulting in some very late risings.

Geoffrey Darcy, who was sharing his room with Charles, was up first. He was always up first, to the annoyance of many people, but the servants were quite used to it and most paid little attention to him except for a polite smile. He was still not entirely awake when he was surprised to find someone else up. Georgie Bingley was staring out one of the windows of the great hall, wrapped in a blanket. It was hard to heat large spaces in winter, Father said.

“D’you know how early it is?” Geoffrey said, rubbing his eyes.

“Shut up!” Georgie commanded, not taking her eye off the window. “Do you want to see it or not?”

Geoffrey yawned and nodded. He had to wipe away the condensation on the glass to see out. White snow blanketed Pemberley, including the long stone porch. At the end of it, facing the forest, Mr. Mugen stood on one leg, the other braced against his knee like a bird, his left sandal abandoned. There he stood, arms braced together, quite still and silent for some time. Geoffrey doubted he could get into that position, much less stay in it for so long. Wearing only a scarf and his bizarre hat over his regular clothes, he must have been freezing.

“C’mon!”

“Georgie! You can’t be –” but apparently she was serious, because she tossed him a blanket, wrapping her own around herself as she opened the door and stepped outside cautiously.

“Mr. Mugen-san!” she called.

“Hai?” he said without moving an inch.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Ar-en you? Englishmen very weak.”

“We’re not!” Geoffrey said, and decided to race out in front of her, knowing his blanket and his shoes would be soaked in moments. Georgie followed quickly shutting the door behind them and they ran around Mugen’s side. “See?”

“Are you praying, Mr. Mugen-san?”

“Nani? Ah, no,” he said, lowering his hands from the prayer position. “Don know word. Thinking.”

“What were you thinking about?” Geoffrey asked.

“Nothing. Is point, Darcy-chan.”

Georgiana attempted to climb onto his unused sandal, which would put her above the snow. She quickly lost her balance but Mugen caught her before she could topple over, holding her above the snow, as he slid back into his other shoe. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, though she sounded a little rattled. Mugen did not set her down, but instead took her into his arms, even though she was seven and not many adults could do that.

“I put you down?”

“Okay.”

He set her down, without any trouble, beside Geoffrey, picked up his sword, which was lying in the snow, and put it back over his shoulders.

“Can I ask you a question, Mr. Mugen-san?”

“Not Meester,” he said. “Mugen-san, means same.”

“Mugen-san, have you killed a lot of people with your sword?”

Geoffrey was put off with the question, Mugen was not, and only shrugged. “I very bad at counting.”

“Is that why you went to prison?” Geoffrey asked. “My dad said you went to prison. That’s why you have tattoos.”

“Not why. I was – stole from ship, get arrested. Very stupid of me.”

“So it’s okay to kill people in Japan?”

Mugen shrugged. “People fight me, I kill them or they kill me. Is okay.”

“Anyone? Not, like, women and children?”

“No!” Mugen said. “Some women, okay.”

“Do women have swords in your country?” Georgie said, tugging at his pants.

“Some. Women can be very dangerous.”

Geoffrey huffed. “We don’t kill people in England, Mr. Mugen, unless they’ve done something really bad.”

“But you kill people in France,” Mugen countered. “Big war. No war in Japan.”

“That ... is true.”

“Ha ha!” Georgie said. “Mugen outsmarted you.”

“He did not!”

“Did too!”

“Good children,” Mugen said, patting them both on their heads. “Cold. We go in.”

“Mugen-san! Look!”

Georgie pointed in the direction of the field. The forest was not far away, and because it was so white they had not noticed the quiet approach of a white wolf, sniffing curiously, some distance away from them. They were not far from the door. Geoffrey was going to run when Mugen grabbed him by the shoulder very strongly. “You stay. She go for small thing first. Wait.”

“Mr. Mugen –”

“Not move,” he commanded. “I take care, you go for door. Understand?” He looked down at them. “Understand!”

They both nodded.

“Good children. I distract her. Then you go.” He released Geoffrey, herding them behind him as he drew his sword.

Neither of them dared to say a word.

“You not look. Understand? Just run for door.”

They nodded again.

He cautiously stepped out further on the terrace, approaching the wolf. “Go!” he whispered, and they ran.

The wolf did not attack Mugen, who continued to approach it, his stilt sandals keeping his feet out of the snow. Geoffrey and Georgie ran inside and closed the door behind them, but not all the way. Geoffrey wanted to run and tell someone but Georgie grabbed him.

“But he said not to look!”

“Do you want to see it or not?”

