Chapter 1 – The Miracle Worker

“Brother Gregory,” said Prior Pullo, “the abbot requests your presence.”

Grégoire hadn’t even seen Prior Pullo’s approach. He had been consumed by his gardening, and his wide straw sun hat blocked most of his vision of the world above the soil. “I am at the abbot’s disposal,” he said, pushing himself to his feet and setting his tools aside. The patch was coming along nicely despite the heat; the fauna seemed to have more of a resistance to the Spanish summer than he did.

Grégoire Bellamont-Darcy had taken the cowl now eight years as a Benedictine, the last four spent in the ancient monastery on the hilltop in Vila de Bares on the Iberian coast. He thought he would be more adrift in foreign soil, but a born Frenchman who had lived in England and Bavaria knew how to make himself at home. At home was the Rule, and the daily rhythms of the monastic life that had been in place for centuries. Some came to run from the world, but he came to give his life to G-d. That his accent was different, that he was used to colder climates, or even his heritage as the bastard mix of an English gentleman and his French maid could not stand between Grégoire and the familiarities of the contemplative life.

He went happily to the abbot, a kindly old monk whom had been appointed from Rome and would sit on his seat until his death or reassignment. Beneath him was Prior Pullo, who did not have the same smile for Grégoire that the others had, despite what he owed him. Grégoire had been offered the position as brother prior the year before, and turned it down. He was not a political animal, and he had the sense to see that path for what it was and avoid it.

It was a long walk up the steep hill to the abbey gates, where he deposited his laughably wide hat and followed the brother prior, taking on a more serious air. Behind the door he sought was a man of great stature and spiritual insight, and he wanted to look at least like he had not had his robes trailing in the soil. It was not to be. The abbot would take no note of such material concerns, no? How foolish of him to think otherwise.

Grégoire was still chastising himself as he entered. The abbot’s office was not particularly grand, but the 12th-century fresco of saints never failed to astound him in their medieval beauty. “Father Abbot.”

“Brother Grégoire,” he replied, nodding for the brother to take a seat. The abbot had a busy schedule and this was not confessional, so he was politely to the point. “There is a rumor on the wind.”

“I am not much for rumors, Father. You must enlighten me.”

The abbot smiled in a sad sort of way. “It is concerning your conduct with the Valencia house visit.”

“I am at a loss, Father.” His mind was truly blank. “Is Pablo all right? Has something happened?”

“No, the child is doing quite well, or so I am told.”

“Blessed the L-rd,” Grégoire said, and crossed himself. This left him to guess, and he did not like to guess. “If this is about the christening, the father was so very insistent that his son would relapse and be damned – “but the abbot raised his hand. This was not the problem.

“You were authorized to perform that christening, and it was overdue.” From the very day he was born, Pablo was too ill to christen. The priest would not go near him. It was only during Grégoire’s third visit that the child recovered enough for the ceremony, and Grégoire was honored to perform it that very night, so late it was almost morning, and save the child from the fires of hell. “The question on some people’s mind is how the child was restored so quickly to health.”

Still helpless in finding an understanding of his situation, Grégoire said, “On the first visit I bathed the child with soap, which had not been done before. He was still very yellow, so I put him in the sun for several hours, as I heard that the sun’s rays have restorative effects on a child. On the second visit, he was less so, but he still had the blotches, and I happened to inquire as to where his blanket was made. His mother said it had been made for her previous child, a girl whom had died within a few days of her birth. I thought it best that they discard the blanket, and they agreed. I bathed him again, and the next day, he was restored.”

“So I have heard.”

“Is ... there something wrong with that, Father?”

“Please close the door, Brother Grégoire.”

Increasingly uneasy, Grégoire did so, and returned to his seat.

The abbot sat up. “There are people who are calling the child’s recovery a miracle. I am seeking the source of these rumors.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of them,” he said. “Yes, it was a wondrous act of G-d to return the infant to health, but on our own earth, I believe it was merely a matter of a diseased blanket that was giving the newborn a rash or two. I would not call it a miracle, Father.”

“Neither would I, though the Good L-rd’s help is needed in every act, even the most simple.” The abbot rubbed his chin. “However, this is not the first case of a quick recover under your care.”

Grégoire swallowed. “Father, I cannot apologize for something that I was sent to do. Nor do I understand why I must.”

“You are wiser in the ways of G-d than in the ways of the world. While this is generally beneficial, I do not think it aids you here,” the abbot said. “Grégoire, the people are willing to believe in miracles – but the word is a precarious one when constantly mentioned concerning one person.”

“Father, I did not mean – “

“I know very well what you meant and what you didn’t. However, the people may not see it with the same eyes. I wish to protect you from what you will bring upon yourself – or at least make you aware of it. The choice is before you then – to continue your visits with the potential of gaining a reputation, for good or ill.”

He had no hesitation. “With all due respect, Father, if I am the most qualified to work with the ill and infirmed, then it would be most beneficial for everyone for me to do so.”

“And you are willing to face the consequences?”

“There cannot be bad consequences for doing good work.”

The abbot smiled. “You are forgetting, then, the story of our L-rd and Savior.”

Grégoire colored, humbly lowering his head. “Forgive me. I do not presume to imagine myself in such a position – “

“Of course not. I will give you time to contemplate your decision. Do not presume lions to be lambs before you throw yourself to them.”

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Walking always settled Grégoire’s mind, and unsettled it was. As simply-spoken as the abbot had been, the subtlety had not been missed. To be a good monk was one thing. To be a miracle worker was another. “L-rd in Heaven,” he said, “let me not stray the people towards blasphemy.”

After Vespers, the air began to cool, but it was not dark yet, and would not be so for a few hours. He set out immediately after supper. He liked the abbey grounds very much, some sown fields and some untouched wilderness. There was a point, not far away, that one could see the coast, and smell the salt in the air.

Little houses populated the area near the cliffs. They had lived there for generations, perhaps believing the air to be beneficial, and they worked the abbey lands beyond what the monks themselves could manage for a good wage, often in kind. He knew almost every home, or at least the families living within them. It was quite impossible not to.

“Brother Gregory!” someone called out and he turned to see the approach of Señor Diaz, a carpenter responsible for most of the new wooden construction in the abbey. He spoke nothing but Spanish, like most of the people in the area. “What are you doing, out so late?”

“There is light yet,” he said, bowing. “Señor Diaz. How are you?”

“I am well, thank G-d.”

“And your wife? Your daughters?” For Diaz had three.

“They are all well.” He slapped him on the shoulder, and Grégoire was very good at hiding the wince in pain. “Brother, will you carry a message to the abbot? I will tell you first that it is not good news.”

“The abbot is an understanding man,” he said. “What is the matter?”

“I am supposed to build the new seats for the chapel, the ones that were eaten by mites last winter, but I do not know how I can do it. The price of the kind of wood that the abbey requires is so high – “

“I am sure the abbey will reimburse you for the expense, Señor.”

“It is not just that. I will have to travel all the way to Oviedo for the wood, and I do not have the time or the money. You know the storm we had at the beginning of the spring? The very beginning? Right before the days of rain?”

“Yes.”

He seemed to be pleading with him. “They destroyed so many houses – I am so busy rebuilding them.”

“Business is good for you, then. I am sure the pews can wait. It is only a few that were damaged. Helping the people is more important.”

“Yes, but the people have no money to pay me, and I cannot work for free. I am the only carpenter here – I am exhausted. I do not know what I am going to do.”

“Oh,” Grégoire said. “You say the families are in financial distress?”

“Yes – not for food but for stable roofs. Just yesterday, Señora Alvarado’s kitchen roof caved in. She was fortunate to be in the other room, or she might have been killed.”

“Why did you not inform the abbot? It is not fair for good people to sit without shelter while we live in a castle.”

Diaz looked relieved. “I am glad you see it that way, but the abbey already feeds us – we cannot ask for more. I am sorry, but we have our pride.”

Grégoire nodded. “I see.” He put a hand gently on Diaz’s shoulder. “Perhaps good luck will blow your way with the winds from the sea. Trust in G-d, Señor. I assure you that you need not worry about the pews or acquiring the wood.”

“Thank you, Brother Grégoire.”

He bowed. “I have done little to earn your thanks. But, now, I must return for Compline. Go with G-d, Señor Diaz.”

“Go with G-d, Brother Gregory.”

He smiled and was on his way. Already the plan was forming in his mind, distracting him from the earlier conversation with the abbot. The families on the coast were in financial distress but if the abbey gave them the money to rebuild, their pride would be injured. (And Grégoire knew enough about pride from his brother)

But then there was his ten thousand pounds, most of which lay at his disposal for the year. The English pound was strong, and only a tiny fraction would cover all of their expenses in rebuilding their homes. The abbey did not know about it; Darcy had advised him to do so in Bavaria and again before he left for Spain and he had seen the wisdom in that. Besides, Benedictines, unlike his previous order, were not averse to dealing with wealth. The only matter was to contact his banker in Madrid and figure out a way to distribute the money anonymously, but by the time he returned to the abbey, he already had some ideas of how to go about that.

Considerably more settled, he sung along with his brothers at Compline and was dismissed. It was eight, and in seven hours he would be woken for morning prayers and another day. He was hot and tired from the day’s work and the walk, and in the privacy of his cell, he removed his cowl and robe, and then painfully removed the vest beneath it. He cleaned away the blood, caked in some areas and wet in others, and gave himself the treat of rubbing a lotion over his chest, where the damage from the cilicium was most severe, his back too scarred from previous injuries to be much affected. After the soothing balm set in, he found an easy sleep, at peace with the world around him.

* cilicium is a hairshirt, worn by religious Catholics as an act of penance. The most famous wearer of the hairshirt is perhaps the English saint, Thomas Becket.

Chapter 2 – Bride and Prejudice

“You see,” Mahmud said as his servant fired the rifle, which only emitted a large sound but no bullet, only smoke from the powder exploding. “I cannot make it work. This it does, every time. I am afraid to do it myself. Nizam has burned his hands several times.”

Mahmud Ali Khan’s English was very good, and by now they were used to the local accent. His trade with the East India Company in Calcutta was in dye, but he was in talks about opening a cotton plant, which the Company promised astronomical returns for, but he said he was hesitant to introduce a new crop to his extensive lands. Somehow he had obtained a Baker’s rifle from the local Sepoy Battalion, and was utterly fascinated by it.

“It’s the cartridge,” Charles Bingley said without hesitation. “Let me show you – when it cools down.”

Tea was brought for them, and the three of them – the Mughal lord, the fair-haired tradesman, and the Englishman dressed in Japanese clothing – sat beneath a red umbrella. They overlooked their host’s gardens, all neatly arranged into rows of plants neither Bingley nor Brian Maddox could recognize, but seemed more colorful than anything they had in England. Beyond them, not far north but out of their direct sight lay the Ganges. They were trying to purchase tickets for a boat to Agra. Bingley was desperate to see the Taj Mahal, having heard its virtues extolled many times before leaving England. Brian found himself in the more hesitant position when exploring the Indian mainland. All of their stops so far – Bombay, Madras, and Calcutta – had been coastal and sufficiently English. Thoroughly obviously an Orientalist himself, Brian had to weigh his own interest against the fact that he had promised to deliver Bingley safely home, and Brian was not keen on committing seppuku because his cousin had drowned in the sacred river, or had his head bitten off by a tiger (no matter how tame the wrangler said it was), or simply knifed by an insulted shopkeeper because he mispronounced something in Hindustani and insulted the shopkeeper’s daughter. The first threat had been on the boat itself, when Bingley burned himself quite badly in one afternoon, his fair hair and skin doing nothing for him, and spent the rest of the trip wearing one of Brian’s bowl-shaped gasa hats, at the expense of Bingley’s dignity before the crew.

Mr. Bingley had done his best to prepare. Once he had secured his wife’s approval for the trip – which was done at a cost he refused to mention – he went to Bath, where the legendary ex-Sepoy Indian Dean Mahomet had a bathhouse, and spent many hours attempting to pronounce languages he had only read in books and never heard spoken. He also hired a drawing instructor. His penmanship was hopeless, but to everyone’s surprise, he was quite talented with a charcoal pencil when using his left hand, mainly because there was no ink involved. He was most duteous about sketching all that he saw, as he assumed that life would never bring him round these parts around.

Mr. Maddox, who had already ridden their company’s boat once to the Orient with his wife a year prior, focused more on planning the route. They would be gone easily eight months, and the only possible communications would be from the Cape or Bombay back to England. He had never left his wife that long in their entire marriage, but she reassured him that keeping Bingley from getting himself killed was more important, and she would be fine. She was a samurai’s wife, so he had no doubt of it.

So far the trip had gone without any life-threatening incidents that had succeeded in taking either of their lives. That was why Brian let them accept the invitation from Mahmud Ali Khan to visit his palace beyond the boundaries of British Calcutta.

Now they sat on pillows as the gun cooled before Bingley, who was familiar enough with guns from his love of the sport end of it, picked it up and demonstrated how to load the powder and the cartridge, just as the servant had done. “Now the key is to make sure the cartridge is all the way in. Sometimes you have to do this –” He set the gun down, took the ramrod in both hands, and shoved it hard into the barrel, “– to get in there.” He removed the ramrod, brought the rifle to his right shoulder, and fired high in to the sky.

“Perfect!” Mahmud clapped with delight. He stood up and clasped his hands together. “I am grateful to you, Mr. Bingali.”

“It’s no trouble,” Bingley said, handing the rifle back to him.

“No, let me invite you to my daughter’s wedding tonight. Surely you will come?”

Bingley cast a glance at Brian, sitting with one of his swords resting on his right shoulder. Brian only nodded in approval.

With his patented smile, Bingley said, “We’d love to come.”

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The male crowd that gathered for the wedding of Khan’s second daughter (out of eight) was largely Muslim mughals, the earliest arrivals coming in time for evening prayer. The rest were a spattering of peoples – Afghans, Hindu Brahmins, a few British officers from the nearest base and higher-ranked local Bengal troops. The spoken language was Persian, with a surprising amount of English, and of course Hindustani, Punjabi, and some scattered Arabic, or at least what Bingley was fairly sure was Arabic.

They both had never seen such a display of Oriental pageantry, and they had seen quite a few in the last month. The houses and pavilions were adorned with green branches and bright orange flowers in an elaborate fashion. They passed rows of musicians, and lowered seats, and had been instructed not to speak to the people on the lowered seats beneath them. “Lower class” was a term taken quite literally in India.

The bridegroom was carried in on a palanquin, followed by a train of servants with lit torches, leading him from the house on one end that was his to the place where the bride sat, whom he had never met. Brian had to be careful not to lose Bingley in the crowd of overexcited people thronging to the raised semiana for the ceremony, though it was not terribly hard to keep track a person with red hair in this particular crowd.

The music ceased as the Mulna, the priest, entered and read the ceremony rites, and rings were exchanged, and the couple joined by tying the end of their shawls together. A glass of sugar water was passed to the bride and groom, and then around to the immediate audience of personal friends and family.

“Whatever you do,” Brian said, “don’t draw this,” he said as the dancers entered, in embroidered silks and muslins. In some ways their dress was flowing and modest, not like a tight bodice, but the way they moved did all of the work for them.

“Oh, I promise,” Bingley whispered back as they clasped their palms together and bowed to the passing Mulna as he sprinkled perfumed water on both of them.

As the bride and groom were ushered away, the festivities truly began, complete with fireworks that put to shame any of the Regent’s proud displays in Town. There was a man who seemed to swallow fire, but did not understand Bingley when he asked how he did it, the language barrier being too much or the entertainer not accustomed to being questioned.

The British were officers who had come because they were paid and maybe would make a fortune. One of them was rather old and retired and worked as a translator. He claimed to have served under General Wellington in his early days as a colonel, when the now-Duke led the outnumbered British forces to storm the fortress of Gawilghur during the Maratha War.

“He could inspire us to do anything,” said Mr. Kingston. “Even get ourselves killed. By G-d, he could do it with a single speech. Say, whatever became of that man?”

Brian and Bingley shared a laugh as another guest showed them the proper way to smoke a hookah, not like “you bloody foreigners” – to hold the pipe just right, to not exhale until the precise moment. They watched the man in a turban bigger than the size of his head puff rings through rings and were entranced. The mild feeling of tobacco was the only altering thing there, since their host was religious and did not serve spirits. Instead there were trays and trays of sweet cakes, bananas, fruits, and bread with honey.

“I would still give anything for a good plate of ribs,” Brian said in Japanese. Bingley understood it adequately thanks to three months education on the boat, and they used it when they wanted to talk privately.

“I thought you were an Oriental,” Bingley said. Brian had not brought a single piece of English clothing in his trunks; he said it was a waste of space.

“An Oriental who would go for a good cow right now,” he replied. “But don’t translate this to this guy,” he said as a man in Hindu dress sat down. He had a bright red Turban and a red dot on his head. He spoke only Hindi.

“The eye that spies,” Bingley translated for Brian. “I ... think.”

“You mean all-seeing.”

“Maybe I do,” Bingley said, then returned to his conversation with Shalok. “What? Yes, I have daughters – well, one of them does, the other is blond – No, I will not sell the red-haired one! What, 5000 rupees? No sale. Understand? No sale! Not selling!”

What Brian understood made him fall over sideways with laughter.

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

“When did I become the responsible one?” Brian said as they finally made it back to their guest house now well into the morning, when the muezzins were already making their calls for prayer. Prayer is better than sleep! G-d is Great!

“After that, my wedding seems like it must have been positively dull for the guests,” a sleepy-eyed but still hyperactive Bingley said. He had eaten more sugar that night than perhaps his entire life, so he was still wired. As they entered, he washed his face in the washbasin, scrapping off the red body paint on his forehead. “It was fine for me – I honestly don’t remember a thing.”

“I remember not understanding anything,” Brian said, removing his swords and carefully setting them on the cushions. “It was all in Russian, I think. Orthodox ceremony. And I thought, ‘What I would give, to have Danny see me here, wearing a crown and marrying a princess.’”

Bingley lay down on his own bed. He was wearing a silk, orange kurta that he used for both sleep and activity, something he found very convenient. “Darcy was at my wedding, but I don’t think he was particularly paying attention to me.” He sighed in exhaustion. “Maybe we should do something with flowers and fire-eaters for my daughters instead of a vicar going on and on about marriage and sin.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Bingley will take well to that.” Brian disappeared behind his screen, so that they were fairly visible to each other, but only if they really looked, and removed his hakama, letting his robe fall down. “And where are you going to get all those tiny flowers?”

“I suppose we’ll have to start growing them when we get back. In ten years, they might be ready.”

“Ten years?”

“Something tells me Georgie isn’t going to be begging me to go Out, much less be eager to marry. Eliza, I don’t know, but she’s only ten, thank goodness.” He paused. “May I ask you a personal question?”

“You may.”

“How old is Her Highness?”

“Four and twenty.”

Bingley put a hand on his head. It was too early in the morning to be doing these calculations. “So when you were married she was –”

“– young, yes. Certainly not anything objectionable, but I am nearly two decades her senior.” He sighed. “I’ve never been good at planning. In fact, I think my entire life has been one happenstance after another.”

“Turned out fairly well anyway.”

“Still. It would not have been the safest bet. But then again, I was never any good at betting, which is what got me in trouble in the first place.”

Bingley laughed. “You should become a Mohammedian, then. They forbid gambling so you won’t be tempted.”

“And spirits. No, I would not survive long without a good shot of whiskey, or maybe gin, or beer. The point is - I won’t be sitting at the dinner table, drinking milk or something. Like a child.”

“I like milk.”

“My point exactly.”

Bingley threw one of his sashes at Brian, but it didn’t make it over the screen.

Chapter 3 – To the Ends of the Earth

While Elizabeth Darcy privately held the opinion that of course her son had been the most beautiful male baby in the world, she said otherwise as the newborn flailed his tiny limbs around. “He is perhaps the most adorable boy I’ve ever seen.” It wasn’t a complete lie – Viscount Robert Kincaid was indeed a little treasure, still rather pink and often refusing to open his eyes. His hair – what little of it there was – was brown, like his father’s.

Lady Georgiana Kincaid (nee Darcy) beamed with motherly pride, as only could be expected, and well-deserved after the nerve-wracking and life-threatening experience that was labor. Despite everyone’s fears, all went well, and the baby Kincaid came into the world after just six hours of labor. Within only four days Georgiana was well enough to stand at the christening, with her brother and sister as godparents.

The Darcys had arrived in the last weeks of Georgiana’s confinement, children and all. The castle and mansion was not how Elizabeth remembered it – it had been renovated to be more livable and lively, but you could only make a castle so modern. Lord Kincaid was in fine form, in so much as he was good at hiding his nerves, which were mainly expressed fencing with Darcy and Geoffrey, who had recently been allowed to take up the sport and seemed to relish it with his father’s old enthusiasm. Between Darcy having to fight on his weak side and Geoffrey’s age and experience, Kincaid easily bested them both, but was good enough to make it not seem as so. Darcy was not so determined to see his son a fighter as much as to see the future master of Pemberley engage in all forms of masculine activity, and not be overwhelmed by the influence of having three younger sisters. Fitzwilliam Darcy loved all of his children as much as a father possibly could, but there were moments when they were all in a room together that he felt he could sympathize with Mr. Bennet. And his daughters weren’t even near being in their teens yet. He didn’t wish imagine it.

Darcy had worried obsessively about Georgiana’s state during her entire pregnancy. He had been relieved that she was not with child for the first few years of her marriage, and the earl did not seem to mind in the least. When the day did come, she was now five and twenty, and it was obvious she was ready. Still, he had to steel himself with a full glass of whiskey. Their mother had died giving birth to her. He had little memory of the labor – it was a woman’s thing – and was thoroughly confused by this small thing that was supposed to be his sister, though where in the world she came from, the young Master Fitzwilliam could not tell and no one enlightened him. But when his mother took ill the next day, he noticed it. He would have stayed with her, but they kept him well out of the room. He only saw her twice before her death two days later. He had lost his mother and was left with this tiny thing that made noises but did not seem like it would ever be a person. It did not seem like a fair trade. Only his father could assure him that some good had come of it, and as Georgiana grew into his darling sister, he believed him.

But Georgiana did survive, and by all appearances remained in good health as he held his new nephew in his arms. William Kincaid stayed with Georgiana as soon as he was allowed back in the room, even while she slept and he sat awake. It was a happy time for all of them. There was only one person missing.

“Mr. Darcy,” Lord Kincaid said to him on the third day, “I’ve asked for a painter to come and make a small portraiture of Georgiana and Robert for her brother. Do you think he would take it?”

“I think he would love it,” he said. “I will send it with my next correspondence, as soon as you say it is prepared. Did you tell Georgiana?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m sure she will be glad to hear it.”

Grégoire was missed, but he was happy in Spain by all accounts and very busy there, working with the community. If he could arrange it he would escape the hot Spanish summer to England, but it didn’t happen every year. Surely, this year he would get permission with the birth of a nephew.

The Darcys stayed for the christening and the next few weeks. Georgiana would not be traveling for some time and was reluctant to have them leave. Elizabeth found herself unaccustomed to being without her sister, especially with Mr. Bingley abroad, but Jane was in London with her children, and the Hursts stayed with her, and of course the Maddoxes were in Town until the Prince left for Brighton. The Bingleys (sans Mr. Bingley) would be traveling to Longbourn for the summer as soon as Georgiana Bingley returned. For whatever reason, Jane had been cajoled into allowing her daughter to accompany Princess Maddox to Ireland for a brief tour of the coast. The Princess had never been without her husband and Georgie without her father, so they stuck together while Mr. Bingley and Mr. Maddox made the business trip to Japan (with a stop in India). Their last correspondence had been from a post office in Johannesburg, to say their ship had rounded Africa’s coast safely. Beyond that, correspondence would be unlikely, as it would move no faster than they would.

The adults adjusted to the scattering of the family with the knowledge that it was brief, but the children complained bitterly, so accustomed to one another. Geoffrey was not eager to go to Scotland – he had already lost Georgie and now he would not have Charles, only three younger sisters. Lord Kincaid, whom he had always liked, filled that void to some extent, though Geoffrey remained frustrated that the man he had to spar with was so much taller than him.

“One day, son, you’ll grow as tall as your father and you’ll be ducking under doorways and bumping your head,” his uncle said. “So don’t go complain’ now. You’ll hit it soon enough.”

Geoffrey scowled, but his uncle was right. Geoffrey was twelve. His voice had already dropped an octave (even if it didn’t stay there all the time) and he had cramps in his legs. He could pick up any one of his sisters, even Anne. But he still couldn’t look up at his father and think this is what I’m going to be someday. Or, he couldn’t believe it when it did strike him.

And then, of course, the question; he knew it was awkward, but he didn’t know why. He could just sense it as he held his cousin Robert. “So babies come from stomachs?”

His father’s immediate response was stony silence, which was what his father did when he was uncomfortable. His mother’s response was to laugh and lean into his father. “Essentially,” his father finally said, staring out the window instead of at him. And that was it. That was all he was going to get. Geoffrey looked back down at Robert. If Uncle Bingley was here, he would tell him. Uncle Bingley couldn’t keep a secret. When he returned, Geoffrey would ask him.

“What did he say?” Anne asked him immediately when he left the room.

“Nothing.”

“He’s Papa; what do you expect?”

And so that mystery went unsolved. At least until Uncle Bingley came home.

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“It is a boy,” Jane announced to her audience of the Hursts and the Maddoxes. The post came after luncheon, but she held it for dinner. “Robert Kincaid.”

“Viscount Robert Kincaid,” Louisa said.

“Perhaps we should give him a few years before he is required to be titled,” Dr. Maddox said.

“And at least five before he must attend a ball,” said Mr. Hurst, raising his glass of whiskey in a gesture for the newborn.

“Does he favor his mother or his father in appearance?” Caroline asked.

“Lizzy says – he has Lord Kincaid’s hair and Georgiana’s eyes.”

“Is he a lively child?”

“I don’t seem to recall any newborns being interested in anything other than eating and sleeping,” Dr. Maddox said to his wife.

“I believe she is asking if he is a screamer,” Louisa said.

“She doesn’t say,” was all Jane offered. Even if he was, Lizzy would not write it to be read publicly.

“What you don’t want,” Caroline said, “is twin screamers.”

“Oh goodness,” Dr. Maddox said. “Yes. G-d, yes.”

“Unhappy memories, Dr. Maddox?” Mr. Hurst said with a smile.

“I remember leaving for work in the evening with both of them screaming, and then returning in the morning to the same state.”

“But you weren’t there for the evening!” Caroline said indignantly. “You had somewhere else to be!”

“Oh hush, Caroline,” Louisa said. “Whenever you complained about Charles, Mama would remind you that you were the loudest of all of us as an infant.”

Caroline Maddox stared down her sister as her husband covered his mouth with his napkin to prevent her seeing his expression. “I don’t recall any such nonsense.”

“You were four – how would you? But I remember it.”

Mr. Hurst burst out laughing, which was a godsend for the rest of the room to have an excuse to do the same as Caroline silently fumed and would not, even after much prodding, own to it.

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“It’s so hot out,” Georgiana Bingley said, looking up at the sky. “Why is the water so cold?”

Princess Nadezhda Maddox shook her head. “The ocean is always cold. Don’t be a baby.” She had already waded in ahead of her niece, holding up her kimono to her knees so her bare feet could soak in the salt water. “What would your father say?”

“That it’s not proper for a girl to play in the ocean without a proper bathing costume?”

“Well, good that he’s in the Orient, then, and not here to say that,” Nadezhda said. Her English was very good, marred only by her Romanian accent. “Now come in. You get used to it.”

“My dress will be all messy!”

“Georgiana Bingley!” her aunt said with mock indignation. “When have you ever cared about a dress being dirty?”

Since Georgie could offer no opposition, she stepped out of her sandals and splashed into the water, which went up to her knees much quicker than it did for Nadezhda. “It’s rocky.”

“Not if you know where to step. Look down. Look how beautiful the water is,” Nadezhda said, and Georgie did so. “The first time I ever saw the ocean was in Russia, on the coast. The port was half-frozen and the water was so dark it wasn’t blue. It was almost black. Not like this.” She kicked at the water, splashing Georgie, who cried out and then laughed. “The second time I saw the ocean from land was when I came to the docks at the filthy Thames. Look how beautiful this is.” All around them was green – the rocky coast and the rich shades of green from the Irish fields. It seemed to color the water into an odd and perfect shade of blue.

“Will ye be needin’ any’ting else, Yer Highness?” called O’Brien, their coachman. “’sides from the towels and da tea.”

“No, thank you.”

He doffed his dirty cap and walked off, leaving them alone on the shore. Technically he was their bodyguard, but Nadezhda’s sword was intimidation enough, especially when she walked like she knew how to use it, not some aristocrat with a sign of his office. She was a samurai’s wife, and she took that as seriously as her husband. No one questioned her odd dress when they heard her accent – how were they to know the difference between an Austrian Princess dressed as an Austrian and an Austrian Princess dressed as a Japanese?

Nadezhda and Georgie eventually tired of standing in the water and played on the shore. Nadezhda set up a branch in the sand as a target and had Georgiana hurl coins. Very few of them hit. “Some did,” she said encouragingly, before taking down the makeshift tree with one good flip of the wrist to its lower trunk. Georgie picked up all the coins, large circles with sharpened edges and a hole in the center, and Nadezhda put them back on the string in her pocket. Wet from the splashing of the waves against the rocks and the sea breeze, Nadezhda towed off Georgiana’s hair, her own protected by her headdress.

“Can I braid your hair?”

“Tonight,” Nadezhda said. “Not now. Someone might come along and see us.”

“But they can see my hair.”

“You are not married and you are not from Transylvania,” her aunt responded. Georgiana had shot up in the past six months, not so much to a normal adult height for a woman but much higher than she had ever been, so Nadezhda did not have to kneel to be at her level. “My hair is for my husband, not other men.”

“Did you let him see it before you married him?”

“I did not. He was most curious about it,” she said with a smile as they collected their things and made their way back to the path that would take them up to their coach. “If you hide something, it makes people curious. If you show it all the time, they get bored. With men, especially. I cover it and it becomes special, something only for him.” Among other things, she added silently. “And you. But if your brother asked, I would not let him.”

“What about Uncle Maddox?” she said, referring to her proper uncle, the doctor.

“Only if I was wounded there.”

“What about Papa?”

“No.”

“What about the King of England?”

Nadezhda grinned and looked down at Georgie. “It would never come up, but no. Not even for the King of England. For husband only.”

The sun was setting when they returned to their inn. From the room they could see the water and hear the waves. Despite the beauty of it all, Georgie was noticeably melancholy as she watched the skyline turn red and then a deepening blue.

Nadezhda put a hand on her shoulder. “We will be home soon.”

Georgie nodded.

“You miss your father?”

She nodded again.

“I miss husband,” Nadezhda said, taking Georgiana into her arms. “But they will be home soon.”

“Do you think they’re okay?”

“I’m sure Brian will take good care of your father.”

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

“It says what?” Brian said, not having heard the first time over the din of the crowds cheering as the wushu master on the platform defeated yet another opponent by pushing him off the stage.

Mugen, who could speak Chinese but not read it, had to have it read to him by the man offering the sheet of rice paper. “It is a death contract. In case the challenger dies in the fight, it is legal.”

“We’ve not seen a single person die in one of these fights,” Bingley said, his eyes still on the champion.

“We’ve just been witness to limbs broken and bashed in. Nothing serious,” Brian said to Bingley.

“I still want to do it.”

“Of all the stupid things I’ve let you do on this trip – “

“I told you, I did not know the word meant prostitute! I thought she was a dancer! How good do you expect my Punjabi to be the first time I hear it spoken?”

“For G-d’s sake man, you put your head in a tiger’s mouth before I could stop you!”

“The handler said it was safe,” Bingley shouted in reply. “And I emerged with my head intact.”

“Because I saved you!”

“Arguable. Compared to the other times where you have definitely saved me, that one is up for debate.” Bingley turned to Mugen. “Is it safe? The contest?”

“You won’t win, Bingley-chan.”

“Of course not. I just want to try it.”

Brian growled. “Will you please find things to try that don’t involve wild animals, compromising situations, or experts in martial combat?”

“Oh, Brian Maddox has never done anything daring or outright insane.”

“Not while I was guarding a relative, no.” He paused. “Well, yes, but not this time.”

“I will take care of it,” Mugen said, and began to argue with the official in Chinese. Eventually money changed hands and he handed the contract to Bingley. “Sign.”

Before Brian could lodge protest, Bingley signed his name and the wushu master, a rather young man with a pleasant disposition for his violent trade, smiled and helped him up into the ring.

“He’s just going to knock him around a little,” Mugen said, grabbing Brian’s kimono to stop him from following his charge, “not hurt him.”

“I hope the bribe was big enough,” Brian said.

Bingley stepped up on the matted dais. The announcer began to speak to the crowd of men with identical queues, and raised Bingley’s arm. “- Hongmao Guizi!”

There were boos from the crowd, and a little laughter. Mugen just laughed.

“What’d he call him?”

“Red-furred demon,” Mugen answered.

Bingley, clueless as ever, was not put off at all by anything as the announcer raised the hand of the current champion, and the crowd cheered. The champion bowed with a hand gesture that Bingley failed to copy correctly (fist on the wrong side).

“5 dago he lasts more than three seconds,” Mugen said.

“You know I don’t gamble anymore, Mugen-chan; don’t try and tempt me,” Brian said, watching as Bingley assumed the pugilistic fighting position, “though it is rather tempting.”

Brian would have won the bet. Bingley succeeded in throwing a single punch, which of course was sidestepped by the champion, who grabbed the arm by the wrist and pulled it forward as he kicked his challenger’s feet out from under him. Bingley landed on his back as the crowd gave their noisy approval.

“Ow,” Bingley said. He looked up, and the champion was offering a hand. “What? We’re still going? All right, I’m a sporting man.”

“So do you give up?” the challenger said in broken Japanese. He assumed a different but still complex stance as Bingley slowly got to his feet and tried again. And again. After landing on his back three times (the third in a full flip with the champion sliding under him entirely as he did it somehow), he tapped the ground.

“Ow. Okay. Winner,” he said in Japanese, pointing to the champion. Smiling in amusement, the master helped Bingley again to his feet and Bingley raised the master and still-champion’s hand up. That was about as long as he could manage to stay standing before he collapsed again and Brian and Mugen leapt up to help him off the stage.
“That was ... I think I need – to be ill,” Bingley said.

Brian couldn’t help but stifle his own smile as the cheering continued. As he helped Bingley to sit down on the stands again, he watched Mugen and the champion exchange some words before Mugen leapt off the dais and rejoined them. The official presented him with a certificate of his defeat, which Bingley probably would have appreciated more if he wasn’t vomiting into a porcelain vase.

The day’s fights over, the crowd began to disperse as people returned to their businesses. The champion stepped off the dais and approached the three of them, saying something to Mugen.

“He says, he was most interested to fight a foreigner,” Mugen said. “He would like to invite us to dinner.”

“Of course,” Brian said, and bowed to the champion.

“His name is Ji Yuan,” Mugen said, and translated their answer in more formal terms to the champion, who took his leave. “You are okay, Bingley-chan?”

“I’m going to be a bit – ow -,” he said, trying to stand, “– sore in the morning, but I think so, yes.” He squinted. “Do they have, say, doctors in China?”

An hour later, they were back at the inn, where a terrified Bingley was lying with needles in his back, a prospect he found far more intimidating than fighting a wushu master.

“Don’t complain; you got yourself into this,” Brian said, stepping into the other room. Bingley was bruised, but not harmed, as promised. In the next room, Mugen was drinking whatever the local vintage was. “What did Ki Yun say to you?”

“Ji Yuan,” Mugen corrected. “He challenged me.”

