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.

If you're sick of the Tibetan plotline, it pretty much ends in this chapter. Up next: Darcy and Bingley.

HUGE AUTHOR NOTE: Book 3 - "Mr. Darcy's Great Escape" (the book version of the story "Left to Follow) is now available in some stores and on Amazon, even though the official publication date is February 1st.

And now, back to our story:


Chapter 9 – Funeral for a Friend

"Dorje is here?" Alison could not believe it. Neither could her husband, after it was explained who 'Dorje' was.

"Another amazing coincidence," Geoffrey said. "Life seems to be full of them." He did not seem happy or sad at the news, just neutral. Georgiana left her husband alone on this account, at least for the moment.

They quickly discovered, as did all of the other inn residents that Michael Walker was as much of a trouble-maker as his father implied to be. Now free of his nurse entirely (her having vacated the building moments after announcing her sudden retirement), he ran up and down the halls, easily making it past the hastily-assembled locks on Japanese-style doors and into people's rooms. He never actually made off with anyone's items so much as he sat in people's rooms and played with them. He broke the railing on the stairway, put a dent in the front steps to the porch by tossing a rock from his window, and was caught more than once in the kitchen, devouring whatever he could get his hands on. In the case that evening it was sticky rice, mashed into more of a goo, and upon discovering it would stay on his hands, he ran down the hallway, dragging his hand along the wall and creating a long trail of rice-goo as he went until a strong hand grabbed him by the collar and pulled him away from anything he could touch and destroy.

"Didn't someone teach you manners?" Georgie said, pulling him into the communal washroom.

"Mrs. Clark talked about manners a lot." Michael scowled at her. "I hated her."

To his surprise, her expression just softened. "Come now young man – you didn't really hate her, did you? That's positively cruel."

"She was mean."

"Did you give her a reason to be?"

He shrugged, because he didn't have an answer to that that he wanted to give.

"Look at you – you're a mess. Though I can't suppose a child on their own would be any other way." She managed to maneuver him not in, but near the tub, and rolled up his messy sleeves so she could wipe his hands and arms with soap. She wasn't rough like Mrs. Clark. "Where is your father?"

"Some meeting," he said. "Are you my new nurse?"

"No."

"Are you still mad at me about the bracelet?"

"I was never mad at you about the bracelet," Georgie said, rolling up the other sleeve. The shirt could not be salvaged without some serious scrubbing, and not while he wore it. "And my name is Mrs. Darcy, not Wolf. Though some people have called me that."

"Who called you that?"

"The king of England," she said, and watched with amusement as his eyes went wide. "If you're to have any clothing at all, you must take up a hobby that is not as messy." She wiped his face and his chin, but the muck went down further than that. As she undid the top button to his white shirt, she pointed. "Have you always had that mark?"

"You can't scrub it," Michael said, referring to the large, circular birthmark on his chest, to the left side and almost below the shoulder. "It doesn't go away. My father says it's how he told me apart from my cousin when we were babies and they would visit. But Mother always knew it was me," he said proudly. "She said it made me special."

"Was she sick?"

"Father said she was sleepy. He was lying."

"Maybe he didn't want to tell you the truth. He didn't want to scare you." Georgie closed his shirt again and took a clean towel to scrub his hair. "He's very worried about you."

"Did he tell you to say that?"

"No. Why are you so suspicious of your father? Because of what happened with your mother?" When he didn't answer, she continued, "Parents always want to protect their children from harm. I would do anything to protect my children."

"Then where are they?"

She grimaced. "My oldest is married. She's upstairs. The others are bigger now – they're in school or adults. I'll see them when I return to England."

"Is that why you talk funny?"

"Yes, that's why I talk funny."

He giggled, and so did she. "You want to be clean before your father gets home, don't you? Then let's hurry up."

"He won't notice."

"I'm sure he will," she said. "I'm sure his thoughts are on you at this very moment."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm a mother," she said, standing up. "And I'm married to a father. Come."

He didn't need to be hauled upstairs. He followed her willingly to his own room, the first quiet thing he'd done all day.


Mugen's funeral was performed with more pageantry than he had ever known or would likely put up with in his life. Geoffrey Darcy watched the procession of different types of monks through the smoke of incense, his participation limited to supporting a sobbing Georgie, and wondered if the monks thought this man they were praying for was some great noble or religious master. In truth, Geoffrey wasn't even sure Mugen was Buddhist. Mugen definitely skirted the definition of the word. There was a Shinto priest as well, though he'd already been given an Okinawan funeral all those years ago, after he was shot. Nadezhda, a Catholic, recited Latin for him, so his bases were most assuredly covered. Though Mugen had been a thief and a criminal, responsible for the death of dozens and maybe hundreds of men, he was not a bad man. In Geoffrey's estimation, he was a very good man, and he was everything to Georgie. She might as well be burying her father from the way she took it, even though she'd been through this once already in Derbyshire. Now it was final. There would be no more surprise appearances from beyond the grave. Mugen was where he wanted to be – at home, beside the only man he had ever admitted to loving.

For all the guidance Mugen had provided Georgie, Geoffrey cried. For all of the protection he had afforded Alison as a child, Geoffrey cried. And for all the respect Mugen had shown him – albeit subtly – when Geoffrey treated the man like an interloper, Geoffrey cried.