He did. They stood by the window as Mugen shouted at the wolf and pointed to the forest. It growled in response. He jumped up and down, trying to scare it off. It circled him. There was a silent look back and forth and Mugen looked over his shoulder and winked at them, only a moment before the white wolf launched herself at him. He leaned back and let the wolf bite down – on his sandal. Her teeth caught, he rolled back into the snow and flipped her over with him. The ensuing action was obscured by the spray of powder, but Mugen stood, covered in snow, and wiped his sword across his maroon shirt to clean it before putting it back in its case. He kicked some snow over the wolf, which lay motionless, and turned back to the house entering as if nothing happened and there was no reason why he was covered in snow and breathing heavily.

“Mugen-san, you’re bleeding!” Georgie cried out.

He looked down at his foot, the one the wolf had tried to bite off. There was a small mark there that was bleeding. “Huh. Caught me. Good opponent.” By now, some servant had passed through and was standing in horror at the spectacle of an armed Oriental facing him. “You have cloth for foot?”

*********************************

When the Darcys were woken (which was quickly) and the panicking finished (which was not as quickly done), the children were sent off with a minor scolding for going outside in the cold, and to be watched more carefully by their nurses. Meanwhile, the adults held conference as Dr. Maddox bound Mugen’s foot.

The huntsman for Pemberley was woken and called in. “No, Master Darcy, I’ve not seen a wolf come this close in all my years. But it’s been a long time since the woods have had so many, sir.”

“I know the weather isn’t particular suitable,” Darcy said, “but how many men can you get together for a hunt?”

“Uhm – on short notice, sir? Maybe four of five.”

“I go,” Mugen announced.

To Darcy’s surprise, Brian offered no retort.

“I will go,” Nadezhda said.

Again, all eyes turned to Brian, who shrugged. “She is an excellent huntsman.”

“She’s your wife!”

“I am aware of that, thank you,” he said rather haplessly, and turned to her. “Nady, do you want to go?”

“Ja, why not?”

Charles opened his mouth, but Jane beat him to it. “You know you can’t go.”

“Why do I have to miss everything?”

“Why do you have to whine like a child every time you can’t have what you want?” Caroline said.

“Oh G-d, now the two of you are ganging up on me!”

“Mr. Bingley,” Elizabeth said, “with all due respect, most of us have the sanity not to go hunt wolves in the winter and you will not be left behind.”

“Though they are ganging up on him,” Dr. Maddox said, which earned him a cold glare from his wife, and he just shrunk down in his seat.

“Danny, you are so –”

Daniel Maddox frowned at his brother. “Don’t say it. Don’t make it worse.”

Brian smiled and gave him an encouraging shot in the arm. “Well, I will be going. I’m no good with a rifle or a bow, but I have a duty to my wife, as she cannot go alone.”

“I go, I said,” Mugen repeated.

“Mr. Mugen,” Darcy said, “I am forever grateful for your actions today in regards to our children, so you may do whatever you please. However, you are wounded.”

Mugen held up his foot. “Scratch. Very small. Now, I go kill wolves.”

No one wanted to put up an argument with him. By afternoon, a small party was put together, consisting of Her Highness, Brian Maddox, Mugen, and a few huntsmen for Pemberley who looked very confused at the people joining their party.

“They’re all insane,” Darcy said as he watched them leave.

“I can hardly bring myself to contradict you,” Elizabeth said beside him.

The greatest task for those remaining was to keep the children upstairs, as every one of them old enough to be aware insisted on trying to watch for their return. Knowing Geoffrey and Georgie, they would probably succeed in sneaking out to do so if at least two sets of eyes were not kept directly on them.

They did not have to wait very long. The sun was retreating, but it was still quite light when the party returned. Darcy had requested that they not return with the hides in any kind of gruesome display. First came his master huntsman, who looked a bit stunned. “Her Highness is quite a shot. If that Chinaman hadn’t jumped into the lot of them, she would have the most kills.”

“So it was a success?”

The man slowly nodded.

Then came Brian and Nadezhda, looking a little tired. Nadezhda had her rifle slung over her shoulder and Brian had his two swords, but they were unharmed. Finally Mugen emerged, most of his clothing stained with blood, but also still standing. In fact he ran ahead of them. “Bath,” he said to the servant who was the least terrified about approaching him. “Now! Very hot.”

“Yes, sir, right away, sir.”

Mugen bowed to Darcy, and followed the servant.

Brian and Nadezhda entered and were immediately attended by a host of servants. Brian bowed to Darcy, who returned it. “It’s done. I think it’ll be a few years before Pemberley sees a wolf again, much less a pack of them.”

