The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (62 page)

“Yes, completely free and without complications,” Brian said. “Well, cheers to you. If you don't want me to show up in royal garb, uninvite me now.”

Dr. Maddox smiled. “I wouldn't dream of it.”

“I hope he'll show,” Brian said.

“I hope he'll be at least partially sober,” Dr. Maddox said, fidgeting nervously in his dress clothing. It was nothing compared with the awkward metal crown Brian was wearing, more of a helmet than a circlet, and studded with ancient jewels and stones that looked more bashed in than carefully placed, with an Orthodox cross at the top. In his Romanian costume and with his very distinguished wife beside him, Dr. Maddox had to admit that his brother did look sort of…
royal
.

“Your brother gets a crown,” Caroline Maddox said on the other side of him. “What do I get?”

“To be called Lady Maddox for the rest of your life,” he said with a shrug. “It was the best I could do.”

She gave him a smile that indicated she was more than happy with the situation.

The nonaristocratic Maddox couple bowed at the announcement and entrance of the Lord Chamberlain, the Marquess of Hertford. “Prince and Princess Brian and Nadezhda Agnita of Sibui,” the royal servant said.

“May I present His Royal Highness George Augustus, the Prince of Wales, Earl of Chester, and Prince Regent to His Majesty
George III,” the royal servant continued.

The Regent entered upright and actually walking without a wobble, which surprised Dr. Maddox somewhat. In fact, he looked the best he had in weeks, perhaps because much of his girth and ill look was hidden by the royal robes and crown. The Prince Regent, who an hour earlier had been seen sobbing in his bed, was quite capable of assuming the character of a man in control of his life and his country when required. He did so regularly during ceremonies he could not avoid, the number of which would only increase when his father died. Despite his usual casual nature, Brian had the good sense to bow to his future sovereign.

“Your Royal Highness,” the equerry said, “Dr. Daniel Maddox is known for his dutiful service to the Crown in the field of medicine.”

The Prince Regent, who was not known to stand on ceremony despite being required to do so on a regular basis, gestured for Dr. Maddox to kneel before him. Fortunately, between the gin and the laudanum, he still had enough coordination to wield the sword. “I knight thee Sir Daniel Maddox, Order of the Garter.” He touched each shoulder and passed off the sword to his equerry and took from him the chain, putting it around Maddox's neck. “You may rise, Sir Maddox.”

“Thank you,Your Highness.”

Fortunately, the regent did not stay to see how choked up his doctor was, and left with the servants carrying the ends of his robes. In the haste of it all, there was no reception. Dr. Maddox, an intensely private man, hadn't wanted one anyway.

“I used to read him stories about knights when he was recovering from eye surgery,” Brian whispered to his wife as Sir Maddox was embraced by his own wife, “and now he gets to
be
one—without all the fighting. Same amount of gore, though.”

“Papa, if you're a knight, where's your sword?” Emily Maddox said as her father sorted through his medical books for the ones that
would go to Cambridge. “And your armor! You have to have armor to fight dragons.”

“I don't fight dragons. I'm not that sort of knight.”

“Uncle Maddox has a sword.”

“Uncle Maddox thinks he lives in Japan,” he replied to his daughter, who was now ten, “where he would need a sword, I suppose.”

A week had passed, and Sir and Lady Maddox had received the congratulations of their friends and relations in Town in person and their Derbyshire relations by post, on account of the winter weather. Grégoire and Caitlin Bellamont probably had not even received the announcement yet. The spring term would start soon, and he was due in Cambridge three days out of the week.

“Mr. Wickham to see you, sir,” the servant announced, and George Wickham entered the study.

“Sir Maddox,” he said and bowed. “Miss Maddox.”

“You can do that nonsense with my wife, but not with me,” he said. “I've always preferred ‘Dr.' anyway. I worked hard enough to earn it.” He turned to his daughter and gestured for her to shoo. “Mr. Wickham. What brings you by? Are you intending to loot my library again?”

“If I did, I wouldn't have any room for the spoils, Dr. Maddox,” George said with a shy smile. “I've come for your advice about university.”

“I told you not to worry about your credentials, Mr. Wickham,” Maddox said. He pulled another volume off the shelf, dusted off the cover to see the title, and replaced it. “Not everyone who enters university went to Eton or Harrow, or even knows half of what you do if they had private tutors. I didn't go, your Uncle Bingley didn't go, and my brother attended only his first two years. I honestly think those schools might exist just to get ill-mannered boys out of the house for a few years, before they can go on to university and become ill-mannered men.” He added, “Excepting your cousins, of course, who are always on their best behavior.” But the expression on George's face was not that of a man soothed. Dr. Maddox
sighed; young Wickham was so distant and stubborn—not always to negative ends, but once he had a notion in his head, it was hard for him to shake it.