“And you said no? To a fight?” Brian leaned against the doorway. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Mugen said. “I did you a favor, you know. You should give me the money.”

“What money?”

“The prize money. For winning.”

Mugen was being amply compensated for serving as their translator during their visit to Hong Kong and their minor expedition into mainland China, so that was hardly the issue. “You would have won that fight, wouldn’t you?”

“He is wushu master here. If I beat him, I take his title, his honor. His students abandon him. He has no reputation until he beats me,” Mugen said, taking another swig and launching into his meat dish. “It would have been big trouble for all of us. More trouble than fighting is worth.”

“I never thought I would hear you say that,” Brian said to his final line. “Thank you, Mugen. But how can you be sure?”

Mugen took a mouthful, swallowed, and followed it with the liquor. “Ah, spicy. His technique was good, and he knows more about the use of chi than his competitors, but he doesn’t know how to use that to make him faster.” He offered Brian the bottle, but Brian turned it down with a gesture. “I studied wushu for three years in a school in the north. I’m faster; I would beat him.”

“Do you think he knows it?”

“Yes.”

“Then we do owe you a favor,” Brian said. “But before you say it – I am not buying you a prostitute.”

Mugen scowled at him and turned away in a huff.

Chapter 4 – The Scholars

Daniel Maddox, licensed physician and surgeon, was not known to take part in the many pleasures offered to him at Carlton House. Even in the often riotous atmosphere of the Prince Regent’s grand parties, now almost nightly, he did not socialize with the upper crust and kept his professional veneer intact. He did not sup with the guests even though he was told repeatedly he was welcome to do so, having just come from his own meal in his own home. Around midnight he did partake in a light dinner, which he took on his own in the kitchen, mainly because he preferred to see what he was eating before its formal presentation. While the upper crust of English society drank and feasted and did things that would surely make the Courier, he sat quietly with a book or the latest medical review from the Continent. He sat awaiting his usual cue, when the Regent or a fellow reveler would pass out, and he would be called in to resuscitate them. On one occasion, the 6th Duke of Devonshire, quite possibly the richest man in England but for his gambling habit, took a spill in the Chinese-style pagoda and Dr. Maddox put three stitches in his knee, for which the soused duke gave him his diamond-incrusted snuffbox on the spot. Not a fan of snuff and not wanting it around his sons, he had the diamonds removed and made into a necklace for his wife, the silver box paying for the expense. Caroline was on airs for a week, which was the only joy he had from the entire exchange.

Tonight there was nothing. Despite having overeaten, drunken too much, and been liberal with his snuff, the Regent was still on both feet well into the early morning. Dr. Maddox had finished the French Medical Monthly and the Prussian Medical Review, and fell back on the new edition of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. He was sipping tea and enjoying his reading when the servant approached. “His Royal Highness, Prince William, to see you, sir.”

“The Duke of Clarence?” he said, but before he could enquire further, the third son of King George and the Prince Regent’s brother entered. He rose and bowed quickly. “Your Highness.”

“I understand you are my brother’s chief physician.”

“I am, Your Highness.”

When he dared to lift his eyes, he saw the duke eyeing him very skeptically. “Where was your training?”

“Cambridge, sir. And then the Academy in Paris.”

“You can see my brother, can you not?”

He could not hold back his smirk. “Yes, Your Highness. I assure you that I can.”

“So you are either grossly incompetent or he refuses to take any of your advice. Knowing George, it is the latter.”

He bowed. “I will not comment directly on my patient’s behavior, but your assumptions may be correct. Unfortunately, every man is master of his own fate.”

“Have you ever met my father, Doctor?”

“I have, Your Highness, but only briefly.”

“His doctors control his fate entirely, though I suppose it does little good.”

“I am not his doctor, sir, and therefore cannot make an assessment.”

He huffed. “You are very discreet indeed. I can see why he employs you – that and whatever medical skills you may have.” He stepped closer to him. “Please do me the favor of keeping my brother alive. I care not care for the prospect of the throne. It seems the most tedious job in the kingdom.”

Never one to interfere with family (especially royal family) squabbles; he merely nodded and said, “I will do my very best, Your Highness.”

Without a second glance, the duke turned and took his leave.

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

It was well past dawn when Dr. Maddox walked home. He did not live terribly far, the streets were already lit with the morning light, and the carriages were still piled up with people returning to their homes in drunken stupors, so it was quicker to walk. There was a beggar on the corner – a boy with one leg – and he dropped a shilling in the boy’s upturned cap before ascending the stairs to his townhouse. The servants were, of course, expecting his arrival.

“Is my wife by chance awake yet?” he asked as they removed his overcoat. It was still early for a normal person.

“No, Doctor Maddox.”

He sighed and headed to his own room, where he threw some water on his face to clean off the London smog before climbing into his clean sheets, and into a dreamless sleep.

When he woke at about two, he was informed that his wife was entertaining friends. He had a tray brought to his study, where the post was already in, but nothing seemed important. Seeing his wife still engaged, he unlocked his laboratory door and checked on his poppy plants. They were lodged next to the window and beneath glass to protect them from Town air, and despite his daily watering; he could not seem to get them to stay alive long enough before withering away. He plucked a leaf from one of them, replaced the case, and put it under his microscope. He was still inspecting it when he heard the door open. The children and most of the servants were not allowed in the laboratory, and he always kept watch on the door when it was unlocked. “Good morning.” It was his first smile of the day.

Caroline Maddox kissed him on the cheek. “Good afternoon.”

“I know,” he said playfully, taking his seat again next to the microscope. “I think I’m going to have another failed crop this year.”

“Are these the seeds Brian gave you?”

“Straight from the Orient. Nonetheless, it doesn’t seem much good.” So far, he was still buying raw opium the traditional way – in a shadier section of East London. “I spoke with a botanist, but he didn’t know much about poppy. Or wasn’t willing to admit to it.” He looked up. “How are the children? I’ve not seen them today.”

“Emily has writing instruction, and Frederick is still fending off the Greek tutor.”

“Not everyone likes Greek.”

“Or any other challenging subject.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say it unprovoked,” he said. “He’s a boy. If we were at Kirkland he would be out in the woods, enjoying the weather.”

“And making trouble.”

“It is their primary occupation.”

She huffed. “Your sex will protect its own to the very end.”

“I would say the same of yours, but I prefer to be polite,” he replied, which dissolved her countenance just a little. “I haven’t heard a peep from Danny all day. Did you take away his recorder?”

“I had the convenient excuse that you were sleeping.”

He smiled, but it was a sad sort of smile as he fumbled with one of the more harmless instruments on the table. “The Prince is set to go to Brighton at the end of the month.”

She didn’t miss it. “So? You just said Frederick is suffering cabin fever. Brighton will clear that up. And Danny loves playing in the ocean.”

He just nodded. This would be their forth summer trailing the Regent to Brighton, all expenses paid, for most of the summer. It had its pleasures. Nonetheless, he paused before saying, “I am thinking about resigning from my post.” Before Caroline could whip her head around with her indignant expression and her immediate question, he continued very calmly, “We have the money to do it. Even if the Prince refuses to pay my retirement salary, which he is under some obligation to do, we have enough put away to provide Emily a decent inheritance and all we need do is sell the stock in our brothers’ company to afford a manor in the country, if you wanted it. I’ll likely have the best patient list in the whole Society. I’ve already been offered a position at Cambridge.”

She softened again. He had been quite interested in the professorship, but had other obvious obligations. “If he even let you resign –”

“I think he would, if I agreed to find a suitable replacement and still occasionally checked up on him.”

Now Caroline had reason to pause. “You’ve considered this.”

“I prefer to consider everything I do.”

“Is your occupation so terrible?”

His expression probably said enough. “I enjoy my profession. What I do not enjoy is spending hours in a sitting room waiting for my patient to pass out because he did precisely the opposite of what I told him to do for his health. The last person I actually helped was the Duke of Devonshire, and only because the edges of the pagoda were sharpened to look exotic.” He frowned. “I sleep most of the day. Frederick obviously needs more instruction but I’m not awake to give it. Danny hates Town life and is off at Kirkland or Brian’s estate whenever he can secure my approval. And as ungentlemanly as it may be ...” he said, “I’d rather spend my nights sleeping in your chambers.”

“You do make a very convincing argument,” she said, kissing his hand – the one with all the fingers. What would have otherwise been a lovely moment was broken by the sound of something shattering. “Frederick!”

There was scurrying in the hallway, and Frederick Maddox appeared at the door. “I know what you’re thinking, and Danny –”

“Your brother is asleep,” Caroline said.

“Nice try,” Dr. Maddox added.

Frederick’s next plan was apparently to run as fast as he could up the stairs, which was better than his original plan only that it worked for a longer period of time, until Nurse found him hiding in the attic and he spent the rest of the day sitting on a pillow as a result.

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

After briefly stopping at Pemberley, the Darcy family headed south to London, where they would spend a month before the real heat set in. There were relatives to visit and business that had been put off for practically the length of Lady Georgiana’s confinement. Mary and Joseph Bennet, who rarely left Hertfordshire, were visiting the Gardiners while Jane and her three younger children stayed at Longbourn with Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. They would all gather at Longbourn for Edmund’s birthday. Mr. Bennet, never much of a traveler, stayed on his grounds for everything but church now, owing to his extended age. Elizabeth’s one regret about moving to Derbyshire was how her father was denied the presence of his favorite two daughters. He wrote often, and they in turn, but that would not fill the gap. Mr. Bennet wrote that he was staying alive merely to confound Mr. Collins (who now had four daughters).

The Darcy children were eager to be in Town and ecstatic the whole way, which was why they had their own carriage. At last Geoffrey begged admittance into his father’s carriage, and with a knowing smile, Darcy agreed. “Why is it that our children never seem to remember how hot, smelly, and dirty Town is? They’ll be complaining within a week.”

“I want to see George,” his son announced. George Wickham, who was turning thirteen the following week, now lived with his sister and mother in an apartment on Gracechurch Street with Lydia’s new husband and their infant son. “Do I have tutoring?”

“Of course you do,” Darcy said, without taking his eye off his book.

“George doesn’t have tutors. Why?”

“Because George teaches himself,” Elizabeth said, exchanging a glance with her husband. It was the most polite reason to give. Now out of Longbourn, the Wickham children’s formal education was limited. “Did he ask for anything for his birthday?”

Darcy had a semi-regular correspondence with this particular nephew. “He wants a set of Homer in Greek.”

“So boring,” Geoffrey sat, leaning back against the cushion.

“People have different tastes,” Elizabeth said, stoking her son’s overgrown hair. He had his father’s coloring and his mother’s curls. “Uncle Bingley likes to read about foreign countries. Your father likes to read his ledgers.”

Darcy gave her a look, to which she just smiled.

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

George Wickham (Junior or the Third, depending on one’s perspective) sat on his bed next to the window that overlooked the row of lower apartments lining Gracechurch Street. He was lying on his bed, his feet kicked up on the dresser. Having recently outgrown the available cot, he was forced to sleep with his feet sticking out until the new one arrived. Mr. Bradley said it was on order, and would surely be there by his birthday. His mother told him he should ask his uncle for a bed, but fortunately, her new husband thought otherwise.

He was still trying to make his way through the Divine Comedy - which was confusing enough even with his Latin dictionary handy – when Isabella Wickham burst through the door and slammed it behind her, without knocking, of course. George only turned his head sideways. “What did you do?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, am I to be chastised by everyone in this house? Even you?”

“What did you do?” he repeated, his voice not at all stern, but nonetheless serious.

She huffed and sat down on the remaining space of the bed, next to his legs. “It’s not my fault that the baby cries every time I pick him up!”

“Did you pick him up upside down again?”

“No, George.”

“Did you forget to support his head?”

“No! Of course not. He just cried. There’s no reason. He always cries.”

“He’s a newborn. What do you expect of him?”

“Are you taking Brandon’s side?”

He put his book down on his chest. “I cannot take a side with or against an infant, ‘tis impossible.”

“Mama is so tired,” Isabel said, “and she’s so cranky when she’s tired. Why did she have another baby so soon after Julie?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think she had much to do with the decision.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I will explain it when you are old enough. Or mother will. G-d, I hope it does not fall on my shoulders to do so.”

“George!” She tugged at his vest. “Tell me!”

He shook his head. “It is not for people our age. I merely read it in a book.”

“Then I’m going to read every book in your room before –”

“– A French book.”

Isabella stuck her tongue out at him. “No fair.”

“I’m sure there is a time – probably before the wedding – when all good mothers sit down with their daughters and tell them all about how to have a baby.”

“And sons? Would Mr. Bradley tell you if you didn’t already know because you read it in one of those picture books of ladies?”

“You don’t know about those!” he said. “I paid you a sovereign never to mention them again!”

“I know,” she giggled. “I just wanted to see you blush.”

George picked up his book again, mainly to hide his face.

“Fine, be that way. Will you lend me a shilling?”

He lowered the book again. “Why would I lend you a shilling?”

“Because there’s a pretty new ribbon color with Indian dyes and I want to get it and look pretty for your birthday. I know you have the money because you got money for Christmas and you haven’t spent a farthing of it. And I’m your little sister and you love me.”

He sighed, mainly in defeat. “Why do you need so many ribbons?”

“Why do you need so many books?”

They were surrounded by books. He had overloaded his bookcases and merely started piling them up in neat stacks on the floor in desperation. He could expound on the virtues of learning over the importance of looking pretty, but he knew it would get him nowhere. Instead he reached over to his dresser, opened the top drawer, unlocked the small box inside it, and handed her a shilling.

She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“The way you could really thank me would be to spend at least a few farthings worth of this on a gift.”

“What, like a book?” she said. “I’ll do my best.” She did always get him something he actually liked, even if it came out of her normally-exhausted spending money to do it. “I’m going out, if anyone asks.”

“Do you need me?”

“No, Lucy Gardiner is going to join me. I won’t be unescorted.” Coin in hand, she got up and headed for the door.

“Be careful anyway.”

She rolled her eyes. “You worry too much.” She left and slammed the door again. One of these days it was going to come right off its hinges and Mr. Bradley would have to repair it.

There are worse things, he thought to himself, and returned to Dante.

Chapter 5 – The Infamous George Wickham

“No. Absolutely not.”

Dr. Maddox sighed. The refusal was not unexpected. The formal letter of resignation was still in the Regent’s hands, fluttering in the wind. Somehow, he had succeeded in getting his patient to walk in the park, but the Prince of Wales was so stricken with gout and extra weight that he only made it to a bench not far from the house. “Your Highness, you know I will eventually retire on account of my –”

“You would be a better doctor blind than half the Society,” the Regent said.

“With all due respect, that’s a ridiculous proposition. You are underestimating the intelligence of my colleagues in the field, sir.”

The Regent put down the letter, squinting in the sunlight. “What’s this all about, then?”

“I want to do more charity work. I want to maybe write a paper or two.” He frowned. “I want to spend more time with my family.”

This gave the Regent pause. “I suppose your current schedule doesn’t much suit theirs.”

“No, sir, it does not.”

“That does not change the fact that I need your medical advice – not that I take much of it,” the Regent chuckled. Dr. Maddox said nothing to that. “But when something serious does happen – as you keep so diligently warning me – I will need you.” He handed the letter back to the doctor. “However, one of my father’s constant lessons, when he was still capable of lecturing us, was the importance of family. And not listening to him – well, you see how that turned out for the house of Hanover.”

Again, Dr. Maddox had no comment, and looked at his shoes.

“I will be here another month. Less if I can help it, more if Parliament can help it. You have that time to find a suitable day replacement, but will remain my chief physician and will be expected to respond at a moment’s notice when possible and as quickly as you can when not possible if something dire were to occur. You will remain at the same salary, and will be expected to keep in regular touch with the attendant physician – at least once a week correspondence – so that you are apprised of my current condition. You are still forbidden to work in the cholera wards, or any public hospital in London. I won’t have you dying on me just yet. Otherwise, you may do as you please.”

He bowed. “Thank you, Your Highness.” Though he had expected at least some kind of new arrangement, he was still overwhelmed. This was the best he could have hoped for. “Thank you very much, sir.”

“I had heard you were offered a position at Cambridge – would you take it?”

“I – I don’t know. It depends if my wife and children wish to live there.”

“Do you make any decisions for yourself, Dr. Maddox?”

He colored. “I made this one.”

The Regent laughed. He was generally a jovial person when not horribly depressed. “If you do decide to take a position at Cambridge or Oxford, let me know immediately.”

“Yes sir.”

“Go forth, my good man, and do the world some good. I loosen your chains, though I have not broken them,” said the Prince, ever a fan for the dramatic. “And if I find you in estrangement from your beloved family, which you hold above your sovereign, I will hang your words from the highest tree, I shall!”

“I will not disappoint you, Your Highness,” Dr. Maddox said with a smile.

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

The first sound that greeted Dr. Maddox was not the sweet voice of his wife or the laughter of his children. It was the harsh, loud, metallic sound of a recorder note. After his coat and wig were removed, he immediately headed up to the nursery, where he found his three-year-old son sitting angelically on a blanket on the floor. “When I said I wished him to learn something about music,” Maddox said to Nurse, “I did not wish him to be quite so enthusiastic.” He pulled the recorder right out his son’s mouth, and prevented a tantrum by immediately picking him up. “Daniel, I love you very much, and while it is not lessened while you are playing that instrument, I thoroughly suggest you take up a new one.”

“Father,” his son said, squirming in his arms. “I like it.”

“Because you enjoy music or because it is loud?”

His son looked up at him, but could either not understand the question or did not know the proper answer.

“I thought so,” Dr. Maddox said, kissing him on his head of curly red hair before setting him down. “You can have it back tomorrow, preferably when your mother and I are out.”

“Finally, the voice of reason,” Caroline said in the doorway. She called for Nurse to put their son down for an afternoon nap and they moved into her chambers. “How was it?”

“I am still to be his well-paid chief physician,” he said, “but no longer his nursemaid. I have to hire a new one before he goes to Brighton, but otherwise ...” He trailed off as his wife embraced him. “Not so many wives would be so eager to have their husbands at home all day.”

“I was assuming you would be spending it at White’s,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “Drinking and gambling and leaving us all well enough alone.”

“I am sorry to disappoint,” he said. “He was reluctant to relinquish me.”

“I assume you were persuasive.”

“I said something about wanting to spend time with my children.”

“You know how to manipulate a sovereign as well as anyone on the Privy Council.”

“Just that sovereign,” he clarified, and kissed her. He was not the dashing man of one and thirty that he had been when they were married – if he would have ever considered himself dashing – and he had come home from his trip to Austria with more than a few grey hairs, but Caroline never once complained. She still loved to run her hands through his bushy hair, and he still loved her creamy white skin.

“I invited the Darcys for dinner,” she said when she had a moment to breathe.

“All right,” he nodded. “I know we aren’t – technically stressed by my rushing off after dinner, but –” He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Some rituals did not have to be altered. Their door remained closed until it was time to dress for dinner.

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

The Darcys arrived on time as usual, bringing with them their two eldest. Geoffrey and Frederick got on well despite their age differences, and Emily and Anne were best friends the way only ten-year-old girls could be, which involved a lot of giggling and squealing. In other words, the children entertained each other as the adults sat down for dinner. They toasted the Darcy’s newest nephew and Dr. Maddox’s semi-retirement.

“No, he is still not permitted to talk about his patient,” Caroline said.

“I doubt very much that I know more about His Highness’ physical state than half of Town,” Dr. Maddox replied.

“Are you to go to Brighton?”

“We are searching for somewhere else to summer,” Caroline said.

“Very few people can boast being sick of Brighton,” Elizabeth said.

“There were some places in Wales that are very fine in the summer,” Darcy added.

“You say that because you went shooting once with Charles,” Caroline said. “He was going to buy a house there before we both talked him out of it; too distant from proper society.”

“There’s always Bath,” Elizabeth suggested, “and it has all those positive health qualities.” Dr. Maddox merely grumbled at that. Since he rarely grumbled at anything, she added, “Do you have a professional assessment of the healing waters of Bath, Dr. Maddox?”

Before Caroline could lodge an attempt to stop him, Dr. Maddox answered, “If you were in your own home and you bathed while ill in water with another person who had a different illness, would you consider that healthy? Or even sane?”

“You always have to go ruining medical fashion with your logic,” Caroline said, to which, she and Elizabeth had a laugh, and the husbands exchanged amused glances.

“I rest my case,” said the doctor.

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

With no great fanfare, George Wickham turned thirteen. He did receive a larger bed from Mr. Bradley, for which he was very grateful. His mother was consumed by attending to her smaller children, and did not host any kind of family gathering. It was George and Isabella that received visitors who came to drop off gifts. The Gardiners came buy with their children, now of age except for the youngest, Lucy, who was Isabella’s closest companion. He was given new clothes – which he desperately needed, having grown nearly six inches in six months – and a pocket watch. Aunt and Uncle Townsend and his grandparents both sent their presents by post – books from Grandfather and handkerchiefs from the Townsends, sewn by Aunt Kitty herself. (Mr. Townsend included a small envelope with two sovereigns for George to use ‘as he saw fit.’) Aunt Bingley had left her present at the house to be delivered that day.

“How many books are you going to get?” his sister said. “You can’t eat them.”

“You could make furniture from them at this point,” Mr. Bradley said, and slapped his stepson on the back.

In the afternoon, the Darcys visited. George had already spent time since their arrival at their townhouse with Geoffrey, who was adept at using him as an excuse to get out of his lessons. George didn’t mind; he could count the number of friends he had on his hand, and not use all his fingers.

To his surprise, Aunt Darcy sat with her sister and Mr. Bradley while Uncle Darcy offered to take him out to a club for lunch. He had never been to one before, and Geoffrey rather noticeably expressed his annoyance at not being invited. “Your time will come to eat bad food and watch rich men make fools of themselves,” his mother said when he complained.

George didn’t mind; he knew Uncle Darcy cared about him more than his father ever had and more than Mr. Bradley ever would, and part of him was now old enough to realize why. He had been six when his father died, and unlike his sister, he remembered him and he remembered the funeral. Uncle Darcy had spent it in an armchair because he was too weak to stand and nearly died of his own injuries. George’s mother had never made any kind of secret of how her first husband had died, and how much Uncle Darcy owed them for “killing my husband.” Thankfully that died down when she married Mr. Bradley, because it always brought Isabella to tears of disbelief. How could their father have been a bad man? How could Uncle Darcy have killed him in a duel? Unfortunately, George was old enough to remember some details, and the Darcys never denied it, but never looked pleased when she brought it up. Actually, Uncle Darcy always looked horrified, and would unconsciously hide his right hand, which bore the scar from the fight. Young Master George was not very talkative, but he was a good observer.

Despite all the history between them, he saw no reason not to like Uncle Darcy. He liked all of the Darcys, he had decided long ago despite all of the evidence not in their favor. He closed his ears to his mother’s complaints, though it made him uneasy to do so. But he swallowed these anxieties with the small amount of whiskey offered to him as he sat down at White’s with his favorite uncle.

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

Though he still had to return to the Bradley house on Gracechurch Street to reclaim his wife and children, Darcy was relieved that the visit had gone well and Lydia Bradley had been too distracted by her infant to lodge whatever current complaints she had with him. He knew she always applied to her sisters for money (and got it, though in reasonable amounts), but since Wickham’s death, she had been relentless about hounding Darcy for money. He felt that his debts had been settled; he had paid for the funeral, and had been more than generous in sitting up trusts for both the Wickham children. His financial penance only went so far. He would not give her access to either of their accounts, explaining over and over again the nature of a trust fund and how it could not be accessed for ten years, but it fell on deaf ears. So he sighed and went back to his old habit of ignoring her.

When she lived at Longbourn, Mr. Bennet provided for her, but to an extent she deemed unsuitable (he had apparently learned the lessons of time). It had been a relief for everyone when she married Mr. Bradley. He was a former colonel who was injured in the battle of Toulouse in 1814, and was discharged with an eye patch, thereby escaping the carnage at Waterloo the following year. Aside from his injury reward and retirement pay, he inherited thirty thousand pounds from his aunt upon her death and quickly sought a bride, and the fact that he did not have to provide an inheritance for Isabella Wickham made the marriage possible. He was a pleasant fellow – not overly bright, but sensible enough to limit his wife’s pin money to something manageable. His redeeming qualities were his love for Lydia and desire to support her, and his general concept for the well-being of the Wickham children he inherited with the marriage. While not flawless, he was good enough to be liked by the family as a whole. Lydia did her wifely duty of providing him with two children, one male, in the space of three years, so she must have been inclined to him as well. It was a relief to the family.

That left George and Isabella in a somewhat awkward position. Their financial futures were secure – more secure, in fact, than the rest of their family’s – but even if he was a better father, Mr. Bradley was not their father. They would forever be “the Wickham children.”

Young George’s appearance stunned Darcy; he had shot up like a flower in spring and he looked more like his father every day; he only needed his sides to complete the set but was too young to grow them, and he had his mother’s eyes. Fortunately, unlike the rest of the guests, the Darcys had enough tact not to say it. In personality he was pleasant, but quiet, often anxious, and his current stage of rapid changes to his physical form did not aid his social development. He lost his cousin Joseph when he moved out of Longbourn, and Geoffrey and Charles were in Derbyshire most of the year. He was not to go to Eton or Harrow. He would go straight on to University, and then probably the church or higher academia.

Darcy gave him a rare smile in the hopes of being reassuring, but there was only so much one could tell a man of three and ten that he would hear and understand. Instead he employed more neutral conversation over lunch. “How is your sister? Does she enjoy living in Town?”

“Very much,” George said, trying to dissect his intimidating steak. “She much prefers it over the countryside, though I think she misses our grandparents and Aunt Townsend. And she’s positively sick of being escorted everywhere.”

“It is better for her to be sick of it than not have it,” he said. “And how do you find Town?”

“I don’t go out much,” George said. It was rather well-known. “Dr. Maddox took me to a lecture at the Royal College of Physicians.”

“Really? What was it about?”

“They were debating the new vaccines. There was a speaker, but at the end they were all shouting over him. Dr. Maddox said it’s usually like that. Everyone has their own opinion.”

“And Dr. Maddox’s opinion?”

“The doctor thought they needed more testing before they could be deemed safe, but he barely said a thing the whole time. He said when he voiced his opinions they were very unpopular, and he didn’t appreciate being yelled at for what he thought was a good idea by old fogies, so he would wait until he was a fogy to put forth his ideas.”

Darcy smiled. “Dr. Maddox is a brilliant man in many respects. What did you think of it?”

“It was interesting, but I don’t know how they do it. I can’t stand the thought of performing a surgery. It makes me feel ill.”

His uncle chuckled. “If you think you are the only person with such thoughts, you should ask the esteemed Dr. Maddox what he thought of his first surgical lecture at Cambridge. At the very least, ask him how long he made it into the lecture.”

For the first time, George smiled. “I will; thank you.”

George didn’t fence or gamble, so there was little else for him at White’s, and they left after dinner, walking back up the lane beside the Thames. It was an early summer day, and it was during the Season, so there was no small amount of girls under white umbrellas going up and down the lanes with their friends, and more than once, Darcy saw George turn his head.

He withered under Darcy’s smirk. “I don’t like people staring at me.”

“I think you were more looking at them, young Mr. Wickham,” Darcy said. “And do not be too flattering. You are still a boy. Chances are they are looking at me, a rich gentleman, as a more obvious match, and wondering if I am married despite my age. Who knows? I could be a widower.”

Despite coloring at Darcy’s comment, George still frowned. “I still don’t like it.”

Darcy stopped. He could see George fidgeting with his hands. “If you think people are staring at you, you are right. Everyone looks at everyone else in Town; it is the only regular activity some of these people get. People look and talk and gossip. It happens to everyone and there’s nothing to be done. But unless you are doing something ostentatious, it is mostly harmless.” He no longer had to bow down to look George in the eyes. “Do you think those people out there mean you harm?”

“No!” George said. “I mean, yes, all right, maybe sometimes,” he stammered. “How do you know what I think?”

“Because I’m your uncle, George,” he said, “and I have the same thoughts sometimes. But they’re not rational. No one means you harm. Understand?”

George nodded.

“Let’s be going,” Darcy said, not wanting to linger on the topic that made even him uncomfortable. “I can only leave Elizabeth with your mother for so long before someone is likely to spontaneously combust.”

They resumed their pace, walking in silence for a while before George said, “Can I ask you something, Uncle Darcy?”

“You can ask me anything, George.”

“How much money is in my trust?”

Darcy glanced at his companion. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m interested.” He added, “And my mother asked.”

“You have a right to know, I suppose,” Darcy said, “but not because Mrs. Bradley wants to know. The money has nothing to do with her.”

“But – she is my mother. I should support her if she is in distress.”

He had a hard time keeping his voice even. “Your mother is not in any sort of financial distress. Not only does Mr. Bradley support her, as is his moral obligation as her husband, but all of her sisters secretly send her money out of their own pockets except your Aunt Bennet, and they do it so secretly they think their husbands none the wiser. You are old enough to understand that your parents – all three of them – had and have their faults, and your mother’s is quite obvious in this situation. However, I put that money away for you, so that you might have standing and a level of comfort when you are of age, and I did the same for your sister so that she will find a decent marriage. When you turn sixteen, you may do with it as you please, but I advise you to regard her pleas more skeptically than you are inclined.” He softened his tone. “It’s very hard to think that your parents aren’t perfect. I believed so until I was nearly five and thirty, when I found out my father was an adulterer and my mother cursed him on her deathbed. It was as shocking then as it would have been when I was a child. But it was true nonetheless, and some good came of it.” He looked at George, who seemed to be half-nodding, understanding on some basic level that it might be true. “In answer to your question, I put money away and it did very well, and you will have about sixty thousand pounds, and your sister about forty as an inheritance. Only you or I will be able to touch either of those accounts.”

He saw fear, not greed in George’s eyes at the sum. In a way, it was comforting to Darcy, because it meant George understood the value of money and that there were responsibilities that came with it. On the other hand, it was a very heavy yoke to lay on an essentially fatherless boy. “You have no obligation to tell your mother, or tell her the truth. Either way, it is not your responsibility yet. There is no need to be concerned now.”

George looked up at him, his expression one of wanting to believe him, but not quite being able to do so.

Chapter 6 – The Newlyweds

The next week in Town passed quietly for the Darcys. Darcy was buried in financial affairs, and spent a little time at his fencing club. He was frustrated that he had to work with his offhand, his right hand not responsive enough for the subtleties of swordplay, and he no longer had the energy of youth to make up for it, but he was determined to learn, and his coach thought he was most admirable in his attempts. Geoffrey was not old enough for a club, but he would be soon. He loved the sport as much as his father and he looked forward to facing him as a serious opponent.

Upon returning one day from a meeting with a banker, he found Elizabeth waiting for him with more eagerness than usual, a letter in her hands. She was not, however, in tears, so that was a good sign. “What is it?”

“Jane,” she said, but he had recognized her sister’s handwriting from afar. They moved into the study, the servant shutting the door behind them before Elizabeth started speaking. “She suggests that perhaps I visit Longbourn sooner than we had anticipated going, while you finish your business here. Everyone else is fine, but Mama is rather out of sorts.”

“She is ill?”

“No – not precisely. She just – well, Jane is at a loss to describe it, but her habits have changed. She says odd things.”

“What does your father say?”

“He actually thinks her temperament has improved, or so he said to Jane – but he also called for a doctor.”

“Did he call for Dr. Maddox?”

“Darcy, Dr. Maddox is not our personal doctor, at our beck and call for every minor scrape. You know he’s swamped with his own work.”

“So Mr. Bennet thinks it is serious enough for a doctor, but not serious enough for Dr. Maddox. That is a good sign, I think.” He put his hand around his wife’s shoulder, and she leaned into his embrace. “I’m sure if it was very serious, there would be an express letter to everyone. Why don’t you go on ahead with the children? I can be finished in a few days and then I will join you.” He kissed her on her forehead. “Your mother is not as young as she used to be, but she is not obviously ill or suffering. Go see her, and you will feel better.”

She nodded, but stayed in his arms for a long time.

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

Dr. Maddox thought it not lacking irony that he sat behind the very same desk at the Royal Society of Medicine where, fifteen years earlier, the man who had just approved his license told him to stick himself in a dark hole and not come out. Brian had ruined their fortune and their reputation sunk with it; the ink wasn’t dry on the license certificate before the young Daniel Maddox was not fit to show his face in decent society and carrying around more debts than he could pay. But they couldn’t pull his license, and he survived, and here he was, interviewing applicants for the royal service.

It had been two long weeks. He was a man of high standards when it came to medicine, and he knew the Regent expected nothing less of him. He was not willing to take people based on their reputations; he quizzed them on technique and found them lacking. Some of George III’s former doctors applied, and were furious at being turned down by this young upstart. Anyone who mentioned bleeding as a method of treating fever was immediately dropped; the Prince hated being bled and Dr. Maddox had his own prejudices against it, except in certain cases. Also he wasn’t going to have the head of England sitting in filthy bathwater at Bath, so those experts were turned away. By the end of the first week, he was starting to think he was being too exacting for the man who would essentially be in charge of resuscitating the Prince after his nightly overindulgences. This man would likely also replace him down the line, when he truly became incapable of working for vision-related reasons.

He began looking through the applications of surgeons with licenses, having been one himself and having a healthy respect for a person willing to get their hands bloody. Most were too young, or blatantly lied about their age before showing up for the interview.

He had the card of a young doctor who had been a surgeon at Waterloo. Many people had made that claim, but he backed it up in writing. He was young, but experienced in field work. His degree was from St. Andrews, a very respectable medical school, and his license was on record.

Dr. Maddox took a fresh cup of tea before sitting down opposite the visibly nervous Dr. Bertrand. The man was young, maybe five and twenty, but not ridiculously so. Something about him was nervous, though, more than he should be. “So, Dr. Bertrand,” Maddox said after the formalities, “you treated the wounded at Waterloo. Were you on the field or in the tents?”

“Both, sir.”

“I assume you didn’t keep track of the numbers. What did you do to fight infection among the wounded?”

It wasn’t a normal interview question. Dr. Bertrand hesitated for a moment before answering, “Honey.”

“Honey?”

“Yes sir.” He went on to explain, “It’s a temporary method, but it keeps dirt from the wound.”

“Old medieval trick, isn’t it?” Dr. Maddox said, trying to contemplate how it would work. It did make sense, however ridiculous. “What were the results?”

“I did not have time to do a general study, but I think the rate of infection was lower. Though ... a few delirious men licked their wounds.”

“Gives a whole new meaning to the phase, doesn’t it?”

Dr. Bertrand finally smiled. “Yes sir, it does.”

Dr. Maddox leaned back. “All right. So you did your surgical studies at St. Andrews.” He looked at Bertrand and at his application again. “How is Professor Maurice? Is he still around?”

“He is, sir. I heard him lecture on sutures.”

“Yes, I remember him.” He added, “He’s not a professor at St. Andrews. He’s a professor at the Academy in Paris, where I studied.”

Bertrand visibly sunk. He had been caught.

“Your parents were French nobility, I assume?”

“Yes sir. I am sorry, sir. I’ll go. Please don’t tell –”

Dr. Maddox raised his hand. “Now, now, I’m not going to hold your family’s history against you. You are applying because of your medical skills and little else. Now please sit down and answer my question.”

Dr. Bertrand swallowed, and did so. “My parents had an estate near Toulouse. During the Revolution, they expatriated to England. When I was eighteen, they repatriated because Napoleon had suffered his first defeat and they felt he was on the way out. So I completed my education in France, but I didn’t feel at home there. I had been born and raised an Englishman. After the war, I came back.”

“We have no prejudices against French doctors here. You are well aware of that. French culture remains, as it has been for centuries, the most fashionable culture there is. So the conclusion I must draw from the falsehoods on your résumé is that you were a surgeon at Waterloo for the other side.”