Stunned by Mugen’s appearance, Darcy struggled to maintain his composure as the master of the grounds. “Thank you. Is there some way to – pay Mr. Mugen?”

“He wants the white wolf’s hide. He says she’s still on the lawn.”

Darcy nodded, gave the command to his huntsman, and was very glad to retire to his quarters to rest and change for dinner. Glad that the job was done and not by him, he pushed it away in his mind. Aside from entertaining the children with some stories, the whole matter was set aside, and the holiday festivities continued as the Christmas decorations came down and the New Year’s ones put up. In the ensuing chaos, the whole event was largely forgotten, and Darcy never bothered to inquire about the hide, or even think of it again.

Chapter 32 - The Labors of Brother Grégoire

After the Maddoxes (and company) returned to Town and the other guests had gone, Elizabeth retreated into Pemberley to begin her confinement. “I admit it snuck up on me,” she said to Jane. “Did six months really pass?”

“Thank G-d they did,” was Jane’s reply, and Elizabeth could not help but agree.

Life began to return to normal at Pemberley. Urged by his wife, brother, and sister, Darcy immersed himself in the ledgers and the maintenance of his estate, which had been almost entirely left in the hands of his steward even since his return. Fortunately for everyone it did not seem to be a particularly harsh winter, and some travel was possible not just between Pemberley and Kirkland, but also as far as Lambton. Lord Kincaid, who thought their weather was a gentle breeze, came down to Lambton to call on Georgiana. Over time, Darcy’s manners were less distant to his future brother-in-law, it helped that his children adored the man who would be their uncle. William Kincaid was a man of perpetual good humor; he did have an amusing accent to the sheltered Darcy children, and anything that made Geoffrey and Anne happy was good enough for Darcy. Sarah was now crawling, which was a rather tiring delight, because Elizabeth was exhausted from chasing her and it was yet another thing for Darcy to focus on.

News continued from the Continent, and while Darcy paid little attention to it, the winter of 1813 was not a good one for Napoleon or his troops with a botched invasion of Russia. When some news did pass by his ears, Darcy could only feel relieved that his brother was home in Pemberley, safe from all of it.

Grégoire did not always join them for meals and spent most of his time in the library when the chapel was too cold; the stone was not a good protector against the winter climate. One day, Darcy inquired as to his brother’s whereabouts and Mrs. Reynolds said that Master Grégoire was taking his meals in the chapel for the time being.

“Is there some holiday I am unaware of?” Darcy said as he entered the chapel, a room no larger than his master bedroom, with three rows of wooden pews and an altar. Grégoire sat on the stone steps to the altar, drinking from a teacup.

“No,” Grégoire said quietly as he drained the last of the tea, and set it aside. “I am sitting in vigil with the saint.”

“Oh,” Darcy said, glancing at the reliquary beneath the altar. “What is a vigil?”

“It is a period of prayer and contemplation in honor of the saint.”

“Is it his day?”

“No. His feast day is in August,” Grégoire said, standing up. “I promised Count Olaf I would do this.”

“Who?”

“The count who helped us rescue you,” his brother replied, “in Austria.” He made no comment at Darcy’s blank look. “His daughter, Nicoleta, was with child when we left. She is due to deliver about this time. He asked that I pray for her and the health of the child. I could not help but accept after all he’d done for us.”

“Of course,” Darcy said, not recalling a Count Olaf, but not doubting for a moment that there had, at some point, been one. “That is it - prayer and ... contemplation? No fasting.”

“No, no fasting.” He added, “I will stay awake until it is over.”

“And how long is that?”

“Until it is over, Darcy,” Grégoire said, “not very long.”

“Because -”

“I will not harm myself, if that is what you are thinking.”

Darcy looked away in embarrassment, because he had been thinking it. “Of course. Well, I will not interrupt.” He put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, and Grégoire did not sway or look ill. In fact, he looked the healthiest Darcy had perhaps ever seen him. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

“And if you wouldn’t mind - terribly - putting in a prayer for Elizabeth?”

Grégoire smiled. “Of course.”

*********************************

While he did not consider himself duplicitous, Grégoire Darcy had become a master of knowing when to leave out important details. He had made a promise to Count Olaf that he would sit in vigil for his daughter’s health; because of the length of the vigil, he would not fast. Instead, he would stay awake.

