The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (32 page)

Their journey was set for a few weeks hence. The weather was growing colder, but Grégoire wanted to spend time with Georgiana before she departed to winter at home in Scotland. He spent most of his time reading, but when he was well enough, he would accompany Elizabeth on her trips to visit the poor of Derbyshire, never without a man capable of carrying him back to the carriage if he collapsed (which he did not). It was something he had loved to do in past years in Derbyshire. He was eager to return to charitable work, even if it was just to deliver coal and cured meats. Some people recognized him and some did not, but both forced him to endure a line of questioning as to his change in appearance and occupation. He eventually found an adequate response: “Transience and impermanence are a necessary part of life.” When Elizabeth asked him where he had learned this saying, he replied, “One of Mr. Bingley's Indian books.”

The Kincaids were sent off with much fanfare, and a promise from them to return sometime in the spring or summer. “You will find your way; I'm sure of it,” his sister said with tear-filled eyes.

Darcy and Grégoire left the very next day for their business excursion. Elizabeth, accustomed to Darcy's occasional absences for
estate business, did not question it except to say, “You know, he will never be an English gentleman.”

“That is not why I'm taking him,” he assured her.

The servants packed a whole case of powders, tinctures, tonics, and salves for Grégoire, despite his insistence that he did not need them. He did not mind the hard back of the carriage seat. “I have hardly any flesh left there that is not scarred, so I feel nothing but the rocking,” he admitted.

Grégoire read for a time, and Darcy was lost in looking out the window, watching Pemberley disappear behind him. It was not until they left Derbyshire that Grégoire closed his book and said, “So what is the real reason for our journey?”

Darcy sighed. “It is not easy for me to say this, but I think that it is time. I am not a superstitious man, but the offer arriving at the same time you returned to Pemberley was an interesting coincidence.”

Grégoire nodded.

“What I'm about to say is not commonly known. In fact, the only other person who knows it for sure is Dr. Maddox, and only because, in a moment when I lost my wits in Austria, I told him to pass the time.” He turned away from the window and looked at Grégoire, across from him. “Your namesake is our Uncle Gregory Darcy, Father's elder brother.”

“He died young?”

“No. He died when I was already ten and five.”

Grégoire mulled over the implications. “Why have I never heard of him?”

“Because there are no records of him at Pemberley, at least that I have found. He was disinherited at ten and eight, and then was said to have died in a tragic riding accident. His portraits were removed, and over the next few years, the entire Pemberley staff were changed over, one by one, so that by the time our father married my mother, no one knew of him, or else had heard rumors of a son who had died so tragically that no one spoke of him. I did not
know of him until I was five, and did not fully understand the situation until it was explained to me when I was five and ten, before I saw him for the last time. Our father was reluctant to speak of him on English soil—he would just say ‘we are going to the Isle of Man' and then wait until we were on the boat to say why.”

“Why was he disinherited?”

“He was mad,” Darcy answered, and let his words sink in for a moment. “He knew he was, as least as much as a mad person can know that. His illness was not so extensive that he was unaware of his shortcomings. According to Father's story, which Uncle Gregory then supported when I asked him myself, he asked to be disinherited. He did not want to manage Pemberley. He did not want the burden and doubted he could manage it. But if the reasons were discovered, it would mar our father's chances for a good match, despite his wealth. So instead they faked his death and destroyed the evidence of his existence, our father and grandfather. I never had a mad uncle; there is no illness in the family.You understand?”

“Perfectly,” Grégoire said, though he said it with the appropriate gravity of someone who was hearing something that would take time to fully sink in. “How was he ill?”

“Hysteria, which has no specific meaning that can help us, as I have come to understand. He did not care for society; he did not trust people he did not know.” He swallowed. “His distrust of strangers was much greater than my own.”

Grégoire nodded.

Darcy played with his ring, the special signet ring that had not been stolen during his captivity because, on a whim, he had given it to his son to hold onto while he was gone. “I know little about whatever treatment he received, but eventually he refused it, and Father, who became his legal guardian after our grandfather's death, consented. He lived in solitude for the rest of his life on that little island, attended only by nurses he didn't trust and said were trying to poison him. And yet, when I spoke to him, we could have a completely normal conversation. He understood who I was and he
told me that he was content with his life, and could not think of another way to have lived it. The fact that he…hanged himself… a week after saying so is something I will never understand.” He looked away nervously.“I have never told Elizabeth, or even Georgiana. Did Father mention to you that you had an uncle?”

“No,” he said. “Not to my knowledge. But I was young. I do not remember everything.”

“He was good at keeping secrets,” Darcy said. “It never bothered me to carry this one around. Uncle Gregory himself said that he wanted to be buried in obscurity, to not taint the family tree. He was very noble in that sense, in his loyalty to the Darcy line. This was until Austria, when it came out, and I realized—maybe I should have told someone there was sickness in my family.” He was not speaking so easily now. Only Grégoire's reassuring nods kept him going. “It seems to have missed Geoffrey and Anne—the others are too young yet. But it is evident that George is affected. I have tried to counsel him—without counseling him.You understand.”

“I understand.”

“All of Gregory Darcy's personal effects should still be there, or so I have been informed by the solicitor, who knows him only as ‘previous resident.' He is also buried there, I am quite sure. I do not know where else he would be buried, and he is not at Pemberley. I let the land sit because there was nothing better to do with it and because it would mean—going back.”

Again, Grégoire nodded. “I am honored to go with you.”