Clearly terrified, Bertrand nodded.

“Well, you’d do best not to mention that if Duke Wellington is ever in the room.” He closed the folder with the application and took a sip of his tea. “I assume from your soldier days that you are capable of lifting a grown man and carrying him?”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Good. I will warn you, the Prince is very fat. Not quite as bovine as the Courier would have you believe, but not terribly far from it. When he falls, he usually breaks whatever is beneath him, and it takes two men to get him up, so you’ll need someone else to help you. That is assuming you want the position of babysitting the Crown Prince every night while he drinks his way into oblivion.” Before Bertrand could answer, he continued, “There will, of course, be a field test next week. I’ll send my card with instructions.” He rose, and offered his hand. “And no, I won’t say anything. Honey. Why didn’t I think of that? Exemplary thinking.”

The young doctor shook his hand. “Thank you, sir.” He seemed to notice that half a finger was missing, but he said nothing. “Thank you very much.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” he said, and was not lying.

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

One could never go home again. Every time Elizabeth Darcy came to Longbourn, it had undergone some renovation. Mary’s inheritance, in Mr. Bennet’s possession, was no small sum and on the interest alone they could do as they pleased to make it comfortable. While it was true that it now had fewer occupants than ever, it also hosted more guests who needed the space, so another wing was added. The real question was how Mr. Collins expected to keep it all up when he inherited the estate. He could not sell it, and Joseph Bennet was not legitimate and had no claims to it, but Mr. Bennet dismissed all of these concerns with his staunch refusal to keel over just because they were already making arrangements.

Mr. Bennet was very old, but in good health, and his pattern of living had not altered much in the many years since his daughters (most of them) married and moved away. He read, he ate, and on occasion went to church. Joseph Bennet was eight, and between his grandfather and mother, he had two very accomplished tutors.

Mrs. Bennet had been sad to see Lydia go when her favorite daughter remarried, and spent much time talking with the Mrs. Phillips and the Lucases, and whoever else was available. With the war over, there were fewer redcoats these days, just men with shabby versions of their old uniforms drinking and making trouble. Otherwise, life in Hertfordshire continued as normal, only thirty miles from London but far away in lifestyle and mood.

“Aunt Darcy!” cried a horde of children, who were the first to greet her carriage. Joseph Bennet, the Bingley twins, and Edmund Bingley came charging out the front doors of Longbourn before the servants could stop them.

“I am glad to still be the object of so easy attention,” she laughed as they surrounded her before going to greet their cousins. Then she could finally turn her attention to Jane, who was following her children. “I came as soon as I could. Mr. Darcy will be following in a few days.”

“It is not urgent,” her sister said. “Though, it is good to see you.”

As the children were rounded up, the two sisters walked inside, where Mrs. Bennet was in the sitting room, working on some new embroidery. “Oh, my dear Lizzy! How are you?”

“Very well, Mama,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Darcy will be here in a few days.”

“Mr. Darcy! That insufferable man!” Mrs. Bennet said, and then smiled pleasantly. “Jane, where are the children?”

“Outside, Mama.”

“And the grandchildren?”

At a loss, Jane said, “Also outside. They will be in soon.”

“They shouldn’t stay out – the sun will ruin their complexions. You know how Georgiana freckles!” she said. Georgiana was in Ireland, but that didn’t matter to her. “I must find Edmund. Edmund!” She shouted, and ran off down the hallway, in the direction of Mr. Bennet’s study.

“Edmund?” Elizabeth said, picking up the dropped embroidery circle. The strings seem to be randomly placed, completely ignoring the pattern and becoming a spider web of confusion.

“I know! She’s been doing that since I arrived.” Jane frowned, and dismissed the servants. “The doctor said she may have had a stroke.”

“A stroke! When?”

“We don’t know. Sometime after Mary left. It hasn’t inhibited her speech or movement, so it was minor, and Papa said he did not notice it for a few days.”

“Is there anything that can be done?”

“No, but it won’t get worse, unless she has another one. Oh, Lizzy, these things are so unpredictable!” Jane finally unleashed her anxieties on her sister, leaning on her shoulder.

“Now what’s this? Unexpected guests?” said Mr. Bennet, announcing his presence in the doorway with a heavy tap of his cane.

“Papa!” Elizabeth said and hugged her father. He was perhaps a little older (and shorter, it seemed) and more wrinkled, but very much alive. “I came as soon as I heard.”

“Which is faster than I even discovered it,” he said, taking a seat in the armchair. “I admit I did not notice anything amiss until she started calling me by my Christian name. The last time she did that must have been when Kitty was born!” He chuckled. “Well, there’s nothing to be done about it. The doctor said it could have been much worse. She doesn’t even have memory loss – she just gets confused about names and dates. And you will find her nerves in good working order, perhaps the best they’ve been in years! So it’s not all bad. Positively bizarre, actually.”

“Did someone tell her?”

“It would just embarrass her,” Jane answered. “Or so the doctor said. We may apply for a second opinion, but there really is little or nothing to be done for a stroke.”

“A very minor one, he said,” Mr. Bennet added, “Though if I have to hear about Netherfield being let one more time, I may have one myself!”

“Papa!” they said together.

He sighed. “It seems the only one who is allowed to joke around here since this happened is Mrs. Bennet herself! I know it gave us all a good scare and still does, but watch carefully – Mrs. Bennet!” He said it loud enough for her to hear.

“There you are!” she said, reentering with the children tugging at her dress. “Where have you been?”

“I’ve been looking for you, my dear. I assumed you would be in your own sitting room.”

“I am so sorry to disappoint. Please forgive me,” She leaned over, and kissed him on his head more tenderly than they had ever seen Mrs. Bennet act around her husband, “my darling husband.”

“I do my best,” he said, “now I believe you are to be besieged by grandchildren if something is not found for them to eat before long.”

“Of course.” She kissed him again, which he returned, and left. The children who were old enough to bow or curtsey did in passing to their mothers and grandfather.

“You see?” Mr. Bennet said with a sly grin. “It’s not all bad. If she’d lost her wits entirely she might be wondering why her betrothed is an old man!”

“Papa!” Lizzy said, while both his daughters colored at his inflection.

Chapter 7 – The Protégé

When Dr. Andrew Bertrand received the card, the most confounding thing was the instructions. 11 pm, outside the Society house, wear your worst clothing and bring best equipment.

Not one to question orders, he did precisely that, putting together his oldest, most threadbare outfit short of his field uniform (which would hardly have been appropriate). Fortunately his parents were not around. They had left long ago for the usual tour of evening entertainment. Aging ex-nobility, they lived the life expected of them in Town – that is, well beyond their means. The most fashionable occupation for the rich was being in debt. It also meant he was not likely to inherit anything past his name, so the young ex-Viscount decided to make his own way, and this post would legitimatize his profession in his parent’s eyes – just, not as he was dressed now.

He was rather surprised when he applied for the well-sought position that the man making the decisions was no more than perhaps fifty, probably younger. Bertrand expected an old man in a wig who had served the king. Dr. Maddox, when he asked around, had a good reputation but had never published any papers or spent much time at any of the clubs the other doctors frequented, and he never gossiped about his patient, so they knew little of him and cared for him less.

Either way, Maddox seemed a reasonable man to be employed under and the position was no doubt a cushy one, so Dr. Bertrand had no objections and made it to the society right on time. The doors were shut, and the doctor was sitting on a bench, dressed mainly in black, with no hat. “Ready, Dr. Bertrand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you by any chance armed?”

“Yes, sir. A small pistol.” It was quite foolish to go about London without one these days.

Dr. Maddox stood up. “I always belied in the kindness of strangers. From that axiom I earned most of my scars. Nonetheless I can’t bring myself to think of actually using a weapon, so I am glad you brought one,” he said, and called for their carriage.

They rode in silence for some time before stopping at the edge of East London, where one wouldn’t want to be seen in such a nice carriage. “Wait here,” Dr. Maddox told his driver. “Now Dr. Bertrand, I assume you’ve had all of your vaccinations.”

“I have, sir.”

“As a royal physician I’m forbidden to enter a cholera ward or a hospital, so you should have no fear of that.” He left his walking stick with the carriage and carried only his satchel. He reached into his coat and removed a piece of paper. “I know the street at least. Perhaps not the exact address, but we shall find it. And take off your hat – you look like a man of wealth.”

Blushing, Bertrand did so, and left it with the driver as they proceeded up the foul-smelling streets of some of the worst sections of London, well outside Town proper. “Now, whatever I say, you just follow my lead,” Dr. Maddox said as they came to a wooden door that was nearly off its hinges. “Here we are.” There was no doorknob so he knocked with his fist. “Hello? Mrs. Potter?”

There was some noise before a fat woman in an apron opened the door, holding up a candlestick. “Who is it?”

“You requested a surgeon, for a Mr. Potter,” he said. “I am Dr. Maddox and this is Mr. Bertrand.”

She looked at them both skeptically. “I can’t afford two, much less a doctor.”

“The fee is the same, I assure you. Mr. Bertrand is my apprentice.”

“A shilling.”

“Yes.”

She hesitated, then stepped back to let them in. The apartment had maybe three rooms – a kitchen, some kind of sitting room, and a bedroom. The sitting room was outfitted with cots and there were children sleeping on them. When some of them stirred, they were hushed by a stream of curses from their mother as she led the doctors into the bedroom.

Sitting up was a man in a bloodied white shirt, with an old soldier’s jacket from the continental war over his shoulders. His beard was brown, his hair filthy, and one of his arms was cut off about halfway up the forearm. “I can’ afford two.”

“There’s no extra charge, Mr. Potter,” Dr. Maddox said, bowing to him. “I am Dr. Maddox and this is Mr. Bertrand. Do you mind if we look at your wound?”

“Just make it stop with the gunk, wouldja?”

Dr. Maddox pulled up a chair close to the bed. “Light, please, Mr. Bertrand.” Bertrand held up the light as close as possible as Dr. Maddox pushed his glasses up into his hair and looked very closely at the wound. It was an old amputation, probably done hastily on the battlefield. The sewing job was only adequate, and it showed. Parts of his remaining arm were dead or dying slowly. Dr. Maddox covered his mouth with a cloth and probed the wound with a metal tong, and though there was no clear opening, pus seeped out as Mr. Potter cried out. Without flinching, Dr. Maddox let the pus drip into a small tin, and held it up to the light for them both to inspect. “A moment, please, Mr. Potter.” He stood up and they walked to the corner of the room. “Your assessment?”

“He wasn’t sewn properly in the first place, and whatever happened in the meantime, the limb’s dying. It needs to be done properly.”

Dr. Maddox nodded. “How much would you amputate?”

“I would try to do it cleanly around the shoulder. I’ve done that before – I think it looks better at a natural stopping place.”

“You’ve done it before? In the precise place?”

“I almost always went for just under the elbow and sewed it there.”

Again, Dr. Maddox nodded. “Get your saw ready. If you don’t have one, I do.” He put his glasses back over his eyes and turned to Mr. Potter as he opened his bag on the dresser. “I think you know what I’m going to tell you, Mr. Potter.”

“Oh G-d in heaven,” Potter said. “I just – I don’ think I can do that again.”

“It will be different this time, I assure you. I’m going to give you something to make it far less painful and we’re going to do it cleanly. If you keep the wound clean and have the stitches removed properly, it should heal just fine.” He removed several small bottles of powder and began to measure them before pouring them into a small bottle of water, which he closed and then shook the contents. “Do you have any other amputations?”

“No, Doctor.”

“Good, good. Have you been bleeding a lot recently?”

“No, just this awful mush.”

“Have you been drinking excessively in the last few hours?”

“Just a little gin maybe ... I don’t know, an hour ago.”

Dr. Maddox poured his mixture onto a large spoon. “Open your mouth. And yes, I know, it tastes very bad. For that I apologize.” He gave him two spoonfuls, neither of which Mr. Potter cared for, but put up little protest. “All right, here’s some sugar to change the taste.” He fed him a spoon of sugar. “Now you may feel a little drowsy – there is no reason to fight it. Tell me, under whom did you serve?”

As Bertrand readied his equipment, he watched Dr. Maddox make conversation with Mr. Potter, who had been a private at Waterloo, shot in the hand, which was gangrenous within a week. He was treated in the tents in France before returning to the mainland. Over the next few minutes, his answers became increasingly slurred to the point where he was incoherent. “It’s time,” Dr. Maddox said.

Dr. Bertrand was ready. This was slightly different from the battlefield – despite Mr. Potter’s screams, as drugs could only have so much worth – it was rather quiet. There was no one around him screaming orders in French, or people running back and forth. Dr. Maddox sat quietly, watching his work while holding Mr. Potter’s hand, keeping one finger on his wrist for a pulse. “You’re doing well, Mr. Potter,” he would occasionally say, even if Potter gave no answer. His voice was remarkably gentle.

Bertrand was used to doing quick work, and even at his leisure it didn’t take long to make a clean cut. Stitching it was actually a longer and more complex process, but he managed that in a few minutes.

“Pour this over it,” Dr. Maddox said, handing him another vial. “It’s not honey, but it will do.”

Bertrand smiled. Mr. Potter, meanwhile, had actually fallen asleep, and was snoring. Dr. Maddox wiped his face as Bertrand packed up his items. Mrs. Potter entered as they were tying the final bandages. “I will be back or send my assistant in a week to remove the stitches and check on the patient. Don’t give him anything tonight and be liberal with the alcohol tomorrow, but not more than two glasses an hour.”

“He’s sleepin’!”

“He is drugged. Let him sleep as long as possible – he won’t feel very well when he wakes up, but he will live.”

She paid him the shilling, and they made their exit. They walked back down the street in a casual stroll. “Sorry for the demotion,” Dr. Maddox said, “but she wouldn’t have believed two doctors were only charging a shilling.”

“Why were we only charging a shilling?”

“Because that’s the going rate for surgeons, and I have no desire to mess with their market, having been one for many years myself.”

“What did you give him to make him so peaceful?”

“A mixture of raw opium and some other ingredients to make it drinkable. With the quality of opium I tend to use, and the amount I gave him, we barely broke even tonight.” He handed the coin to Bertrand. “You did most of the work.”

“I’ll give you this back for that recipe, Dr. Maddox.”

The doctor smiled. “Now, now, I don’t give it out often. It is highly addictive. You must use it sparingly. But of course, only the best for the Crown.”

Ahead, they found the carriage waiting, and began the ride back to the decent part of the city. “I should be available to do the return visit next week. If not, I’ll send you a note. This is why I requested a partial retirement, anyway. I wanted to do more charitable work than picking up drunken lords.” He shook Bertrand’s hand. “Good work, Dr. Bertrand. If you can stand it, you can have the job I just so lovingly described.”

“Gladly,” Dr. Bertrand replied.

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

“Mama!”

Jane stepped out of Longbourn’s doors to greet her eldest daughter running towards her. She barely had time to get her arms out before Georgie embraced her mother. She was twelve and growing quickly. Her expression of affection was rare and therefore all the more felt, regardless of how long she had been gone. Georgiana Bingley was not always an easy child to manage, sometimes strangely compliant and other times disobedient to the very end. No one knew quite how she would take to going out – either she would be begging for it or be dragged kicking and screaming into the social sphere. “I missed you too, dear.”

As Georgie greeted her Aunt Darcy, Jane turned to Nadezhda Maddox, emerging from the carriage. “Your Highness.”

“Mrs. Bingley,” Nadezhda said. She was dressed in all her standard Romanian clothing, which was far less revealing than their gowns. “Thank you for letting me take your daughter. It would have been lonely without her.”

“I assume she wasn’t any trouble.”

“None. She is a treasure.” She curtseyed to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Darcy.”

“Your Highness.”

“Would you like to stay a few days?” Jane offered. “All the children will be here tomorrow for Edmund’s birthday anyway.”

What Nadezhda did with her time without Brian, they did not know. She was not part of the London social circles. She spent time with her Maddox nephews and niece, but the month-long trip to Ireland was really the highlight of her activities. “I would be honored.”

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

The Maddoxes arrived in due time for Edmund’s birthday, which had somehow turned into a regular social gathering in Hertfordshire. Dr. Maddox was quickly grabbed for his expertise despite Mr. Bennet’s words against it, and he spoke with Mrs. Bennet for some time before reaching the same conclusion that the original doctor had.

“She likely had a minor stroke,” he said. “She will not get worse. She will probably stay just as she is now.”

“Is there anything we can to prevent another one?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Darcy. Cerebral apoplexy is impossible to predict. Though, considering it is likely her brain that is involved, you’d best try not to do something to upset her nerves.”

There was nothing in all of their concern that could prevent the former Bennet sisters from breaking out into laughter at that statement. Mr. Bennet stood up, putting aside his glass, and said, “Well, I’d better be off to bed, then. Everything I say and do upsets her nerves. But wait! Every time I disappear it also upsets her because she comes looking for me! So I guess I must sit quietly in her presence and say or do nothing. A precarious position, is it not, Dr. Maddox?”

“Indeed,” Dr. Maddox said.

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

Edmund Bingley celebrated his first birthday without his father surrounded by his siblings, cousins, and aunt and uncles. Georgiana Bingley had done the same in March. Bingley said that a return before late summer was highly unlikely, but he would try. Jane did her best to hide her melancholia and the others did their best not to observe it and be supportive all the same.

As the adults sat down for luncheon, Mr. Bennet announced, “I do hope my far-traveling son will return soon, selfish as it may be for me to say it, because I have decided to hold a celebration next month for all of my daughters and their families, and my brothers and sisters. In other words, an army will march on Hertfordshire. We’d best alert the authorities beforehand so they don’t become alarmed.”

“The occasion, Papa?” Elizabeth asked.

“I am going to attempt to do something I have never done before, and doubt very much I will ever do again. I am going to turn seventy. And do we not love to celebrate round numbers?”

This came as some surprise, as Mr. Bennet was not in the habit of mentioning his age or celebrating his birthday, and none present (aside from maybe Mrs. Bennet) even knew it. Mr. Darcy gladly initiated a toast to the idea.

“Edmund!” Mrs. Bennet said. “That means our anniversary –”

“- shall be almost half a century of me hiding in the study and you talking about ‘our girls.’” He paused. “My goodness, now I do feel old.”

Their laughter was only broken by the doorbell. Mr. Bennet nodded for a servant to answer it, and that man returned with a package, “For Mrs. Bingley.”

The paper around it was worn and dusty, and there were stamps all over it but no return. She tore it open immediately to reveal a top letter over the other material. “It’s from Mr. Bingley!” she said. After scanning it, she read the first few lines out loud.

Dearest Jane,

By the time you read this, I will hopefully be speeding home. At the time that I am writing this I am however sitting on a hill overlooking the Ganges, which is a river in India much larger and longer than the Thames. Across from me is a Hindoo temple where they worship a god with the head of an elephant. The sun is setting and it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, marred only by the fact that my family is not here with me.

Enclosed are letters for everyone and gifts for the children. Do apologize for me for missing their birthdays and assure them they’ll come around next year at the same time. Mr. Maddox also is reminding me that we have to move now, because it gets terribly buggy here at night and we are going to retreat to behind a screen. He sends his love to everyone.

Yours,
Charles Bingley

P.S. A man tried to buy our daughters for sixteen goats but I refused. I hope you find this to your approval.

It was hard to recall when there had been such a display of joy at the Bennet table as of late. Jane was in tears when she removed the cover letter to reveal an entire sketchbook of drawings, the last being no doubt the scene he had described, complete with tiny figures in the corner that were crudely drawn caricatures of the two of them with “CB” and “BM” written under them. It was passed around with great care, to be inked and colored by a professional when he returned home. The buildings contained on those pages were something out of a fairy tale, with unimaginable shapes and spirals. There were also letters for everyone, including Nadezhda from her husband, and the luncheon was recessed so that the children could be called in.

“Just in time for your birthday,” Jane said as she handed Edmund his gift box and kissed him on the cheek, “Like he promised.”

Edmund Bingley, now seven, opened his box to reveal a small set of wooden toy soldiers. Unlike his cousins’ sets, these soldiers were Indian ones, painted in bright colors and carrying bayonets. He immediately abandoned the adults to start setting them up on the drawing room table. The twins, who had their father home for their birthday, received puzzle boxes made of a strange wood, and spent hours figuring them out.

Georgiana Bingley opened her box to reveal a metal locket set on a chain. It was a tiny glass box contained in a metal case molded like the temples of India in the pictures. She quickly discovered the upper spire could be pushed down like a button of some sort, but it did nothing but click. She was about to set aside the box when she found a note, which she read.

“What does it say?” her mother inquired.

“It says it’s magic,” Georgie said. “He said the man in the shop made it a charm, and it will only work for me, and only when saying one person’s name.”

“Whose name?” Elizabeth said.

“Papa says I have to figure it out for myself,” Georgie said as her mother helped her get the locket around her neck and the clasp fastened in the back. It was just the right size for her. “Georgiana Bingley,” she said, and pushed down. Nothing. “Charles Bingley.” Nothing. “Fine. Charles Bingley the Second.” Nothing. “Charles Bingley the Third.” Still nothing. “Jane Bingley.” Nothing. “Jane Bennet.” People interrupted with suggestions, which varied from “Grandfather Bennet” to “King George the Third” but she cycled through all of them, and her siblings, and aunts and uncles in all their various names. “Her Highness Princess Nadezhda.” The box remained unchanged. “Nadi-sama.” Still nothing. She leaned against her mother on the couch, clicking away with increasing annoyance.

Geoffrey Darcy, whose birthday was also missed, received a wooden dog that looked just like his, painted the same way and everything. He turned his attention back to his cousin. “Does it have to be proper names? Or is it supposed to be the name of a place?”

She looked at him, then back at the locket. “Geoffrey Darcy.” It lit up in a brief array of circling lights of all colors – red, then orange, then pink, then purple and blue – until shutting off after about ten seconds. “Yay! Thank you!” She hugged her cousin, who had no idea what he had done precisely, before running off to show the rest of her family.

Geoffrey turned to his Aunt Bingley, who only said, “I have no idea, either. Your uncle has a rather strange sense of humor.”

Chapter 8 – Primate Concern

July was pleasantly quiet for Dr. Maddox. The Prince Regent was in Brighton, and for once, he was not. There were no emergencies to call him there, and Dr. Bertrand’s letters indicated that their patient was still in his fine, fat form.

The summer was not particularly hot, but bad enough that most of decent society departed with the season to their summer homes and coastal resorts. Daniel and Caroline had the names of a couple of places but had no time to look at any of them, and were due to be in the area for Mr. Bennet’s birthday in a few weeks. Nadezhda stayed with them, and on especially hot days they went up to her house just outside London, where at least the air was breathable.

“How come Aunt Maddox can shoot a gun and you can’t?” Frederick asked his father, who was sitting in the lawn chair, watching Nadezhda pick off fowl with stunning accuracy.

“I never learned. I don’t care much for the sport.” He didn’t want to add that he also couldn’t see that far. “I mend things, not kill them. Most of the time, anyway.”

“Then who’s going to teach me?”

“Your Uncle Bingley, I suppose. Brian’s a terrible shot.” He looked over Frederick’s shoulder and called out, “Daniel! Stay where I can see you!”

Danny Maddox waved his stick around and came back up the hill. “There are toads by the water. Can I keep one?”

“That wouldn’t be very nice to the toad. I don’t think it would care for London.”

“It’s really hot in London. Is that why your plants always die?”

He sighed. “I think so, son.”

In the evenings it was cooler, and Town was strangely quiet. Frederick didn’t want to be read to anymore, or that was what he said, but sometimes he would sneak in to Emily’s room and listen to his father reading to her.

Upon his unofficial retirement, the servants fully expected the master to spend most of his day at a club, but even though he had membership to a few, he went out only to lectures and to see patients, mainly charity cases. He spent most of the time during the day in the laboratory, where the heat and foul air had not succeeded in killing every plant he was growing. The laboratory was of endless interest to his children, mainly because they weren’t allowed inside except to look. When he heard the low knock on the door, he called out, “What is it?”

“Can I come in?”

“Not right now.” He was mashing up a raw stem of poppy, and his mouth covered with a scarf to prevent accidentally blowing on it. “Later.”

“Mama says it’s important!”

“One moment and I’ll be out.”

“She said it’s really important.”

He spilled the contents into a jar and put the jar and the rest of the root in the bottom drawer, which he locked, and opened the door. “Now what is it –?”

Brian Maddox was holding Emily in his arms. “Your child for your opium.”

“That’s a tough one. Opium is very expensive these days.”

“Papa!”

“I told you your father was capable of joking,” Brian said, and set her down to embrace his brother. “Hello, Danny.”

“Welcome back,” he said. “I hope you brought Bingley.”

“He’s downstairs.”

“I hope he’s in one piece.”

“One over-excited piece, yes.”

He stepped into the hallway, locking the door behind him. “You look good. What kind of trouble have you been into?”

“I was mainly busy keeping my business partner out of it. Ask him about the tiger sometime.”

“You know your wife is here?”

“I got an enthusiastic greeting. If you weren’t cooped up in that study you’d have heard it.”

Downstairs, the Maddox sitting room was in an uproar as servants carried in trunks and Caroline embraced her brother, who apparently had not gone native and was dressed like a decent Englishman.

“Mr. Mugen,” Dr. Maddox bowed to his guest. “What a surprise. I never thought you’d be back on this side of the world again.”

“I need to be in place –” he said something in Japanese to Nadezhda.

“He says he needs to be somewhere where he’s not wanted for any crimes,” she said. “And China was apparently not an option. Mugen, what did you do?”

“It’s not so much that he committed a crime as that he’s being hunted by a group of martial arts students because he defeated their master,” Brian said. “And then spit in his face. Which he said he wouldn’t do.”

Mugen shrugged. “I lie. And give you plenty of warning to run.”

“You knew Bingley couldn’t run! I had to carry him halfway across –”

“Men! Please!” Bingley said. “I had to put up with this for two months –” He turned to Dr. Maddox and offered his hand. “Doctor.”

“Mr. Bingley.” Maddox took it. “You look –” Bingley was sunburned, had overgrown hair and the beginnings of a beard, but his eyes were bright. “ – like you’ve been on a boat for a very long time, but otherwise well.”

“You as well, minus the boat part. I understand my family is still in Hertfordshire and the Hursts are in their country house.”

“Yes. Mr. Bennet is throwing a party in a week or so.”

“Terrific. Well, if I could trouble you, I need your medical advice. And no, we didn’t pick up any Indian diseases. It’s about an animal.”

“What? Did you buy one of those talking birds or something?”

“No,” he said, “not a bird precisely.”

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

By time Darcy was done with his final meeting with his steward and the accountant, the post had already come to the townhouse, which he viewed as a good sign. He despised staying alone in London when his family was away, but he had pressing business the night before and it carried over into the next day. He wanted to read his mail and be gone.

The brown envelope from Madrid immediately drew his attention. He rarely corresponded with the banker in charge of receiving Grégoire’s yearly income except when actually making sure it went through, which it had in January. As his father before him, Darcy held the keys to the fund set up for Grégoire’s welfare. He altered it only by basing it in London instead of France, and lowering the amount to something more manageable for Grégoire, who only gave it to charity anyway. The rest went back to the account to accrue further interest.

He motioned for the servant and had him call back his departing steward with some concern. “I need your advice on something. It seems my brother withdrew some hundred pounds from afar and that money did not make it to the allotted location.”

His steward was familiar with the situation. “Who was responsible for the transfer and where was it going?”

“It seems a man was hired to take it to a charitable noblewoman in the area, who would then distribute it to some needy residents. This man has been under the banker’s employee for many years and has always been trusted to see the job through.”

“And the noblewoman?”

“I don’t know.” He handed the letter to his steward. “Will you have someone look into this immediately?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And give me a minute to pen a letter to my brother, if you’ll be sending mail to Spain.”

“Of course, sir.”

He never was quite ready to assume that Grégoire’s mail always was read unopened, even if Grégoire insisted the seal was still intact when he received it. He wrote a quick letter about some family account business being unsettled, and would he please write back, or contact the banker? He had written Grégoire only a few weeks ago, and had little else to say, so he sent it off and told his manservant to prepare to leave for Hertfordshire. He was in fact opening the door when he faced a bowl hat. “Darcy-san.”

“Mr. Mugen,” he said. “What a surprise. Is this to say Mr. Bingley and Mr. Maddox have arrived?”

“Bingali-san, he go to country soon.”

“And you’re to be their servant again?” he said, not sure that it would rile Mugen, but sort of hoping that it would.

“Lazy gaijin, too slow,” Mugen said, bowed, and ran off back down the road, his wooden shoes clacking all the way.

Darcy never trusted Mugen, but had no reason not to believe him now, and followed him to the Maddox townhouse, where there were many trunks in the hallway and a great commotion. The first person he encountered was not Bingley or Maddox, but a very disconcerted Mrs. Maddox, her bonnet off and her normally perfectly-tied hair askew. “Mrs. Maddox.” He bowed politely, not commenting on anything.

She stopped only to curtsey. “Mr. Darcy. Excuse me.” And then she ran right into the sitting room and shut the door behind her.

“What! He’s not that bad, Caroline –”

Darcy could vaguely hear Bingley’s voice from up the steps, but it was not Bingley who emerged first. It was a little animal, like a cat but not quite, covered in soap suds. It squeaked, and then without warning, climbed right up his clothing and sat down on his head.

Bingley did catch up, looking a little wet. “Hello Darcy.”

“Bingley.”

“Sorry about –”

“Bingley, what precisely is on my head?”

“It’s a monkey.”

Calmly, he said, “A monkey.”

“Yes. He won’t harm you.”

Darcy paused, and then said in the same voice, “Though it has been a great honor to be your companion these many years, I feel that our friendship will come to an abrupt end if you do not get this animal off my head.”

Bingley did not need to be told twice. “Monkey! Kinasi!” The monkey leapt from Darcy’s head to Bingley’s outstretched arm, where it climbed up onto his shoulder and squawked again or whatever kind of noise monkeys were supposed to make. “I am sorry about that. It seems he doesn’t much care to be bathed.”

Darcy was going to say something, but Mr. Maddox came barreling down the stairs, towel in hand. “Here you – oh, hello.” He bowed. “Mr. Darcy. You have suds in your hair.”

“I know,” was all he said to that.

Bingley took the towel and wiped off his little monkey, which was not much bigger than his head and brown in color. “Dr. Maddox said we should bathe him. In case he had some bugs in his fur. Have you seen my sister?”

Darcy gestured to the closed double doors of the sitting room.

“You can come out now. Caroline?”

“I am not going near that thing!” she shouted from the other side of the door. “He screamed at me!”

“Well what did you expect him to do? You were screaming at him!”

“Monkey see, monkey do,” Mr. Maddox said.

“She doesn’t like animals – other than dogs, that is,” Bingley said. “Louisa had a cat when we were children. It used to scratch its paws on her dresser.”

“And on my leg!” Caroline said. The monkey shook itself out on Bingley’s shoulder as Dr. Maddox appeared, followed by his children.

“A monkey is not a cat.”

“Has she locked herself in there?” Dr. Maddox said.

“It’s not her fault she yelled at it.”

“You could have told her you were bringing a primate in the house, Mr. Bingley.”

“I told you.”

“What’s a primate?” Emily Maddox asked.

“It’s a monkey,” her father patiently explained.

A truce was eventually reached; “Monkey” (as that was apparently its name as well) went back in his cage and into the wagon bound for Longbourn, and Caroline Maddox agreed to come out of her fortress.

Darcy still had to make his way to Hertfordshire and Bingley was eager to see his wife and children, so they bid their adieus, stopping for a moment outside before they would depart in their separate carriages.

“It is good to have you home,” Darcy admitted. “You didn’t do anything insanely idiotic while in the Orient besides buy a monkey in the somewhat misbegotten notion that your wife will accept such a thing in the house?”

“I have spent months practicing my pleading look,” Bingley said. “And as for anything else you hear I may have done, please don’t believe everything you hear from Brian or Mugen.”

“I never do,” was his reply.

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

It was Mr. Bennet who greeted Mr. Darcy as he stepped out of his carriage. His father-in-law was sitting on a chair in the sun. “Mr. Darcy.”

“Mr. Bennet. I do apologize for being late.”

“I doubt Lizzy will be no less eager to see you.”

“Yes, well, I doubt I will be the main attraction today,” Darcy said as Mr. Bingley got out of the carriage.

“Mr. Bennet.”

“Mr. Bingley!” Mr. Bennet stood up a bit straighter. “So my wayward son has arrived.”

“How are you, Mr. Bennet?”

He shook his hand as firmly as he could. “Busy frustrating Mr. Collins every day. Your wife is uhm ... well frankly I don’t know where she is, but I assume at least one of the children will shriek loud enough to get her attention when they see you, which I’m sure will be soon enough – “

“Papa!”

“ – and there we go,” Mr. Bennet finished as Eliza Bingley came running out the front doors, her embroidery cloth and ribbons still in hand.

Bingley picked up his younger daughter, something he was barely still able to do. “You’ve gotten so tall! You look more like your mother every day.” He kissed her cheeks. “Speaking of –”

The quiet did not last very long. Edmund was quick to follow, and then Charles, and finally Georgiana, until he was almost toppled over by all of his children. “I cannot carry you all! Edmund, there’s no reason to be pulling on my coat, I don’t –” He stopped when he saw his wife, emerging tentatively into the sunlight. “Mrs. Bingley.”

She curtseyed. “Mr. Bingley.” This formality did not last long, and he pulled her into his arms.

“Jane,” he whispered, his eyes tearing. “My beautiful Jane.”

“I missed you,” she said. “Don’t ever go away again.”

“I will do my very best,” was his reply.

Fortunately only the Darcy family was currently in residence, with everyone else in London or at Netherfield, so Mr. Bingley only had to endure so many reunions with everyone present before he excused himself to get something from his carriage, taking Jane with him.

“I have a surprise,” he said. “Well, several, but this one I think will adequately distract the children for a little while.”

“Now why ever would you – Oh my G-d.” Jane covered her mouth as Bingley uncovered the cage. “Is that thing alive?”

“Of course he is. And he’s very tame. Well, relatively, for a monkey.” He opened the little door and put out his arm, and the monkey instantly went up to his shoulder. “And he’s not dirty or diseased. We bathed him at the Maddox house. My sister would be glad to complain to you about it.”

“Charles, you can’t be serious.”

He turned to the simian on his shoulder. “Monkey, what do you think? Am I being serious?” It squeaked in response. “Monkey, shake.” The monkey held out its tiny arm. “He just wants to shake your hand.”

Jane looked at her husband, then at the monkey, then at her husband again. He did seem to be serious. She held out her fingertips and let the monkey grab them. “He has such tiny hands.”

“He likes you. Monkey, do you like Jane?” Bingley said. The monkey howled. “Well, you had better like her, because if you don’t get on her good side, you don’t get to stay with us.”

“Charles –”

He held the monkey in his arms. “Look at him. The children will adore him.”

“He’s a wild animal.”

“He’s not that wild. Are you, Monkey?” he said. In response, the monkey squeaked and grabbed his nose. “Ow, ow, that’s enough. I told you not to do that –”

Jane finally broke out into laughter, perhaps at the sight of a small monkey trying to capture her husband’s nose. “We’ll try it.”

“A trial basis. I understand.” He kissed her. “Thank you. Oh, and you might want to cover your ears.”

It was good advice. The children collectively screamed in excitement upon seeing the animal perched on Bingley’s shoulder, and it screamed right back at them. It took him a full minute to shush eight children.

“Is that a monkey?”

“What’s it’s name?”

“Can I pet it?”

“Can we keep it?”

“Does it have to live in a zoo?”

“Can I hold it?”

“Does it bite?”