It was harmless, but difficult or increasingly so. He ate little because food brought on sleep. He drank tea excessively, and began chewing on the leaves more often than drinking the actual drink. When he felt himself tire, he took off his sandals and walked across the cold floor barefoot, or took a walk outside, where the frigid air was enough, for the time being, to restore his senses. Eventually he conspired with the servant assigned to him - Thomas - to occasionally ring a bell when he seemed to be nodding off. “Thank you, Thomas,” he said politely, which never failed to surprise Thomas, who was unused to being thanked or addressed properly by his master.

On the third day, he quizzed Geoffrey on his vocabulary, reading him passages from the bible, the ones children would like. Geoffrey, now too large to sit in his lap, would constantly ask him questions that his mildly impaired mind could not always process.

“Why did the Izrealishes get lost in the desert?”

“Israelites, Geoffrey.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“Did I say Israelishes?”

“Now you said it a different way!”

He smiled, pushing up his reading spectacles so he could rub his eyes again. “I meant Israelites. Your uncle is very tired.” He tried to focus on the page. “They didn’t get lost. They were made to wander in the desert for forty years.”

“Why?”

“Because they built a golden calf.”

“Why?”

“Because a golden calf is an idol. The Egyptians worshiped them. This made G-d very angry. He did not want them to worship false idols.”

“How do you know if an idol is real or fake?”

“Because - I don’t know, Geoffrey,” he said, and his nephew looked up at him. “I do not know everything.”

“Are there still people in Egypt?”

“Yes. Napoleon invaded Egypt a few years ago.”

“Do they still worship calves?”

“No. I believe they worship - I forget his name. Mohammat. S-Something like that.” He took another swig from his jug of tea. It was cold, but he didn’t care. “That is enough for today; perhaps tomorrow, if I am not passed out.”

That night, Thomas presented him with a caged bird. “The damned thing won’t stop squawking,” he said. “It was meant to be a present to my younger sister for Christmas, but no one can stand the poor thing.”

“It does certainly provide a lot of noise,” Grégoire said, covering his ears and staring at the bird fluttering around in its wooden cage. “Thank you, Thomas. You are a lifesaver.”

On the fourth day, he attempted to have a rational theological conversation with Lord Kincaid, which was an utter failure because his mind could no longer maintain one path of thought, much less an argument, and before long they had ventured into why things were shaped like they were.

“No, Brother Grégoire, I have no idea why the sun isn’t square,” Kincaid said, laughing. “Are you sure you don’t need a quick rest?”

“I am sure I need one, however, I will not have one until my promise is fulfilled! And so, I have defeated you! There!”

“You’re right; the Pope is the true Vicar of Christ. What was John Knox thinking? If only he’d talked to an overtired monk, Scotland would surely never have fallen into heresy!”

“Overtired and hungry,” Grégoire corrected.

“Are you fasting as well?”

“No, but food makes me sleepy. It is better not to fill my stomach.” He chewed absently on a scone. “This is horrible. You Scotsmen know nothing about bread!”

“What would a Frenchman know about - Oh, I do suppose you have a point,” Kincaid said. “But my pride won’t let me admit it. I do rather like your wines.”

“I made them myself, you know.”

Kincaid chuckled, “All of them?”

“Yes! All of them!”

It was then that Georgiana interrupted them, thereby announcing her entrance, “William, what are you doing to my poor brother?”

“No worse than what he’s done to himself, I assure you,” Kincaid said, smiling at his betrothed.

Georgiana smiled and kissed Grégoire on his tonsure. “Do not let Darcy see you, or he will tie you down and force you to sleep.”

“’kay.”

On the fifth day, he decided to stop sitting down, as it had a tendency to lead to slumping over. He was also quite sure he was hearing things, because every time he asked, no one had heard anything, other than the endless chirping of that bird. Grégoire could no longer read, because his eyes could not focus, so he paced back and forth, reciting the psalms he knew from heart.

“G-d help me,” he pleaded, this time a very legitimate plea. “I fear I have made a promise I cannot keep.” He was drinking tea with more leaves, than water, in it, eating almost nothing, constantly on his feet, and yet at any moment, darkness seemed imminent. “Holy Father, I beg of you, please bring about a speedy conclusion to Nicoleta’s term so that I may sleep,” he said, blinking. “Precious, precious sleep.” He did not know the Latin for that.

“Somnus is sleep,” said his abbot.

“That I know!” Spinning around a little too fast, so much that he lost what little balance he had, he grabbed the edge of the pews to stay standing. “Father, forgive me I -” Again, he forgot what he was apologizing for. “I am seeing you. I mean, you are not here. Nonetheless, I think one should pay his respects.”

“Yes,” his abbot said, or the man who had been his abbot in Bavaria, where his monastery was no more. “Do you remember what I said to you?”

