Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."

Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

Author's Note: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

Chapter 21 – The Letter from the Island

Darcy was not returned to Pemberley for three weeks before he called Elizabeth into his study, where the day's mail was piled up. He had been perusing a note about an offer on an estate holding when he noticed the letter from Longbourn, sorted accidentally into his pile. "From your father," he said to her, doubting it was something serious, or it would have surely been an express.

Mr. Bennet rarely wrote; he had more of a passion for words in a book than putting them on a page himself, and often lamented that there was little to say about life in Longbourn that mattered enough for the cost of the letter. Elizabeth immediately opened it and sat down to read it. Darcy looked up from his own concerns to watch her expressions, which were not alarmed at any point, in fact, at one point, she giggled. "It seems Mary has had a certain caller."

"Ah, yes. The protégé," Darcy said, relieved that at least one Bennet romance was going as intended without his aid and was eager to leave it that way if at all possible. "May I ask what your father makes of all this?" he said, as she was sure to tell him anyway.

She happily read him the letter, likely omitting some words, but the letter was not long to begin with.

Dearest Lizzy,

You will perhaps find some consolation in the fact that your maneuverings in London were not without results. Mary was here not two days before Dr. Bertrand rode to Hertfordshire to make my acquaintance and formally ask for my permission to court Mary, though he hardly required it. You can imagine who is fleeing and who is pursuing, but the way to a woman's heart is through her child, and apparently the doctor has discovered this. Joseph has a great fondness for him, and would not stop blabbering about him as soon as he returned, which is how I came to hear the name in the first place.

I do not know much of the particulars in terms of Dr. Bertrand's service to the Crown and if he intends to sever that, for Mary has declared rather soundly (and in front of him) that she has no desire to leave Longbourn. Nonetheless he is a persistent fellow, and she has done nothing to more soundly discourage him, so I imagine that should things continue as they are moving, I will go to my grave having safely married all five of my daughters; no small accomplishment considering I hardly left this study while doing so.

Mrs. Bennet wishes you well of course, but her penmanship is not what it was, and she is forever on my back to write notes for her to her sister and brother. At her insistence I will keep you updated about the events as of late.

My love to all of my grandchildren, and my sons, when they behave themselves. The sons, not the grandchildren.

Mr. Edmund Bennet

They decided it was good news (they could hardly decide otherwise). "He is a sensible young man," Darcy said, "and they are always in short supply." He rose, and kissed his wife on her cheek. "I must find my brother. Do excuse me."

"You are excused," she said with a smile. She rose to leave only moments after he disappeared, and paused only to glance at the torn envelope from the documents that her husband had been reading when she entered; it had not escaped her notice that he was bothered by them. The name on the return brought no recognition, and the address was the Isle of Man central post office. How odd, she thought to herself. But then again he had many holdings inherited from both sides of the family (including Rosings and portions of Kent), so she put the thought aside to seek out her sister, who was over for lunch, to share the more interesting news.

The gun fired but missed its target, a passing bird that escaped injury. The shot was so wild that the fowl was in no danger of it.

"Maybe you should try stationary targets," Georgiana Bingley said.

Geoffrey Darcy put the gun down to reload it. "All you do is hit stationary targets."

"When they make an archery target that moves, I will be happy to shoot it," she said, and loaded and fired her bow in less time than it took him to even push down the canister for the next shot. It hit the red circle in the middle. Only three shots out of ten had failed to do so. "This is so boring."

"You could hunt."

"You know Mama would never let me do such a thing. Do you imagine me tramping through the woods with a bow and arrow after a deer? I would ruin my dress and never hear the end of it?"

"I can imagine that, actually."

She frowned in annoyance. "I mean, me tramping through the woods with permission to do so. Quite a different thing. Plus I think my father would be suspicious if I returned with a fawn slung over my shoulders."

"Not very ladylike."

"No."

Geoffrey's dog returned, having nothing to retrieve. "Sorry, Gawain," Geoffrey said, petting him on the head. He put his rifle down and picked up one of Georgiana's arrows and tossed it. "Fetch."

"Hey!"

"For all of the arrows you've lost over the years, you can afford one to poor Gawain."

"He's only poor because he never has anything to bring back but things you toss him."

Geoffrey did not respond to her jibe, so accustomed to it as he was. Instead he just let his errant dog return and tossed it again. Sir Gawain was four, and most energetic, which Geoffrey's father liked. He did not much care for the name, but he was overruled by Geoffrey's mother, who thought it was more amusing than a traditional name for a pup.