“Children,” he said calmly, with as much authority as Charles Bingley could muster, “this is Monkey. Yes, that is his name. Not very original, but you will remember it. He doesn’t bite unless you hurt him, so like any pet or person, you must treat him with respect. That means no tossing him or tugging him or pulling on his tail. You can hold him one at a time. Georgiana?” He dealt with the crowd of boos. “She’s the oldest.”

“Not by much!” said Geoffrey.

Georgiana smiled triumphantly at him as she took the monkey into her arms. One by one, they all met Monkey, though Cassandra and Sarah were frightened of him, and Edmund was too proud to admit that he was, but passed him off rather quickly. The most excited person was perhaps the last person in line, Mr. Bennet. “Now here is something I never thought I would see,” he said as the monkey climbed up onto the bald spot on his head and sat down.

“If he gets upset, just let him run up a tree or something and I’ll come get him down,” he told Elizabeth before disappearing with Jane. Darcy mysteriously did not offer to help with monkey wrangling and disappeared into the library as quickly as he could.

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

Jane and Charles found a spot suitably far away from the house, where in fact they could see Oakham Mount, where they used to walk during their engagement. The view had not changed, but they were not interested in the view.

“I missed you,” he said between kisses. “I’m sorry I’m a little hairy – and burned. And freckled.”

“You’re perfect,” she said.

They sat together on a large stump, looking out at the wild and content to just sit together with Bingley’s arm around his wife’s shoulder. “I would regale you with stories, but to be honest, I am completely and utterly exhausted.” He chuckled. “What happened while I was gone?”

“Lady Kincaid had a son. His name is Robert.”

“It went well?”

“I think so. Mr. Darcy seemed pleased at his sister’s good health and Lizzy was ecstatic, of course. They stood as godparents.”

“Was Grégoire there?”

“He did not come in time. He should be here in a month or two, maybe. It is not set.” She looked up at him. “My mother had a stroke.”

“I’m so sorry –”

“It was very minor. Papa said he didn’t notice it for a few days.”

“Is there anything they can do?”

“No, aside from not saying anything when she says something strange.”

He put his other arm around her. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“It was only a few weeks ago –”

He kissed her on her forehead. “I’m still sorry.”

“We always assumed she would outlive him. Do you suppose it’s best if –”

He hushed her. “We don’t know the future. All we know is your parents are both alive and relatively well. For now, that is enough.”

Chapter 9 - A Long-Expected Party

Mr. Bennet, not known to be a stingy man with his family (almost, at one point, to his own ruin with his youngest daughter), spared no expense and no invitation to anyone whom could claim even the slightest relation. Though Hertfordshire was no Derbyshire, by its own standards this was a grand celebration. Characteristic of Mr. Bennet, he did not host a ball (“My daughters are well-settled, thank you very much”). Instead it was a more general daytime celebration, mainly to accommodate his seventeen grandchildren, his four nieces and nephews, and his four great-nieces.

Aside from planning the menu and the accommodations, Mr. Bennet had one unpleasant duty. With Mrs. Philips’ insistence, he sat in gathering with her and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner about Mrs. Bennet, whose condition remained unchanged. She was still given to periods of confusion, but was hardly an invalid.

“I see no cause for concern,” he said to his sister-in-law. “If anyone says anything of note, it will hardly be heard over the screaming army of children to descend upon us.”

“I do not want my sister exposed to public denunciation.”

“Then perhaps you should have lodged complaint between when my first daughter went out and a month ago,” Mr. Bennet said, to which the Gardiners could not help smiling. “Mrs. Philips, with all do respect, my wife has not complained about her wits for almost six weeks now – and I have been counting. I can hardly lock her away for such a crime. Nor am I remotely willing to do so,” he said. “If anything, she is to be commended.”

The widow Mrs. Philips was overruled by the Gardiners, who agreed with Mr. Bennet, and then by the man in charge, and she silenced herself.

“There is cause for more general concern,” Mrs. Gardiner said, and her husband nodded grimly for his sister.

“I am at the moment too happy and foolish to fathom it,” he replied. “If this is to be her twilight, then I have decided to enjoy her now and wallow in misery later. After all, putting off important business has always been my proficiency.”

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

In early August, the mass descended on Hertfordshire. Already the Darcys and the Bingleys were in residence, and everyone delighted in comparing notes about the differing accounts of Mr. Bingley’s travels that he gave depending on his level of intoxication at the time. He showered his children and relatives with odd gifts. Though Indian goods had been available in Town for years, it was quite another thing to get it as a gift from a traveler who could say where he got it, how much and how long he bargained, and whose heritage was more insulted by the end of the bargaining before an actual price was affixed. “Apparently I do not care for a lot of shopkeepers’ mothers,” he said. “And I am a demon-haired dolt.”

“That was already known,” Darcy said, and was already looking out the window innocently when Bingley turned his head.

Another amusement was the fact that Mrs. Bennet could never seem to grasp the presence of Monkey, and was surprised every time she saw him. “My goodness, there’s a wild animal in this house!” Such repeated proclamations did not put her on either side – those who despised the monkey (Darcy) and those who loved him (everyone else). Darcy had found an ally with the arrival of the Bradleys and the Wickhams in Isabella Wickham’s cat. Fortunately, Monkey was a better climber and took refuge on the nearest person’s head whenever the grey tabby entered the room.

It was on a shooting expedition with Mr. Townsend at Netherfield that Bingley said, “What happened to young Mr. Wickham?”

“The same thing that will happen to Geoffrey soon enough,” Darcy replied.

“May I say the obvious?”

“Yes, he does look like his father,” Darcy said. “Even more every day, it seems.”

Mr. Townsend, who had not known Mr. Wickham senior, replied only, “Looks are not everything. Especially when his father has been described to me as having been dashing. And George is a sensible boy.”

“He is,” Darcy said, softening Bingley’s anxious look. “Very sensible. He is set on Oxford as soon as he can manage it.”

“Oxford?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Probably for all the reasons we think.” Mr. Wickham’s alma mater, like Darcy’s, had been Cambridge. “Besides the fact that Oxford was his grandfather’s University,” he said, referring to Mr. Bennet.

Done for the day, they set a time for next week, a day before the party.

“Am I inviting the Maddoxes?” Mr. Townsend asked.

“Only if you want to be eating fowl for months,” Darcy said. “That is if you invite Her Highness.”

“I wasn’t going to say it,” Bingley said. “Though, given the celebrations afterward, it might not be a bad idea.”

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

The Collins family arrived in time for services on Sunday, and for Mrs. Collins to spend time with her parents and her sister, now married to another retired soldier (perhaps England’s most popular occupation). Trailing them were their four daughters, who were no doubt loved with the same subtle frustration that Mr. Bennet had loved all his unmarried daughters. Nobody dared to say “The Bennet Curse” in earshot of either of them.

Indeed, the dynamics had changed much since Mr. Collins’ last visit to Longbourn, over twelve years prior. He still stood to inherit Longbourn, but whether he would have the finances to keep it up was an unanswered question. If he died without a son, the entail would die with him, and the property would be sold, presumably to Joseph Bennet (who could not inherit because of his illegitimacy). In fact, Mr. Collins’ benefactor was none other than Mr. Darcy, master of Rosings, who set his pay. Fortunately Mrs. Darcy and Charlotte Collins remained friends despite the change in fortunes, and Mr. Collins was in no great financial trouble. In fact, he was no longer even obligated to give regular sermons, to the secret relief of everyone in Kent. He spent most of his days gardening.

Mr. Collins had not changed in his desire to please his patron and patroness with a deluge of compliments. Fortunately a plan was quickly discovered to divert this; Mr. Bingley trained Monkey to jump at Mr. Collins whenever the vicar started speaking to Darcy, who thanked Bingley profusely but stopped short of saying he had any other tolerance for that creature.

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

Final arrivals included the earl of Fitzwilliam, his wife, and three-year-old son Henry. The Kincaids sent their regrets, but Lady Georgiana could not be expected to travel so far with a newborn. At last the Maddoxes arrived, all four adults and all three children, with one lost Japanese thug in tow. True to Darcy’s predictions, Prince and Princess Maddox were happy to join the hunting party, and Her Highness felled what seemed like an entire flock of pigeons. Brian brought a gigantic painted bow and succeeded in hitting many trees and other relatively wide, inanimate objects. His wife was all encouragement. Needless to say, the Bennet feast was not lacking in game meat.

Mr. Bennet was in high spirits, and just about everyone joined him as they sat down to a massive luncheon while their children played outside, in theory under watch by an army of nurses as the adults toasted his good health.

Outside, one adult refused to sit down for a long dinner with a bunch of barbarians, and instead slept off his own meal (which had been considerable) and drink (also considerable) against a tree while the smaller children tugged at his feet. “Mr. Mugen! Mr. Mugen.”

“Go ‘way,” he said, lifting his leg and taking little Cassandra Darcy on a ride as she grabbed his ankle. “Little gaijin.”

“Why do you wear sandals?”

“Why do you have tattoos?”

“Can you see like normal people?”

“Can I get a tattoo?”

“Can I see your sword?”

“Do you have a wife?”

“Do Japan people get married?”

“My dad says you’re a convict. What does that mean?”

“How old are you?”

“Can you carry me on your back?”

He moaned and opened his eyes to the little children. “Ugh. Children loud. You know what children do in Japan?”

“No!” they collectively shouted.

“Children scrub floors! Like servants! You want be in Japan?”

The children screamed and ran away, or at least the youngest and most gullible did, to be amused by the next (and less cranky) thing. Mugen went back to sleep.

The older children had gathered by the fence, which was as far as they were allowed to go without supervision. Anyone over seven had the air of authority and tried to shoo away their younger cousins.

“So, when Grandfather dies, Mr. Collins gets all of this?” Charles Bingley (the third) asked, gesturing to Longbourn.

“Grandpapa’s not going to die!” Anne Darcy cried, clutching her older brother. “Geoffrey, say it’s not true!”

Geoffrey sighed and looked to Georgiana Bingley, who just shrugged. “Everybody dies, Anne. Besides, it would be weird if everybody didn’t. There would be too many people.”

“She’s right,” Geoffrey said to his sister.

“It’s still not fair,” Charles said. “Someone should decide who gets Longbourn. It shouldn’t just go to Mr. Collins because he’s Mr. Collins.”

“That is the way it works,” said George, who was sitting on the fence. “You shouldn’t talk. You get Kirkland.”

“Of course I get Kirkland. What do you mean?”

George huffed with authority. “You get Kirkland and Edmund doesn’t, because you’re older.”

“What about Georgie? What if she wanted Kirkland?”

“She can’t have it. She’s a girl.” This earned him a cold stare from Georgiana. “It’s just the way the law works.”

“You don’t know everything, you know,” Geoffrey said, in some attempt to soothe Georgiana. “Just because you’re older.”

“Fine. Look it up. Or ask your father.”

“Why can’t we make a system where everyone takes what they want?” Charles said.

“Because then we’d be barbarians,” George replied, but was ignored.

“Fine!” Geoffrey said. “I’m gonna take Kirkland then because my dad can beat up your dad.”

“He cannot!”

“Can to!”

“His arm doesn’t even work!”

“His hand,” Geoffrey corrected. “And your dad doesn’t even fence.”

“He shoots.”

“Stop it!” Anne shouted. “Our dads would never fight. And Dr. Maddox wouldn’t fight because he can’t see, so if we all had to fight, Mr. Bradley would win. So he gets everything!”

“He has one eye,” Frederick Maddox said, referring to Mr. Bradley. “My dad has two, and they sort of work, so my dad wins.”

“At what? He doesn’t fight and he doesn’t shoot,” Geoffrey said.

“Shut up!” Frederick said, already angry. “He could beat up your dad! He’s taller!”

“No he couldn’t!”

“Yes he could!”

This quickly devolved into shouting, and eventually, Frederick threw a punch. Not a particularly good one (he was eight), but it didn’t even connect before he fell on his back, and Geoffrey Darcy was knocked into the soft grass. Georgiana Bingley had gotten between them and instantaneously taken them both.

“Stop fighting!” she said. “Or I’ll beat you all up! And then ... I take everything!” She turned to the stunned George. “And don’t even say it because I’ll throw you over that fence faster than you can finish your sentence!”

“She’ll do it ... too,” Geoffrey said from the ground.

There was a scared silence, and then finally, clapping.

“Good, good,” Mugen said, shambling into the crowd as the boys picked themselves up. He patted Georgie on the head. “Now, children stop fighting. Is no reason. Your parents all weak. Huge wimps. I beat them all, take everything.”

“... I told you guys it doesn’t work like that,” George said with a gulp.

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

The long day of feasting, chatting, gossiping, and herding the children (and some of the more inebriated adults) ended with a fiery crescendo of fireworks, supplied by Bingley and Brian Maddox. Mugen insisted that lighting the Chinese rockets would be “no big deal” until one blew up in his face, and he ended up dunking it in the pig trough to cool it. In the end he had only some ashes irritating his eyes to contend with, as it had been a very small rocket, but the rest of them were handled with much care. The children were allowed to stay up for the show, including the final one that vaguely made the shape of a dragon in its red and purple journey to the sky. Slowly they were all put to bed, and the servants dismissed for their own party (as they did certainly deserve one), leaving those adults still awake and aware to quietly enjoy the evening of one very long and memorable day.

“Thank you all for joining me,” Mr. Bennet said in a final toast. “I doubt I shall turn seventy again, but with any luck, I will hit another nice round number and still have enough wits to realize it.” With that he retired, his tightly held wife by his side.

“Perhaps there will be another Bennet after all,” Darcy whispered to Elizabeth, who colored and swatted him.

“What there won’t be is another Darcy tonight,” she said, kissing him. “I am off to bed.”

“I will be there soon enough,” he said, holding back his yawn until she was gone. He really was getting older. He looked around; Bingley was asleep in the armchair, with Monkey curled up on his head, having made a bed out of his hair. Dr. and Mrs. Maddox had retired after their children were all put down. Nadezhda was doing some embroidery while Brian stoked the fire.

“Mr. Maddox,” he said, approaching him.

“Mr. Darcy,” he bowed. “You have the good fortune of being limited in your spirit intake, or you would be already asleep and dreading tomorrow morning like the rest of us.”

“This is true,” he said. “I heard a rumor from Bingley that you are to the Continent soon.”

“Yes, for business. Nady and I are going to France to make a deal with a vendor. And she has never seen Paris. Why do you ask?” Even at his least alertness, Brian Maddox had developed a knack for knowing when something was on the wind.

“Is there any chance you have an interest in visiting Spain, if you are taking your company’s ship?”

“It could be arranged,” he said in a lowered voice. “What is it?”

“There was some kind of error with the bank in Madrid that supplies my brother with his income. Apparently the money never made it there. I’m not overly concerned about the money and I’m sure it will be sorted out or chalked up to a highway robbery, but I wrote Grégoire about it weeks ago and he hasn’t written back.”

Brian nodded. “He lives on the coast, doesn’t he? Very far north?”

“Yes.”

Brian paused, and said to his wife, “Nady, would you like to go to Spain?”

Chapter 10 – Ghost in the Chapel

Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti was guardian of thirty-two souls in the ancient monastery overlooking the Spanish coast. This particular afternoon, his concerns focused on one of them. Turning away from the window, he looked at the ancient mosaics of the saints – Benedict, Gregory, Peter - as the bishop sat in his chair, perusing the documents the abbot had now nearly memorized. Saint Benedict looked heavenward, a book in his hand, believed to be the Rule he had written for his monks. Peter had his hands outstretched and his head nodding down, with the keys to heaven in golden illumination hanging from his belt. Only Gregory looked straight out, his eyes facing the window, his halo seeming especially bright because it was in the right position for the sun to hit it just right. All of them were serene in their expressions – and yet, how they all had suffered. Beneath the altar in their very sanctuary was a reliquary with a tooth from Peter’s head, which by history’s count was resting in four different places. How were they so unaffected in death from their experiences in life?

“Where is he now?”

He reacted from being pulled from his reverie as if struck. Maybe he was getting old. “What, Your Excellency?”

“Where is the monk?”

“He is at the threshold of the oratory, of course.”

Bishop Fernando Valerano of Oviedo removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “Does he know all of the charges laid before him?”

“I was not aware of the extent of them when he was excommunicated. The details should be fully explained and he should answer for them.”

“Do you think he will answer truthfully?”

“He will, Your Excellency. I have no doubt of that.”

“You have great faith in this monk who has disobeyed the Rule and lied to his elders in two different monasteries now.”

“This I will not deny,” he said. “Nonetheless, if we ask him, he will not lie. Especially now that he has been given time to meditate on his sins.”

The bishop did not look so impressed, but the abbot had no way to impress him. Bishop Valerano did not know Brother Grégoire, and probably would have never known him, if not for this.

“Your Excellency,” the abbot said, “I do not think this mess will become any less untangled without the aid of the soul in question. I will not rely on stories on the wind.”

“Fine.” The bishop rose from the abbot’s chair, and though he was a much younger man than the abbot, a former archbishop himself, he moved as if he was exhausted. “Then let us hear what your monk has to say for himself.”

The bishop walked with his cap and miter, and the monks bowed in reverence and hurried out of his way. They found Brother Grégoire where he was supposed to be, on the stone floor before the oratory, in silent prayer.

“Brother Grégoire,” the abbot said as they stood over him. “The charges laid against you should be heard again before your penance is decided.”

Because the abbot was old, and somewhat hard of hearing, he had a bench brought for himself and the archbishop.

“As you know, it was made known to us that a noblewoman who shall for these purposes remain nameless was given no less than 200 ducados for the distribution among the poor of this diocese. How we came upon this information is not relevant,” the bishop said, and the abbot resisted the urge to cross himself. That poor noblewoman, thinking she was doing only good, happened to mention it in confession to her priest, who then reported it to the bishop. “We now also have the confession of the man who delivered the money, a courier who has been hired before for similar purposes by a banker in Madrid. This we have come to understand was done at your command. Is this true, Brother Grégoire?”

“Yes,” Grégoire said, his first word in a day, since he had been sent into temporary excommunication.

“And you are in contact with this banker in Madrid? He is in your employ?”

“He is not in my employ, Your Excellency. He is in the employ of my brother, but he does answer my requests as part of his employment.”

“Are you the owner of the money in this account?”

“I am.”

“And how much is it?”

Grégoire hesitated. “I d-do not know, precisely. It should be – maybe f-four or five thousand English pounds.”

The abbot looked at the bishop, very aware of how his eyes reacted. His mouth must have been watering as he continued, “And this is your savings in Madrid?”

“No, Your Excellency. It is my yearly income.”

“For how many years?”

“This year alone, Your Excellency.”

“How is that possible?”

“My father, G-d rest his soul, left me a great deal of money in hopes that I would become a gentleman in his stead. When I told him before his death that it was my ambition to enter the church, he insisted that I have savings of my own. When I refused, he closed my access to them. They are sent to me every year whether I want them or not.” Grégoire swallowed and continued. “The controller of this account is now my brother, his legitimate son. The account is in London and every year he sends some of the interest to Madrid.”

“Did you have similar situations in your previous monasteries?”

“Yes.”

“Were the abbots aware of them?”

“In Mon-Claire, where I was only a novice, yes. When I took the cowl in Bavaria, no.”

“Why not?”

“My b-brother appealed to me not to.”

“Your brother is an Englishman?”

“Yes. Anglican.”

“Is he religious?”

Grégoire seemed to weigh his answer. “To the extent within his sphere that he can be, he is, Your Excellency.”

“Brother Grégoire,” the bishop continued, “are you aware of how much money is in your inheritance in London?”

Grégoire flinched in fear. “Roughly, Your Excellency.”

The abbot did not think this was relevant, but he would not raise this issue here. He wanted to see how it affected the bishop.

Of course, the bishop asked, “How much is it?”

“It is – two hundred thousand pounds, Your Excellency.”

The abbot sighed for all of them, giving Bishop Valerano his time to drool. Even to a bishop from a noble Spanish family like Valerano or a Roman family like the abbot himself, that was an extensive fortune. When he finally recovered, the bishop said, “Father Abbot, do you have the brother’s petition?”

“I do.” The only reason he had it ready was because it was necessary to perjure Grégoire; otherwise it remained locked in a box beneath the alter with the rest of the brothers’ petitions. He unrolled it. “Brother Grégoire, you do not need to be reminded that this is your petition to join the Brotherhood of Saint Benedict, and your promise to obey the Rule to all of its extent. This includes the chapter about giving all of your worldly possessions to charity upon taking the cowl, or presenting them to the church to do such. In this case, I feel we may consider your said ‘income’ to be a gift from your brother to you because you have no legal control over it. However, you seem to have forgotten what you wrote here, which is that you would present all gifts to myself for approval and any money would be dispersed by the church, and not by you.”

“Yes, Father. I know, Father.”

“Your wealth is not your own, and so you testified in Bavaria and again here in Spain, and both times it was not true. Did you fail to understand the Rule, Brother Grégoire?”

“No, Father. I was in error. I should not have done so.”

“The Rule is not to be taken lightly, Brother,” he said, more insistently.

“I know, Father.”

“Did you not trust the church to manage its own wealth and give it appropriately to charity?” the bishop interrupted. “Do you believe the words of a heretic over the Vicar of Christ?”

Each sentence seemed to fall like a blow on the shivering monk before them. “Your Excellency, my brother – he is not a heretic.”

“You said yourself he is a member of the Church of England, which denies the supremacy of Rome.”

“That is true, and in our eyes, he is. But he does not believe he is, and he is my brother. I will not slander him with such an implication.”

“But by doing so you –”

“Your Excellency,” Abbot Francesco interrupted. “This – Señor Darcy is not on trial here. His soul is not our concern. I will not ask Brother Grégoire to speak ill of his own family.”

Grégoire glanced up with teary eyes only briefly before bowing his head again.

“You will write the banker in Madrid,” the bishop said, “and tell him to send the five thousand pounds to the abbot, who will distribute it himself. Then we will discuss the rest of your ‘inheritance.’”

“Forgive me, Your Excellency, but I promised my brother I wouldn’t.”

“You promised him you would not give your money to the church?”

Grégoire could not seem to bring himself to speak. Instead, he only nodded furiously.

“You did not swear an oath,” the abbot said, hoping it was not true.

“I did, Father. I am sorry, Father.”

“Brother Grégoire, you cannot swear contradictory oaths!”

Grégoire fell on his face, choking back sobs. “Please, Your Excellency, Father Abbot, do not make me choose between my father’s wishes and the Holy Father’s! Please, have mercy on this horrible sinner!”

The bishop was going to say something, but the abbot was sure he was not going to like it. Besides, this was his charge, and even he did not know the answer to the question before them. “Brother Grégoire,” he said, standing up to tower over his monk, “you have sworn falsely, you have deceived the church, and you have disobeyed the Rule in writing and in action, knowing full well what you were doing. However, you have told me previously that you fully wish to repent and I do not doubt it. However, I must instill punishment so that you may see your error as Saint Benedict prescribed. Today, you will return to your cell, and take bread after the rest of your brothers. Your excommunication stands, and you will remain in silence until tomorrow, when you will submit to the discipline of the Rule. Then you shall write your brother, explaining fully the situation, and beg to be relieved of your oath. From there, we shall go forward with the financial matters that remain.” He put his hand on Grégoire’s head. “Have faith in Christ, who hast forgiven greater sins. You may go.”

“Thank you, Father. Your Excellency.” He bowed again, and clutching his rosary, scurried off to his cell, passing the brothers that were forbidden to look at him.

The heaviness that had descended upon Abbot Francesco did not lift as they returned to his office, the bishop once again taking his chair and leaving the abbot to stand. “I will call for a doctor. I want him on hand tomorrow.”

“What about the funds?”

“You had best forget about them, beyond the five thousand in Madrid. And even there, you are chasing a ghost,” the abbot said. “His brother will freeze his assets as soon as he hears of this, if he has not already. The banker in Madrid is an Englishman.”

“Who is his brother?”

“Aristocracy, I believe. He owns a lot of land in the north of England.” He paced, hoping it would relieve the pain in his heart. It did not. “I have let Brother Grégoire visit him twice since taking the cowl here. He is attached to his English family.”

“Even though he is a Frenchman.”

“Yes. It seems Grégoire is the child of Señor Darcy senior – his father – and a French maid. She was sent home to have the child, who was named after someone else in the family, presumably. Despite his illegitimacy, Grégoire was acknowledged by both his blood father and his half-brother, the heir to the fortune. He also has a half-sister he is very fond of, now married to a Scottish earl,” he said. “Grégoire has admitted to me that his brother and sister tried to persuade him from a life in the church many times, before he took his final vows and after the monastery in Bavaria was dissolved. They begged for him to enter the Church of England, but he refused. He wanted the contemplative life and would settle for nothing else. He has been a pious monk and perhaps the greatest apothecary our monastery has ever seen. He has saved any number of souls with medical knowledge he picked up in England. He is all humility.”

“And yet, fantastically rich.”

“Yes.” The abbot put his hand over his head. “There is that. We cannot ask him to choose between the church and his family. It is a violation of G-d’s commandments. Some deal will be reached with the brother and this will all pass.”

But something told him it wouldn’t.

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

“Darcy, you’re kicking me.”

That brought him out of his sleep. Or at least, it brought him to more awareness, for he had not been asleep for some time. He had woken in the middle of the night and had not been able to return to rest, and tossed and turned to the point of accidentally kicking his wife. “I am sorry,” he mumbled, kissing whatever the nearest available limb was. Apparently, it was her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Elizabeth said, stroking his cheek.

“Yes. I just – feel restless.” He kissed her again. “I’ll have a bite of something, perhaps.”

“Try not to wake the children.”

“Is that all you will say to me?”

“Oh,” she said, “and I love you.”

He smiled and dressed himself in a robe and slippers before leaving the chambers, armed with a now-lit candlestick. Sometimes he did have nights where he could find no sleep or had a disturbing dream; some Austrian ghosts continued to haunt him, but he usually solved that with a cup of a special concoction of Dr. Maddox’s. This was different. Finding himself not hungry, he wandered the halls of Pemberley like a ghost himself. The moon was full and its light shone through the windows of the great hall. He used to walk this way with his dogs; how he missed them.

Somehow he found himself in the chapel. He was rarely there when his brother was not in residence. He considered himself a faithful Christian, but he felt he fulfilled his obligations by weekly church attendance and being a charitable man. The candles for the chapel were not lit, and the cold stone made it a soothing room in the late summer heat. Those old castles of the Middles Ages must have been awfully drafty.

To his surprise, he was not alone. Anne Darcy was sitting on one of the hard wooden pews, wrapped in a blanket. “Anne?”

“Papa!” she shouted with delight, and lifted her arms. He did not pick her up as much as sit down beside her and lift her into his lap, which she was getting a little big for.

“What are you doing awake? Where is Nurse?”

“She’s sleeping.”

“What are you doing here, then? Why are you not in the nursery?”

“I was talking to somebody.”

“You were?” His alarm was rising. “Who?”

“I don’t know him. He said he was one of Uncle Grégoire’s friends.”

“Anne,” he said much more seriously. “What did he look like?”

“He had a beard and a funny accent.” She whispered. “I think he was a ghost.”

“What makes you think that?”

“He said he was really old,” she said. “Older than Grandpapa!”

“Did he say his name?”

“No.”

“Anne, darling, you know you should not speak to strangers, especially in the middle of the night. What if –” But he didn’t want to contemplate it, or frighten his daughter. “Just promise me if you see a stranger in Pemberley, you will tell someone immediately. Promise?”

“Promise.” She hugged him. “He was just a ghost.”

“And you’re not scared of ghosts?”

“He was a nice ghost.”

He sighed. She had probably imagined the whole thing, or fallen asleep and dreamt it. “Very well. What did you talk about?”

“Uncle Grégoire.”

“Of course. He’s Grégoire’s friend, is he not? What did he have to say about his good friend?”

“He said he was worried about him.” She looked up at her father. “Is he in trouble?”

“I – don’t think so,” he said. “But I suppose if a ghost said so – well, he might know something we don’t.”

“Are ghosts smart?”

“I don’t know why they would not be as smart as they were when they weren’t ghosts, sweetie.” He rose, picking her up with him. “Why don’t we discuss it with your mother in the morning? Someone is up past her bedtime.”

“Papa!”

But he would not listen to protest. He carried his daughter with her head resting on his shoulder. By the time he reached the nursery, she was already asleep, and he laid her down on her bed, not disturbing her sleeping younger sisters. Only when he left the nursery did he remember that he left his light in the chapel, and stumbled in the darkness back to his own chambers.

Back in his warm bed, with his wife by his side, he finally closed his eyes, but sleep was slow in coming.

Chapter 11 – The Discipline of Saint Benedict

For the rest of his days, all Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti could truly recall of the exact moment he knew something was wrong, was the color red. It stained the floor, dripping down the steps that he ascended.

“Father! We must not touch blood!”

He did not listen to the prior. He knew it was true and he could care less. He did not touch blood – he waded in it, kneeling before Grégoire’s collapsed figure. Even the laymen hired for the job (the church did not spill blood) had already stepped back with his flail, sensing something amiss when the bonds holding down the monk came loose and he lost consciousness, his head hitting the stone. The doctor had declared the young and relatively healthy Grégoire good for no less than ten strokes, but he had only made it to three.

“Don’t just stand there!” the abbot shouted to the doctor. “Help me!” With his own withered hands he tore apart the bloodied shirt for the ceremony, once white, but no longer. His intention was to get the wounds in view of the doctor, but that was not what happened. The poor cloth came apart to reveal the harsh leather of a hairshirt.

The affect was instantaneous. The monks and even the bishop got to their knees, crossing themselves. “My G-d,” Bishop Valerano said, “we’ve killed a saint.”

He would not believe it. He could not believe it. He refused. Instead he reached for a pulse. He did not have the words of adequate praise for Christ when he found one. “Almost, Your Excellency, but not quite. Now we must save one, or we are all damned.”

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

“Father,” said Brother Martin, “please.” He held up a change of robes.

This shook the abbot from his stupor enough to realize it might be prudent to change from his blood-soaked robe. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“The brothers – we have circulated a petition that we might fast for Brother Grégoire’s recovery until he is out of danger.”

Normally he would be hesitant to have an entire abbey of lethargic, hungry monks, but this time he answered with no hesitation, “Yes, of course.”

He stood up from the bench outside Grégoire’s cell for the first time since the door had been closed and the doctor set to work and returned to his own, where he changed his robe. The old one would probably have to be discarded. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” he said in the darkness before returning to his vigil. The bishop had said nothing, but removed his cap and was pacing nervously.

Finally the door was opened, and the abbot saw himself in, closing the door behind him. Grégoire was on his mattress, asleep or unconscious on his side. He was wearing nothing above his waist and his back was covered in bandages.

The doctor was still cleaning his hands of blood. “Father.”

“Doctor. Will he live?”

“I’ve done all I can, Father. I’ve sewn him, but his flesh was weak – from the uhm, shirt, I presume.” He was clearly out of his element with this, even though he had treated many punished monks. “He lost a lot of blood; probably too much. As soon as he wakes, he should drink something.”

The abbot nodded numbly. “How long do you suspect he was wearing the cilicium?”

“I-I do not know, Father. There is no way to tell.”

“But – it was not recently.”

“No. He has scars from it on his chest. He must have been wearing it for – a year, at least.” He whispered, “Father, I beg you, if I had known –”

“We would have suspended the sentence, of course. But we did not know. G-d, I did not know. Brother Grégoire, why did you prescribe your own penance? Why did you not tell me?” He looked at the still monk, and then up at the doctor. “You have my blessing for all of your work, Doctor. We will call you again for the stitches to come out, yes?”

“Yes. In two weeks. There were – a lot of them.” He bowed, and excused himself as quickly as possible.

Not ready to face the bishop, his flock, or anyone else, Abbot Francesco knelt beside Grégoire. He knew of the boy’s flagellant history, but Grégoire said he stopped that when he became a Benedictine. Apparently, he found a new way to torture his flesh. The abbot watched him breathe taking the young hand in his old, withered one. “What great sin have you done, to deserve this? What are you fortifying yourself against? You are no service to the Holy Spirit as a dead man, my son.” He smoothed over the tangled bits of Grégoire’s curly brown hair. “I swear if you are good enough to us to survive, I will do everything in my power to protect you – from the bishop, from the church.” He bowed his head. “And from yourself.”

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

When they rose the next morning for Vigils, Prior Pullo, who had the last watch, reported that Grégoire had briefly woken enough to take water and some soup, but had said nothing. Nonetheless there was much rejoicing, and they all broke their fast together, though they ate in silence.

The abbot was on his way to visit Grégoire’s cell after Sext when he was called to inspect gifts for the abbey. He came to the door keep to find baskets of goods – cheeses, milk, fresh fruit and vegetables. “From the villagers,” said the doorkeeper. “They’ve been leaving them all day, for Brother Grégoire.”

“Who told them?” he said.

“I don’t know, Father. No one’s been in or out all day.” He shrugged. “Perhaps they suspect something because he’s not been visiting the people for the last few days. They might think he is ill or something.”

He nodded. “Bring the baskets inside. And if anyone comes to ask, tell them nothing. We do not want idle rumors.”

“Of course, Father.”

In the evening, Grégoire woke again. The abbot was watching this time. It was obvious the monk was in too much pain to speak, but again they forced him to drink broth, and a bit of the milk from the villagers. They called the doctor again, and he prescribed a mix of items mashed in water for him to drink.

The abbot spent much of his time in the chapel. The weight on his soul pressed down on his chest, making it almost hard to breathe.

“Father.” It was Brother Marcus. “I was changing his sheets because they were soaked and –”

“And what?”

The monk held up the white sheet. The blood stains formed a broken cross, but a cross nonetheless. The abbot rose quickly and pulled the sheet away from him. “Say nothing of this.”

“But Father –”

“Nothing. No talk of miracles.”

“There is already talk of miracles.”

“No more talk, then. I forbid it.” He put his hand on the shoulder of the confused monk. “Trust me. It is better for Brother Grégoire if he is not spoken of in this manner. No good will come of it.”

The monk nodded and left. The abbot went to the cellars, and burned the sheet. “Don’t do this to yourself,” he said to Grégoire afterwards. “You will bring a whirlwind down on your head.” Grégoire had no response; his eyes weren’t open. “When you wake, I will tell you everything terrible of this world. You must protect your own soul from it, and not in this manner.”

Sadly, there were abbey matters that could not be stalled any longer, and on the third day, he returned to the paperwork and the mundane parts of being the abbot of a large monastery. It was then that the bishop, who had no doubt been plagued by thoughts of his own, intruded.

“I am to report to the Archbishop.”

“Please do not,” the abbot said. “I beg of you. Let Brother Grégoire speak for himself first.”

“He should at least hear.”

“There is too much to hear. It is all talk.”

“If Grégoire is a saint –”

“I don’t want to hear that word!” the abbot shouted. “I have told people not to speak it – why don’t they listen to me?”

“Do you believe it?”

He looked away. “It is not the point. If it goes beyond these walls it will go straight to Rome, and Brother Grégoire will never hear the end of it. The church always needs another saint.”

“And you think that is a bad thing?”

“You forget, Your Excellency, that I was once Archbishop of Oviedo, and before that, a bishop in Rome. I will not have him sent to the wolves. He is just a young monk who is overzealous in the mortification of the flesh. Besides, it is useless to even speak of sainthood before he’s been dead decades, except for political gain.” He eyed the bishop. “Do not report to the Archbishop.”

“I must.”

“Then do not say anything of significance. The investigation is ongoing. That is not a lie.”

“I will say as I please, Father Abbot.”

He went to leave, but the abbot said to his departing back, “I will do everything to protect my charge, even if it means going against you.”

“You overstep yourself, Father.”