“You - the saint -” It was all blurring together. “You said the saint talked to you. He is here with us - you can speak again if you want!” He pointed to the reliquary. “I brought him back to England - was that the right thing to do?”

“That was not what he told me. It doesn’t mean it was wrong, but it did not enter into our conversation.”

“Holy Father, I hope I have not erred.” He knelt on the floor. He could feel the cold of it through his heavy robes. “I have tried to do as you said, Father.”

“I did not ask anything of you. I gave you a choice. I said there would be a choice,” said the abbot. “But not a moment where it is clear that it is so, at least, not now. What did Saint Sebaldus say?”

“He said - he said that it is in fire and under hammers that strong things are created,” he said miserably.

“Your path to greatness will be a terrible one,” the abbot said. “That is not an easy message for me to convey. But it is through suffering that you have the potential for spiritual perfection. People will lead you astray - within the Church and without. You are not expected to succeed.”

“That is ... depressing.” He was upset that he could not find a better answer for his abbot. He was sure his earlier one had been more appropriate.

“I believe it anyway,” the abbot said. “After all, without belief, we would truly have nothing.”

“Is that also what the saint said?”

“Ask him yourself.”

He sat down on the wooden pew. His feet simply hurt too much to keep standing. The bearded man beside him spoke in Latin, or Greek, or something that made sense and yet was foreign, “You requested a favor.”

“I - am to pray for the safe delivery of Nicoleta’s child,” he stammered.

“That has already happened. You know she was due a month ago, or you would have, had the count told you. After all, one cannot expect a letter to arrive in less than a month, even with a courier.”

“I - suppose.” He didn’t really have an answer to that. “So ... why am I doing this?”

“Why are you doing this, Brother Grégoire?”

He didn’t know how the answer came to him. “Because people need my help and I don’t know any other way to do it.”

Sebald met his eyes. “You know I was Saxon? English?”

“Yes. Yes, I know that, I must know that because my mind is making you up -”

“That is your wish - for a woman to safely deliver? For a womb to be opened? Like Sarah, who laughed when the angels came to tell her that her wish was granted, having waited a hundred years for that day to come.”

“Yes.”

There was something calm and peaceful in Sebald’s eyes, even though his features were foreign, his beard long. The saintly halo did much to lighten his eyes. Grégoire realized he was looking at that image of him painted on the plaster of the church walls at Nuremburg, an old one from centuries past. “This miracle I will perform and you will bury me. I wish to do my miracles from heaven now, not a box,” Sebald said, standing up. He put his arms on Grégoire’s shoulders. “You will know because her name will be the first your hear after your rest. Good night, Gregory.”

“But I can’t rest until -”

“Mr. Darcy?”

Grégoire opened his eyes. He hadn’t realized they were closed. The voice he heard was unfamiliar, and piercing in its reality. He rubbed his eyes and looked over his shoulder. “What?”

“Mr. Darcy?” the man said with his heavy Austrian accent, and looked at the label of the envelope he was holding again. “Mr. Grégoire Darcy?”

“Yes - that is me,” he said, his legs aching as he rose to greet the man in the overcoat.

“This is for you,” said the man in German, and passed Grégoire the envelope with the seal of some local nobility.

“Thank you,” Grégoire said, his eyes opening in excitement as he realized what it was. “Thank you so much.” He grabbed the man’s hand and shook it so harshly the man actually shook. “The uh - Mr. Thomas will pay you.”

The courier bowed, and saw his way out. Grégoire did not wait to tear open the envelope revealing the letter inside, which was French.

Dear Brother Grégoire of the Order of Saint Benedict,

As you have surmised, Nicoleta has delivered. It is a beautiful boy. We have named him Sebald, and wish you much luck and joy in your own earthly (and heavenly) endeavors. Count Olaf Cisnădioara of Sibiu.

He was laughing somewhat hysterically when Thomas entered. “Brother Grégoire, I -”

“It’s over. Thank you,” he said. He leaned over and kissed the reliquary. “And thank you. And thank G-d. Thank everyone!”

With that, he left the chapel returning to his quarters, not far away, where he laid down on the mattress. He was still clutching the letter when he fell asleep.

*********************************

He woke ravenously hungry the next morning, after sleeping some twenty hours. Still rubbing his eyes from sleep, he put on his sandals and headed straight for the dining room, where Darcy and Elizabeth were having a quiet breakfast.

“Grégoire,” Elizabeth said, rising to greet him. “We weren’t sure when you would wake. The apothecary told us to just let you keep sleeping.”

“Yes,” Darcy said as his brother sat down next to him. “Despite appearances, I was concerned for you. But now it seems, you are well and this time around, have done no permanent damage to yourself - except that you might possibly choke.”

