The Last of the Wine
by DJ Clawson
This is the last story in my series that began with "A Bit of Advice." At this point you should not be starting with this story, unless you really like a challenge. You should go to my profile page for links to the stories in order.
This chapter is not meant to be taken entirely seriously, I suppose. I don't really know what I was thinking when I was writing it, but I don't like to cut things for no reason. There's not really "an answer" so I'm curious to know what you think.
Chapter 7 - The Lone Wolf
When Dr. and Mrs. Wickham were tired of reading from the Darcy's small but unique library, or simply eager to take advantage of the fine weather, they knew the footpaths that wound around the property, and usually succeeded in not getting lost. In the wilderness there was no one else but the two of them, with no servants lurking on the other side of the door and no doorbell to ring and interrupt the silence. That notion alone was more than enough intimacy, especially for George, who was not so easily able to discard his worldly worries, but also for his wife and her growing and often rumbling belly. Though it was lost to him beneath layers of thick fabric, he stroked it anyway as they sat on a blanket some ways off the road.
"Do you think we could have a place like this?"
Not sure at first if she was referring to the woods or the house, he said, "If you wish."
"Not so grand, obviously. Something small, but away from Town, and that awful smog – "
"We could afford it."
"I've just grown used to it, living that way all my life."
"I thought you went abroad for your education?"
She nodded. "I went from London to Paris, with very little in between. My mother doesn't have any connections with houses in the countryside. When he was in Cambridge, Matthew would spend some of his summers hunting in Wales with friends. But that was for boys – or young men, I suppose, sowing their manly oats."
"You didn't get to do that sort of thing in seminary?" He said it with such severity that it took her a moment to realize he was joking and strike him with her fan. "I suppose if you wish to learn how to hunt – "
"I want no such thing! It's merely a point."
"Good, because I was going to say someone else will have to teach you. I've never held a gun in my life."
"You have only your wit and your sharp tongue, which can be deadly."
"You are being dramatic."
"You can kill a conversation. Especially with a man I didn't care for in the first place."
Thinking back to his first meeting with her (prior to two glasses of wine being thrown in his face), he smiled. "Good thing I am such a terrible man to have at a party, or I might never have met you."
They folded up the blanket and he threw it over his shoulder as they headed back, stopping by one of the larger ponds. As predicted, Geoffrey was there with his daughter and older son, attempting to give a fishing lesson, but without much success. "William! No!"
William Darcy grinned wickedly and tossed the rock anyway, further disturbing the water.
"You're scaring all the fish," Alison said.
"I'm hitting!"
"You're not. You're not going to hit a fish. You have to have patience, like Papa said."
Geoffrey, who noticed them first, looked up at the new arrivals. "George. Mrs. Wickham. I'm trying to teach William patience, but I don't think I'll meet with much success."
"William is less than three. How much patience did you have when you were three?"
"None," he grumbled. "William, Alison, address your cousin."
Alison put down her rod and rose. "Dr. Wickham. Mrs. Wickham."
William, who had his back turned, leaned so far backwards that he was looking up at them. "Cousin Wickham!" He dropped the rocks he was still holding and held up his arms, filthy sleeves and all.
George did not hesitate to lift him into his arms. "Did you catch any fish?"
"I was going to," Alison answered, "but Will scared them all away."
"That's not entirely correct," Geoffrey said. "I think this pond may be empty to begin with. I haven't caught anything here in weeks. He did succeed in stirring up quite a bit of dirt on the bottom, if we wish to give him credit for something."
"I wanted to fish."
"You don't even like to eat fish."
Alison huffed and sat back down on her blanket, and Geoffrey pulled her in and kissed her on her head before letting her escape. Where her brother was filthy, Alison kept herself as immaculate as could be, fishing in the middle of the woods. She wiped her hands clean with a wet cloth before even attempting to touch anything else.
"I suppose we ought to call it a day – at least where the scared or nonexistent fish are concerned," Geoffrey said as he stood. They quickly packed up their things and William walked back with one hand clutching his cousin Cynthia's hand and the other in his mouth. Alison was her father's shadow, however dainty she was about it.
Upon arrival, the mistress of the house emerged from the Nursery. "Brian's just gone down at last. William, whatever you're thinking, don't do it." He laughed and threw himself into her arms, which she accepted, and even hoisted him up. "You're filthy."
"Okaasan."
She kissed him on the cheek and set him back down, and his nurse grabbed him before he could make it any further towards an escape from his water-related fate. Only then did Georgie turn her attention to her guests. "George. Mrs. Wickham."
"Georgiana."
"Oi, did you catch any fish?" she said to her daughter.
"Will scared them all away."
"Will's not to blame for all of your problems. Only some of them. You must learn to carefully assign blame to a sibling so it's more believable." Responding to the look from Geoffrey, she said, "What did I say?"
