Mr. Darcy's Great Escape (23 page)

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

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

She curtseyed to him. “Mister Bingley.”

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

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

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

“Are you ready to go?”

“
Sa! Igirisuwa konomama tsukareta shiranakatta
!” (Ach, I didn't know England was going to be so back breaking
.
) Mugin said, standing up and stretching his back. “We take you, Binguri-san.”

“Wait, I—” but before he knew it, he was hoisted onto Mugin's back.

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

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

Brian's Story, Part 1

No good at being an English gentleman, Brian Maddox decided to be a Hungarian one.

It was late fall of 1807 when he made his way across Austria, far enough south to miss the worst of the early snows and into the hills of Transylvania. His Romanian was passable enough to explain to the border guards of the count's lands who he was. They did seem a bit surprised to see him, but his future father-in-law greeted him warmly enough.

He knew better than to ask to see Nadezhda directly, despite her being the sole reason for his return. The wedding was coming up soon, and his understanding of court culture was lacking, so foreign to him despite his wide travels. Vlad's court seemed to truly be in the dark ages, in stark contrast to even his closest neighbors and relatives, who were quicker to adopt the fashionable European culture of the Enlightenment. Brian could barely make conversation with his chief servant.

“She is very beautiful,” said the man. There were an awful lot of reassurances going around. Eventually, mainly from inflection, he was able to discern that he had not been the first suitor to run. He was actually the only one who came back. It bestowed on him an appropriate level of caution. Did she have a tail? Was she a witch? Or was it merely the overbearing count? Brian had to find out and quickly.

The wedding was set for barely more than a month away. The first week he did not see his intended at all and used what little free time he had to perfect his language skills to the local brogue. Hungarian nobility spoke French as was fashionable, with some German and Hungarian, but these were the backwoods of Transylvania, on the very edge of the traditional Hungarian Empire, and the count was a very traditional man. He liked to think of himself as a man of the people despite being quite the opposite, so he spoke Romanian, like the peasants who toiled on his land.

Most of Brian's evenings were spent in long banquets, where he had more time to practice, or would have if the local spirits didn't go right to his head despite what he thought was an impressive tolerance. After the first few nights, before he learned to quietly water down his mug, he emerged with a horrible headache and not much appreciation for the sunlight or anyone who would bother him. There were instructions from what was apparently his manservant, Andrei, on how to dress and how to act, if said in a very polite way. He gave up his cravat but held fast on growing a beard, even if he did allow his sideburns to be a bit wider than permissive in proper society. He wouldn't even give in to the current trend of goatees, preferring a soft, clean face.

Finally, he saw Nadezhda when she was presented to the feast table. She was bejeweled and wearing a complex embroidered gown. Brian could see her beautiful face and her fine form, but he wondered what her hair would look like out from under the silk headdress. She had not changed from their parting in the spring. She smiled nervously to him as she bowed, and he returned it, though he did not know if she saw it. He hoped she did.

That night, after he was permitted to escape the long hours of feasting and storytelling, he sat down with a glass of imported wine in his chambers, and set concerns and fears of his impending marriage aside long enough to ask Andrei when in the hell he was going to see Nadezhda in some kind of privacy. He might have phrased it differently, he might not. All he heard through the pounding in his ears was that it would be arranged.

In fact, it was that very night. He was escorted to a balcony, which was sheltered enough so that it was not terribly cold. On the other side of the open doorway were guards and—he had no doubt—listening people, but she was standing there, and that was enough. “Your Highness,” he bowed an Englishman's bow. He would take her hand only if she offered it, which she did not, clamping them together somewhat nervously. She was covered, but less ostentatiously dressed, and it occurred to him that he had never seen her hair. If she was like her father, it was probably black. He found himself imagining what it would be like to run his fingers through it, as she curtseyed to him.

“You asked to speak with me?” she said.

“I wanted to speak with you,” Brian said. “I've… not seen you in a while.”