“Perhaps. You are a bishop and a friend of the new Archbishop – who was once a bishop under me. You may do as you please, Your Excellency. And I will do everything I can to save the soul I almost destroyed.”

The bishop did not respond as he left. The abbot put his head in his hands and wept, only to be interrupted by Brother Martin storming in without knocking. “Father – he is awake.”

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

It took all of Abbot Francesco’s strength to compose himself to kneel beside the bedding of Brother Grégoire, who was being helped to finish off the last of his daily tonic.

“You may speak,” the abbot said. “The excommunication is lifted. Your penance is more than done, Brother Grégoire.”

“Then why do I feel otherwise, Father?”

“That blame lies with us, Brother. How long were you wearing the cilicium?”

Grégoire was not in the most alert of states, and paused before answering. “It must be – three years now, as much as I could stand it.”

“And for what sin were you repenting, Brother Grégoire?”

“Violating my oath of celibacy, Father Abbot.”

“You only did this once? The time you confessed to me of in Munich?”

Grégoire nodded.

“You confessed and were forgiven.” The abbot sighed. “Brother, you have given yourself to G-d, body and soul. It is not for you to decide when you are forgiven. The only thing you are guilty of is not understanding the extent of G-d’s Grace. Not something many grapple with, but dangerous nonetheless.”

Grégoire closed his eyes and said nothing.

“You are to wear an undershirt until you are fully healed of your wounds. Everything else, we will leave to G-d until you recover. Now rest, Brother.”

But Grégoire was already asleep.

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

When Grégoire was ready to stand and walk again, there was no lack of offers to help him to the chapel. The abbot and the bishop watched as he uneasily took his first steps out of his cell in a week, one hand on the wall and the other arm being held up by Brother Martin. Whether the monks following him were doing it in brotherhood or in worship was debatable, but he seemed unaware of it. He only gazed at the gifts lined up along the wall in confusion.

“From the villagers, Brother Grégoire,” Prior Pullo explained. “You have been missed.”

He nodded, not completely comprehending.

The reading for the day was from the Letters to the Corinthians. The abbot wondered if there was anyone who could not help but be distracted. Grégoire himself was nodding off at various points, and did not break bread with them, already exhausted. The next day he made it to two services, and it seemed as though he was on his way to finally mending. Still he said little unless spoken to, either because he was distracted by pain or addled by his experiences.

“Do you remember anything between your injuries and when I spoke to you days later?” the abbot said in privacy.

“I remember ... an anvil. And fire.”

“Brimstone?”

“No. Just fire.” He played with his rosary. “Am I still to write to my brother?”

“It will be sorted out in time,” the abbot assured him. “There is no need to worry of it now.”

“I would like to see the ocean. May I have leave to sit outside?”

“Of course, Brother Grégoire.”

The next day the weather was fine, and the brothers helped him venture outside the abbey doors and sat him in a chair overlooking the coast. He was on the other side of the abbey, and therefore not there to hear the procession with the arrival of the Archbishop of Oviedo.

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

The Archbishop was a Spanish native and a Dominican, like Bishop Valerano. He had been bishop when the abbot was assigned to the post of Archbishop, a requested transfer from Rome, and had been raised when the abbot requested another transfer to a monastery. The Archbishop still looked to the abbot with some reverence as he listened to all of the facts of the case, repeated to him again, including all that had occurred since the writing of the bishop’s letter to him.

“If all you say is true,” he concluded, “then he must go to Rome.”

“No,” the abbot said. “Please, Your Excellency. He is my charge and I do not believe it best for him.”

“Surely a pilgrimage, at least,” the bishop suggested.

“He has already made a pilgrimage to Rome, some years ago,” the abbot said. “He still wears the cross purchased at St. Peter’s Square.”

The Archbishop rubbed his chin. “What does the brother think?”

“He is not aware of it. He is not in a condition to comprehend it, I think. His wounds are still very great.” The abbot also knew that Grégoire would humbly bow to the authority of the Archbishop. His mind was weakened and confused.

“With respect, Father, I do not come rushing for every monk who disobeys your Rule,” the Archbishop said. “Let him come and speak for himself.”

G-d Save him, the abbot prayed. I am throwing him to their den. But still the hierarchy had to be respected, and he requested that Grégoire be retrieved. After some time, the monk entered, his shuffle lopsided.

“Please,” the Archbishop said. “Be seated, Brother Grégoire.”

Hesitating at first, Grégoire took the wooden seat across from the abbot’s chair, in which the Archbishop sat while the others stood.

“Brother Grégoire,” the Archbishop began, “upon reviewing your case, we believe it is in your best interest to make a pilgrimage to Rome as soon as you are able, and perhaps be transferred to a monastery in the Papal lands.”

Grégoire instinctively looked up at his abbot, who quietly shook his head. “Your ... Your Excellency. I have – already been to Rome.”

“Not everyone makes the journey but once. Some people even live there. Like your Father Abbot, before his residency here.” The Archbishop continued, “You should consider what is the best interest of your soul, Brother Grégoire. You will consider it for as long as you need to decide. Do you understand?”

“I –” He was struggling to keep his eyes open. “I – Father?”

“Yes?”

Grégoire motioned for him to come over, and whispered in his ear. Alarmed, the abbot put his hand against Grégoire’s forehead. “Excuse us, your Excellencies. Brother Grégoire is not well.”

“What did he say?” the bishop insisted as the abbot raised Grégoire from his seat.

“He said he needed to be ill, Your Excellency,” the abbot said. “That is your answer for now. Be satisfied with it.”

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

The doctor was called as the brothers tried to soothe Grégoire’s raging fever with cold cloths. The abbot refused to leave his side, and said his prayers in the cell with Grégoire instead of with the chorus. “I have failed you again, Brother.”

Finally the doctor arrived, and this time the abbot did not leave the room, and saw the extent of the damage himself. The lacing had gone bad, and his wounds were infected, and had to be reopened and sewn all over again. The abbot silently questioned the competency of this local surgeon, but now it was not an issue. There was no one else in the area, and Grégoire could not be moved. When the doctor cut the old lacing, the wounds reopened and blood poured out with a foul stench. Grégoire, fortunately, was unconscious.

L-rd, how much blood must You take from him? The abbot prayed, aiding the doctor with more clean towels and water until he was finished.

“If the fever breaks, he will live,” the doctor said. “If it doesn’t, he won’t.” He paused. “Father, you do not look well.”

I am a tormented man. “I am an old man. Old men do not look well.”

“You should rest, Father.”

“I will rest when I can find some,” he answered.

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

Grégoire survived the night, and for that they were all grateful, but his fever did not break. It would occasionally go down and he would have moments of coherency, but otherwise, he was incapacitated.

Abbot Francesco had not slept at all when he entered his own office to find Bishop Valerano and the Archbishop poring over unfamiliar documents. “What is going on here?”

“Father, it is good to see you. We require your signature.”

He took a seat and the scroll was passed to him. He read the Latin in disbelief. “This is a transfer. You expect me to sign this? He is not well enough to stand! He might not live!”

“There are arrangements for his body to be interred in Rome.”

“His body will not be interred in Rome!” he shouted, then retreated at his outburst. He was so tired. “When he came to this monastery he said that he wished that his body be returned to England to be buried with his family. Unless he is well enough to testify that he has changed his mind, I will honor his wishes. As for the transfer to Rome, it is hardly time to think about that.”

“Do you intend to challenge this?”

He knew a threat when he heard one, however quietly it was spoken. After all, the blood of Roman senators coursed through his veins. “I will challenge it, yes. Apparently you have both forgotten that the broken monk you see before you is not without his own alliances, church and family.” He looked up at the bishop. “Yes, I am from that Chiaramonti family.”

Bishop Valerano turned to the Archbishop, who nodded. “His brother is the Vicar of Christ.” They both crossed themselves.

“I will reassess the situation when Grégoire is well,” he said. “If he is well. If he dies, G-d help us all, because I am sure we are all damned for this.”

With that, he excused himself, and returned to his vigil beside Brother Grégoire. The other monks had found excuses to abandon their chores and were camped outside the cell. The abbot knelt beside him and kissed Grégoire’s hand. “If you are going to work any more miracles, Brother Grégoire, work one for yourself.”

There was a knock on the door. “Come.”

It was the doorkeeper, Brother Pedro. “Father, there is a couple at the abbey gates.”

“Villagers?”

“No, Father. They speak only broken Spanish. It is a man and wife and they are armed.”

“Armed?”

“Yes,” he said. “They say they are Brother Grégoire’s relatives.”

Chapter 12 – Grégoire’s Cousins

“My G-d it’s hot,” Brian said, readjusting his gasa hat as they stood outside the closed gates of the abbey. “And I just came from the Orient.”

“You were on the ocean. It was different,” Nadezhda said. She was wearing a summer kimono at least, instead of her heavy wool Austrian dress. “Have you ever been inside a monastery?”

“Not an active one, no. There’s not many left in the Latin world.” He looked up. The gates were at least four stories high. The entrance was actually a small door carved in one of them. “This building must be hundreds of years old and still used for the same purpose.” He glanced at the heavy doorknob again. “Do they keep all their guests waiting?”

“Maybe when they show up armed. And with a woman, no less.”

“A good, Christian woman.”

“If you don’t answer to Rome you might as well be a heathen, and worship trees and statues, like Mugen.”

“Mugen worships himself.”

“Even better,” he added, “Your Highness.”

Still nothing. The doorkeeper was taking his time. “Maybe we should have offered to give up our weapons.”

“You can do that, but I am about to bring my wife into a castle of men who probably haven’t laid eyes on a woman in decades. I’ll be keeping my swords, thank you.” He heard a creaking sound on the other side. “Speak of the devils.”

“Hush.” He smiled for the man who opened the door, and the older man who stepped out. “I am Brian Maddox and this is Her Highness, Princess Nadezhda Maddox,” he said in his best Spanish.

“Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti of the Benedictines,” said the man, bowing to them. It was not very hard, because he had a bit of a hunch from age. “I am the abbot here. I understand you are to see one of my monks.”

“Yes. A Brother Grégoire.”

“Yes.” He switched to French. “Is this better, Monsieur?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“How are you related to Brother Grégoire?”

“To be brief,” Brian said, “My sister-in-law is the sister of his brother-in-law. So, we are distant cousins, but Her Highness and I were the ones most willing to travel.”

“Have you come ... for a particular reason?”

Brian’s smile disappeared. “Should we have?” The abbot was obviously in distress. The doorkeeper was keeping an eye on him as if he were to collapse at any moment. Brian glanced at his wife in silent understanding. “We wish to see Brother Grégoire,” he repeated.

“We normally do not permit arms or women within the abbey walls, but ...” he trailed off, as if his own spirit was failing him. “But I see you are tired and thirsty. Please, come in.”

They ducked under the door, taking down their wide hats and entering the abbey courtyard. The place smelled of age – of old stones and ancient prayers. There were monks milling about, finding a reason in their curiosity at these strangely-dressed visitors.

“If you would, please,” the abbot said, “your weapons. This is sacred ground.”

“I was given these blades not to relinquish them so easily,” Brian said. “Surely, this is an abbey. I will have no cause to use them.”

“I beg of you, please.”

Brian turned to Nadezhda and said in Romanian, “What do you think?”

“Don’t be a braggart. Give him your katana at least.”

“Excuse me,” the abbot said in Romanian, to their surprise. “Please. Many people would feel more comfortable if you at least gave up the larger ones, and you will certainly not be attacked.”

“You speak my tongue?” Nadezhda said.

He bowed. “I was raised speaking Italian, Latin, and Spanish. It took only a brief summer in Budapest to learn some scope of it. But that was years ago.”

Brian pulled the longer blade out of his sash and handed it over to the doorkeeper with both hands on the blade. “I will have cause to be angry, then?”

“It is good you are here,” the abbot whispered. “Please wait until you have the entire story to pass judgment.”

Nadezhda also handed over her wakizashi. “Show us to our cousin, Father.”

The abbot nodded and led the way. Brian kept a hand on his tanto as they walked down the colonnade, past monks scurrying about and baskets of food lined up against the wall like offerings.

“Father.”

The abbot bowed to the man with the jeweled ring and church clothing, obviously a bishop of some kind. “Your Excellency,” he said in French. “These are the relatives of Brother Grégoire.”

‘His Excellency’ was about to say something, but he could not meet Brian’s cold stare, and moved out of the way without a word. The abbot turned at last to a small wooden door, where monks were sitting outside whispering prayers, and unlocked it.

“Father,” said a monk in Spanish, rising from his position next to the bedside, wet towel still in hand.

“Leave us,” the abbot said, and the monk slipped passed them, allowing them entrance to the cell with only a tiny window in the corner allowing light in. The abbot immediately knelt beside the bed, crossed himself, and took up the towel, dipping it in cold water and putting it on the head of what was recognizably Grégoire.

Brother Grégoire was turned on his side, his eyes closed, his breath heavy and his face covered in sweat despite the light coverings.

Brian moved over the abbot and touched Grégoire’s forehead. “How long has he had this fever?”

“Two days now.”

“What is he sick with?”

“He has wounds – they are infected.”

“Show them to me.”

With trembling arms the abbot removed the covering to reveal a torn mess of flesh that had once been the skin of his back, sewn every which way. Much of the flesh was green or a sickly yellow, or covered with dried blood. Nadezhda covered herself with her veil and even Brian had to look away, turning instantly to take his wife’s arm in reassurance.

When he could think straight again, he asked, “Did he do this to himself, or did you do it to him?”

“Both, Monsieur.”

He could see why the abbot was so insistent on him being disarmed. He had no hesitation in grabbing the old man and picking him up by his cowl. “You would do this to a wounded man? What could he possibly have done?”

“Please – we did not know – we were in error!”

Brian looked to his wife, but she only shrugged. “I am not stopping you, husband.”

He allowed himself a mean grin as he continued to throttle the abbot, “You are lucky his brother did not come. You know that? He would strike you so hard you would break without a second thought. Grégoire’s wounds are obviously infected. Will he live?”

“With G-d’s help, Monsieur, and yours. Please, let me explain.”

Brian figured he would have to do it eventually, so he let the abbot down. The old man did not retreat. He held his ground, bowing to him again. “I will tell you everything, from the beginning, if you promise to take him away from here. Please, you will understand.”

“Of course we will take him! Grégoire Darcy will not die in some filthy hovel of a cell for any reason, and I have a feeling the infraction was only minor by any standards but your own. Now sit down, Father, and begin this explanation.”

They prodded Grégoire, but he was not near consciousness, and if he woke, he would probably be in great pain. He needed better medical attention; that much was clear. If he could not survive the journey to England, they would have to take him to a major city and find a good surgeon. Nadezhda took up the duties of trying to cool him down with water on his brow and arms as Brian paced angrily.

“Are you all right, Father?” called a monk through the door.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “We are not to be interrupted. Even for the Archbishop, understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

The old man sighed the sort of sigh where the years seemed to weigh down on him, pushing the air out of his lungs as he fiddled with his rosary. “Sadly, it all began with an act of charity. How odd, now that I think of it...”

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

The tale he told was incredible in its intricacies. It was obvious he was not holding back anything, even private conversations. He was terrified of them both, but also of himself, and his own actions – he said as much. “I would pray I am not damned, but I will settle with the Holy Spirit when Grégoire is safe or safely from this world, whichever it shall be.” He crossed himself again. “Forgive me, Your Highness, for I have sinned.” He had no good words for himself, or the bishop, or the Archbishop, explaining how they first sought Grégoire’s money while the abbot remained more concerned with Grégoire’s adherence to the Rule (which, in all fairness, had been violated). The discovery of the hairshirt changed everything – after all, it was the very thing found on the English saint, Thomas Becket, after his murder by the knights of King Henry. Now they were after him, this little shining example of piety, to be paraded around in some horrible political arena beyond his understanding.

“If we just take him,” Brian said, “will they pursue? Our ship is not very far, but we may have to stop in France if Grégoire is too ill to continue.”

“They might. Or they may seek claim on his body, if he should die – which is a very real possibility. And they may get it, if they reach him before you reach English soil, or they could sue with the Anglican Church. If he dies now, surely, they will go for beatification within the next few decades, and they will want his remains for that. An English Catholic saint – it would be a triumph for Rome. You must understand, I was a bishop there – I know how they think.” He paused. “There is one way I can make sure they cannot pursue, but it is terrible.”

Brian had no hesitation. “What do you want done?”

“No, nothing you can do. Brother Grégoire’s soul is my charge upon his entrance to this order. I have the power to excommunicate him. The bishops will not touch him then.”

“Excommunicate? Doesn’t that involve a Papal bull? And damning his soul to eternal hellfire and all that?”

“No, this is excommunication from his order. He is removed from the order of Saint Benedict, and all other monastic orders, and the priesthood. He can seek reentrance at a later date, but only with my permission. His soul is not imperiled – he is not damned. I am casting him out to save his life.”

Brian did not know what to think. It was Nadezhda who spoke up. “It will break his heart. He loves the church.”

“The church does not love him back,” the abbot said. “If he stays, it will kill him – body or soul, I know not which. Yes, it will be hard on him. For a while, it will be impossible for him to understand. He may join the Anglican Church if he wishes, but I doubt he will. He may attend Mass and he may have his confession heard. He can have a life – and more importantly, he can live.” He was near the point of tears. “I will write a letter to him – apologizing and explaining all of this. I hope it will be some small consolation.”

Brian sighed. It seemed the only way; Grégoire’s life or his spirit? It would be broken by this. “What about you?”

“I will face my demons on my own. I made a vow to protect Grégoire from everyone, and I will endure whatever I must to do so. At most, they will remove me from my position, but they cannot excommunicate me. Not with my brother on the throne of St. Peter.” He was not surprised by their looks. “Yes, my brother is Pope. But he is not the only person in Rome, and I have not contacted him about this. This is my doing and I will attempt to mend it best I can. And maybe someday, even if G-d will not forgive me, Grégoire will.”

“I would say, maybe we should wait for Grégoire to agree to it,” Brian said, “but I do not believe we have that time, do we?”

The abbot shook his head.

“Write the bill, and the letter, but don’t sign until we’re ready to leave. If Grégoire wakes in that time, we will tell him.”

The abbot nodded.

“Hang on, Grégoire,” Brian said, taking his hand. “Your brother will kill me if you don’t.”

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

As the light receded from the Spanish coast, Abbot Francesco was so consumed in his writing that he at first did not hear the knock on his door. “Come.”

Not unexpectedly, it was the Archbishop and the bishop flanking him. “There are rumors, Father.”

“There are always rumors,” he said calmly, looking at them over his spectacles. “This is a monastery. We have little else to do.”

“Brother Grégoire’s relatives intend to take him with them. Did you explain they cannot do that without your permission?”

“I imagine they could do that without anyone’s permission – physically, at least. And since they do not answer to me or Rome, they will do as they please.” He added, “If and when they go, they will have my permission.” He held up the finished parchment. “All it needs is my signature.”

The Archbishop read it quickly. “You cannot be serious. You would condemn him for what?”

“It does not matter. I am abbot and it is in my judgment that one of the monks here is not suitable to the monastery. I must let him go, lest one wolf consume the sheep. I am not required to state my reasons, though you are welcome to speculate as to what they are.”

“If you do this,” the Archbishop said, “we will challenge it.”

“And be involved in a long and fruitless political battle with an old monk. Who knows? In the end, you may succeed in having me removed from my post and reduced to the status of a humble brother. And by then, Grégoire will be long gone, to a country where his money and his family can protect him. So you may try. I give you permission, my son. Or you could let this end gracefully.” He did not waver. “Now, if you do not mind, I am quite busy with an important missive and would like privacy.”

Neither of them dared to challenge that. Instead they turned and left him in peace.

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

Brian’s watch continued through the night. Through the door they could hear the monks singing Compline, the final service of the night. He paced anxiously. “How is he?”

“The same.”

“Do you think he would survive the trip to England?”

“Do we have any other choice? If we stopped in France, how long would it take us to find a decent surgeon?”

He smiled. “Logical as always.” He turned at the knock on the door, one hand on his small blade. “Come.”

It was a young monk. He did not know any of their names. “Sir, we understand you are leaving soon and taking Brother Grégoire.”

“It depends on his health.”

“If it is possible, we would like to say good-bye to him.”

“He’s not conscious. You understand that?”

The monk nodded. “Please, sir.”

Thus began the procession, nearly silent, as each monk came in, young and old, to kneel before Grégoire’s bed and kiss his hand and whisper in his ear. Brian and Nadezhda watched from the other corner in amazement. Some of the monks were crying, but it was all done in a very dignified and orderly fashion. Grégoire had brief moments of consciousness but not coherency, mumbling nonsense, and they listened to every word. For the last few of them, his eyes seemed to be half-opened, and when the abbot entered, they opened entirely.

The abbot turned first to Brian and handed him a sealed envelope. “Will you give this to him when he is returning to health? It may bring him comfort.”

“Of course.”

The abbot nodded sadly, and turned to Grégoire, sitting on the stool beside him and holding forth the parchment in Latin. “Brother Grégoire, can you hear me?”

To all of their surprise, he nodded ever so slightly.

“You will not understand this,” the abbot said. “You have been so good to the church, but the church has been no good to you. When I sign this document, you will no longer be part of it.”

Grégoire had no response. It was doubtful that he understood.

“My son,” the abbot said, “remember you serve G-d, not the church, and you can do so in any fashion by leading a pious life. I have no doubt you will do so. You are not damned. I absolve you from all of your sins, real and perceived. Someday, you may see fit to forgive me for mine.” He kissed his hand in reverence and stood, setting the parchment down on the stool, and setting up his ink and quill pen. “God forgive me; I know not what I do.” He crossed himself and signed. The abbot turned to Brian and Nadezhda. It seemed as though he had aged years in those few moments. “There is a stretcher waiting. My monks will assist you. Please, take him.”

“He will forgive you,” Nadezhda said. “He is not capable of anything less.”

“I hope so.” He crossed them. “Go with G-d.”

Chapter 13 - Broken Floor, Broken Man

Darcy had a pistol with him as he descended the hill, following the trail of smoke from the chimney from the house at the bottom. He didn’t always go about Derbyshire armed, but in the days since the war, he decided it was a good precaution. He had heard stories of ex-soldiers without jobs roaming the woods in bands. He was not a man to panic, but he would protect his family, and on this particular mission, his son was with him.

Geoffrey Darcy followed a few steps behind him. He was at an age where he was unsure of his own limbs, which seemed to be growing beyond what he was comfortable with, and his voice would occasionally drop and then squeak, much to the delight of his three younger sisters, who tortured him over it.

Darcy remembered that age as well as any man did – he remembered the competition with Wickham. Wickham had always been the taller one even though he was over six months younger, but that changed in Darcy’s thirteenth year, and suddenly he started winning their brawls and Wickham turned to his own devices to best him in other areas. Now he could look back and wonder if their father had watched their unknowingly brotherly rivalry with amusement or concern. It was probably both.

He said little, other than to assure his son that the awkward age would pass. He did not mention growing up with Wickham, not willing to accidentally tamper with the friendship of Geoffrey and George, who had the fortune of knowing full well they were cousins. George was taller and older, but he took no delight in it, and there was no real rivalry there. Geoffrey was easier with other people, and had his mother’s good nature.

But then again, people change. Darcy could remember thinking Wickham was his best friend. He remembered fishing with him. He remembered learning to ride from the same instructor. How much of the blame really laid on him that it had all gone sour? He had to remind himself that he would never really know.

“Father.”

His attention turned back to his son, who was pointing at a dip that Darcy had been about to stumble into. “Thank you.” Perhaps I am getting older. He was not a vain man – he did not dye his hair as the grey came in – but he liked to think he still had his senses about him. “My mind was elsewhere.”

“Are we almost there?”

“You can see the house, can’t you?”

“That’s where they live? The – “

“The Jenkins, Geoffrey. Yes, this is their house.”

He had spent the previous morning speaking with Mr. Jenkins, who petitioned against the raise in his rent. It was a fair raise – land was worth more and all of the rents went up according to inflation – but several people complained. Darcy’s steward explained all of the cases of complaint, which Darcy listened to with care. Only one seemed legitimate, and the next day he invited Mr. Jenkins, a tenant farmer, for tea at Pemberley. The man pleaded with him – his wife was sick and their heating costs were always going up. They could not afford the new rent. Darcy said he would think on it and return with an answer.

“Why are we going to their house?”

“Because I shouldn’t make a man travel all the way up to Pemberley just because I want to talk to him. I already made him do it once; now I will meet him on his ground.”

Eventually they made it down to the road, and the little house that overlooked a wheat field. Mr. Jenkins was sitting on the porch, and rose in surprise. “Mr. Darcy.”

“Mr. Jenkins.” He offered his hand, and Jenkins took it, but also removed his hat. “This is my son, Geoffrey Darcy.”

Jenkins bowed. “Hello, Mr. Geoffrey.”

“Hello, Mr. Jenkins,” Geoffrey said.

“You’ve come about the rent.”

“We will get to that. First, I understand your wife is ill. May we visit?”

“... Of course, Mr. Darcy. We don’t have much to offer you – “

“It’s not necessary,” Darcy said as they entered the house, which only had a few rooms, and Jenkins scurried about to get them something to drink; they were offered two glasses of very watery beer, which they accepted gratefully. Darcy did not impose on Mrs. Jenkins, an old woman in a rocking chair in her bedroom, exchanging greetings with her as she coughed and sniffled and apologized profusely for not being able to better receive them.

“It’s no trouble, I assure you,” Mr. Darcy said.

“And this is the young master?” Mrs. Jenkins said with a smile at Geoffrey. Not only was the heir to Pemberley always a subject of speculation among the locals, but the Jenkins had only one son, who had died at Waterloo. “Hello, Mr. Geoffrey.”

“Mrs. Jenkins,” he said, bowing.

That duty finished, Darcy looked around the building as he talked with the husband. “So is it just a cough, or a cold?”

“It comes and goes. She can never seem to be fully rid of it.”

“There’s an apothecary by the name of Ashworth in Lambton. He sells mainly tonics, but he has a particular brew for the cough that contains lemon. Ask him for it and tell him I sent you. It’s barely more than a bottle of gin and it does wonders. I use it myself sometimes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy. About the rent – “

Darcy held up his hand. “I have a question for you, if you would.”

“Of course, sir.”

Darcy walked to the end of the hallway, which led to the kitchen with its little stove. The logs of wood that were the walls were held together with plaster, and the floor was beaten wood, probably hollow beneath above the stone foundation. “How long has it been since there was any work done on this house?”

“I – I don’t know, sir. We bought it after we were married and I used to have a man come by to fix up the plaster when there were holes, but he left to find work in London.”

Darcy glanced at his son, then crouched down and pushed down on the floorboard. The other end went up a little. “Your house must be freezing in the winter.”

“There’s always a draft, even in the summer. In the winter it’s terrible, but who doesn’t freeze in the winter? This isn’t the south.”

Darcy nodded, pacing for a moment before halting over a floorboard that rattled when he stepped on it. “Well, I can explain your increased coal use, and probably your wife’s continual cold. The cold air comes up through the floorboards from underneath the house. You need to have your floors done.”

Jenkins laughed quietly. “I can’t afford something like that.”

“I happen to have a very good carpenter who owes me a favor. If I sent him over to redo your floors and tighten the plaster, will you agree to the new rent?”

“I don’t – yes.” He nodded as if assuring himself. “But if it’s still cold – “

“Then we’ll discuss it again, but I don’t think it will be. He’s a very good carpenter. He redid all the shooting boxes at Pemberley and you could sleep in them.” He offered his hand, this time for business purposes.

Jenkins shook on it. “I agree. May I have an extra week to gather the new rent?”

“You may. My solicitor will be around.” He nodded for his son. “And remember – Mr. Ashworth. If he charges you more than five farthings, tell him I sent you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy.”

They said their good-byes and walked out into the sunlight. They took the long path on the way back, on the road that sloped up slowly instead of the steep incline of the grassy hill.

“Do you really have a carpenter who owes you a favor?”

“Of course I don’t,” he said to his son. “And it’ll be at least twenty pounds to fix that house. Far more than Jenkins could dream of affording.”

Geoffrey knew what he was being asked, and counted on his fingers. “You’ll lose money! The increase won’t cover it for years.”

“You’re discounting that the rent will rise again eventually, most likely, but yes, I have just lost money. Why do you think I did it?”

His son grabbled with the idea. “Was it charity?”

“It was, in a sense, but not the same as giving money to a beggar. Besides, if I had just offered up money because he was poor and his wife was suffering, why didn’t I just give him free lodgings? Or hand him coin to pay for his own repairs?” He answered for Geoffrey. “Because it would have insulted him. He’s a working man, son. He doesn’t want to be treated like a beggar. Besides, I had another reason.”

Geoffrey was given ample time to think as they strolled up the path at their leisure. Finally he said, “I give up.”

“There were two reasons to do it, beyond basic charity for his sick wife. First, the rents are going up everywhere, equally, in accordance with the rising price of land. If I made an exception for someone because I felt bad for him, word would get around and I would have everyone at our door, telling me their sad stories, true or not. People talk – they compare notes, especially about the rich and what they do. So the rent had to go up, but I brought down his cost of living – he was buying his wife those expensive miracle cures. You noticed there were a few of them in the bin in the kitchen? And of course there is the matter of the cost of coal to heat the house.”

“But you still lost money.”

“But I bought something far more important – respect. Landlords are always despised because people have to pay them money to live in their homes. A landlord who is liked is a hard thing to find. When Mr. Jenkins figures out the real price of the renovations, he’ll know I did him right, and if someone raises objections to the way I treat my tenants in some tavern in Lambton, he might say something against it.” He put his hand on his son’s back. “It is very important to be liked by the people who owe you money. I would not do this for every tenant or I would not be very responsible with my money, but not every tenant has such an easy problem to solve. So the larger picture is more important in this case. The master of Pemberley must be regarded as a respectable man and even-handed landlord and employer, sometimes even at his own expense.”

“Did Grandfather Darcy tell you that?”

“He did. He was a good master. One of the few things I remember about his funeral was how many of his own tenants came out to pay their respects.” He looked at his son’s expression. “Do not worry yourself – I’ve no intention of giving up the ghost anytime soon.” He gave him a playful shake. “That’s enough for today.”

“May I go to Kirkland?”

“Yes. But be home before supper!”

“I will!” He bowed quickly to his father before running off ahead of him.

When Darcy had become a father to Georgiana Darcy, it was in desperation and despair. When he became a father of his children with his wife by his side, it was perhaps his greatest delight. It soothed his mind, which was tired from many nights of uneasy rest that he could not properly explain.

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

“Dr. Maddox!”

So happily was he asleep that he would have preferred to ignore the call, but it was annoyingly persistent.

“I thought you retired,” Caroline mumbled next to him as he sat up and reached for his glasses.

“I thought I did,” he said, and shambled to the door, throwing on a robe as he did and opening the door just a slit. “Yes?”

“Your brother is here with a patient. He said to get you up immediately, sir.”

“My brother?” His instincts kicked in; he was instantly awake. “Who is the patient? Her Highness?”

“Grégoire Darcy.”

He did not question what Grégoire Darcy was doing in his house, much less England. He closed his robe and followed the servant with the lantern down the steps, where he found his brother and sister-in-law bearing a stretcher themselves. “Put him in a room over there, on the extra cot,” he said instantly. “Is he hurt or sick?”

“Both.”

He turned to his manservant, who was also in his bedclothes. “Get all my equipment together and my surgical clothes. I’ll change in my room in a few minutes.” He grabbed a candlestick and followed Brian and Nadezhda into a spare room he used for minor surgery (scrapes and the like) because the bed was not ornate, only for one person, and in the middle of the room. “More light,” he ordered to the servant closest. “And get a maid up to start boiling water. And we’ll need ice, too.”

“He’s pretty badly hurt,” Brian said. “He can only lie on his side.”

“Align the stretcher with the bed, and we’ll transfer him.” He set down the candlestick and stood on the other side of the bed. “Here, Grégoire. Let’s see you.” Grégoire did not respond other than to shake, curled tightly up as he was. Fortunately he was not very heavy, and Dr. Maddox was strong enough to safely lift him from the stretcher to the bed. He felt his head. “How long has he had a fever?”

“It’s been up and down, but over a week now. We found him like this in Spain. He’s barely holding on.”

Nadezhda stroked Grégoire’s hair. He was a mess, and had about two week’s worth of a shaggy beard. “You’re home, Grégoire.”

“Before I cut off his clothes – where are his wounds?”

“On his back,” Brian said. “They beat him for some minor infraction; nearly killed him. Then the doctor sewed him up badly and it became infected, so they cut him open again to try to treat it, and that didn’t help.” He looked up and Dr. Maddox saw fear in his eyes. “It’s bad.”

“He’s alive,” Dr. Maddox said. “After all this time.”

“He was wearing a hairshirt.”

He stuttered, “A hairshirt? Like Thomas Becket?”

“Apparently.”

Dr. Maddox knew he did not have time to pass judgment. The manservant returned with his tools and he cut away the robe and the bloodied undershirt beneath it, revealing lines of bad lacing, green with infection. The smell was bad enough; he removed them both from the room. “I need help to do this.” He turned to his manservant, who handed him his surgical case. “Take one of my cards to Dr. Andrew Bertrand’s house. The address is on my desk. If he’s not there, track him down; he’s probably at Charlton House. And unless the Prince Regent is actively dying, get the doctor. I also need a surgeon from the clinic with the Royal Society, so tell Andrew that and he’ll know how to procure one at this hour. Time is of the absolute essence.”

His manservant, who was accustomed to serving a surgeon, simply nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Dr. Maddox turned to his guests, bowing. “Sorry for not properly receiving you, but thank you for coming.”

“Thank G-d you’re here and not in Brighton or Derbyshire,” Brian Maddox said. “Is there anything else we can do?”

He thought it over. “A priest, a Catholic one. I honestly have no idea where you would find one, but there’s certainly any number of them in London.”

“He was kicked out of the church. You should know that. It’s a mess that I’ll be happy to explain when we have time, but don’t call him Brother Grégoire, because he isn’t.”

“But he’s not – he can talk to a priest?”

“So I’ve been told.”

He nodded, and embraced his brother. “It’s good to see you, by the way.”

“You too, Danny.”

Maddox bowed to Nadezhda. “Your Highness. Could you watch him while I prepare myself?”

“Of course.”

He had no time for further discussion. He hurried into his bedroom, which he had not used in weeks, and quickly dressed himself in his worst clothes and black apron. He stepped out of the door to be greeted by his wife in her nightgown, leaning on the doorframe of her chambers. “What is it?”

“Grégoire is badly wounded and needs surgery.”

She was clearly not awake enough to fully comprehend, but she nodded anyway. “Does Darcy know?”

“I have no idea. They’ve just arrived and Darcy is in Derbyshire, so I imagine not.”

“You’re nervous.”

He was usually so good at hiding it. “No, I’m not.”

“He’s going to die, isn’t he?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. It will be close.”

She embraced him, kissing him softly. “You’re the best surgeon in England. He’ll be fine.”

“How do you always know what to say to me?”

She gave him a little smile. “I’m not your wife for nothing.”

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

When Dr. Maddox returned to the bottom floor, he could hear the servants in the kitchen, getting water heated for him to wash his instruments and his patient. His manservant was gone and probably would be for at least an hour. He washed his hands in a bowl in the kitchen and entered the room, where Nadezhda sat next to the bed, holding Grégoire’s hand.

“Is he conscious?”

“He comes in and out.”

He took a seat on the other side, removing the cover and looking at the wounds again, trying to construct the procedure in his mind. The wounds were not deep, but they were so extensive that they were dangerous. He probably lost blood when they reopened the wounds, however long ago that were. The lacing they used in Spain was inferior; no wonder it had caused infection. He took a sponge and slowly began to wash some of the areas of skin that were uninjured but were caked in dried blood. Grégoire cried out all the same. “I’m sorry, Grégoire, but I have to do this.” He noticed the rosary clutched in the monk’s – well, former monk’s – hand was itself filthy with grime and blood. “I will give it right back,” he said as he unwound it from Grégoire’s hand.