"Do you have anything else to do but insult my marksmanship?"

"Oh, yes," Georgie said. "I must learn to dance, sew, draw, paint, sing, and if I have time before supper, play the pianoforte; all casually, of course. It would be indecorous for me to attempt to become a professional at anything."

He said, "You know how to do some of those things."

"But they must be perfected."

"And after that?"

"That's the part I haven't figured out. Everyone I know who is unattached seems so terribly bored."

"I like your drawings," he said. "It's a shame your governess burned them. They were ... imaginative."

"There are only so many flowers in this world to be drawn," she said. "Should we wake your uncle?"

"I don't know how he succeeds in sleeping through the racket this rifle makes," he said. "Probably because he wakes at half past three every morning; terrifies the servants every time."

"Still? Did anyone tell him he doesn't have to keep monastic hours anymore?"

He glanced at her. "Do you want to be the one to tell him that?"

To this she had no response. They gathered their materials and headed down the hill, where Grégoire was asleep against a tree, his head rolling to one side. Fortunately they were able to rouse him before Geoffrey's father showed up, because he was supposed to be watching them, not them watching him.

"There you are," Darcy said. He nodded to his niece. "Miss Bingley."

"Uncle Darcy," she said with a curtsey.

"Father."

Grégoire wiped his eyes. "I am sorry. Am I late for something?"

"No, not at all. There was something I wanted to discuss with you. Geoffrey, you're late for French – "

"Aww – "

"And Miss Bingley, I am quite sure you are late for something."

She did not reply, but merely curtseyed and ran off, back towards Kirkland.

"Catch anything?" Darcy said.

"...No."

"Did you at least fire in the general direction?"

Geoffrey colored. Grégoire tried to hide his amusement. But Darcy patted his son on the shoulder. "When I was your age, I couldn't hit the broad side of a building. Most of what I know, I learned from your Uncle Bingley – and to this day, he can still best me. But that will be our secret. Mention it in front of your uncle – whichever one you like – and you will regret it."

"Of course, Father." That was his cue to exit, and he bowed briefly to them and ran back up the hill towards Pemberley, Sir Gawain running up ahead of him. "I will not be outrun by my cousin and a dog on the same day!"

Unfortunately, he had not yet learned the value of promising himself things that would not come to be true.

Darcy sat down on the stump beside his brother. He did not ask how he was feeling – Grégoire had tired of it, even though he did not express his agitation in words. He was bordering on actually being well; it was only a matter of energy. "I trust that they behaved themselves for the time that you weren't asleep?"

"They are wonderful children," his brother replied. "What brings you away from your ledgers?"

"I will endure this from my wife, but not from you," Darcy said with a laugh. "It is a proposal."

"A proposal?"

"I have a holding on the Isle of Man that I inherited with the estate – a house on a small island in the south. It has been sitting idle since father died, and now someone has made an offer on it. Before I sell it, I want to see it again. He may have left some personal effects there, as he did in Valgones. And I must decide on a price," he said. "I would like very much for you to accompany me, if you feel up to it."

"It is a short journey by sea, is it not?"

"If we leave from Liverpool, it would not be more than a few hours at most. Plenty of time to hold your stomach."

Grégoire smiled. "Then I would be happy to accompany you."

Their journey was set for only a few weeks hence. The weather was growing colder, but Grégoire wanted to spend as much time with Georgiana as he could 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 if he collapsed (which he did not). It was something he had loved to do in past years in Derbyshire and 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 a response that he seemed most comfortable with, probably because it was suitable confounding to end that line of questioning. "Transience and impermanence are a necessary part of life." When Elizabeth asked him where he learned this saying, he replied, "One of Mr. Bingley's Indian books."

The Kincaids were sent off with much fanfare, and a promise to return sometime in the spring or summer. "You will find your way; I'm sure of it. You are too good for this world," his sister said with teary eyes.

Darcy and Grégoire left the very next day for their business excursion. Elizabeth, quite 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 bringing him," he assured her.

The servants packed a whole case of powders, tinctures, tonics, and salves for Grégoire even at his insistence that he did not need them. He did not mind the hard back of the carriage seat. "I hardly have 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 proper 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, 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 him on.