Darcy smiled. It was exactly what he needed to hear.

When he could put it off no longer, Dr. Maddox told his son they were to go to Windsor, to see the king. There was no way to begin to explain why—he barely understood it himself, and Frederick did not even know he was adopted. He was eight—too young for all that. Dr. Maddox withstood Frederick's barrage of questions admirably,
ducking as many as he could with “His Highness requested it” and “It might not be fun, but it will be short.”

Caroline hugged her son—who was dressed up in clothes purchased especially for this visit—with extra vigor before they entered the carriage. “Be good. And whatever you think, for goodness's sake, do not say it.”

“Then what am I to say?”

“To our sovereign? ‘Yes, Your Majesty' and ‘No, Your Majesty' will suffice,” the doctor said, kissing his wife. “He will be fine.”

“He is not the only person I am concerned with.”

Dr. Maddox smiled to hide his anxiety.

The trip to Windsor was brief. Dr. Maddox had never been there—no one went there unless compelled to, despite the massive grounds and impressive architecture. The sovereign was mad, and none of his many children called, because often they were not recognized when they did. He was seen mainly by his doctors. Dr. Maddox knew a few of them, and he had little respect for their approach. They were of an older school, and he had radical ideas about certain aspects of medicine. Dr. Maddox was against bleeding the sick—he himself had been almost bled to death as a young man when he had developed an infection following his first cataract surgery. He had had one foot in the grave when his brother, frantic with worry, finally shooed the doctors away when they came with their spikes for the daily bloodletting, and only then had he begun to recover. Or so Brian said. Dr. Maddox had little memory of the experience. Dr. Maddox was an observational doctor, believing only what he saw, and he saw patients get weaker after bleeding, with no positive effects that seemed to be connected to the bleeding itself. They had already debunked Aristotle's treatise on the humors of the body—why not do away with the entire idea of an excess of blood?

But the established doctors who had been schooled in the previous century and had treated the king for years had other ideas, and Dr. Maddox knew his place was not to contradict them. Maybe
someday, when they were long gone, he would publish a paper, but he was not willing to be labeled an outlaw just yet, when his family depended on him.

Without much ceremony, Dr. Maddox and son passed the guards and greeted one of the doctors with whom he was acquainted. They made small talk as Frederick impatiently pulled on his arm. Maddox pitied his son; he had no idea why he was here and would not know for years, if he ever did. And by then, the king would most likely be long dead.

“His Majesty is in good spirits today,” said the physician. “You know he is completely blind, correct?”

“I have been informed, yes.”

“Not helping his stability, I'm afraid. Of course, everything he says will probably be complete nonsense. It's best just to play along or you risk upsetting him. Not that he can do much when he's that way. But it might be distressing for your son to see.” He was quiet and then said, “Why is he here?”

“His Royal Highness the Prince Regent thought it would be a good idea to bring a child.”

“Yes, His Majesty loves children. He loved his own when they were children. He is disappointed with how they have turned out.”

Dr. Maddox nodded and looked down at his son, who was frowning at being dragged along on this mysterious errand. “Best behavior, Frederick. This is your king.”

Frederick did not seem impressed, but at least he didn't say so.

The servant opened the door to the king's chamber. “Do not turn your back on His Majesty,” he cautioned them.

Not that it mattered—the old man was blind—but Dr. Maddox nodded. “Of course.”

The two of them were allowed entrance to a sitting room. It had the splendor of a royal palace but without any of the little touches of a man who cared for his surroundings as the Prince Regent did. In that way, it was almost as bare as the man sitting in the armchair before them. Wrapped in blankets, even though it was not cold, he
shook his head, his remaining locks of white hair waving as he said, “Who is it? Who is there?”

Dr. Maddox bowed, and his son did the same. “Your Majesty, I am Dr. Daniel Maddox, and this is my son, Frederick Maddox. We are here at your son's behest.”

“My son? Frederick has come?”

“No,Your Majesty.
My
son is named Frederick as well.”

“Nonsense. Let me see him, and we shall tell the truth of the matter.”

Dr. Maddox helped lift Frederick into the lap of King George III. “I'm Frederick Maddox, sir.”

“You're very small to fight the French.Why did I ever send you to Flanders? Utter nonsense. A foolish misjudgment on my part; a man must always take the greatest care with his children.” He did not bother to turn his sightless, milky eyes in the direction of Dr. Maddox, who took the seat beside him. “He is not my son, is he?”

“No,” Dr. Maddox said honestly.

“A shame that I made him Duke of Cumberland, then. Wait! I know who you are!” He pointed not at Frederick but in Maddox's general direction. “You're Lord Brute! Why didn't you tell me you were coming to visit?”

“I am not Lord Brute, sir.”

“How dare you say otherwise! You were a witness at my wedding! I remember it perfectly. John, I am most insulted.”

Dr. Maddox said seriously, “I did not mean to insult you,Your Majesty.”

“What do you have to say, George?” the king said to Frederick.

“I'm not George; I'm Frederick. I
told you
that.” Frederick Maddox was not known for his patience, especially not in the lap of a mad person, even if he was king. “Don't you remember?”

“Frederick—” Dr. Maddox said to curb his son, but the king interrupted.

“Nonsense. I remember everything perfectly, except for the times that I do not. Fortunately, I do not remember them! So it
is most convenient. They say I am mad, but you shan't listen to that, young George. And stop lusting after your tutors; 'tis most improper for a royal issue.”