“Don’t – “

“I promise, you’ll have it right back.” He dunked the rosary in the water bowl, scraping off the dirt with his hands until it shined again. “There.” He took the opportunity to open Grégoire’s hand and wipe it clean before returning the rosary, cross in palm. “Just like new.”

Grégoire nodded into his pillow in affirmation. He was not strong enough to speak further.

“When was the last time he drank something?”

“A few hours now; we were giving him broth on the ship.”

“Then you’re a better nursemaid than most of the doctors I know,” he said, and left the room only to call for some soup to be heated and brought to them.

Only with Nadezhda’s pleading did Grégoire swallow a few spoonfuls. “You need your strength.”

What is left of it, Dr. Maddox thought.

Chapter 14 – “...To Forgive, Divine”

Dr. Bertrand arrived just before the first rooster crow. He was quickly introduced to Mrs. Maddox and the doctor’s brother and sister-in-law, then joined Dr. Maddox alone with the patient.

“The surgeon will be here by six,” he said. “Mr. Stevens.”

“I know him. Short, blond hair?” he said as he removed the covering over Grégoire, giving Bertrand time to make his own visual assessment.

“Who is this?”

“My cousin through marriage and a monk. Or he was, until last week. And no, this is not his fault.” He frowned. “The problem as I see it is if we cut away all the infected flesh, there won’t be much to sew back together.”

“Skin from his leg?”

“Too risky. Too many veins.”

Dr. Bertrand nodded. “His arms.”

“I’m not happy about doing it. Have you ever done a skin graft?”

“I’ve seen it done,” Bertrand said. “But I don’t have battlefield experience with it. They die faster then I can save them at that point. Do we know how deep the wounds are?”

“No, but they’re fairly superficial, I think we can assume. We have to do this very fast. He’s already lost blood twice over this. I don’t know how much he has left to lose.”

“Who did this? This is a mess.”

“Some incompetent physician in Spain,” Dr. Maddox said with disgust. “Twice, too. When the surgeon gets here, we’ll begin. You take from the arm, I’ll handle the back. Mr. Stevens will monitor his pulse and his breathing.” He started opening his medical case and selecting equipment. “Did you sleep or are you just coming off the job?”

“I went home early. I haven’t slept yet, but I will be fine for another few hours,” he said. “Have you operated on relatives before?”

“Unfortunately,” Dr. Maddox replied.

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

By the Brian returned with the priest, the house was up, aside from the children. Caroline Maddox was writing a letter for the Darcys to leave immediately, knowing full well that Grégoire could be dead in a few hours. Father LeBlanc, who had been appraised of the complex situation on the way, was ushered into the room. “May I have time alone with him, Doctor?”

“Sadly, no,” said Dr. Maddox. “Andrew, you stay. You’re not his relative. Wake him up with the salts. Father, this is Dr. Bertrand, who just has to monitor the patient.” He bowed to the priest and exited as Dr. Bertrand went back to shaving Grégoire’s arm.

In the living room, Dr. Maddox collapsed on the couch and called for tea. His brother sat beside him, with Nadezhda leaning on her husband’s shoulder, asleep. “It was a long ride home,” Brian explained, not looking particularly rosy himself. “What do you think?”

“It’s close,” he replied. “I am surprised he made it this long.”

“He is a Darcy. They’re fighters.”

“You realize if Darcy comes home to find his brother dead, we may have to restrain him from killing us both.”

Brian managed a chuckle. “Of that I am well aware, Danny.”

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

Dr. Bertrand did succeed in rousing Grégoire with salts, and the ex-monk seemed to be at least semi-coherent. “Mr. Darcy, this is Father LeBlanc.”

“Hello, my son,” the priest sad. He was an older man, without ornament aside from his black dress and his collar. He put a hand over Grégoire’s, which was feverishly tightened around his rosary. “You don’t have to say anything, but if you have something you would like to confess – “

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” Grégoire said. He was on his stomach, so he had no way to cross himself, and just waved his hand in a futile attempt. “I – I don’t know how long it has been ... since my last confession.” He blinked, his eyes bloodshot. “I don’t know anything.”

“When was your last confession? Do you know the date?” the priest said softly.

“I – it was after the end of the month, but there was also the confession to Father Abbot; I don’t know if that counted.” His voice was weak, his eyes weaker. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned – I don’t know anything anymore. I am lost.”

“I was told about the incident in Spain. You were not at fault. The abbot said so to your cousin.”

“I – it doesn’t -,” he trailed off. “I don’t know what I did. I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know anything. How can I confess?” He was upset. “How can I confess? I don’t understand if I did anything wrong or what I did that was wrong – I don’t know my own sins – “

“You do know that G-d’s mercy is boundless,” the priest said. “And that if you have sinned, you are forgiven. And you believe you are lost, and you may well feel so, but you have a family that will help you find yourself again. They went through great lengths to bring you here.”

“ – I – am I – where am I?”

“England. You’re in London, my son.”

Grégoire paused, not totally understanding him. “Where is my brother?”

“I’ve been told he’s in Derbyshire. He’ll no doubt rush to your side, but that will take time. You have to go that far.”

“And what if I can’t?” he said. “What if I don’t want to?”

Father LeBlanc paused. “‘For this is thankworthy: if a man for conscience toward G-d endure grief, suffering wrongfully.’”*

“Saint Peter.”

“Yes, my son.”

“First book, I think.”

“Yes. You are very knowledgeable. You are not suffering for nothing. G-d has a greater plan for you.”

Grégoire opened his eyes again. “People keep saying that. I don’t want it to be true. I just want to lead the life I was leading. Why can’t I go in peace?”

“That is not for you to decide. That is the L-rd’s domain.” Seeing Grégoire’s discomfort with the answer, he said, “You have this moment to decide to live or die. You have to choose to go on before you can even begin to choose a life for yourself.”

Grégoire did not respond, visually or audibly. He did however remain awake, staring into the space in front of him for some time.

Father LeBlanc removed a piece of paper from his pocket, “I was asked to read this to you. It was written by your cousin, Mr. Maddox.” He cleared his throat. “’Dear Grégoire. Please do not die, because if you do, Darcy will come down here and shoot me and Danny in the head. And then Georgiana will come down and stamp on your grave for never meeting your new nephew.’ Oh, dear. I should have read that first.” But he looked up, and Grégoire was smiling. “You have a new nephew?”

“I had just received the letter – before this all began. His name is Robert Kincaid. My sister’s first child.”

“I see. You seem to have quite a loving family, there.”

“Yes,” Grégoire said, and unclenched his fist to take the priest’s hand. “I – am not totally at full wit – would you please, Father, say the Hail Mary, so I don’t fail to remember it.”

“Of course, my son.” He made the cross over Grégoire. “Ave María, grátia plena Dóminus tecum; Benedícta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus fructus ventris tui, Jesus – “

Grégoire joined him. By the end of it, his voice had faded, and shortly after the ‘Amen’ he had lost consciousness.

Father LeBlanc blessed him again, and stepped out. “He’s ready.”

*1 Peter 2:19

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

Darcy had ridden for nearly two days, stopping only when his horse was about to collapse and to sleep a few restless hours at an inn. It was the same old road to Town, and most of the innkeepers along the way knew the travelers, and the barkeep’s wife said something to him about never having seen him in such a state of distress, which he characteristically ignored and collapsed on the bed, waking only a few hours later.

By mid-afternoon on the second day he had passed all of the major centers before London itself. It was amazing to think that just the morning before, he had been casually breakfasting with his wife and about to go shooting with Bingley when the express courier arrived and Pemberley was thrown into an uproar. Darcy insisted Elizabeth take a carriage; Elizabeth insisted he not ride so fast as to have an injury along the way, as his brother was unlikely to appreciate that. The letter from Mrs. Maddox said she had written Georgiana as well, but they sent on a letter anyway, just in case the first was lost. It was a simple matter to tell the Bingleys, who lived but three miles from them, and they pledged their support and said they would join them as soon as possible. Mugen, who had been staying with them, asked directions and took off on foot.

“He will be all right,” Elizabeth said as she kissed her husband goodbye, knowing full well that Grégoire was probably already dead and had been for at least a day. The condition Mrs. Maddox described was not particularly encouraging (but then again the former Miss Caroline Bingley was not very good at false encouragement, so she made no attempt).

Why hadn’t he gone to Spain? He went through all the logical reasons: The situation did not seem dire, he had sent someone in his stead who was probably wandering around Madrid, he had written Grégoire and expected a response. He also didn’t much care to leave England, but that was besides the point – he would have done it in a heartbeat if he knew Grégoire was in trouble. Again. But he had had the foresight to send Mr. Maddox, thank G-d. That was his only consolidation on the desperate journey.

He arrived in Town barely able to stand, and with his horse in a similar condition. Not bothering with anything else, he went immediately to the Maddox townhouse and would have kicked the door open if the doorman had not been standing there. “Mister – “

He ignored him. Dr. Maddox had the poor fortune to be stepping out of his study, in chief view and ready to be assaulted by a dirt-covered, exasperated Darcy. But before he could say anything, in all of his rush to do so, it was Maddox who said most calmly, “He’s alive.”

“Where – “

He pointed to a side room. “His fever broke this morning. He has defeated one infection; as long as he does not develop another, he should be all right.” When Darcy tried to move towards the door, Maddox grabbed him by the arm hard enough to hold him back. “Take a moment for yourself. He’s not well. It would be better if he saw you in a better state.”

“What do you mean, he’s not well?”

“He had a fever for over two weeks, and though he’s not senseless, his memories of what happened before and since it are not entirely intact. Also, he’s been tossed from the church.”

Darcy did allow the doormen to remove his soiled overcoat and hat, and provide him with a wet cloth to wash off his face. Dr. Maddox waited patiently with him, guiding him into the sitting room and calling for tea. It was dusk now, and with the light went Darcy’s energy, but it was still hard for him to break from the state of heightened alarm he had been in for so long. “What?”

“I don’t fully understand it, but yes. They were very cruel to him about holding back his money from them and the abbot thought he would be better protected if he left the church entirely. Or so I have been told. The story Brian told is a convoluted one, and not because of a mistranslation.”

“But he’s safe.”

“He’s lost everything,” he said. “You know the church was his life. Imagine Pemberley and your family being taken from you for some outrageous reason.”

Darcy, who gladly excepted the tea to sake his thirst – he would have accepted anything wet – nodded but did not understand. So many emotions ran through his head that he could not pick one. “Does he know? Does he remember?”

“Unfortunately yes, he does remember that. When you talk to him, don’t speak ill of the church. I know there is that temptation, but it will do him no good to hear it.”

“I understand.” He truly didn’t, but he understood the message. “I assume there was – work done on him?”

“Yes. I will discuss them after you’ve seen him. He can’t be moved, and the stitches can’t come out for at least another few days, but aside from his skin, he is not permanently injured.”

“I don’t know what you did,” Darcy said, “but thank you.”

“Thank my brother for getting him here in time,” Dr. Maddox said, and left him to his own devices.

Darcy wasted no time charging into his brother’s room, albeit more still more calmly than he was inclined. Grégoire was on his side, wearing a white shirt over layers of bandages wrapped around his torso. He had a small beard, and fuzz on his head from where his tonsure used to be, and seemed only half-aware of his surroundings as Darcy pulled up a seat beside him and took his hand. “Brother – “

“Grégoire,” Darcy said. “I’m here.”

Grégoire just nodded. He was not capable of much other movement. He was pale and sickly, but only as could be expected.

“I’m here,” Darcy repeated, to reassure himself that it was true. He stroked Grégoire’s hair. It was so much like Geoffrey’s. “Elizabeth and the children are on the way, but I rode ahead. They should be here maybe tomorrow night. And Georgiana – I don’t know if she can come, but I’m sure she will if she can.”

“How is she?”

“Radiant. She thoroughly enjoys being a mother. And Robert is ... well, the second most beautiful boy in the entire world. The top prize belongs to my son, but do not dare tell her I said that.”

Grégoire smiled. “I promise. How is Geoffrey?”

“You won’t recognize him. He must be nearly a head taller than when you saw him last. And Anne is forever demanding rides on his back. And then Sarah does it and then Cassandra does it – he hardly gets a moment alone with three sisters who adore him.” Since Grégoire seemed to be enjoying listening, he continued, “Bingley’s children are all well. Georgiana – well, I suppose she’ll be out in a few years. G-d, I can hardly imagine it. She went to Ireland with Her Highness while Mr. Maddox and Bingley were gone.”

“Bingley’s returned from India?”

“Yes, he came with Brian. Didn’t –

“My mind,” Grégoire said, “is a blur. I did not connect the two events at all. How is he?”

“His usual, overexcited self. He is coming to see you – they all are,” he said. “And I’ll bring George and Isabel around. George is – well, you will be very impressed. He looks just like his father, but is growing into a responsible and respectable man. And quite a scholar. Who knows, he may end up in the church – “ He cut himself off, as if some alarm had rung in his mind.

“You can say it,” Grégoire said weakly, “but I have no advice for him there.”

He swallowed. “I was advised not to discuss this topic with you. I know you are hurt and ... well, I have never had good things to say about your church, but I realize now - ” He bit his lip. “I realize it’s not my place to say it, one way or the other. To be honest, I don’t know what to make of it.”

“I don’t know what to make of it either,” Grégoire said. His voice was slowly declining into a hoarse whisper, but he gave no indication of wanting the conversation to end. “I am lost.”

“You were wronged.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I have not the strength to be angry. I just look ahead and see nothing.”

“You are a man with a great fortune, a loving family, and no obligations of any kind. Many people would trade anything to be in your position.” He added, “Metaphorically.”

“I pledged myself to G-d, Darcy,” Grégoire rasped. “How am I fulfill that now?”

Darcy knew enough not to contradict him about what Grégoire felt were his obligations. Grégoire Darcy would never be an English gentleman. He would never settle for a position in the church here. Darcy felt his own despair – his brother was so helpless, and he could not advise him. “I have no wisdom for you,” he said, his voice wavering. “What kind of answer is that? I can comfort my wife when she is in crisis or counsel my son in his anxieties about his responsibilities, or shelter my sister when she needs it, but I can think of nothing for you.” He pinched his eyes, mainly from exhaustion but also because he did not want to show his tears. “I am a terrible brother. I could not lead Wickham to the right path and I don’t even know what yours is. How can I guide you? How can I help you?”

Grégoire didn’t answer for some time. Darcy, ashamed to look at him, wondered if he had gone back to sleep until Grégoire spoke, “You can get the doctor for me. That you can do.”

“Are you ill?”

“I am in need of my pain medicine to sit up, and I am eager to do so.”

Darcy nodded. He did not have to go far to find Dr. Maddox in his study. “My brother asked me – “

Dr. Maddox looked at his watch. “Yes, it’s time for his medicine.” He took Darcy back to the room, where he shook the green bottle and fed Grégoire a spoonful of his opium tonic. “He’ll probably go back to sleep now.”

“I’ll stay with him.”

The doctor nodded and excused himself. Darcy turned back to his brother, who was attempting to get up and failing horribly. “What happened to your arms?”

“Those?” Grégoire said, meaning the bandages on both his forearms. “I think – Dr. Maddox may have said he needed more skin for my back. Or I may have misheard him. Either way, they’re new.” Slowly, and obviously quite painfully, he came to a sitting position, using the pillows and Darcy’s arms to hold him up. “Is it half past seven, isn’t it?”

Darcy looked at his pocket watch. “It is. Precisely. How did you know?”

“Compline. It’s time for Compline,” he said, referring to the monastic hour of prayer. “Will you hold me up so I can say psalms?”

Darcy did not offer any argument. Grégoire leaned on him, whispering to himself in Latin and holding his rosary, and lasted a good ten minutes until he dropped off right in Darcy’s arms. Darcy laid his brother back down on the bed, and kissed him on the head.

That was all he could think of to do.

Chapter 15 – The Abbot’s Epistle

It was an unspoken agreement that Darcy would stay with his brother at the Maddox house. After he had dinner and a bath, he sat down with Brian and Nadezhda Maddox, who told the story as best they understood it, based on what the abbot had told them.

“So they beat him almost to death for honoring his father’s wishes,” Darcy said, holding back his emotions, “and then they decided he was a saint instead and made plans to honor him in Rome against his consent?”

“Yes,” Brian said. “There were also plans to inter him in Rome, if that was to be the case, but Grégoire had told the abbot when he joined the monastery that he wanted to be buried at Pemberley instead of with the other monks in the abbey graveyard. The abbot wanted to honor his wishes.”

“And he stood up to his Archbishop?”

“The politics of Rome are complex. Apparently his brother is Pope or something,” Brian said. “This was the only way to save him – physically – without damning his soul, to cast him out of the church. He can be a layman and maybe a priest, but never more than that.”

Darcy digested this silently.

“This may be poor consolation,” Brian said, “but that abbot did everything he could for your brother. After the fact, yes, but he still did. He was very upset over it.”

It was very little consolation, but Darcy nodded nonetheless. He excused himself to check one last time on Grégoire and headed upstairs, passing Caroline Maddox on the way. “Mrs. Maddox.”

“Mr. Darcy.”

“Thank you for writing,” he said. “I wrote my sister, but I do not know if she can come down.”

“You would be surprised,” she said. “If you haven’t been told – Daniel’s new assistant for the Prince was called in with a student surgeon. He was terrified that he wouldn’t save Grégoire. I’d never seen him so involved in a surgical patient – no offense to you.”

“None taken,” he said. “Thank you.”

They nodded to each other, and Darcy took his leave, retiring immediately. Caroline continued down the hallway, where she heard her husband talking to Brian and Nadezhda.

“I noticed you didn’t mention the hairshirt.”

“I’m not going to be the one to tell him that,” Brian said. “I think it’s better if he doesn’t know. If you want to tell him, that is another matter.”

“I’ve always believed in patient confidentiality.”

Feeling a little guilty for listening in on a conversation (something she rarely felt guilty about), she joined them rather quickly. “What is this about?”

Dr. Maddox looked up at her from the armchair. “He was wearing a hairshirt for years before this. That was why his wounds were so severe.”

“What’s a hairshirt?”

“It’s a device made to mortify the flesh – you wear it as an undershirt and it slowly tears at your skin,” Brian said. “Thomas Becket wore one.”

“The English saint? The Archbishop?”

“The very one,” her husband said. “After he was murdered by the king’s knights, the men sent to strip him found he was wearing a hairshirt, presumably as penance for almost giving in to the Henry’s demands for more power over the church. For his suffering, he was made a saint within years.” He added, “Which was probably the precise thing on their minds after the initial punishment.”

“The abbot was right in sending him away,” Nadezhda said. “Politically for Grégoire, it was the right thing to do.”

“But that doesn’t make it easier,” Dr. Maddox said.

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

As he could not expect his wife and children so quickly in their carriages, Darcy rose in the morning after a fitful sleep and ventured to the Bradley household. George and Isabel Wickham immediately offered to visit their uncle, having not been previously informed (the former Mrs. Wickham showed no particular interest, but that was expected).

“Uncle Grégoire!” Isabel Wickham shouted as she ran into his room, totally lacking decorum but making up for it in affection as he did his best to welcome her, but could only manage to shake her hand. They had managed to flip him on his other side, because his arm was getting sore. “Why didn’t you tell us you were sick?”

“Some things sneak up on me,” he said, his voice barely above a gasp.

George was next. He bowed. “Uncle Grégoire.”

“George.” He smiled. “You look just like your father.”

“I know,” he answered.

“It – it isn’t a bad thing,” Grégoire said, not apologizing. He was just speaking naturally, if in a very weak voice. “Your father gave his life to save me and Darcy. He was a great man for that alone. Whatever ... anyone else says ... is nonsense.” He reached out and tried to touch George’s face, but he needed help to do it. “I have heard from Darcy about you. You would make him proud.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” George said, not sure what to make of that. People either sad bad things about George Wickham senior or nothing at all. It was usually the latter when he was around. “When you recover – will you help me with some Greek? Since I’m not going to Eton or Harrow – “

“I would be honored,” Grégoire said with a smile.

George was observant enough to notice his uncle was drifting off, no matter how eager he was to see his nephew. “I’ll be back tomorrow, or the next day. Rest, Uncle Grégoire.”

“Bless you, George.”

George nodded and stepped out of the room, making the way for Dr. Maddox to enter. Outside, his sister was waiting.

“He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” Isabel said.

“I think so,” he answered.

“He doesn’t look good.”

“I know. He has been sick for a long time, but he’s better now.”

“I have so many uncles and he’s the nicest.” She was instantly aware of shuffling in the background. “Oh, Uncle Darcy, I did not mean –”

He smiled. “It is all right. Grégoire is gifted with the most generous disposition of us all. I won’t deny it.” He gave her a reassuring pat. “He will be fine.”

“Can I bring my cat? Do you think he’ll like that?”

“Perhaps. Ask Mrs. Maddox first.”

She curtseyed and ran off to do so, leaving Darcy with George. “How is your mother?”

“Fine. Brandon started sleeping through the night.”

“Good for all of you, I imagine.”

George nodded. “Is everyone else coming?”

“Yes; I just rode on ahead in a panic. Aunt Darcy should be here tonight or tomorrow morning with your cousins.”

He said in a lower voice, “Is he going to be all right?”

“Physically, I’m told, yes. But he needs support that no one knows how to give him. Beyond that, everyone has to find their own way.” That wasn’t true, entirely; from his first breath Fitzwilliam Darcy had been destined to be master of Pemberley and had time for no other occupation. Younger sons, sons without estates but with money – they had freedom, but little occupation for them. George might be happy in the church; Grégoire would not. Or maybe he would surprise them all. He was certainly quite capable of doing so.

Their reverie was interrupted by Emily Maddox. “Mr. Darcy! George!”

“Hello, Miss Maddox,” Darcy said. “What do you have there?”

She had in her hands a sheet of paper. “It’s a gift – for Grégoire.” Before either of them could protest, she ran straight to the door and opened it on her father, who was just exiting. “Papa, can I see him?”

“He’s just had his medicine so you can try, but he might not stay awake.”

“She seems rather eager to try,” Darcy said.

Dr. Maddox could deny his daughter nothing, and they reentered the room, where Grégoire looked at Emily with glassy eyes. “Oh. Hello.”

“I made you a picture. Mama says I have to learn drawing and I was tired of making pictures of flowers and buildings.”

“Oh.”

Dr. Maddox picked the picture out of her hands, which was fairly well-drawn for an eight-year-old. “It seems to be you and – a man I don’t recognize. He has a halo.”

“Papa! He’s Jesus. Don’t you know what Jesus looks like?”

Grégoire, who had not gone to sleep quite yet, smiled. “Let me see.” He opened his eyes as Dr. Maddox held the picture up. “I seem to be – yes, I am holding hands with Jesus.” It was a drawing of him in his brown robe and Jesus in a blue one with a beard and a halo. “Why are we holding boxes?”

“I asked Father LeBlanc what a monk was, and he said a monk was a man who devoted his life to the Holy Father. So I thought you must be friends with His son.”

“Yes,” Dr. Maddox said in self-amusement, “but why are they holding boxes?”

Emily grinned. “Because they’re going shopping! Don’t you know anything, Papa?”

Grégoire laughed into the pillow. “Why ... why am I going shopping with Our L-rd and Savior?”

“Well, it’s what Mama does with her friends.”

Dr. Maddox had a hard time containing his own laughter. “Would you like me to put it up, Grégoire?”

“Please ... after you show Mrs. Maddox.”

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

The rest of the day brought something they did not expect – rain. It descended on London from the north, so they could only assume the carriages from Derbyshire would be further delayed by weather. A well-muddied rider arrived to say just that – that Mrs. Darcy and children were stuck at an inn until it relented; more waiting, and another restless night for Darcy. He had slept without Elizabeth before, but not in Town when he was so disturbed and needed her. More importantly, Grégoire needed her. He needed to see the children – he loved the children. Maybe he could run an orphanage, he thought. Or run a school. He would enjoy a life of charity and he loves children. But Darcy could not bring himself to start discussing possibilities. Grégoire slept most of the time, waking mostly when his medicine wore off and in what was obviously terrible pain. He would grapple with things later; Darcy bothered him no further. Darcy spent the afternoon watching him sleep, wondering what else he could have done. Maybe now I can convince him to have some children of his own. But no, that would have to be subtle.

Brian and Nadezhda had not returned to their home outside Town yet. Brian had business in Town, and they wanted to hover over their former charge as much as anyone else. It was Brian who produced a letter during one of the hours when Grégoire was both awake and aware. It was still sealed. “This is from the abbot. He said it would bring you some comfort. Do you wish me to open it?”

Grégoire nodded.

Brian broke the seal, revealing several pages of Latin. “This may have to wait. We have your spectacles – we were allowed to take your spectacles and portraits of your family.”

“Can someone read it to me?” Grégoire asked. “If it is not too much trouble.”

“I haven’t used my Latin since Cambridge,” Darcy said.

“I didn’t go to Cambridge,” Brian added. “I’ll get Daniel.”

They summoned Dr. Maddox, who was of course completely obliging. “My pronunciation will probably be terrible, but I think I can read it aloud.”

Grégoire begged for him to do so. Darcy and Brian excused themselves, shutting the door behind them. Whatever was between the abbot and the monk whose life he had destroyed was certainly private, even if it was in a foreign tongue.

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

Dr. Maddox cleared his throat. “My apologies for any horrible mispronunciations.”

“That is fine,” Grégoire said. “Please, I am a most willing listener.”

The doctor nodded and began, not entirely understanding the lines he was saying, but getting the general sense of it as he went along. If Grégoire did not understand anything, he gave no indication.

Dear Grégoire Bellamont-Darcy,

I can but begin to imagine what you are going through, though I am old and I may be entirely incorrect in my wild assumptions, and you may find yourself already well and happily-settled in England. If this is true, then you will find no comfort in these words, but they may not be upsetting either. If my instincts are right, my meaning in this dictation is twofold: to explain fully my actions so that you would know how and why you came to be where you are now, and to confess to you my sins, for I cannot be forgiven otherwise. You have no obligation to feel any tenderness towards me, for I deserve none, but I cannot find any solace until I have at least begun my confession. If you do not wish to hear it, toss it in the fire. I just wished to write it.

I must begin in Cesena, where I was born and raised with my younger brother, Barnaba Niccolò Maria Luigi Chiaramonti, now the Vicar of Christ, Pius VII. To the subject at hand, my brother went into the church, as was our family’s tradition for younger sons, or even older sons if they aspired to power, but he instead became a Benedictine and wrote home about his life in the monastery of Saint Maria del Monte of Cesena. I was never much one for politics, which are the bread and butter of an Italian family of wealth and power, and the quiet life was an attraction to me for the same reason it is to many people – an escape from the requirements of a normal life. My father did not oppose me becoming a novice even at a very young age, as he already had one secular son and two daughters, and the church could be a secular occupation as well as a religious one, should I ever incline in that direction. It was decided, however, that I would not join the same monastery as my brother, lest it be thought that I was merely following in his footsteps. I went instead to San Gregorio (where, coincidentally, was the name my brother took for himself upon taking his vows – your name, Gregorio) and I took the cowl at fifteen. I confess that though I enjoyed the community to which I had vowed my life, I longed for other experiences – I confess to you now, not all were good, especially when I was a man of eighteen. My abbot did see to send me abroad, thinking I would either abandon my order quietly and respectfully outside of the Roman sphere, or I would work out my feelings there and return satiated. I traveled first to the Holy Land, and was blessed to see the sight of our L-rd’s crucifixion. There was no doubt in my mind that I would never leave the church, though I might have thoughts to stray from it or feel frustrations, as does any human being.

I was sent north to the Turkish Empire’s capitol, and clearly failed in my mission to convert them to Christianity, for as I understand, they remain Mohammedians to this day. Ah, the follies of youth.

That summer I continued my journey to Bucharest, where some real goals might be accomplished in delivering messages to the brothers and bishops there, who were in conflict with the Orthodox Church. I lodged in an apartment, and every morning, a young woman of Slavic origins whose name I shall leave to privacy brought me fresh milk. Needless to say, I was as weak to temptation as any man my age, and proved that summer that I was no saint in my first and only violation of my lifelong celibacy. At the time I regretted it but put no stop to it; that was brought on by the order for my return to my monastery, which brought on a great depression. This seemed to surprise my lover, who said she knew many a priest (though, she would always add, none so handsome as myself) who unmade himself as easily as any married man who promised never to stray from his wife, but then of course returned to his home for supper, so-to-speak. At this I dropped on my knees and began to pray for G-d’s forgiveness, and she said something to me which would carry me through the rest of my life. “You think you are so pious – the apostles all sinned and you cannot?”

Our parting was tender, and I learned a good deal more humility from her than I ever learned from the Discipline. When I returned, much to my surprise, the abbot did ask me to perform penance for my sins (which I most dutifully did) but was not impressed by my tale of sinful woe. “I do not know anyone in the church who I would not think to say the same thing at one point, except those who have never left the doors of the monastery since their entrance – and they are often guilty of much greater crimes of the flesh.” He was as forgiving as was permitted within the Rule, for which I am forever grateful.

I had now been ten years in the Brotherhood of Saint Benedict and my brother fifteen, and our father was growing impatient. My esteemed brother seemed interested in nothing but his daily labors of copying manuscripts, and my father desired that at least one of us aspire to a cardinalship. I was feeling particularly eager to please someone, and so against my instincts I accepted a small bishopric near the Papal Lands that required me to often be in Rome, and there I lingered for the most miserable years of my life. His Holiness Pius VI was a good man, but very political, and concerned with Jesuit policies and agricultural reforms, and throwing off the yoke of France. None of this interested me, and all of the other things the city offered me were not to my taste, besides the usual pilgrimage sites and prayer. Rome, as you no doubt saw while you were there, is a city like any other city; it only proposes to be something different, but there was sin there. It was nothing like the horrible tales from the days before the Reformation, of which there remained daily reminders, but it was still not what I sought. I do hear that His Holiness appeared rather unfavorably in some fiction by the Marquis de Sade, which is unfortunate. I would never read such literature, but I would assume based on the barest of things I have heard that he was not given credit as a Vicar of Christ.

It was upon my father’s death that I, when finished grieving, was free to request a transfer. I accepted a bishopric near Oviedo, and as you know, eventually became Archbishop of the region. At the very same time, my brother emerged from monastic hiding and wrote II Trionfo della Santa Sede, and began to speak on it, establishing a name for himself that would be the foundation of his career. As he rose through the ranks of Rome, apparently without being tainted by anything there, I wrote to him of my own despair even at the politics of Spain, and he encouraged me to do as I pleased with my life. Eventually I gathered the courage to request the position of abbot at what is now my abbey. I had dined there many times and spent time with the monks, and knew the former abbot, and was there at his death. It was an easy transition, and I was happy again, and marveled at how I had ever fully served G-d while in a state of misery, for is this world not created to be loved as a work of the L-rd?

My life from then was as you know it, until your arrival, though that did not at first bring a great change. Over the years many monasteries had been dissolved for one reason or another, and I had seen many monks come looking for lodgings, Benedictine and non. You I saw as another child of the world, of mixed parentage, heritage, and culture. How naïve I was, to think there was not something greater in you, though you were in the first year a delight in the earnestness to which you took to your chores.

You will perhaps recall the conversation we had some months ago concerning your work with the people. As to the rumors being spread about you working miracles on the sick populace, I had my doubts for the same reason that you denied them being miracles – people are easier to take to superstition than scientific fact. How strange, for a man of faith to say that, but it was nonetheless true and we both know that some of the miracles you worked were mere coincidences of science and matter, and your wonderful herb garden, which I fear will whither away in your absence. I was not surprised when you turned down the Priory, but I was saddened in the guilty way that I would see less of you, as you were so often out with the people, doing your work there and not within the monastery walls.

I do not know how the talk of miracles reached the abbey gates, but it does not take much of a guess that it could have been any brother passing on information they heard. There were those you should know that spoke against you, but I will withhold their names, saying that you were proclaiming yourself a miracle worker. These claims were so easily dismissed without even your notice; the townspeople denied you made such claims, assigning it all to G-d and medicine, and no fault could be found. I thought then, “L-rd, if you would see fit to continue Brother Grégoire on this path, he would do much good for the poor of the coast.” It was as if I already saw ahead, but looking back, it was the old cynicism of my years in Rome that prepared me for it.

It was in innocence that the matter of your yearly inheritance and its use as charity was uncovered. A certain person along the chain of people in the banker’s employ (whose name, again, I will leave out for the sake of their soul) happened to mention it in confession to their priest, and that priest told the bishop, and the bishop wrote to me.

I confess I understood your motives completely. Your brother’s advice was sound; handle your own money and give it as you see fit rather than put it in the pockets of the church, where it might disappear. (Your brother and I see with the same eyes here) However that is not the Rule, and I must and do take the Rule seriously, so I knew you could not escape punishment, but I hoped that it would simply be a matter of confession, punishment, repentance, and absolution, and some rearranging of the financials with your brother in England. I told the bishop that he would never see your entire fortune, which he did seek, for I knew enough of the world to know that your brother would simply freeze the funds, and be right to do so. I thought that would temper his thirst. I shall never know if it would; the events that followed took us on another path entirely.

The revelation of the cilicium was devastating to me. It was very noble and pious of you, and meant only for the best intentions, and to some extent brought out the best in us, but the worst of us as well. I have no doubt that had you died from your injuries, you would have been taken to Rome and canonized as quickly as possible, but G-d forgive me, I could not see a life so young snuffed out by a simple misunderstanding. My excommunication was the only way to protect you from Rome, be you alive or dead, without damning your soul.

You are not damned. There is no stain on your soul, and you should go forth and live a pious life without fear because of what I wrote on a document. I did not mean half the words on them; it was a protective measure. I bless you in thoughts and prayers every day and will continue to do so, and I doubt anyone touched by your presence here at the abbey would do otherwise.

I will tell you one final thing, which I cannot properly account for. On the day the infection was discovered, a week after the punishment, the doctor reopened his own stitches and you bled terribly, so much that we had to collect it in a basin beneath your bed. Feeling ill myself, and knowing you were close to death, I wandered to the herbarium, even though I could make nearly as much sense of the plants as you could, but I was looking for a little ginger for my beer. There was a monk there I did not recognize, and oddly, I did not become as alarmed as I should have been at seeing an unfamiliar person in the abbey, though I did question him. He said he was a friend of yours, a fellow Englishman. He had a beard and spoke Latin in a strange accent, if that is any significance to you. I asked him if he would pray with us, as the bell had just rung for Vespers, and he said he would pray for you, but that he was sure that by G-d’s Grace you would live. We walked to the chapel together, but somehow I lost him along the way, and never saw him again. I am not overly inclined to question this event, for I was so overjoyed with the news that I felt I had good reason to believe, and lo, even now I do not entirely question whether you survived the journey.

Go and do as you will. If you ever see fit to forgive me for my sins to you, I would be most honored. Go with G-d, Brother Grégoire, who will always be my brother in Christ.

Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti

When the doctor was finished, he saw that to his surprise, Grégoire’s eyes were still opened and aware. “That is it.”

Grégoire nodded. “My mind ... is not fully aware.”

“You’ve been ill for a long time, Grégoire. You need to rest and recover.”

“I have a request, but I feel it is an imposition on your time, Dr. Maddox.”

Maddox smiled. “I’m partially retired, Grégoire. Go ahead.”

“Will you come tomorrow, and read it again?”

Dr. Maddox smiled. “Of course.”