"What I'm about to say is not so commonly known. In fact, the only person who knows it for sure is Dr. Maddox, and only because, in a moment where I lost my wits in Austria, I told him to pass the time." He turned away from the window, looking 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 paused, mulling 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 immediately died in a tragic riding accident. His portraits were removed, and over the next few years, the entire Pemberley staff was changed over one by one, so that by the time our father married my mother, no one knew of him, or heard rumors of a son that had died so tragically that no one spoke of it. 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."

"What did he do?"

"He was mad," Darcy answered, and let that set in for a moment. "He knew he was. His illness was not so extensive that he was fully aware 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 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?"

"Monomania; which has no meaning, as I have come to understand. He did care for society; he did not trust people he did not know." He swallowed, "to a much farther extent than myself, obviously."

Grégoire just nodded.

Darcy played with his ring, the special signet ring that had only been saved from being stolen during his captivity by him having given it on a whim to his son to hold on to while he was gone. "I know very little about whatever treatment he received, but he eventually 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, he could have a completely normal conversation. He understood who I was and he told me he was content with his life, and could not think of another way to have lived it. The fact that he ... hung himself ... a week after saying so is something I have never understood, and 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 said himself 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 obvious to me 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 only knows him as 'previous resident.' He is also buried there, I am quite sure. I do not know where else he would be, 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 himself, and Frederick did not even know he was adopted. He was eight – too young for all that. Dr. Maddox withstood the barrage of questions admirably, ducking as many as he could with 'His Highness requested it' and 'It may not be fun, but it will be short.'

Caroline hugged her son, dressed up in clothes purchased special for this visit, with extra vigor before they entered the carriage. "Be good. And whatever you think, for goodness' 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. He had never been there – no one went there unless they had to, despite the massive grounds and impressive architecture. The sovereign was mad and his many children did not call, often because they were not recognized when they did. He was seen mainly by his doctors. Dr. Maddox knew a few of them, and respected even less. They were of an older school, and he had always had radical ideas about certain aspects of medicine that they would have hardly agreed on anything if they sat down to talk about the most basic forms of treatment. Dr. Maddox was against bleeding the sick, almost entirely because he had been almost bled to death as a young man when he had an infection from his second cataract surgery. He had a foot in the grave when his brother, mad with worry, finally shooed the doctors away when they came with their spikes for the daily bloodletting, and only then did he begin to recover (or so Brian said. Dr. Maddox had little memory of the experience). Dr. Maddox was too skeptical to leave the incident to chance. He was an observational doctor, believing only what he saw, and he only 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 of course 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 or something, but he was not willing to be labeled an outlaw now, at the height of his career, when his family depended on him.

Without much ceremony Dr. Maddox and son passed the guards and greeted one of the doctors he was acquainted with. They made minor conversation 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 likely be complete nonsense. It would be best to just play along or risk upsetting him. Not that he can do much when he's upset, it just might be upsetting for your son to see." He paused. "Why is he here?"

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

"Yes, His Majesty loves children. He loved them when they were children, and was quite disappointed with how they turned out."

Dr. Maddox just 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 vocalize it in words.

The servant opened the door to the king's chambers. "Do not turn your back on His Majesty."

Not that it mattered when the old man was blind and mad, but Dr. Maddox just nodded. "Of course."

Without ceremony, the two of them were allowed entrance to a sitting room. It had the splendor of a royal palace but without all 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 wasn't sure he had to do it, but he still 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, sir."

"How dare you imply otherwise! You were a witness to my wedding! I remember it perfectly. John, I am most insulted."

Dr. Maddox could not help but smile. "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."

Frederick, legitimately confused, turned to his father, who just shrugged and tried to hold back his laughter.

They chatted for some time, as Dr. Maddox was unsure where to end the conversation without making up some humongous lie that he was needed to invade Prussia or something, until Frederick became too fidgety and was escorted out the room and told to wait for a moment outside with a servant.

"I am a doctor, Your Majesty," Dr. Maddox said. "I am here because your son, George, asked me to come and see you."

"And what is your medical treatment?"

"Sadly, I have none."

"Then you are more intelligent than most doctors, to admit it. It is a shame you are a colonel instead of a doctor; I imagine you would have made a good one," the king said. "That was George, wasn't it? It felt like him. I know my own son, you know."

"It was not George," Maddox said. "It was his son; your grandson."

"Really? No one told me he was born. I am subscribed to the wrong papers. Well, I create him Lord of the Colonies in America. Tell him that, won't you?"

Maddox, despite his fear, could not help but smile. "I will, Your Majesty."

...Next Chapter ... A Matter of Propriety