“You saw me this evening.”

“I mean, privately. Since that night.”

“You remember it?”

“Every word.”

To this, she was startled enough to have no immediate response. He knew he was not being misinterpreted, but he had no idea of her feelings for him, if there were any. Surely, he would be a fool to think she had fallen for some Englishman with barely a grasp of her native tongue in two meetings, only one of them with any shred of privacy. But he wondered all the same. She was clearly a little afraid, maybe not of him, maybe only of the situation. He took that comfort. He spoke softly, hopefully beyond anyone's abilities to listen, “I returned only for you, Your Highness.”

He could not tell from her expression the depths or the nature of her reaction, though there was one. He would give anything for the ability to read her better at that moment, something no tutor could impart. “But I have not been a proper gentleman,” he said, to fill the awkward silence, “and asked how you have been, my lady.”

“I have been well. I was a bit—surprised at your return.”

“Everyone was.” He let his hand stray to the balcony rim, which was closer to her hand, without touching it. “Were you happy at the news?” He shook his head. “I apologize. That was too personal a question. My lady, you do not have to answer.”

“But you wish to know it?”

With as much muting of his emotion as he could muster, he replied, “Yes.”

“I was.” And then, when her apparent embarrassment passed, she smiled, but quickly covered her face to hide it.

“Oh, please don't,” he whispered. “I so wish to see you smile.” This, of course, had that precise effect, and she pulled her hand away. “There.” All of his concerns, for the moment, were dashed as he admitted to himself that he was completely and utterly in love.

***

Their courtship period—which only Brian, in his mind, referred to as such—was slow and complex despite the wedding hovering over him, because he did not want to overstep his bounds. He was advised not to show too much interest in his bride. This he found ironic and somewhat stupid, but he would not stir the pot at this point, even though her father treated him with excitement at their upcoming nuptials as the next great step in the long family history. Although he did see her increasingly at meals, it was never together and they exchanged words only on that balcony and in other places where it was arranged for them. He did not touch her, even to hold her hand or kiss the ring, because he did not know what liberties he was allowed and didn't feel inclined to ask her.

It was the shy Nadezhda who warned him, “Do not trust your servants. Do not trust anyone.”

With an obvious smile on his face, Brian said, “Should I trust you?”

“Perhaps,” she said. Her shell of shyness was nearly impossible to penetrate, and he found it easier to lead her and let her respond in kind.

Between her hints and his improved language skills, he was beginning to understand the situation a bit better. Her father, the count, lacked a certain social ability to get along well with his neighbors. During his reign, his actions had ensured that they were now all thoroughly aligned against him. They would not risk open warfare, but they would not provide him with a suitable candidate for a husband for his only daughter. So he had to look elsewhere, to the point of winning the hapless Brian Maddox in a bet.

“Brian,” Nadezhda said, after many insistences that she call him that, “you should consider your situation.”

“I don't understand.”

“You—” She stopped and, to his surprise, placed a tense but tender hand on his arm, lightly brushing against his clothing. “There will be expectations of you.”

“I know. Your father has made no secret that I must produce an heir.”

She shook her head. She seemed to be trembling and turned away from him. Incited by her touch, and out of the concern for her change in temperament, he lightly chanced a grazing of his hand against the outer fabric of her long headscarf. “What? You can tell me.”

“I have not told… anyone. Except my father, who will not listen to reason. You will keep it a secret?”

“Of course.”

She turned back to him. “You should run, Herr Maddox.”

“What?”

“You should run away and never look back. It is the safest thing for you.”

“My lady,” Brian said, “I have run from many obligations in my life. I decided long ago that this will not be one of them.” He moved closer than he ever had dared. “I love you.”

“I know.” She tried to hide her soft expression in her hands again. “Brian, I don't think I can bear children.”

“It frightens you?”

“No. But—do not ask for specifics, but the midwife believes it, and I would not have you bind yourself to me without knowing the truth. If you marry me, your situation will be very desperate.”