“I feel fine,” Grégoire said between mouthfuls of the muffins he was stuffing into his mouth.

“We were just discussing the Fitzwilliams,” Elizabeth said. “Richard and Anne would like very much to visit us, now that Lady Catherine’s condition seems to have stabilized. They would like to be here for the wedding.”

“Of course,” Grégoire said. “Excuse me - did you say Richard and Anne Fitzwilliam?” Something struck him, like a person emerging from a haze that was really an idea.

“Yes,” Darcy said. “Do you know any other Fitzwilliams beside myself?”

“No,” Grégoire said, taking a mouthful of juice and swallowing soundly before answering, “I would love to see them.”

*********************************

The Fitzwilliam’s intention was to arrive early in February, since such a mild winter made the roads passable. They came later, however, by a few days. Elizabeth was now nearing her last week or two of pregnancy, or so they estimated, and they were relieved for the distraction from the usual anxiety surrounding a pregnancy.

“I’m so sorry we are late,” Fitzwilliam said as he shook Darcy’s hand. “You wouldn’t possibly have a doctor on hand, would you?”

“Dr. Maddox should be up later this week - do you need one now? I have our local doctor, and he is very good.”

“It is probably nothing,” Fitzwilliam said, but his voice didn’t sound like it was. “The road made Anne a bit ill. I’m sure she would do fine with rest -”

But Darcy would hear nothing of it. “The doctor will be called immediately.”

Lady Anne Fitzwilliam was helped out of the carriage, but insisted on walking up the steps to Pemberley’s doors herself, with her shawl wrapped tightly around her and her husband following very closely by her side. She did look a little pale. “I am fine. It is nothing to fuss over.”

But a few minutes later, she was upstairs, ill in her quarters. Elizabeth got out of bed, despite her sister’s protests, to greet her own guest. “I need to walk around, anyway.”

“I’ll get the doctor,” Darcy said, and excused himself from the company of Fitzwilliam and Grégoire to do so.

Fitzwilliam was about to go join his wife when Grégoire stopped him. “She’s been ill for about three weeks now, hasn’t she? Lost weight, loss of appetite? And now this?”

“Y-Yes,” Richard Fitzwilliam said, caught off-guard by Grégoire’s tone of certainty. “How did you know?”

“The doctor will confirm it,” Grégoire said, “but congratulations. Your wife is with child.”

*********************************

Grégoire insisted on digging the grave himself. In an unused corner of Pemberley’s graveyard, he broke into the ground that was now just beginning to soften and unfreeze. He was still doing the job when they brought forth the light wooden coffin. Geoffrey squirmed impatiently and everyone else (besides Elizabeth, who had to watch from a window) withheld their laughter at the site of Darcy, wearing a white frock over his clothing, swinging the golden incense-bearer that represented the host like an altar boy. His expression said perfectly, not smiling - it is not funny. “I’ll kill him for this,” he mumbled, so softly that only Bingley next to him heard it.

“Pass him to me,” Grégoire said from inside the grave pit as Fitzwilliam and the newly-arrived Dr. Maddox, assigned as pallbearers, brought forth the unadorned coffin but for a cross carved on the lid. With Grégoire’s help, it was set in the ground, and the four men (aside from Darcy, who was still stuck on host-bearing duty) quickly covered the relatively shallow grave made for the saint. The tombstone already prepared with a few days notice said, “Saint Sebald the Saxon.”

The funeral service was short and entirely in Latin. Too many tears had been shed in the past few days - tears of joy, at the confirmation of Anne’s state - for any to be spared now, as the old bones of Saint Sebald were laid to rest. In fact, it was almost a joyful service, even though no words to that affect were spoken, but even Grégoire was smiling as he finished the service and blessed the grave. “Amen.”

They stood there, momentarily out of wit for what to do, when a servant came running up to them. “Master Darcy - Mrs. Darcy has requested the mid-wife.”

For Mrs. Darcy’s fourth set of labor pains had begun.

Chapter 33 – Birth, Marriage, and the Grave

“This is always a fascinating experience,” Bingley explained to Lord Kincaid.

“I would not dare to call it fascinating,” Darcy said from the corner of his study.

Bingley, brandy already in hand, continued unabated, “Since Darcy is prohibited from overindulging in spirits for the sake of his health, we all sit around to comfort him by getting drunk ourselves while he grows increasingly angry and us increasingly insensible.”

“Yes, ‘tis all terrific fun,” Darcy sneered, pacing frantically in his little corner, “for the rest of you.”