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Though technically morning, it was still dark when Georgiana left. The evening had passed amiably, as the Wickhams were good dinner guests and the children were for the most part exhausted and behaved themselves. Geoffrey slept in his usual manner, on his stomach and like a rock, while Georgiana tossed and turned so much that it seemed by four that she was not to get any sleep and might as well begin her day.
The mist made it wetter and colder, but she kept above the grass and mud with her tall geta, which she also did not let inhibit her running, best defined as exceedingly fast and not entirely adhering to the laws of sanity and safety. For her all the trees were familiar, all the routes clear, and she was far off the real path and the ground.
She arrived at the ruins of the old church with a crash, digging her sandals into the fresh soil to bring herself to a stop before kneeling down to catch her breath. There was enough sunlight to poke through the leaves of the trees, but not enough to warm the air on the ground so that she could not still see her breath.
In the corners of her eyes she saw another cloud of hot air, and turned slowly to her left, then rolled over and to her feet in terror. The white wolf didn't belong; she was sure of it. Wolves were extinct in Lancashire, and she should have at least heard its approach. Its expression gave every impression that its mood could be described as foul at best, predatory at worst.
"Good ookami," she said, reaching for the hilt of her sword, but it was for the moment stuck because of the awkward angle from which it hung. "Good wolf," she repeated, and its growl simmered but did not cease. She could not will it away. It was smaller than her, but it terrified her all the same. She was not used to being scared. "What do you want? What did you come for?"
The wolf snarled, but otherwise did not provide a coherent answer.
"You don't belong here," she said. "Shoo!" She didn't want it here, hunting her, threatening this place where her children played. "I will protect this place," she said in Japanese.
It leapt before she could draw, easily tackling her with the force of its weight. She grabbed its jaw with both hands, holding it and partially willing it shut. "I told you to stay away!" Its breath was so close Georgie could feel it on her face, and see the shiny white fangs, matching its coat. She wasn't strong enough to hold the jaw shut; she had to let it go to strike the wolf, bashing it between the eyes with one hand. The other it caught, wrappings its jaws around her wrist.
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"I knew it would come to this," Geoffrey said, looking at the article in front of him. Edmund's attempted divorce was in bold enough print that it edged out the drunken antics of Lady Habersham's ball. "It doesn't make it any easier."
"Has Georgie seen it yet?" George asked from across the breakfast table.
"She's not back yet." He put the paper down. "As much as I'm not eager to tell her, Brian's been crying all morning." Geoffrey turned to the footman. "Please have someone find Mrs. Darcy."
"Yes, sir."
He was then distracted by the minor crisis of William being caught with a mouthful of sand from the Zen garden, and it took Geoffrey and Nurse to hold him down long enough for his mouth to be washed out, and George's gentle reassurances that sand was not poisonous and unlikely to have any lasting effects on young Master William's innards.
"Mr. Darcy! Mr. Darcy!"
Just when Geoffrey was ready to declare himself done for the day with frustrations, the footman returned, and not with an expression he wanted. "The gardener's returned with Mrs. Darcy. She's hurt."
He didn't need to know or hear anymore from this man. He pushed past him and bolted out the door, George and Cynthia on his tail, to find the master gardener emerging from the footpath with the crumpled form of Georgiana Darcy in his arms.
"Georgie," he said, and nearly grabbed his wife from the man's arms, pulling her into his own.
"She's breathing," the gardener said, which Geoffrey barely heard. He needed to see for himself. He needed to hold her so close she could not leave him even if she woke and wanted to. He ignored George's protestations and rushed back inside before finally agreeing to place her unconscious form on the couch in the sunroom.
"Blankets. Get some damn blankets!" Geoffrey shouted at the footman, who took the verbal assault in stride and disappeared. "Mrs. Wickham, please distract the children if they approach. George – "
"She has a pulse," George said, removing his pocket watch as he pressed two of his fingers against her neck. "It's slow, but it is there. I need my bag."
It was fetched, and assessing that her back was not broken, nor any other part of her that they could tell, Geoffrey carried her to the bedchamber and repositioned her so her outer layer could be removed without destroying it. Her skin was cold and clammy, and she was not responsive, but they could not find a wound. George had a device to place to his ear and listen to her heartbeat, which he judged to be strong, even running a bit fast. He checked her arms, legs, and head carefully. "She's in shock, but doesn't appear to be wounded. Something must have given her a fright."
"Georgie doesn't get frightened," Geoffrey protested. He held her hand. "There's scratches – on her wrist. Here." He brought the lamp closer so George could see.
"It looks like she fell."
"Ask the man where he found her."
George glanced at him, and realizing Geoffrey was unwilling to leave her side at this moment, he did the master's bidding, returning shortly. "He found her on the ground, as we see her now. No one was nearby."
"He doesn't know how long she was like this."
"No." George put his device away in his bag and retrieved a bottle, which he opened and held under her nose. She woke with a jolt, or at least her body did, and she turned her head away from the smell. "Georgie?"
She fought Geoffrey's hold on her and tried to turn away. She was shivering, and Geoffrey responded by covering her with a blanket and putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Georgie."