It took a second for him to comprehend. “But it is not a sure thing.”

“I suppose not. But my father is always unreasonable.”

It did not take a vivid imagination to conjure up an image of what would happen to him if he ever displeased the count. But maybe his marriage would soften his father-in-law? If he made Nadezhda truly happy? “I am willing to take a gamble. After all, gambling landed me in this situation, and I find it extremely pleasurable. So—you've never told this to another suitor?”

“No,” she said. “I never cared for the other ones.”

He colored at her implication.

***

By some stupid baronial custom, Brian did not see his bride for a week up to the marriage. He passed his available hours writing furiously to his brother, expressing none of the concerns surrounding his marriage and all of the joy. He loved Nadezhda. He could not, for a second, consider running away and not taking her as his wife for as long as he should live—however short that would be. Who knew, maybe she could conceive. It had certainly never been put to the test. When they explained (in detail) his wedding night and the presentation of the sheets, he colored and would have run back to his room if he hadn't been standing in front of the count at the time.

He had one other, entirely unexpected, horror to endure. A traditional stag party in England, among friends, might have involved some heavy drinking of whiskey and some tales that were not told often outside of such gatherings, but here it was an entirely different matter. First, he had no friends and dearly missed his brother and sister-in-law. Second, the drinking was much heavier, and he had to work very, very hard to keep himself out of the cups. Third, women were invited. Or, appropriately, women of a certain profession (the oldest) were invited, or paid to come and dance. He sat on a pillow next to the count, who slapped him so heavily on the back that it hurt and made him spill some of his mead or vodka or whatever it was, and was told strongly and in no uncertain terms to pick one of them. Brian excused himself momentarily, and his servant Andrei must have noticed the color leave his face, because the man explained his duties to him politely enough but made it clear that it was a duty expected of him and he could not refuse.

He was not left to contemplate the situation very long before the matter was forced upon him. He helplessly selected a girl in a red costume and was ushered into another room where he proceeded to tell her that for both of their sakes she must act accordingly to satisfy the count, and they spent the next half hour exchanging childhood stories.

***

If there was one thing Brian Maddox was sure he would never attend, much less be a part of, it was a royal wedding. How luck and fate had brought him here, he had no concept. The weight of the crown on his head was enough to sink him into reality. He was His Highness, Brian of Transylvania. The title wasn't real in the sense that he could use it in any kind of court. The family bought the title at some point in history, and though it was nothing more than a family custom, no one ever called Princess Nadezhda anything but Her Highness (in Romanian), and they would address Brian the same way. Only the velvet beneath the crown made it comfortable on his head, and only seeing a similarly attired Nadezhda beside him helped him through a ceremony he did not even begin to understand. His only pain was with the absence of his brother and sister-in-law, and wishing they could be there at this strange ceremony.

But he put those feelings aside soon enough. Nadezhda was his. His wife… He instantly felt a certain possessiveness towards her. This was not a woman he was courting. This was his wife, his other half, the person he would, hopefully, share the rest of his life with. He wondered if the Catholic priest had said something to that effect.

He was not invited to the wedding dinner. Instead he took a small meal in his chambers and was invited back to the crowd when his duties were performed, as disgusting a notion as that was. That he had to present proof—he shook his head. Well, he would, and that would be the end of it. As his gold chain and crown and outer layer were removed, he took a glass of wine and said a prayer in English to help him to be a good husband, a good person, maybe even a good father… if it was possible.

With utter silence he was ushered into the princess's chambers. To his horror, his wife was stark naked on her bed, as if all he had to do was… No, as appealing as that was, the terrified look on her face was enough to stop him cold. He yelled angrily at the servants to leave them be and shut the door firmly behind them.

“Nadezhda,” he said, changing the tone of his voice as he approached her. “You're shivering.” He grabbed her discarded robe and put it over her. She must have been freezing. “Here.”

“Am I—so terrible to you?”