The brandy and whiskey was passed around, and only Dr. Maddox restricted himself to a single glass that he nursed over time, as he might be called on if there was an emergency. As the hours passed, and Elizabeth’s cries increased, Lord Fitzwilliam looked increasingly pale and took more brandy.

“Buck up,” said a very smiley Bingley.

“He can say that because his wife is not currently known to be with child,” Darcy said. “If this were Jane’s confinement, he would be passed out on the desk by now.”

“That is true,” Dr. Maddox said.

“Hey!” Bingley said, and turned to Kincaid, who didn’t seem at all affected by the vast quantities of whiskey he was drinking. “You know, Miss Darcy was meant to be my wife. You should thank me that I did not care for her ... in that way.”

“What?”

“Careful, Charles,” Dr. Maddox said. “While being strangled by Darcy may be a suitable distraction from his wife’s travails, it will also be adverse to your health.”

Bingley turned around to face Darcy’s cold stare, which was more intense than usual.

“What’s all this business?” Kincaid repeated.

“Some past irrelevant nonsense,” Darcy said, and continued pacing. “Where is Mrs. Maddox? Is she with the children?”

“She is one of Elizabeth’s nursemaids, I believe,” Dr. Maddox said.

“Really? My sister?” Charles said before Darcy could say anything. “My sister?”

“There is only one Mrs. Ma – Well, now I suppose there are two. But yes, I do mean my wife.”

“I would assume, then, that all previous animosities have been forgotten,” Darcy ventured.

“A strange thing indeed, happenstance is,” Fitzwilliam said.

*********************************

Elizabeth’s labor was relatively brief. Each one had decreased in length, or so Darcy was wont to notice. It was barely midnight and only some of the guests had retired – Bingley and Fitzwilliam mainly, because otherwise they would have slumped into some chair and been sleeping anyway. Darcy was called upstairs, bowing politely to his sisters-in-law and the midwife as he entered the mistress’s chambers and sat down (as was now family custom) to receive his new child, so tiny and wrapped so heavily in cloth that he had to inquire its gender. He was so happy that he was not marred by drunkenness to experience this each time, to hold his new child, so small and perfect.

“A daughter,” Elizabeth said.

A daughter. Another little girl to lavish his attention and love on, to hold in his arms until she was too big to do so, to give her the best clothes and ribbons for her hair, and then to stress about her coming of age, and being out – another addition to his wonderful life. Even though it was night, there was no darkness in his world. “She is perfect.” It was as if she was made of light. She squirmed as if she found her new surroundings too strange, her tiny, pink fingers slowly flailing until he offered his pinky finger for her hand to rest on. “So perfect,” he laughed. He could not remember such joy. He was sure he had felt it for his other children, but that was all so distant, so marred by time that it was like a new experience, all wonderful all over again. “I am at a loss. What shall we name her?”

Elizabeth replied, “Nothing that starts with a ‘G.’”

*********************************

The Bennets arrived in good time, as there seemed to be an entire month of celebrations. The christening of Cassandra Darcy in Pemberley’s chapel was followed a week later by Georgiana Bingley’s eighth birthday, and then two weeks later by Geoffrey Darcy’s. According to tradition, Georgie spent the two weeks lording it over Geoffrey that she was “a year older than him.” The Bennets were housed at Pemberley and all of the Maddoxes (now including Brian and Nadezhda, and Mugen) at Kirkland.

On the last day of March, a beautiful spring day, Lord William Kincaid and Georgiana Darcy were united in marriage in the Parsonage church. The Kincaids (and other relatives) that arrived to see William married were not a kilted rabble that the Englishman generally imagined all Scots to be. In fact they looked very much the same, even if they spoke differently, to the point where some of their accents were almost incomprehensible to a southern Englishman like Mr. Bennet. “I’m afraid my hearing’s gone out, sir. What did you say?”

It was with no small emotion that Fitzwilliam Darcy gave away his sister. He managed through the ceremony in his usual manner of smoldering emotion hidden behind an expression of calm stiffness, but his eyes betrayed him to Elizabeth as he rejoined her. She slid her hand over his, squeezing it as the vows were said. He returned her gesture with a smile.

The former mistress of Pemberley from her father’s death to her brother’s wedding went out in style. The wedding brunch at Pemberley was unparalleled, mainly because not only had Darcy spared no expense, but he had also invited many tenants and workers whom had served Georgiana over the years, or to whom she had paid sick visits. Lord Kincaid was anything but a snob himself and welcomed all of the well-wishers in whatever form they appeared, and Derbyshire had its own party for Lady Kincaid.

