Mr. Darcy's Great Escape (18 page)

“Four moons… approach,” Artemis said. “A man with gold is coming. A great fortune.”

“And my daughter?”

Yengi flung his arm out, possibly in distaste but possibly not, as it was rather hard to interpret. Artemis continued, “She goes around you. Circle. All the way.”

“That means she must return!”

“Around.
Around
,” Artemis said as Yengi drew circles with the blood. “Dangerous games. Prisoners die, your own death is near. They live, you prosper, many years of peace. Many.” Yengi cried out and his head dropped, but he was still sitting up. Artemis checked under his eyes and said in French, “I'm sorry. That's all he has for tonight.”

“What is four moons? Four months?”

“I don't know. I imagine if it is something else, as always, you will know them when you see them.” He bowed to the count, who took his leave. Trommler left last, but not before aiming a skeptical glance their way.

Yengi appeared to be sleeping, or at least in a trance. Artemis removed his cloak and put it over his companion's shoulders. “That was all I can give you for now. Trommler already thinks me a charlatan. If he knew I was doing something for you, it would be the axe for all our necks.”

The guards arrived to escort Darcy and Dr. Maddox back to their cells, not offering a moment's reprieve. They cleaned their hands very carefully with the water they had to wash with, but the bleeding had stopped. Where Darcy was merely frustrated, Dr. Maddox was more contemplative. “It was interesting.”

“It was superstitious nonsense.”

“But
clever
superstitious nonsense. He was deliberately vague or just good at making accurate guesses. Or Mr. Izmaylov was.”

“He said you were going to go blind.”

“Yes, he did. That was easy to conclude. I have rather thick glasses, but I'm rather young for them, and most men go a bit blind as they grow old. And as for the three stars—that could be anything, but Artemis easily could have asked the count how many children I have, and assumed my wife is young enough based on my own age to conceive at least once more. Even if he didn't, three is a small enough number that I could find something in my life to apply it to.” He rubbed his own beard. “Now you are afraid of darkness. Who isn't? And where we don't like darkness, we prefer light, so he said something good about light. And as for the true heir, it could be literal, like Geoffrey, or metaphorical in some sense. You're a wealthy Englishman. You're probably concerned about the heir to your estate. Artemis isn't wrong about that. But the point was, he essentially told the count not to execute us and implied that if we were freed, he would at least hear from his daughter.”

Darcy conceded, “There is that.” He resumed pacing. “There's no way he could have known about my uncle. I told you that in confidence, and the guards don't speak English.”

“The walls may be thinner than we think. Trommler is a very clever man, and so is Artemis, even if they don't work together—or not that we know of. But no, I would not assume that. That would take
actual
prophetic powers.”

“I suppose you're right,” Darcy said, but somehow wasn't satisfied. He turned on his side and went to sleep. And that night, he slept poorly.

The Isle

Darcy dreamt.

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

“We must,” Dr. Maddox said from his cell, not bothering to turn over to face him.

What did it matter to him, anyway? He was blind. Well, not blind, or so Dr. Maddox said.
I have proof. The marks on the wall. He's been telling me how many marks he's made. He couldn't see them if he couldn't see. His eyes only fail him at a distance
. Darcy leaned over as far as he could, looking between the bars. Dr. Maddox still had his back turned away.

There were no marks on the wall.

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

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

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

“Don't call me that.”

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

“I said not to call me that!”

“Answer the question.”

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

“Did you enjoy it?”

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

“Did you feel any satisfaction?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The magic potion, remember?”

“What?”

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

“Can it fix me?” Darcy asked.

“Do you want to be fixed?”

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

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

“
Do you have friends, nephew?
”

“
I have George.
”

“
Do you trust him?
”

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

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

“I don't have to do anything!”

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

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

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

“I have you.”

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

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

“
Are you in Austria?
”

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to shave today?”

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

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

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

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

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

“My father sent me.”

“Which one?”

“He said I should learn from you.”

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

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

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

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

“I'm not sure there's a difference.”

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

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

“Uncle—”

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

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

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

“I have given my life to God.”

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

“I don't see you
not hiding
.”

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

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

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

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

Dr. Maddox did not respond.

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

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

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

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

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

“We were talking—”

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

“You liar, you didn't mark the wall!”

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

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

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

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

They were there, plain as day.

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

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

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

“Darcy?”

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

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

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