"It has to leave," she said, her voice hoarse as if she'd been shouting for a long time. She was barely intelligible. "It doesn't belong."
"What doesn't belong?"
"Georgie," George came around the other side and repeated, "what is it?"
"The wolf." She opened her eyes, which appeared normal. "The wolf – it was there." Georgie pointed, but ended up pointing at the lamp. Confused, she looked at George.
"You're back home. Geoffrey sent someone to find you." He added. "There's no wolf."
"There is!" It would have been a shout, but there was nothing left in her voice. "It wanted to take my children. I wouldn't let it. Ariemasen!"
"What?"
"She said it's not possible," Geoffrey said. "Georgie, there are no wolves in Lancashire."
"I know, G-ddamnit!" Her voice petered out at the end, and her head dropped on the pillow.
George took the advantage to pull Geoffrey away. "She fell and she's had some sort of shock. She needs rest and nourishment. Beyond that, there's no fever, and unless you can find a wound somewhere else on her, there's nothing to be done."
"She's had worse," Geoffrey grumbled. "Can you fetch her something? I don't want to leave her."
George just nodded and disappeared, and Geoffrey sat down next to her, taking one of her hands in his. It was so much smaller than his.
"You don't believe me," she whispered.
"I didn't say that."
"You don't."
"I didn't say that and I won't." He kissed her. "If you promise to drink something and lay quietly, I'll go looking for it."
"Promise?"
"Of course."
She did take tea, and a little broth. By then the maid got her out of her wet clothing and into a robe, and her shivering abated as she fell asleep. Geoffrey turned to his tasks in order: reassuring the children, thanking the Wickhams, and grabbing the master huntsman and the gardener who found her. "Take me there."
There were no wolves in Lancashire. There were no wolves in England. Even the final pack in Derbyshire was eliminated when he was a child. Yet he knew Georgie well enough to not dismiss her fears with a plain denial; nothing good would come of that. He also had some interest in seeing the site of his wife's accident, whatever it was. He knew very well she could slip into some kind of wild delusion just by meditating, though she hadn't done so since Japan.
"Here," the gardener said, leading them to the ruins his children loved to play in. A fallen tree trunk was rotting in the middle of them, but the gardener pointed to the ground beside the stream. "Mrs. Darcy was layin' right here, as if she just dropped."
Geoffrey squatted next to the small indentation and touched the crushed leaves, but they yielded no secrets. How long had she been lying there, and would she still be had George not said something?
He was distracted from his guilt by an indentation in the ground. There were several that matched the wooden teeth of her geta, which had slipped off her feet and he now collected from the riverbank. Then there were others that did not. He pointed, careful not to step in them. "What are those?"
"Animal prints. It looks like – I don't know. A dog or something. A predator."
"A wolf?"
"There are no wolves in England, Mr. Darcy."
"My question stands."
Even the huntsman could not properly reply, never having seen wolf prints that were real, but not knowing anything else to properly match to the prints before them, which trailed away from the immediate area and to the one remaining stone wall of the church. "Seems like it walked to the stone."
Geoffrey walked around it. No prints. "It didn't get any farther."
"'snot possible, Mr. Darcy. With all respects, sir."
"I wish I could say I hadn't seen stranger," he said with a shrug. "Let's go." There was nothing else to see there, and plenty of reasons to be home.
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Georgie slept most of the day, waking to drink or to see her children, who wanted many reassurances that their mother was well. She held Brian, letting him sleep in her arms as she fielded questions from William about the wolf until Geoffrey stopped him. Georgie barely had any voice as it was. Cynthia sat with her, and read the paper, but Georgie was too distracted to have a major reaction to the news of Edmund's impending scandal. "I knew that," was all she said.
George checked on her several times, and was encouraging that she was recovering quickly, and probably would be fine by the morning. That was not enough for Geoffrey, who had a glass of brandy and sat with frayed nerves, watching Mrs. Wickham read to his unresponsive wife.
Dinner was a brief affair, with the chair at the end empty. He read to his children before they were put to bed, excused himself from his hosting duties, and climbed into bed beside his wife. It was a long time before guilt gave way and sleep overtook him.
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Georgie woke in darkness, as if the last day hadn't happened, and was just another break between tossing and turning. But it wasn't, and she grabbed her wrist, only to find her hand still attached and only a few scratches there, nothing to even penetrate the skin. The big and warm thing that had her in his clutches was her husband, who'd fallen asleep with his arms around her. She could feel the tension in his hands, and kissed one of them.
He stirred. "Georgie?"
"Did you find it?"
"No," he mumbled. "It's gone. It went – I don't know."
"It was real."
"I know. I saw the tracks."
She wasn't sure whether to be horrified or vindicated. "I don't know what happened."
"You gave it some reason to leave, and it did. It's gone now."
It's gone now. That was all she needed, and she fell into a peaceful rest at last.
...Next Chapter - Doctor's Orders