Maddox put the book in his hands down, and placed one hand on George's shoulder. “So—are you still set on Oxford, then? Not that you don't have time to decide.”

“Yes.”

“It is a fine school. My father went there.” He was never quite able to figure George Wickham out. “Not that you are tied to any choices now.You have some ways to go yet, Mr. Wickham. And if life has taught me anything, it is not to assume too much responsibility unless you absolutely have to. Otherwise, you might end up a gambler and a drunk, and eventually marry a princess and walk around with a set of swords as though you're some kind of medieval knight.”

George gave one of his rare half grins. “Says the knight himself.”

“I
hope
it is merely an honorary title, and I will not be called on to don a suit of armor,” Dr. Maddox said.

Because of the speed with which it had been given, Sir and Lady Maddox were not able to celebrate their titles with the family for some time, and put it off until the next family gathering, which was not until early summer. Dr. Maddox was back and forth between Cambridge and Town, and as predicted, was offered a full professorship in medicine for the fall term. Lady Maddox spent much of her time with her sister, surveying properties outside Cambridge before selecting a manor, which would undergo renovations to her tastes.

The families gathered in Derbyshire for various celebrations, one of them to mark Geoffrey Darcy's completion of his first year at Eton, which he did not want celebrated, at least not in the form of all the adults telling him how much older he looked and what a wonderful young man he was turning into. He was more
interested in relaxing with his cousins—fishing in the pond with Charles and Georgiana, with his loyal hound by his side. And that was what he did.

“So how is it?” Charlie Bingley asked eagerly, as he would be attending the following year.

“Fine,” Geoffrey said. “A lot of work, and some of the boys are snobs, but it's all right.”

When Charles was reassured, he left to collect more bait, leaving Geoffrey and Georgiana to themselves. Georgiana Bingley, who had no real interest in fishing, always sat against the tree and played with the flowers, tearing off the petals and tossing them into the water to make them float. “Nice sandals,” he said of her wooden geta shoes.

“Thanks,” she said.

“They were a gift?”

She nodded.

Geoffrey sighed. He hadn't been able to really talk to her over Christmas break, either. Then, he hadn't understood why. Now, having been gone for almost a year, he understood a little better. “I need you to teach me how to fight.”

That got her attention, and some of that old amusement. “You
know
how to fight.”

“I know how to fence. That is different.”

“Since when have you taken an interest in pugilism?”

“This isn't pugilism. I just want to be able to…get out of a fight.”

“The aristocracy of Eton knocking Geoffrey Darcy around? Your father wouldn't stand for it! Think of the family honor!”

He grinned. “I'm not saying I can't throw a punch. I'm not Uncle Bingley.”

“Papa fought a master pugilist in China!”

“I heard he lost.”

Georgiana smiled. “So what you mean to say, in your dignified and roundabout way, is that you want to be good at it, in case some older boy decides to thrash you for fun?”

“Yes. That is what I am saying, in my dignified and roundabout way.”

“Pity I can't be there to protect you.”

“I wish you were there,” he said, and then uncomfortably changed course. “So will you teach me?”

“I might,”she said. “Violating all the bounds of decorum, of course.”

“I've never known that to stop you.”

“Then it's agreed. Unless you're to Ireland?” she said. “Why can't Uncle Grégoire come here?”

“Mrs. Bellamont is completing her confinement in August. Or September. They're not sure. And I know how it works now. How a baby is conceived.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really. I don't know what school was like when Father went, but some of those boys have filthy—” He reddened. “I can't talk about this.”

“Talk about what?”

“Don't tease me.You know.”

“I really don't.”

“Well, I can't really—” He couldn't look at her. “You should ask your mother, if you want to know.”

“Oh,” Georgiana said. “No, she wouldn't say a word. This is the sort of thing a woman is supposed to learn only on her wedding night. Though it's positively mystifying—”

“Well, maybe it should be,” he said defensively. “Wait—how do you know?”

“Because Papa has a locked drawer in his study that isn't
always
locked and has some interesting literature in it,” she said. “All kinds of pictures of monsters. I thought it was some kind of Indian fantasy book. Plus, George has all these books—”

He interrupted, “How do you know what dirty books George Wickham has?”

Georgiana straightened. “Because Izzy told me,” she said. “I didn't ask him about them, if that's what you're implying.”

“Then why are you asking me if you won't ask George?”

“Because I like to torture you. Of course, you can keep all your Eton secrets, which are probably all wrong anyway. You didn't really think I would ask you seriously about that sort of thing?”