Chapter 16 – Demons in the Night

As the storm continued into the night, Darcy watched Grégoire fall asleep after his evening dose of opium. He did not head to his room, even though he was tired. He saw no reason to get into his bed without Elizabeth, when he needed her so badly. Instead he nodded off in the chair in Grégoire’s room, sleeping uncomfortably for some time before he heard glass smashing, and was instantly awake, his eyes turning to the hazy source.

The glass on the table beside the bed had been knocked over and shattered on the floor. Grégoire, in a shirt and bedclothes, had attempted to stand up, and failed, hitting the ground and taking his sheets with him.

“Grégoire!” Darcy grabbed him by both arms and hoisted him back up. “You’re not supposed to be – “

Grégoire spit in his face and tried to break free. He was not at all successful except in disturbing Darcy, who had to loosen his grip and wipe the water off his face. Grégoire’s eyes were bloodshot and wild, and with his beard and unkempt hair, he looked unwell. “Let me go!” He said something else in gibberish as well – it was probably Latin, but the sort of Latin Darcy could recognize, that of prayers. “Please, let me go!”

“Grégoire, I would gladly let you – “

“You can’t do this to me!” his brother screamed, pounding his fists into Darcy’s chest. “Permissum mihi vado!”

“You’re not well,” Darcy said with a quiet forcefulness as his brother pounded futilely on his chest. “You have to sit back down.”

“Adepto a mihi, vos filius of a meretricis! He left me! Everyone has left me!”

“I am here,” Darcy said. “I will stay here. The others – “

“You did this to me! You bastard, I was happy!” Grégoire cried. “I was so happy ...” There was madness in his watery eyes. “So happy.”

Darcy was getting a little desperate, and hoped someone had heard them, because he could hardly leave his brother in this condition to find a servant to wake Maddox. “You were beating yourself to death!”

“How do you know what it is, pain? It brings us closer to G-d –” He went almost limp for a moment, and Darcy succeeded in lifting him back up on the bed so he was at least sitting. “Even when ... there’s so much of it – “

“You need to lie back down!”

“Subsisto is! Stop telling me what I need! I didn’t need father’s money, I didn’t need it from you, I told you to stop it, now you’re going to kill me like you killed George – “

Darcy swallowed his first reaction, and instead said, “Grégoire, listen to me. You’re sick – “

“I’m not sick! Just because I want to be a pious person, that makes me sick –” He grabbed Darcy’s face. “I can see into your eyes. You’re just hiding – you are afraid. Ego sum non! I am not afraid!” He pulled back, and swung what was obviously meant to be a punch, but it was slow and weak and Darcy easily caught it.

He saw the red staining the shirt. “You’re popping your stitches. You want to kill yourself?”

“Yes! Would that make you happy?” Grégoire said, struggling under Darcy’s increasingly firm grip “Napoleon’s soldiers couldn’t kill me, the church couldn’t kill me; you want to try?”

Darcy did the only think he could think of, which was to kick over the table with all of the metal instruments, which clattered in a loud enough noise to be noticed by anyone nearby. “No one wants you dead.” He pushed him down again, and Grégoire cried out; maybe he was really killing him.

“Mr. Darcy,” said a voice from behind him. “What is – Oh goodness.”

“Get the doctor up. Now,” he said without looking back at the servant. “And bring someone to help me in the meantime.” He turned back to Grégoire, who was still managing to struggle. “I will save you from yourself.”

“The abbot said that. Right before he cast me out. Grégoire the rich bastard can’t be seen in the house of G-d!” He was weakening, having done more in the last few minutes than in weeks. “I saw him. I saw the abbot, I saw the abbot in Munich, there was a terrible fire – he said something about a forge – I am not to be hammered!” He cried, “G-d forgive me, what good does G-d’s forgiveness do? Am I to live or die?”

“Live,” Darcy said as two servants swarmed the room, and after having recovered from the sight of a bleeding madman screaming at Mr. Darcy, helped him hold down Grégoire’s limbs.

“Demons! Oh G-d, please – I am to be forgotten and now damned?”

“You are not damned,” Darcy said. “You are just delirious – “

“Vos es totus everto ex abyssus!” he screamed. “Diabolus genitus! Where is my cross? Where is the Merciful G-d?”

To that, Darcy did not know the answer, fortunately, Dr. Maddox rushed into the room and he didn’t have to. The doctor was still tying his bed robe. “Oh dear. Give me a moment.” He looked at the instruments spilled everywhere. “Give me two.”

“He’s bleeding, Maddox!”

“I know! I know!” Dr. Maddox knelt on the ground and collected his things. “Candle!” One of the servants brought him a candle, which he held under a spoon, but Darcy could only see it from the edges of his vision, so utterly distracted. It smelled like something burning, which was appropriate, until at last Dr. Maddox produced a cloth and put it over Grégoire’s screaming mouth.

“Breathe,” he said, which was not an order that even his patient could disobey. In fact, Grégoire was gasping, and breathed very deep, collapsing quickly onto the bed stained with his own blood. Maddox removed the cloth and put a hand on Grégoire’s now-still forehead. “He has no fever, at least. Turn him over.”

With care Darcy and the servants flipped Grégoire over. The shirt he wore buttoned in the back, and it was easy to get it open. Dr. Maddox had his tools ready now and looked at the wounds as more light was brought to them. “He only managed to pop a few. You may want to turn away, Mr. Darcy,” he said, threading his needle.

“I won’t leave him.”

“I don’t want two patients,” Dr. Maddox said with his usual calm. “Just turn around.”

Darcy did as he asked, not relinquishing his hold on Grégoire’s hand as he waited for Dr. Maddox to work. It was very brief, and Dr. Maddox called for hot water and various other things from his lab, handing the keys to his manservant. “He will be all right.”

“He wasn’t all right a few minutes ago.”

“He had a lot of opium and probably a bad dream.” He looked up at Darcy, trying to read his face. “Whatever he said to you, he did not mean it.”

“He wanted to strike me. He tried.”

“Why not? I’d be rather angry if I was him and you were the closest person available.” Seeing this was not entirely doing the job, he added, “He holds himself to an impossible standard and we in turn unintentionally do the same. He’s only human, Darcy. Let him be angry for a little while. What else has he to do?”

The manservant arrived with the ingredients and the others with the hot water and dishes, and Dr. Maddox carefully mixed a tea that smelled familiar. Grégoire, who was slowly returning to consciousness, was approached by a soft-spoken Dr. Maddox. “Please drink this. It will help you sleep.”

For whatever reason – probably pure exhaustion – Grégoire did not resist, and swallowed it in full. He took another cup, and then settled back on the pillow, not to stir again. Dr. Maddox dragged Darcy out of the room. “Let someone else watch him.”

“I can’t possibly – “

“You can possibly leave him for a few hours,” Dr. Maddox insisted. “If you want, I’ll keep watch.”

“You’ve done enough.”

“I have a patient who thinks otherwise. Now go, and at least clean yourself up a bit.”

Darcy could hardly take it as an insult; his sleeves were bloodied from holding down and practically fighting Grégoire. “May I – this is terrible of me, but may I have some of that tea?”

Dr. Maddox replied, “Of course.”

After a bath and a cup of that soothing concoction, Darcy finally slid into bed. He had taken care to wash off all of the grime underneath his fingertips from the fight, but they still did not look clean. He held them to the light until he slowly dropped off into a dreamless sleep.

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

In the morning the rain abated, and as London began to dry, Darcy braced himself to greet his brother. Not that he was afraid for himself – in fact, he had no idea if Grégoire would recall the incident – but it remained unsettling nonetheless. And that Dr. Maddox had been witness to it – well, the doctor had surely seen stranger things than a delirious patient.

He did not dream of abandoning his responsibilities to his brother, even for a morning. He dallied only through breakfast with Mrs. Maddox (Dr. Maddox had just gone to sleep) in which almost nothing was said finding the door closed. The servant instructed him that Grégoire was in confession, and after a few minutes, a man who was obviously a priest emerged. “Father. I am Grégoire’s brother, Mr. Darcy.”

“Father Leblanc.”

“How is my brother this morning?” It came out satisfactorily emotionless.

“With G-d’s will, he’s less burdened,” said the priest, and excused himself. It only then occurred to Darcy that if Grégoire had said everything in confession, then the priest knew everything of the events previous to this.

Swallowing, Darcy entered Grégoire’s chambers. The linen had been changed, as well as his clothing, and he laid on his side, awake and alert. “Good morning.”

“I apologize for my actions,” Grégoire said, never one to mince words, especially when he felt he was the guilty party. “I did not know what I said.”

“While I think you did for some of it, it was because it needed to be said,” Darcy replied. “Would I have known to handle things differently, I would have. My road was paved with good intentions ... and we all know where that leads.” He changed the subject, mainly because he couldn’t bear it anymore, and Grégoire also did not seem so inclined. “With any luck, Elizabeth and the children will arrive today. They must still be in horrible suspense about your condition and will be relieved to find you very much alive.” He paced as he spoke. “I was thinking – perhaps you would want to be shaved before you see the children. Otherwise, my younger ones might not recognize you at all.”

“That is true,” Grégoire said with a smile. “But I could not burden the Maddox servants – “

“Nonsense,” Darcy said. “You have no idea how good it will feel to lose a beard you did not intend to grow.”

Slowly, and without aid, Darcy shaved his brother’s beard, the sides, though there was some issue over whether those would be done. No, Grégoire was not willing to look like a sensible person just yet and had his sideburns shaved smooth. He had lost weight in his ordeal, and was not the picture of health, but years were taken off his appearance with the hair removed. Darcy was no hairdresser and the hair on his head was left untouched, including the fuzzy remains of what had been his tonsure. “I am no longer allowed to have the crown of the church.”

“‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown,’” his brother consoled him. “Shakespeare. The greatest poet of all time. You may wish to read up on him someday.”

Grégoire laughed. It was a wonderful thing to hear.

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

Darcy sent for his townhouse and the Bingley house to be opened, but his family came straight to the Maddoxes. There was no shortage of tears as Darcy embraced his long-lost wife, as if five days of separation had been months. “He’s alive. He will recover.” He added more softly into her ear, so the children could not hear, “He is having a hard time. He has been tossed from the church and no one knows quite what to say to him.” He added tearfully, “Not even me.”

“The Bingleys are here,” she said, kissing him in reassurance. The pain must have been etched on his face. “They did not want to swamp the place.”

“He will be happy to see them, I’m sure,” he said.

“So he is awake?”

“Yes, but he tires easily, and cannot be moved.” He would not release his embrace quite yet, setting on her shoulder and smelling her hair. “I missed you.” I needed you.

“I am here now,” she said. She laced her fingers with his as she stepped back. “And what do you ladies have to say to your Papa?”

“Hello, Papa!” they said, and all curtseyed – Cassandra doing her best attempt at it, this time managing not to fall over.

Behind them, Geoffrey emerged and bowed. “Father.”

“Can we see Uncle Grégoire?”

“Is he still sick?”

“Can he play with us?”

His children’s incessant questioning was not an annoyance. If anything, it was a relief. “You may see him – one at a time. He is weak from his illness so do not overtax him. Now, in order – “

“Awww!” Anne and Sarah said. “You always do that and Geoffrey always wins!”

“I did not say in which order of age,” he said. “Cassandra, would you like to see your uncle?”

Cassandra Darcy, who had not seen him in two years and was unlikely to remember anything about him, was nonetheless overeager to see the man they were all talking about. “Yes!” She lifted her arms, and Darcy picked her up and kissed her. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, my darling,” he said. “Geoffrey, watch your sisters. Oh, and I believe Frederick is in his room.”

Geoffrey nodded, leaving Darcy to escort his wife and youngest child into the sickroom. Grégoire had had to sit up for some time to be shaved, but whatever exhaustion was apparent on his face at first dissolved with his smile. “Elizabeth. And is this Cassandra? I ... can hardly recognize her, she’s grown so much.”

“Uncle Grégoire!” she cried out, somewhat mangling his French name, which sounded more like “Greywar” than “Gregwa.” Apparently she did remember him, and delighted in playing with his rosary beads as Elizabeth inquired as to his health.

“In the good care of Dr. Maddox,” he said, “and, I understand, a Dr. Bertrand and a Mr. Stevens. I don’t remember it, but the Prince of Wales was lacking almost his entire staff that night, or so I am told.”

“And yet the monarchy survives,” Elizabeth said.

“Much to the frustration of Parliament,” Darcy added.

The children were paraded each in turn, and Grégoire was no less happy to see each one of them. “I remember when you were born,” he said to all three daughters, having had the fortune of being present at each of their births. “What is this bracelet?”

Anne held it up. Her wrist was barely large enough to wear it even with it bent in, and he squinted to read the inscription. “‘To my darling Anne.’”

“It was my mother’s,” Darcy said proudly, “from our father.”

“It looks beautiful on you,” Grégoire said to his niece.

Geoffrey was last. “Hello, Uncle Grégoire.”

“Do you want me to say all the obvious things about how much you’ve grown?”

“No, sir.”

His uncle grinned. “Then I will not. But you are a sight. And I hope I will never be a ‘sir’ to you, nephew,” he said, his voice dragging. By now Dr. Maddox was awake, and announced that it was time for them to let his patient rest. Only with Grégoire’s reassurance was Darcy willing to leave the Maddox house for the first time since his arrival and ride to his own, where his staff was waiting to greet him and wish his brother well. He was not feeling particularly sociable, and nodded politely over a quick luncheon while Nurse took care of the children. Elizabeth, sensing his anxiety, sat with him alone in their chambers.

“He blames me,” he said at last. “He said it when he was out his senses from exhaustion and drugs, but it is true.”

“Darcy,” Elizabeth said, taking his hand, “he does not blame you. He is not capable of such a thing.”

“I have done all the things he has accused me of. I removed him twice from abbeys where he was happy, and ruined his monastic career by insisting on sending him a fortune every year and then insisting he hide it from his abbot. I have ruined his life.”

“You have saved his life,” she had no hesitation in saying. “We both remember the boy we found in that awful monastery in France. Whatever has befallen him since, I am still grateful we found him and persuaded him to leave. Bavaria had nothing to do with you – it was a matter of politics. And this,” she said. “You were honoring your father’s wishes. You were trying to protect him.”

“So easy to explain,” he said. “So logical. And yet he was on death’s door when he arrived in Town. He can’t sit up for long. He can’t stand – “

“ – all of which will pass – “

“He has nowhere to go. He has nothing.”

Elizabeth leaned into him, letting him rest on her shoulder as they sat on the sofa. “He has us.”

Chapter 17 – The Adventures of Mugen-san

The Bingleys were welcomed the next day, and Grégoire greeted them with the same affection with which he greeted his nephew and nieces.

“How is he?” Bingley asked Darcy as the children took their turns.

“Not well,” he said, and that was enough. Charles Bingley nodded as if he understood everything, and went with him into the study as their wives chatted.

To Bingley’s surprise, when Dr. Maddox offered them brandy, Darcy actually accepted a glass. The doctor was his usual calm self and if he made any note of it, he gave no indication. Darcy was a quiet mess, with dark circles around his eyes. It was not unusual for Darcy to suffer in silence when he could do nothing (or did not know how to do something) for a loved one, and Bingley searched for something to say, but found nothing. It would pass, as Grégoire grew stronger.

“Bingley,” Brian Maddox said as he entered, “hello. Have you seen Mugen?”

“He said he wanted to walk to London. I hope nothing has become of him, but I assume if something had, we would have heard some news of it, considering how he’s so distinctive.”

Brian actually looked less concerned than Bingley. “He’s probably fine, then. You didn’t give him any money for the road, did you?”

“Of course I did. For emergencies.”

“Well, you have your answer. He is off spending it.” He smiled. “He will be fine, I assure you. Though, I hope he was not any trouble while we were in Spain.”

“No, none at all. He spent most of the time fishing, or at Lambton.”

“You realize the next generation of Lambton bastards will be mysteriously moon-eyed,” Darcy said.

“Darcy! I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,” Bingley said, noticing his friend had drained his glass. “Anyway, he’s good with the children.

“For a homicidal thug.”

Bingley turned to Darcy, then Brian, who only replied, “I won’t deny it.” Dr. Maddox kept his eyes on his paper as a servant entered the room.

“The Duchess of ____shire has arrived, Dr. Maddox.”

“The who?” Bingley said.

“I think her title amply described her. Doctor, we aught not to get in the way of your profession.”

“She is not patient,” Dr. Maddox said, putting down his paper and pushing glasses back down on his nose. “Has she given a reason?”

“No, sir, but she is talking with your wife.”

Dr. Maddox excused himself, passing them all by to see to his unexpected guest.

“Have you ever met the Duchess of ____shire?” Bingley asked Darcy.

“Unfortunately,” was his reply as they followed Dr. Maddox, and were met with a very loud shriek from a lady stuffed poorly into her bodice, standing in the sitting room with Mrs. Maddox.

“I know you! You’re that man who’s always skulking around Charlton,” said the apparent Duchess.

He bowed. “I am His Highness’ physician, Your Grace.”

“I did not know that! You’ve not been very public about it,” she said. She was decked out as if she were about to head to a ball here herself, complete with diamonds and an oversized hat.

“I don’t announce myself, madam,” he said quietly. “I see you’ve met my wife. Allow me to introduce my brothers, Mr. Maddox and Mr. Bingley.”

“How exotic a family you have,” she said, looking at Brian, who was dressed in his normal outfit, his longer sword held in his right hand. “And Mr. Darcy! Don’t go hiding behind the stairs! I remember your first Season!”

For she was indeed a bit older than Darcy, maybe in her mid-fifties. He did emerge with usual emotionless expression. “Your Grace,” he bowed.

“You were such a shy little boy. Your poor father had to practically drag you to all the dances and yet you danced with no one!” If she was aware of the stifled laughter from the other men or Darcy’s mortification, she cared not. “If I had not been already married, I would have begged your father to insist it upon you – why, you must have been not eighteen – I heard you had married – “

“Mrs. Darcy, yes,” he said, cutting her off.

It was Caroline Maddox of all people who was Darcy’s savior, “It has been an honor to grace us with your presence. Are you making some sort of inquiry?”

“Oh no! I was merely directed here by my little savior! Where did he – Mister – oh, his name is so strange, I can hardly expect to remember – “

“– Mugen?” Brian offered, for the lost Japanese man did appear in the doorway. His clothing was soiled from the road but he was not. In fact, for some reason, he had a gold chain around his neck. He bowed and removed his shoes, which made him considerably shorter, shorter than the Duchess.

“This wonderful Oriental – oh, I am very thankful!” She grabbed Mugen and pulled him into her full front, which he did not particularly struggle against, but did look a bit uncomfortable. “We were coming down the road – my carriage and my maids, of course – and we were attacked by bandits. Bandits! In these years of peace! I suppose they have nothing better to do now that they’re not off killing Frenchmen. One of them was even in uniform. Anyway, I was terrified, and the coachman tried to fend them off of course, but he was no match for six men, and they demanded of me all of my little treasures – even my wedding ring! To take the ring off a widow’s finger – I cannot imagine the gall of these men. I would have lost all of my traveling items which I intended for the theater next week, including a great many things precious to me, but then this man, Mr. Munin came out of nowhere – the woods it must have been – and attacked them – and him with only a sword and them with good English rifles. The same rifles that defeated Napoleon! In fact he just kicked most of them, and came out from it without a nick on his body.” She turned to Mugen, who had no particular reaction. “Of course I was so very grateful – and he was so very muddy from the weather we’d been having, that I offered that he return with me and we would clean him up. Unfortunately we could not mend his Japaner fabrics, but he was a most honored guest! And now he insists I return him -”

“Orewa, mascoto janai,” Mugen said to Brian. (I am not a pet)

“So I’ve given him my husband’s chain – he has no use for it and he didn’t want to be buried with it, so why should it not go to my little Asiatic savior?” She grabbed Mugen again and kissed him, which he did not appreciate, and quickly slid out of her grasp, but with a mark on his lips as a battle scar. “I hope you will bring him to at least one ball while he is in the country.”

“If he wishes,” Brian said. “Your Grace.”

“I know, I must be getting on – you all have things to do – but here is my card,” she snapped her fingers and her maid handed it to Caroline, “and I insist that you come to dinner sometime now that I am in Town.”

“We will try,” Dr. Maddox said. “Thank you.”

They said their good-byes, and the Duchess was shown out.

“You are in my debt, Mr. Darcy,” Caroline said. “Or I will return the call and ask her all about your first Season. Just remember that if I ever have a favor to ask of you.”

“I will remember,” was all he said, and disappeared to check on his brother, and the rest of the men returned to Dr. Maddox’s study.

“So,” Brian said, “you came to the dashing rescue of a Duchess?”

Mugen shrugged, and opened his bag. “I fight. Not get many chances in England.” He unceremoniously dumped a pile of jewelry and expensive trinkets on the desk. “How do you say – for money?”

“Interest?” Bingley said. “Goodness.”

“I hope this was off the bandits,” Brian said, “and not the Duchess’ jewelry box when she wasn’t looking.”

“You take me for thief?” Mugen said. “Oh, you wait; am thief.”

“I take it you enjoyed the hospitality of Her Grace?” Dr. Maddox said.

“Fat women have best food,” was his reply as the others inspected his treasure.

“Some of these have inscriptions,” Bingley said. “They could possibly be returned if their owners are located.”

Mugen looked at him coldly.

“How much gold do you need?” Brian said. “You’ll just gamble it away anyway. And there may be rewards.”

“Yes, rewards! He has a point, Mugen.”

Mugen picked out a particularly pretty bracelet, with jade beads. “For Nadi-sama.”

“She will appreciate it,” Brian said.

The rest of the spoils were divided up into things that could perhaps be traced back to their owners and things that were just random items, which Mugen put back in his bag. He didn’t make it halfway out the door until Georgiana Bingley came running down the hall. “Mugen-san! Where were you?”

“Being kissed by hog,” he replied.

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

It was a while before Bingley had a chance to speak privately with his wife. The Maddox house was sizable for Town but no country estate. “How is he?” she asked.

“Darcy or Grégoire?” he said with a sigh.

Jane took his hand encouragingly. “He tortures himself over his brother, who will mend in time. Dr. Maddox says so. He’s been through the worst of it.”

“The worst of it in physical,” he replied. “What is he supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know. What do they do in India?”

“Oh, he wouldn’t –” He stopped. “Jane, I love you.”

“I do hope so; we are married –” but she was interrupted by a kiss as he ran off to find that Grégoire’s room was open for visitors. The children had each had their turn and then he was let to rest, but no matter what they said or did, he rose with what they now recognized was each monastic hour. His body was tuned that way and would not so easily give it up.

Bingley had seen Grégoire before, briefly, when bringing in his children. He closed the door behind him. “Hello, Grégoire.”

“Mr. Bingley,” Grégoire said.

“Are you too tired for a visitor? And be honest, or the doctor will have my head.”

Grégoire smiled. “No. All I do is rest. Please, sit.”

Bingley took a seat. “I wish you well, Grégoire. Darcy is ...”

“You can say it,” Grégoire said. “I know him well enough. He is suffering.”

“He is concerned.”

“Everyone is concerned. I am all appreciation, but there are pains it does not relieve.”

Bingley nodded. “Listen, you probably won’t want to hear it because it’s heathen, but while I was in India, I heard a story that apparently is very famous in the whole Orient – everyone I met had heard it, even Mugen. The versions differed a little bit, but it’s – well, I wrote it down, and I don’t have my notes with me, but I certainly heard it often enough – “

Grégoire nodded. “Please. I am unable to do much but listen.”

“Well,” Bingley said, settling himself into the chair. “I don’t know the actual story – I heard many versions, as I said, but they were all basically the same. The first time, we had just docked and taken up at an inn in India, and each morning, a man with a shaved head came with a begging bowl, and of course I gave a little something, but after a few days, I had to wonder at it, so I asked Brian, and he said he was a monastic and they believed that begging was a way to salvation or something. So the next day I asked the monk what the path to salvation was, or what he thought it was, and instead he told me this story. It took a long time to tell and by the end I had almost forgotten why I’d asked it, but anyway, here it is.

“There was once a prince, a very long time ago, in India. He was part of their caste system, at the very top, and his father was a great king. His father and mother loved him very much and wished to shelter him from all of the horrors in the world, so they raised him in absolute splendor, so that he didn’t even see someone old or sick until he left the palace and he could not tell what was the matter with them.

“After seeing people suffer, he decided to dedicate his life to finding a way to end human suffering. So he went into the woods, where these ascetic people lived. They sat all day in meditation, eating grass or dung or something, and starving themselves and depriving themselves of all pleasures. He did this to the point of almost death, and even though he had many disciples, he was not satisfied.

“And this is where the tale varies a bit, but apparently, he just got up and left that life when someone offered him food. One person said it was a little girl offering rice. The monk I spoke to first said he heard a woman tuning a harp and said that it had to be tuned just right, not too sharp or too flat. Either way, he had a revelation. The people who know this story and follow him – they are called Buddhists, because he was later called Buddha, but I’m skipping ahead – Anyway, he decided to devote himself to the Middle Way, which is to find the middle path so to speak, and not to live too luxuriously or too ascetically. So he went and washed himself and cleaned his hair for the first time in years and all of his ascetic disciples abandoned him, and he sat under this tree. I saw it, actually. It is very large, and it’s called the Bodhi tree, and he sat under that and meditated and was tempted by the Devil many times, but each time he refused until he attained what they call Enlightenment, and that’s why they call him Buddha, which means ‘Awakened One.’ He lived another fifty years or so, and by the end had thousands of disciples, and now his religion is all across the Orient, with perhaps millions of monks. I don’t know if he really lived, but I met a man who claimed he had seen the case that contained a tooth of the Buddha, and he was very proud to have seen it. He left all kinds of teachings, some of which I wrote down, but as I said again, my notes are still a mess. And, well, that is it.” He frowned, unsatisfied with his ending. He looked to Grégoire, who had not spoken through the entire telling, and had occasionally closed his eyes, but was now very much awake, if very still from exhaustion.

“Mr. Bingley,” he said, “will you perhaps allow me, when I am recovered, to copy that story from your notes?”

“Yes, of course – No! Ridiculous, I’ll do it myself. I have to sort them anyway. I’ll have my man write it out so you can actually read it, too. Anyway, I know it’s all pagan nonsense, but I don’t know what else to say. It’s that or the tiger story again.”

“I’ve not heard the tiger story,” Grégoire said, “but I admit I am tired now, and it is time for prayer. Thank you, Mr. Bingley. Thank you very much.”

“– You’re welcome,” he said, shaking the hand that was offered to him. “Do you need the doctor or anything?”

“No, I just want to rest. Thank you.”

Bingley rose and excused himself as Grégoire closed his eyes. As he shut the door, Bingley looked up at the anxious Darcy. “He’ll be all right, you know,” Bingley said. “He just has to find his own way. And no, you can’t help him with that. It’s the basic principle of the thing, Darcy. Come now, you’ve had too much to drink.”

“I’ve had a glass! What did they do to you in India?”

“They don’t drink. Or eat cattle. We would all starve there, I’m sure.”

“You may have your own obsessions, and even kept your own wild animals – after all, Mr. Maddox has Mugen – but if you cast your meat from your kitchen, I will never accept an invitation to dine at Kirkland again.”

“Are you serious? My mouth was watering by the time we reached Hong Kong!” he said. “Did you know some of them are vegetarians?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means they can only eat vegetables, I think.”

“My G-d!” Darcy said. “That can’t be very healthy, can it?”

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

The final member of those who gathered around the former Brother Grégoire arrived just the very next day with her husband and child in a carriage with the colors of the earldom of Kincaid. Georgiana Kincaid would have leapt weeping into Darcy’s arms had she not been holding her son as he assured her that yes, her little brother was alive and getting stronger every day.

“We came as soon as we heard,” Lord Kincaid said with concern.

“He will be very happy to see you,” Elizabeth said.

Her prediction was not at all wrong. Nothing had cheered Grégoire to the extent of seeing his sister and holding his new nephew in his arms. As he was now healed enough to lie on his back, it was less considerable a feat, and there was a light on his face that they had not seen since his arrival, even when he saw the other children. He tickled his tummy, which little Robert took a serious liking to, and it seemed the Scots were not so inclined to bundle their children so tightly, so his limbs were free to squirm and kick. “You like that, don’t you, little Robert?” Darcy and Elizabeth watched on from the doorway. “What a truly beautiful child, and so full of energy.”

“He gets it from his father,” Georgiana said. Lord Kincaid didn’t deny it, a hand on his wife’s back as she sat beside her brother.

“Can you grip my finger? Yes you can!” Grégoire laughed as he held out his finger and Robert tugged on it. “What a strong grip you have, Viscount Kincaid! What was the name of that Scots, the great king who fought the English?”

“Robert the Bruce,” William Kincaid answered.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Was he not one of the very few Scottish kings who were not assassinated?” Darcy said.

“Yes,” William said. “He lived a long and fruitful life, and did die in his bed ... of leprosy. Which, all things given, is I imagine a bit better than the lot of them.”

“Well,” Grégoire said, and crossed the baby, “that you should live a long and fruitful life – without the leprosy part.”

Chapter 18 – Mary’s Season

As Grégoire’s health continued to recover, the Darcys and the Bingleys retreated to their respective houses; visiting every day (Georgiana and her son were a regular fixture at the Maddox house). Dr. Maddox read the abbot’s letter to Grégoire no less than four times in total before his patient was well enough to begin reading himself. Bingley gave him everything he had, including a few books from the library, and Grégoire read them all, but very slowly. Most of his stay was still consumed with visitors and prayer, as his body continued to adhere to the monastic cycle that began at half past three in the morning and ended at eight at night. His pain medicine was continually reduced, though Dr. Maddox was relieved that Grégoire was no longer ashamed to ask for it when he needed it to sleep.

When he was able to sit up in a chair for a short while, they had a minor quandary of what to do about his dress. Grégoire’s robes had been torched, as they were bloodied and infested with disease, and he had no right to wear them anyway. He found the English method of dress scandalously immodest because of its tightness (and had no shame in saying it, to Darcy’s consternation and Elizabeth’s secret delight at the expression on her husband’s face). Brian Maddox, who was no stranger to dressing in a bizarre fashion, provided him with a suitable option. Nadezhda happily knitted him a long brown tunic, and he eventually consented to at least a cloth obi belt (leather was too ostentatious), and he wore an undershirt that was soft on his scarred skin. He agreed to grow his sides but not all the way down and far too wide, so that in the end he looked more like an itinerant worker than a man of enormous wealth and education. But that seemed to satisfy him and no one was willing to do anything otherwise. He still had his cross and his rosary so his affiliation was obvious enough, but his tonsure was gone, lost to a thicket of brown hair only slightly curlier than Darcy’s.

Nearly two weeks since his arrival in England, he had some surprise guests. Mary and Joseph Bennet traveled from Longbourn, sending their regards from Mr. and Mrs. Bennet (who no longer traveled) and Mr. and Mrs. Townsend. They happened to arrive on the day when his stitches were being pulled, and had to wait some time to see him, but Mary passed it with Elizabeth and Mrs. Maddox as Joseph played with Frederick. It could not be said so easily that Mary Bennet had livened up, but she no longer had the same tendency to go on moralistic rants, as they bored her most important audience, her son. Instead she’d been forced to tell more interesting tales as part of his education, and so expanded her own reading tastes to find them. She did not read gothic novels, but she read Shakespeare as often as Hannah Moore, and there was always the comings and goings of Hertfordshire to chat about.

Meanwhile, Dr. Bertrand had been called in to help make absolutely sure nothing went wrong, as the work was rather extensive, to the point where they gave Grégoire a dose of medicine. He bled a little, but said nothing, and was already drifting off as they dressed the wounds. “An excellent patient as always, Grégoire,” Dr. Maddox said. “He is quite a tough man,” he said to Bertrand as they exited the room, letting him rest.

“Indeed,” Dr. Bertrand said, and if he had anything else to add, it was interrupted by the appearance of an eight-year-old boy with black hair and slightly olive skin.

“Can I see Mr. Grégoire now?”

“No, Mr. Bennet. Sadly, you will have to wait a bit longer, as he is resting. And where are your manners?” Dr. Maddox said, and bowed to him, and the little Bennet returned the bow. “Mr. Bennet, allow me to present my colleague, Dr. Andrew Bertrand. Andrew, this is Joseph Bennet.

“Is he nice?” Joseph asked in Italian.

“I like to think I am,” Bertrand replied, to Joseph’s horror.

Dr. Maddox did not hide his smile. “Do not presume there are none so learned in the language arts as you, young Master Bennet.”

“Dites-lui que je suis désolé,” (Tell him I’m sorry) Joseph said shyly in French to Dr. Maddox.

“Vous pouvez le dire vous meme,” (You can say it yourself) Dr. Bertrand replied. Joseph looked almost like he was about to run away, but Bertrand only smiled. “I have a French name, you know. And all of the civilized world must speak it, apparently.”

“Do you know Latin?”

“I had to learn it for my exams at University,” he replied amiably.

“It’s hard.”

Dr. Bertrand kneeled down to his level. “I did not know four languages when I was your age, Mr. Bennet. If I had tried, I would have found it very hard.”

“Joseph!” came a cry as Mary Bennet hurried into the room, curtseying to both of them. “Dr. Maddox, I apologize – “

He waved it off. “It is all right. This is Dr. Bertrand, who is assisting me with Grégoire. And the Prince.”

She curtseyed again as she pulled her son to her. “I am sorry if my son interrupted your conversation. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

He bowed. “You as well, Mrs. Bennet.”

“Miss Bennet,” she corrected with a shy smile, and excused herself, dragging Joseph with her.

“Goodbye!” he waved as he had to follow his mother down the hall.

Dr. Bertrand waved back. “Father’s Spanish?”

“Italian,” Dr. Maddox said, then slapped his forehead. “Oh, I forgot. I was supposed to say he was an Englishman who died in the war.”

Bertrand nodded. “Of course.”

“You understand.”

“I never heard otherwise. All kinds of things happened in the war. All sorts of confusion.”

“Yes,” Dr. Maddox said. “You wanted that recipe. If you will wait a moment, I need to retrieve it.”

“Of course.”

Dr. Maddox left Bertrand and climbed the flight of stairs, only to find his wife hiding in a doorway at the top. “Invite him to dinner!”

“What?”

“I said, invite him to dinner! Are you deaf?”

“No. All right, I’ll invite him to dinner. But I already know he can’t do it tonight. Regent’s schedule and all that.”

She frowned. “Well, what about tomorrow?”

“I don’t know his whole social schedule.”

“Well, ask him!”

“...All right,” he said, not seeing a reason to put up an argument with his wife. As he reached for his laboratory keys, he said, “May I ask why?”

“Because Miss Bennet is only staying in Town for a week.”

“So?”

She shook her head. “Your sex is so dense in the head I wonder sometimes if there’s any brain up there at all or you’re all moving on instincts.” Before he could reply, she hurried down the stairs and rejoined her female guests.

Dr. Maddox shrugged to himself, unlocked the laboratory door, quickly wrote down the recipe, and relocked it before returning to the main level. “Here you go. Oh, and are you available for dinner tomorrow night? Mrs. Maddox insists on inviting you.”

No right-minded bachelor turned up a good meal. “Thank you. Usual time I assume.”

“Yes.”

They said their goodbyes, and Dr. Maddox turned curiously to the sitting room, where he could hear the Bennet sisters and his wife talking, but not make out the words. Never one to intrude on a female conversation, he made his way to the parlor next to Grégoire’s room and found the door already opened, and Joseph Bennet sitting in the chair beside Grégoire’s bed.

“Huh,” was all he said, as the plan slowly came to him. He shook his head. “Women.”

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

Dr. Bertrand did return for dinner the following evening, to find Darcy in the parlor. “Dr. Bertrand.”

“Mr. Darcy.”