There was one last family member that the blushing bride wished to say her good-byes to before departing for the north. Lord and Lady Kincaid paid their respects to her parents – to the father she remembered fondly but vaguely and the mother she knew only from her portrait. Darcy and Grégoire caught up with them, and they stood silently in front of the grave, mainly because no one could think of quite what to say of or to George Wickham. Kincaid knew him not at all; Grégoire, barely. To Darcy and Georgiana he had been a maelstrom, but he had been their brother, however unwittingly.

“One of the last things he said was that he loved me,” she said, “as a person, as a sister. That he should have acted like a Darcy and been a good brother.”

“If he had known, maybe that would have happened,” Darcy said, not unkindly. He turned to see his sister leaning on her husband. Darcy was no longer her main support – William Kincaid was. That was what the giving away someone meant, he supposed. The way the earl held her, Darcy thought it might not be such a bad thing.

*********************************

The wedding preparations had been Elizabeth’s first major venture from bed in the few weeks since Cassandra’s birth. Two babies in little more than a year, taking over Rosings, a rushed trip to rescue her husband, caring for him, watching him descend into darkness and emerge only with her insistence and Dr. Maddox’s help had finally caught up with her. She was not ill so much as exhausted, and after the wedding, slowed back down for the next month, for what sleep was afforded to a mother with a newborn who insisted upon nursing her herself. Sarah, fortunately, had been weaned. Elizabeth was still Elizabeth, however, and not content to sit inside. She sat out on the terrace, watching her children play with her nieces and nephews, often with Jane by her side. Grégoire, for the moment resolved to the fact that he was stuck in England for as long as the war continued, worked in the garden, and Darcy plunged himself into estate matters. He still had moments where he seemed lost, or where he needed a cup of that special tea to find sleep, but his heart seemed to warm with the sun.

Jane Bingley and her children were often at Pemberley for meals, as Charles was back and forth to Town, where he had taken Brian Maddox on as a partner in exchange for his stock. No one but the two of them (and maybe Nadezhda) knew the actual numbers, but the Chinese silk Brian returned with was worth no small fortune, and as long as the embargo lasted, retail prices continued to soar. After hiring some slightly more reputable workers, the business was back in high profits, with plans to have a ship sail to Nagasaki within the next two years. Brian and Nadezhda comfortably selected a country house but ten miles from Town, and got a very good price because it was relatively small and one section was in complete disrepair. This they had immediately torn down and began to rebuild in a fashion to their specifications, and would spend years perfecting the Japanese wing of their home. They also had wide grounds, which they kept empty and wild, and lived in some isolation. The local market did quickly become accustomed to the Oriental in a basket of a hat running in for supplies. Mugen would leave in the fall, or late summer – whenever the Dutch ship sailed again for the east.

The Bennets, who so rarely traveled, remained at Pemberley for two months, happily overlapping Elizabeth’s convalescence. Even though Mrs. Bennet’s nerves could wear on anyone, they were now directed at the children, who laughed at their grandmother and took no offense. Kitty Townsend was now two months with child, and Mr. Townsend was a polite companion who enjoyed fishing and talking business with Bingley and Mr. Maddox, as he had made his own fortune in trade. Mary Bennet conversed with Grégoire (which Mr. Bennet was more than happy about, as it was a load off his ears), and Joseph Bennet was beginning to learn his letters, even if he only knew a few of them. He had black hair and a slightly darker complexion than most of his relatives, but nothing as bizarre as some of their other guests of late. Joseph Bennet was used to the company only of George Wickham, four significant years his senior, and enjoyed Charles and Geoffrey. The company was not decidedly divided by gender yet, as Georgie and Eliza Bingley were still in the mix and apparently delighted their mother in their disputes, and Anne followed her brother Geoffrey around like candy was attached to his back. Only Frederick and Emily were missing, as their father had returned to work and therefore they remained largely in Town.

When the Bennets departed in May, Brian and Nadezhda came up to Kirkland. Their relationship was still awkward with Darcy. Dr. Maddox had always been close to his brother despite their understandably rocky relationship, and was quick to be understanding about the steps Brian had taken to secure the safety of himself and his wife. Darcy, more removed and with less invested in the physical person of Brian Maddox, was still uneasy, no matter how Brian apologized or how much Elizabeth badgered her husband. That bridge remained unmended, though he was not uncivil to his guest when the Maddoxes did dine at Pemberley.

Princess Nadezhda Maddox was universally loved by the children and the adults. She was kind, resourceful, and wise in many ways. That Brian was utterly devoted to her was something that even