“I really am in your debt for what you’ve done for my brother.”

“He is a fighter, Mr. Darcy, despite his former profession.”

That did not elicit a smile from Mr. Darcy, but as Bertrand had quickly learned, Darcy almost never smiled. The best he had ever seen was a little half-grin. “We have quite a party tonight. My wife and her sister are here, as well as the other Maddoxes of course. Speaking of which – “

They were joined from behind by Brian Maddox, who was wearing black robes and only his short sword, and the Oriental, Mr. Mugen. “Dr. Bertrand. Darcy.”

They exchanged greetings as the door to Grégoire’s room opened and a young man emerged, maybe ten and four by his height. From inside, there were sounds of talking in very broken Latin, between a child (presumably, Joseph Bennet) and Grégoire.

“Dr. Bertrand, if you have not already met him, allow me to introduce my nephew, Mr. Wickham,” Darcy said proudly, and Mr. Wickham bowed and left with only a mumbled, shy greeting.

“He is your nephew by your wife?” Dr. Bertrand, trying to draw the logical conclusion.

“Yes,” Mr. Darcy said. “And in other ways, but there are many former Bennets. My wife has four sisters, one of whom is married to Charles Bingley, whose sister is Mrs. Maddox.”

“So we are all connected,” Brian said. “Distantly.”

“Four sisters? What about brothers?”

“None. Just five daughters of Mr. Bennet, who lives in Hertfordshire.”

Dr. Bertrand knew enough about English property law to see the problem there. “They are close in age?”

“One after another. And at one point were all eager to be married.”

“If you want the real story, you’ll have to ask Mr. Bingley, who unfortunately isn’t here tonight. Darcy won’t tell it because apparently it involves a rejected proposal.”

Darcy replied only with a cold stare and then went on to ignore Brian’s comment by looking out the window as Dr. Maddox joined them. “Dinner is served. Or is about to be. Honestly I have no idea how this house runs.”

Andrew Bertrand liked dining with the Maddoxes. Dr. Maddox, when he was not shy or overly formal as a doctor to a patient, was a cheerful man, obviously very happy with his station in life. His wife was a bit haughty, and had no hesitation at teasing her husband, but never in a malicious way as couples so often did. How they had ever come together, Bertrand had no idea. Mr. Maddox, despite his appearance, was an overly gregarious Englishman, far more talkative than his brother and with far more to tell that did not involve some kind of medical procedure. His wife, Princess Nadezhda, was quiet at first, and then quite open when not among strangers and had no hesitation expressing her opinion through her accent. She seemed to endlessly exchange glances with her very loving husband, and so the foursome made for good company.

Tonight they were joined by Mr. and Mrs. Darcy. Mrs. Darcy was lively and witty, and her husband was silent but by no means cruel. He was just suffering the obvious strain of having a brother at death’s door, for who he obviously cared immensely. The addition to the table was Miss Bennet, who did resemble her sister in some ways, but was not the same at all.

It did not take him very long to figure it out. However, he looked up to Daniel Maddox, and trusted him not to throw him into the fire. Besides, if Andrew had stayed at home, his parents would have willingly done so. He had sat at many dinners with many friends of his parents and their young daughters.

But, as he quickly discovered, Miss Bennet was not fawning over him nor disgusted with any parental figure dragging her along. Her manners were mild, but she was not silent, and not afraid to speak up on any matter religious. He judged she bordered on Evangelical – certainly no Methodist – or had been at some point in her life from her quotations, but was not as obnoxious about it as older women he knew. From what he gathered from snippets of conversation, she had studied in a French seminary at some point (and if he had to guess, it would have been about nine years ago). Usually women either engaged themselves in social concerns or surface religion, but she seemed to have a real scholarship, even on traditional Catholic texts. Andrew Bertrand, a lapsed Catholic by circumstance, was impressed.

He judged the dinner went well. If anyone was pushing Mary on, it was subtle, or she was reluctant to comply. She could, however, be engaged. Unfortunately it ended with dessert, as the usual after dinner entertainments did not interest the suffering Darcys, and he already knew that Princess Nadezhda never sang or played in mixed company (she was very modest), and Mugen usually left to do whatever it was he did at night after saying several things in Japanese that Brian refused to translate to anyone. Dr. Bertrand had to leave anyway, to attend His Highness at Carlton, so the party was dissolved without the usual port and gossip, and he left to go to work, hoping there would be no major medical disasters tonight. He already knew his mind would be elsewhere.

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

For Mary Bennet, who was housing with the Darcys, her mind was not on its usual track as well. She held her tongue until she saw Joseph to bed before unleashing her fury on her sister, whom she found reading in the library.

“Do not ever subject me to that again!”

“What?” Elizabeth said innocently. “Was the company so objectionable? I thought you liked the Maddoxes.”

“You know very well what I mean,” Mary said, sitting down in a huff.

“If he was really so unappealing, then yes, you have no reason to see him again except by happenstance. However, you did not seem so inclined during the meal.”

“I was being polite!”

“There were many guests at the table, all near or distant relatives, with whom you could make conversation or none at all if you really wished. Darcy didn’t say a word. Nonetheless I saw otherwise.”

Mary just fumed.

“Please, if you do object to Dr. Bertrand, I would be most interested in what you have to say. I would wish any distraction these days.”

“I – I have no objections, but you know that is not the point.”

“If you have no objections, then there is no point.”

“I’m a mother,” she said, “with a child.”

“If that caused him any disquiet, he showed none. In fact, from Caroline’s account, he seems to like Joseph.”

“And how long do you think the story about his father will hold up?”

Elizabeth smirked. “Considering the doctor’s intelligence, I doubt it was believed in the first place. After all, if you had married an Englishman before the war and were carrying his child, why did you not take his name? So you studied in France and came home with a child. His origins are French. Until he brokers an objection, it is not fair to assume he opposes choices that were made years ago.”

Mary said nothing, but her face was not the emotionless page that it normally was.

“Mary, I may sound like Mama for a moment, but our father will not live forever, and Joseph needs a father. He might even like one. Have you ever asked him about it?”

“He knows his father is never coming to England.”

“Have you ever asked him if he would like one who is around?”

She turned coldly to Elizabeth. “He is a child.”

“That does not mean he is without opinions, fleeting as they may be sometimes,” she said. “Ask him, Mary. If not because of Dr. Bertrand, just because you should know what his thoughts are. You can at least do that quite harmlessly.”

Mary stood, effectively announcing her exit. “Perhaps you are right – about speaking to Joseph. I will sleep on it. But please – tell me next time.”

“I would have, but you would have objected, and we would not be having this conversation,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “Good night, Mary.”

“Good night, Lizzy.”

Her anger largely abated and somewhat turned to confusion, Mary went to her room and laid down, but it was a long time before she found sleep.

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

Elizabeth Darcy had only one thing preventing her from finding sleep, and it was her need to talk to her husband, whether he liked it or not. He could use the distraction, and much to her suspicion, he was lying awake in bed. She crawled into his ready embrace, nestled again him. “I spoke to Mary.”

“I’ve no doubt. I am a bit surprised that I could not hear the conversation from here.”

She turned over, so she could face him. “She would listen to reason about speaking to Joseph.”

“And Dr. Bertrand?”

“You ask this of me? You know I am a terrible judge of other people’s affections.”

She giggled and kissed him. “She did not deny being interested. And he seemed to be in the same party. They found mutual conversation, which for Mary is impressive.” She sighed. “She still carries the shame of France around with her. Nothing I can say can change that.”

“She is happy with Joseph.”

“She loves her son as I love all my children. But that is different from the way I love you,” she said. “Does she not deserve that?”

Darcy considered before answering. “I have learned as of late that prolonged and unnecessary penance can do more harm than good.”

“Indeed. And it would be most prodigious for there to be yet another doctor in the family.”

Chapter 19 – His Royal Highness

“Dr. Maddox!”

Dr. Maddox and Dr. Bertrand turned around to see a balding, familiar man approaching them. Dr. Maddox replied, “Prime Minister Liverpool. An honor.” He bowed. “I do not believe you’ve met my colleague, Dr. Bertrand.”

“No, I’ve not. Dr. Bertrand.”

“Sir,” Bertrand said, a little overwhelmed.

“So you have a new member of your staff, eh?”

Dr. Maddox was taller than the Earl of Liverpool and current Prime Minister. He was taller than most men, and never seemed intimidated by them, especially not politicians. “Yes, Lord Liverpool.”

“Very nice to meet you.” The Prime Minister, one of the most powerful men in England, bowed again. “I hear the Prince of Wales will be appearing before Parliament in a few weeks.”

“I do not know his schedule, Lord Liverpool.”

“What about His Majesty?”

Dr. Maddox said, “I am not aware of His Majesty’s schedule, but I would venture a guess that he has no plans to appear before Parliament.” King George had not made a public appearance in almost a decade.

“You know what I mean. I am inquiring after his health.”

“And you are very aware that I am not one of his many physicians. My concern is the Prince of Wales and no one else.”

The Prime Minister nearly grabbed Dr. Maddox’s arm as if to pull him aside, even though the three of them were relatively alone in the courtyard near Carlton. “I would ask your professional opinion.”

“You may ask, but I may not give it, sir.”

“Do you think the Prince will outlive his father?”

Dr. Bertrand turned his eyes to Dr. Maddox, who wore the same calm expression he always had while going about his profession. “I am a doctor, Lord Liverpool. Not a soothsayer.”

“If you had to guess...”

“I do not care much for guessing. I try to avoid it whenever possible.” He bowed. “Good day, sir.”

“Good day,” said the flustered Prime Minister, who quickly hurried away as they proceeded through the gates of Carlton, admitted without a second glance.

“I think you just snubbed the Prime Minister, Dr. Maddox.”

He smiled. “I reprimand the Prince Regent on a regular basis, so I find him far less intimidating. Besides, he knows he has no business asking the royal physician about his patients. He’s been doing it for years, and before him, Minister Perceval,” he said. “If you want my job, you will have to become accustomed to such inconveniences.”

“I’m not to suppose – “

Dr. Maddox stopped in the ornate hallway of Carlton House, a more serious look on his face. “Andrew, if you haven’t realized that you’ll have this position as soon as His Highness dies or I lose my sight – whichever comes first – then you are not as clever as you make yourself out to be.”

“I didn’t want to say it outright.”

“Then you’re just polite. That’s much better.” He continued on. “Don’t get involved in politics, Dr. Bertrand. It will ruin you and the already-spoiled good name of our profession.”

“I’ve no intention of doing so.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

They passed by the guards to enter the private chambers of the Prince of Wales, Regent to King George III and future king of England. That was, if he survived. At his current rate of bad habits towards his health and terrible mood swings since the death of his daughter, Charlotte, it was going to be close. He was not even out of bed yet and already drunk, moaning incoherently about his poor, gouty foot.

“Your Royal Highness,” Dr. Maddox said.

“Oh thank G-d,” the Prince said. “You must do something for this foot!”

“Unfortunately, that would require you to sit in a chair, Your Highness. You will have to choose between staying in bed for your foot or having it treated.”

“You make everything hard for me! Why do I put up with you?”

“That decision is your prerogative, Your Highness,” Dr. Maddox said unrelentingly. It did take the two doctors to get the ruler of Britain into a chair so that his foot could be placed in a tub to soak.
“My medicine! My medicine!”

“You are sitting in it, Your Highness.”

“You know bloody well what I mean, Maddox! The tonic!”

He shook his head. “I told you it was just sugar water with a dye, sir. A dye which may actually be harmful. It will do nothing for your foot.”

After some time and a lot of coffee, the Regent recovered more of his senses. “I need to lose weight before my appearance at Parliament,” he announced. “Please don’t bother me with the obvious methods. Here,” he snapped his fingers and a servant brought forward a tray with a bottle on it. “From China.”

Dr. Maddox smelled the tonic, which was fairly odorless, and inspected the label, showing it to Dr. Bertrand, who just shook his head in non-recognition. “It says it’s bottled in Philadelphia, Your Highness. I doubt very much that it has Oriental origins. More to the point, I cannot condone it without knowing what’s in it.”

“It is supposed to bring about massive weight loss.”

“If you don’t mind, I would like to go on a little more than what is ‘said.’” He held up the bottle. “There is an address for the distributor in Town. I will look him up and find out the actual ingredients, though I have little hope of it working as much as simply not consuming vast quantities of fatty foods - ”

“Oh, not that again! This isn’t fair – my father’s a stick, you know.”

“I have not seen him in years, but I will take your word for it.”

The Regent paused. “You should see my father. Make ... an assessment.”

“I will do anything you ask, but I remind you that I am not a psychical doctor, nor have I ever claimed to be.”

“Still, you should go. To – make a sort of comparison. If I am to ascend the throne, I would like to know if I’m going to be mad while I do it.” He added, “He loves children. Bring your son. That will break the ice.”

Dr. Maddox momentarily lost his power of speech. Dr. Bertrand had never seen it before; it was a curious thing to watch. But he did recover, and bowed. “Yes, Your Highness.”

The doctor uncharacteristically excused himself for the duration of the Regent’s soak, and after that, there was a little more discussed (mainly about his diet) and they were excused.

“Doctor – “

“I’m fine,” he said to Bertrand. “I am just not thrilled at the prospect of bringing my son to see a sick, blind madman.” Dr. Bertrand decided to leave it at that. Or he had to, because Dr. Maddox almost immediately changed the subject as they left the house. “Are you inclined to continue coming to dinner while Miss Bennet is still in Town? Because I won’t subject you to the obvious social maneuverings of my wife and cousin-in-law if you are not interested.”

“Is this your way of asking me if I like her?”

“I suppose. I was always terrible at this. My courtship with Mrs. Maddox was such a disaster that I still wonder how it worked out in the end sometimes,” he said, smiling again. “But that is a story for another time.”

“I ... would be inclined, yes, if Miss Bennet is. I do not really know much about her.”

“Young Mr. Bennet seems to like you. But that’s more than the usual offering.”

“He does seem an incredibly studious child.”

“I wish either of my sons would study so hard. They’ll take a ruler to Frederick when I send him to Eton, if I can even manage to get him there.” He stepped down to where his coach was waiting. “Dinner tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Very good. Good day, Dr. Bertrand.”

He tipped his hat. “Dr. Maddox.” If he had other questions, he put them off. There was time yet.

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

When Dr. Maddox came home, he was first assaulted by his younger son, who raised his hands to be picked up. “Ride!”

“Between you and I we’ll be knocking your head on the ceiling soon, son. Enjoy it while you can.” He picked up Danny Maddox and put him over his shoulders as Caroline found him.

“I see you’ve come to his rescue.”

“Rescue? Is he in trouble?”

“And I see he was clever enough to give no indication,” she said, folding her arms. “Daniel Maddox Junior, would you like to tell your father what you did?”

“It was Fred’s idea!”

“He isn’t even home, so don’t try it. You know very well he’s playing at your Uncle Bingley’s house.”

“Your punishment will be less if you do not go about assigning blame to others,” Dr. Maddox said. “Now, what did you do?”

“I painted! Just like Uncle Maddox!”

“Yes,” she said. “But where did you paint?”

He mumbled, “...on the wall.”

“And what did you use?”

“Ink.”

Caroline looked at her husband, who was smiling. “Don’t you dare laugh! It’ll just make it worse.”

“I want to be a samurai like Uncle Maddox and he says – “

“ – that samurai paint for some reason. Yes, I know.” The doctor pulled his son down and set him on the ground. “You shouldn’t listen to everything your uncle says. As we’ve said many times, he is a crazy person. You also should not paint on things not meant to be painted on. Now go to Nurse, and let her decide your punishment!”

“Father – “

“Now, Daniel!” he said a bit more sternly, and his son, who was not used to that voice from his father, ran back up the stairs. “How bad was it?” he said to his wife.

“Why in the world he chose the hallway I’ll never know, but at least it was the one upstairs, in case they cannot get the ink out of the wood,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. “The Kincaids are here.”

“They’re with Grégoire? How is he?”

“Sitting up for some time now.”

He nodded. “I’d best check on him.” He would bring up visiting the king later. Instead he headed into Grégoire’s room, where he found Lord Kincaid sitting on the bed beside his wife while Grégoire sat in an armchair, holding Robert with the aid of a pillow to support his arms, so the infant was more just resting on his lap. “Hello. Lord Kincaid. Lady Kincaid. Grégoire.” They still hadn’t precisely decided on what to call him, or even asked him. “How are you feeling today?”

“Stronger,” Grégoire said with a tired smile.

“And how is little Robert today?”

“Hey!” William Kincaid said. “He’s not that little.”

“He’s an infant, dear,” Georgiana said. “He is allowed to be small.”

“Lord and Lady Kincaid,” he said, “would you care to join us for luncheon?” He could already see Grégoire was tiring, but it would take more subtlety to get that infant out of his arms and let him sleep.

They agreed, and Georgiana left first to set Robert down for a nap, William following in her stead.

“Such a wonderful child,” Grégoire said, as Dr. Maddox helped him stand and make it back to his bed. He still could not stand on his own, his body still recovering from a long illness. “So much life in him.”

“Indeed.”

Grégoire was settled more comfortably on his bed. “You’ve done so much for me – and I know of no way to repay it. Aside from the obvious way, I suppose.”

He waved it off. “Money is as meaningless to me as it is to you in matters of family. I am satisfied enough that we could save you.”

“I heard it was very close.”

“Yes,” he said. “But you will be well. It is only a matter of time, now that the stitches are out.”

“Who would want me now, so scarred?”

Dr. Maddox merely replied, “Are you implying that you are wishing for companionship of the less familial kind, Mr. Grégoire?” Grégoire went red, but it was a good feeling for both of them. “No one has really wanted to ask you if you’ve had thoughts about your future. When you arrived, you were quite in despair about it.”

Almost two weeks had now passed, and Grégoire answered, “My memories are poor of that period, but I do remember it in part; the passage from Spain to England, not at all. Thank goodness, too, for I am always ill at sea if I notice I am. I only remember the abbot’s voice and then talking to Father Leblanc. There is little between that.”

“You have not answered my question.”

“No,” Grégoire said, clutching the cross on his rosary. “I do wish to return to Pemberley, but beyond that – I have much thinking to do. Or perhaps I will travel, in the spring. Not very far, or brother will follow me with an armed guard.”

Dr. Maddox chuckled. “He would. But you realize there are questions to which there are no answers. I don’t suppose I am the first one to tell you that.”

“No, but there are ideas I have never heard before. Have you ever read the Confession of Saint Patrick?”

“I confess, I have not.”

“Darcy purchased a copy for me when I asked for anything in Latin. I doubt he knew exactly what he was purchasing or cared. It is here.” He pointed, but not did reach, for the pile of books stacked up on the table beside the bed. “He used to pray spontaneously, as often as he felt the grace of G-d, while he was herding sheep in captivity. He says it was sometimes as often as a hundred times a day.”

“They could not have been very long prayers, or the sheep would have all gotten away.”

Grégoire laughed. “I do not know much about sheep. I was always more of a gardener. More the planter of men than the shepherd of men, which I realize after having said it aloud, makes little sense.”

They shared another laugh. “You have the world before you, if reading is to be your occupation for a time,” Dr. Maddox said. “You have that to look forward to.”

“This is true. Now if I may have some privacy, it is time for Sexts.”

“Would you like a watch to keep track of these things?” Dr. Maddox said, looking at his pocket watch. It was indeed 12:15, almost exactly.

“No,” Grégoire said. “I always know anyway.”

Dr. Maddox nodded. “After that – get some rest. Doctor’s orders.” He gave him a pat on the arm and left to ponder that mystery.

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

Daniel Maddox did thoroughly enjoy his partial retirement, which allowed him to retire with his wife at a normal time. It was only when they were comfortably in bed that he said, “The Regent asked me to visit the king.”

“For an assessment?”

“He wants me to see him. The Prince worries about his own mental health, after all.” He added, “He asked me to bring Frederick with me to Windsor.”

Even in the partial darkness, where he was basically blind, he could see her alarm. It was more that he could sense it, without even touching her, as she said, “He said that?”

“His exact words were, ‘He loves children. Bring your son. That will break the ice.’ He did not bother to clarify which son, though he very well knows I have two.” He reached out, and she found his hand. “I’ve spoken to His Majesty’s staff several times. He is completely out of his mind and does not look well. He has almost no visitors as a result.” He added, “I don’t want Frederick to see that, even if it is his grandfather.”

“Why not? You bring all kinds of gruesomeness into this house. And besides, he doesn’t know the connection.”

“You think the Prince is right, then? That he should see him before he dies?”

“You believe that is the Prince’s intention?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” He tightened his hold on her hand. His were so calloused, he sometimes felt almost bad touching her soft skin, as if he would mar it. “I just get nervous when he mentions Frederick, however subtly he does so.”

She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I know. I do, too. But it seems to happen anyway.” She said, “The Prince may be feeling sentimental.” She paused, and then added, “Is he mad?”

“The Prince?”

“Yes. Like his father.”

“No. I’ve seen no signs of it. He is just a glutton, a drunk, an addict, and a pervert. He is, however, not mad, if that is some consolation.”

She responded, “That is a great consolation.”

He could not disagree.

Chapter 20 – The Non-Courtship

With great relief, Grégoire was released from Dr. Maddox’s care to the Darcys, at least in their townhouse in London. He was greeted by the staff with more enthusiasm than anyone expected and seemed overwhelmed by the experience. Despite the circumstances, Darcy and Elizabeth delighted in having all of the Darcys under one roof, the first time since Georgiana’s marriage. Mary Bennet continued her stay, as Joseph was often lonely at Longbourn and enjoyed the time with his cousins, even if the ones closer to his age were girls. Mr. and Mrs. Bradley finally paid a visit to Grégoire along with George and Isabella, which was mercifully short enough to keep Mary and Lydia from getting into too heated a conversation in the sitting room.

On the third day, Grégoire was well enough to join them at dinner, if only briefly. On the forth, it was not Dr. Maddox who called, but Dr. Bertrand. His attention was to his patient, and he did not seem to mind when Darcy explained that the ladies were out with Mrs. Bingley.

Dr. Bertrand sighed at the extensive scarring on Grégoire’s back and the ones he had created on his forearms to save his back, but Grégoire heard it and just shook his head. “I know people with fewer scars and yet they are unable to do things like walk normally. I am quite blessed.”

While Dr. Bertrand did not know how this man could bring himself to say such a thing and mean it, he brokered no opposition. “As soon as you are strong enough, you can return to Pemberley, if that is your desire.”

“I admit I am eager to go home,” he said. “Look who it is.”

Joseph Bennet stood in the doorframe, half-hiding behind it as Dr. Bertrand helped Grégoire roll his tunic back down. “Uncle Grégoire, you said you would do my Latin homework.”

“I said I would help you. But it is time for the office of None. You will have to wait a bit, Joseph.”

“What is it?” Bertrand said. “What is the text, I mean?”

“He is supposed to translate some of Virgil’s poetry, I believe.”

“Very challenging. Is that true, Mr. Bennet?”

Joseph nodded.

“I can help him. Or try, at least,” Bertrand said. “And you should rest, Mr. Grégoire.”

“I know, I know. After prayer, I will rest, if you will lift this particular burden off my shoulders, though it is not normally a burden.”

“I understand.” Bertrand turned to Joseph. “Why don’t we see if I remember anything from my exams?”

It turned out he did, and he sat on the sofa in the sitting room, helping Joseph translate a particularly difficult set of poems. He was impressed not only with the boy’s comprehension, but his penmanship. “Who is your tutor, Mr. Bennet?”

“Mother and Grandfather. Grandmother didn’t know Latin anyway and then she had a stroke.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Grandfather likes it. He says she’s nicer now. She kisses him a lot.”

He blushed a little. “Mr. Bennet, I’m quite sure you shouldn’t tell people your grandmother had a stroke. Or the other bit.”

“Well, it’s really obvious.”

“That does not mean you should say it. But, that is for your mother to decide.” He looked up. “Speaking of ...”

“Mummy!” Joseph jumped up and hugged his mother, who was still removing her bonnet as she entered with Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley. “Dr. Bertrand was helping me with my schoolwork!”

“Was he?” Mrs. Darcy said before Mary could respond. “Dr. Bertrand. I trust your patient is doing well?”

“He is.”

“Mr. Darcy is very eager to return to Pemberley.”

“I think it will be possible in the next week or two,” he said. “Excuse Dr. Maddox’s absence, he was on an errand –,”

“That’s quite all right,” Mrs. Bingley said.

“Will you join us for luncheon? It seems no one else will be home in time,” Mrs. Darcy offered. Mary shot her a look. It wasn’t cold, but did she really not want to be in his presence? Or was she afraid? He could diagnose patients better than people.

He decided to chance it. “I’d love to.”

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

“Really, Mary. I’ve never seen someone so intent on chasing off a perfectly amiable gentleman,” Elizabeth said when they returned to her sitting room.

Truly, Mary had done nothing to chase him off. She had not been rude over the meal, or ignored him, or not contributed. She had not, however, rushed to return his affections, which were not gushing themselves, but were enough to indicate a preference. In fact, she had announced she was leaving for Longbourn as soon as the Darcys returned to Pemberley and the Bingleys to Kirkland.

“I am not a romantic, Lizzy.”

“I do not believe this is a situation that calls for a romantic gesture.”

Mary looked down at her knitting. “It is all ridiculous. I will return to Longbourn, where I shall remain while Papa still lives, and he is tied to Town. Am I supposed to indicate that I am to remain here indefinitely when it is not true?”

“Hertfordshire is not so terribly far from Town if one is a good rider,” Jane said. “Especially since they have redone the roads. There is no reason to call off a courtship because of thirty miles.”

“It is not a courtship!”

“Very well,” Elizabeth said. “Tell us what you find so displeasing about him and that shall be the end of the matter.”

“He has no reason to court me.”

“That is not exactly a stunning character fault. Nor is it logical.”

Mary stared at her sister. “Must I state the obvious?”

“Mary,” Jane said kindly, “he seems to like Joseph very much. Mr. Bradley was certainly not discouraged by the presence of not one but two children. And he does not have to provide for Joseph, with the trust. If he saw any reason to hesitate, he would have done so.”

“He could be a fortune hunter.”

“Then he is a poor one,” Elizabeth said, “for no one has said a thing about money, and even if they had, Papa controls your inheritance and will refuse it to a rake.”

Their younger sister looked down; apparently she could think of no more to say.

“Did you speak to Joseph?”

“I will if I need to, but not before. Speaking of, I must make sure he is not bothering Mr. Grégoire. Excuse me.” And she abruptly left her sisters, taking her needles with her.

Elizabeth and Jane exchanged glances. “Why is she so cold to the idea?” Jane asked. “Perhaps she does not wish to be married at all. Some women don’t.”

“I am not convinced. She would have had no reason to continue a charade of pleasantry with a man she did not like.” She sighed. “Perhaps her heart still belongs to someone else.”

“Can one be meant for two people?”

“When one of those persons is gone and never to return, I would certainly hope so,” Elizabeth said.

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

Grégoire’s health improved steadily, even more so as he was able to eat more and more. He could walk on his own, and for the first time ventured outside the townhouse. The next day, Darcy took him to a bookshop, where with his own money, Grégoire purchased a number of books in Latin, Greek, English, French – whatever suited him that they were sure Pemberley did not have. He went to confession, but did not attend Anglican services.

As soon as they were given leave to return to Pemberley, they made ready to depart. Dr. Bertrand called a final time to advise them to go slowly. It happened that Mary was set to depart later that afternoon, and somehow, with all of the servants and children running about, she encountered him alone in the library. Or, it was carefully arranged behind both of their backs.

“May I call on you in Hertfordshire?” he said, not mincing words.

“Why?”

He blushed. “For all of the reasons a man normally calls on a woman, Miss Bennet. And I would like to see Master Joseph.” When she did not answer, he lowered his voice. “Are you really so adverse to me?”

She clutched her locket. “No.”

“Then may I ask you a question?”

She looked up at him nervously. “You may, Dr. Bertrand.”

“Did Joseph’s father give you that locket?”

Her response was a look of horror, but she did relinquish her tight clutch on the locket. “Yes.”

“Are you still in love with him?”

“I don’t know – I knew him only briefly.” She added, “But he is Joseph’s father.”

“So he is alive, then, with no intentions to return to you.”

She was caught in her own lie. She hadn’t actually said Joseph’s father was dead, but it was the official story. “No, he is not coming back.” She continued, “His family meant him for the Church. He may well be a bishop by now for all I know.” She looked up to find no horror or disgust on his face.

“You are not the only one to have done something that has tormented you with mixed feelings, you know,” he said. “I was a surgeon at Waterloo.”

“That is a very noble task.”

“– for the French.”

There was a silence.

“My parents were nobility. They came here to hide during the Revolution. My relatives stayed and were slaughtered. I was born and raised here, but in the final years of Napoleon’s reign, they repatriated, and so did I, to finish my education. I served in the army because I needed the clinical experience.”

“Does Dr. Maddox know?”

“He is the only one who does.”

There was another silence.

“My parents will be somewhat disappointed if I tell them I am courting an English girl from the country,” he said, “but as we are in England, they cannot be all that surprised.”

She mumbled, “I have some money. Giov – Joseph’s father provided him with a trust and me with living expenses. My father keeps hold of it to be my inheritance. If you want it, you will have to impress him.”

“I do not want it,” he said, “but I will try to impress him anyway.”

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

Dr. Bertrand left and was not there to see Mary off, but judging from her expression, no great rift had occurred between them. She even admitted, after much inquisition by her sisters, that he had asked to call on her, but made them swear not to say a word. And with that, and all the good-byes, Mary and Joseph were gone.

The next day began early; the Maddoxes called – all of them, actually – as the doctor gave Darcy various powders to be mixed with water if Grégoire lost his health on the road.

The Kincaids would return with the Darcys to Pemberley. It was on the way and Georgiana was eager to spend more time with both her brothers, and William was eager to please. It took three full coaches to fit everyone and then other vehicles for the servants and nurses, but they were off. The passage took four days instead of three (it could be done in two, with luck and speed). Dr. Maddox’s instincts were right, and the bumping of the carriage tired Grégoire easily, and made him ill by the side of the road, for which he was very embarrassed. Darcy shooed away the coachman and attended his brother personally. They spent three nights at the inns along the way, encountering one innkeeper’s wife who knew Grégoire from his previous wanderings but did not recognize him; he had to be reintroduced.

Darcy sent a rider ahead to inform Mrs. Reynolds to make sure no one would make a big deal of Grégoire’s return, even though they had all heard something of his poor health and return to England, and instead focus on the former mistress of Pemberley and her husband. He was also just Mr. Grégoire now or Mr. Bellamont if they were truly uncomfortable (he could not truly claim the Darcy name, with his mixed parentage). His old servant, Thomas, was there to greet him and help him out of the carriage. Even without his monastic appearance Grégoire was still recognizable. They got him inside without a fuss, and he rested until dinner while Viscount Robert Kincaid was admired by the maids who had once attended Georgiana, The rest of the servants welcomed their master and mistress, and the heirs to Pemberley that followed them, eager to be home and not uneager to show it.

The Darcys always found a wonderful solace in returning to their own apartments, bathing in their own tubs, and having the luxury and privacy that Pemberley afforded them. It was only then that the two of them could fully acknowledge (without words, which were unnecessary) that London had been an ordeal. They retreated in peace until Thomas came knocking at their door to tell them his charge had gone to the chapel and perhaps could use a visit. His subtlety was impressive.

Darcy took it upon himself, of course, to find Grégoire weeping on the stone before the altar that he had restored himself a decade ago, when he had first come to Pemberley. Why Grégoire would so readily subject himself to so many memories, Darcy had no idea, but thinking on it clearly, he imagined he would do the same. He knelt beside his brother, letting him lean on him as he sobbed into Darcy’s waistcoat.

“I have been abandoned.”

“You were turned from the Church, Grégoire. Not G-d. I believe the abbot made specific mention of that.”

“Where is the L-rd to be found outside of the Church?”

Darcy paused, and said, “I do not believe Our L-rd and Savior had one. I do not think they had even had a Church.” His history was not the best, as his Rector focused mainly on the sermons and not the events of the Good Book. “I believe he just wandered around and spoke to the people.”

“Like Saint Patrick.”

Darcy had no idea but he said, “Yes.”

“I want to visit our family – and the saint, if I can bear to show my face to him.”

Darcy just nodded, and escorted him to the graveyard. He had not been there himself in quite a while. Though he did love his parents and did his best to honor their memory, it was not one of his regular stops when traversing the grounds. They had gone long ago and he had made his peace with that. Grégoire had known his father only in the barest terms, and his mother was buried at Mon-Claire. The only graves of people he knew were ones he dug himself or oversaw the completion of. They passed by Wickham and nodded their heads.

“You would be proud of your children,” Grégoire said to the headstone.

“Believe it or not, I actually agree,” Darcy said, which served to lighten the mood. And it was true.

They came to Sebald’s grave, relatively unadorned compared to some of the others and hidden away in a corner. Grégoire said something in Latin, and when Darcy requested a translation, he replied, “‘Forgive this poor sinner.’”

Darcy made the cross of blessing over Grégoire, saying in a deeper voice, “I forgive you, my son.”

“Darcy!”

“What? Who says saints are forbidden to have a sense of humor?” he said, not quite sure he wasn’t doing something sacrilegious. Even if he was, it was worth it to see Grégoire smile. “Come. Dinner must almost be ready and there is a wonderful selection of French wines this year, and you may drink all that you like while your poor brother can have none.”

“I forget – is Geoffrey old enough to join us?”

“Not yet, thank goodness, or we would have to temper our speech.” He sighed. “That day will come soon enough.”

“Temper what speech? You never say anything in company.”

“I wouldn’t say anything – “

“Almost nothing. Monosyllables.”

They slowly walked back to Pemberley proper. “If my doctor permitted me to drink – I tell you, it would be a different story. I am quite a lush.”

“So I have heard, from Mr. Bingley.”

“Bingley! We should give him a strong drink and find out what he really did in India. I keep hearing a tiger mentioned and still know nothing about it.”

“Why would Mr. Bingley have a story about a tiger?”

“Precisely.”

They laughed their way back to the house.

Chapter 21 – The Letter from the Island

Darcy was not returned to Pemberley for three weeks before he called Elizabeth into his study, where the day’s mail was piled up. He had been perusing a note about an offer on an estate holding when he noticed the letter from Longbourn, sorted accidentally into his pile. “From your father,” he said to her, doubting it was something serious, or it would have surely been an express.

Mr. Bennet rarely wrote; he had more of a passion for words in a book than putting them on a page himself, and often lamented that there was little to say about life in Longbourn that mattered enough for the cost of the letter. Elizabeth immediately opened it and sat down to read it. Darcy looked up from his own concerns to watch her expressions, which were not alarmed at any point, in fact, at one point, she giggled. “It seems Mary has had a certain caller.”

“Ah, yes. The protégé,” Darcy said, relieved that at least one Bennet romance was going as intended without his aid and was eager to leave it that way if at all possible. “May I ask what your father makes of all this?” he said, as she was sure to tell him anyway.

She happily read him the letter, likely omitting some words, but the letter was not long to begin with.

Dearest Lizzy,

You will perhaps find some consolation in the fact that your maneuverings in London were not without results. Mary was here not two days before Dr. Bertrand rode to Hertfordshire to make my acquaintance and formally ask for my permission to court Mary, though he hardly required it. You can imagine who is fleeing and who is pursuing, but the way to a woman’s heart is through her child, and apparently the doctor has discovered this. Joseph has a great fondness for him, and would not stop blabbering about him as soon as he returned, which is how I came to hear the name in the first place.

I do not know much of the particulars in terms of Dr. Bertrand’s service to the Crown and if he intends to sever that, for Mary has declared rather soundly (and in front of him