When the ceremony was done, the grave was properly covered, and the stone set aright, Georgie excused herself to collect herself on the steps of the temple. Dorje, relieved of his duties, joined her, and they talked for a few minutes. Geoffrey was too far away to hear them, but he could see them. At first it was comforting words about Mugen, and then the topic changed. Geoffrey kept his face neutral, reassured an upset Alison, and waited for Nadezhda to finish her prayers before they returned to the inn.


Georgiana went to her trunk that night, the second one off to the side, only to discover there was a lock on it. Not that she couldn't pick it, even in the poor light, or locate the key, but the point was that she specifically remembered removing the lock before the funeral.

"Georgie."

She turned to see her husband sitting in the corner. He rose. "I've never taken a stand against you, not through everything I thought was nonsense or at the very least dangerous knowledge. I believed you could make your own decisions, and that you ought to. Also, I believed you might strike me if I attempted to say you couldn't." He smirked, briefly, then returned to his former demeanor as he put his hand on her cheek. "This is not a grown woman. This is a boy. And you know how impressionable children are."

"This would not change anything – "

"This would change everything about his life, if you let it," Geoffrey said. "What do you think you would have done, if Mugen had told you whom he really thought you were?"

"Mugen thought I was me," she snapped, "and damn anything else."

"I cannot change your mind on this – I already know that. But I cannot stand idly by on this one, Georgie. For Michael's sake. He deserves a normal life."

"His life is normal now?" Georgie demanded. "He needs someone who understands him. Every child who is different wishes there was someone, somewhere, who understood them. I would do this for him even if Mugen had not done it for me. He is lost. He is scared."

"These things will pass in time. It is not our responsibility."

"I cannot leave a child behind and say it is not my responsibility! Not one!" She was crying again, even though she wanted to be firm. She wanted to be strong, not just against her husband's concerns but for the coming event. "I will not let anyone suffer!"

He opened his arms to her and she collapsed into them. So much for being strong.

He brushed her hair as she buried her head in his coat. "Georgie, you cannot take the world upon yourself. Maybe the Pope of Tibet thinks you can, but he cannot define you. Your entire life, you have not let anyone define you – even me. And even Mugen. He was just smart enough not to try. He would ask for the same respect."

"Mugen is dead and gone," she said, startling him. She could feel it, and knew it was not something he expected to hear from her without being forced. "I loved him, but he has passed from this world. If he returned in some form or this is merely someone I have to help is not relevant. This is another person and I will not let him pass me by when he needs me." She added, "I won't tell him. Dorje would, but I won't let him. Michael will have his own life no matter what I have to say about it."

Her husband weighed his words and said, "I suppose if he really is the kindred spirit you believe him to be, then that is true." He kissed her and gave her the key to the trunk. "I'm going."

"Of course."

"Do you intend to tell his father?"

She rolled her eyes. "Do you think Mr. Walker would understand?"

"When I hardly do? I think not."


Michael was roused from sleep not by the return of his father but the soft sounds of Mrs. Darcy's voice. "Wake up, Michael-chan."

"Is my father home?"

"No, he's still out."

The prospect of being up and about – at night – while his father was out was very enticing, so he accepted her waiting arms, and she wrapped him in a wool blanket and carried him. There was nothing to light her way and he couldn't see much in the dark hallway, but the room she set him down in was well-lit by lanterns and candles. There was a short table in the middle of the room covered by a blanket, and several items on it. On the other side of the table was Mr. Darcy, who did not have a very happy face on, and a Japanese man in red robes and a golden vest.

Michael looked up to Mrs. Darcy, who removed the blanket from him and wrapped it over her shoulder. She was wearing the same robes as the man and she patted his head.

"Thank you for joining us," the Oriental said. He had a very big smile and he spoke English strangely, like everyone else in this country. He held up the bracelet from before. "This is yours?" Not waiting for an answer, he set it down on the table. "What else belongs to you?"

Michael was tempted to claim it all, but he doubted he could be off with it in one bundle and he didn't want to upset Mrs. Darcy, whom trusted him for some reason. He would get more if he just chose. "This," he said, pointing to the jade horse he liked, which was nicer than the other toy horses next to his. He grabbed it and set it in front of him, and looked up. The Japanese man just nodded, and Mr. Darcy said nothing.

There were three little portraits, all in frames, but he didn't know the people in any of them. All portraits from old times looked the same to him; the women were always pale and smiling just a little and the men looked like women but were dressed differently. He put his hands on each one of them, something he wasn't allowed to do with paintings, but no one had any objections. He ran his thumb across the paint for the picture of a young lady with a baby in her lap and said, "This is mine!" He wanted it; it was his. He set it beside the horse.

At one end of the table were two swords – why didn't he see them before? He'd always wanted a sword, like soldiers wore, and even more now that he was in Japan and Japanese people always got to wear swords, even the ones who weren't soldiers. The Japanese one was heavy and when he tried to lift it, Georgie steadied it for him. He huffed and tried to pretend he wasn't weak and grateful for the help. It was too heavy, so he put it down.

The other sword was much lighter, even though it was still very big and heavy by his standards. It was longer and straighter, and it had prongs on the handle. He held the handle and pushed forward with the sword, imagining poking his enemies with it. "Mine!" He didn't want to put the sword down, but he couldn't hold it up, so he put the strap over his shoulder and let it fall, hanging off him but mostly on the ground. He smiled up at Mrs. Darcy, and she smiled back.

"What else? What else?"

There were so many things he didn't know if he could use. There were eyeglasses, but he didn't need them and thought they made you look foolish. There were stacks of papers, but he couldn't read very well. He tried out all of the little bells, ringing them each in turn, but set them aside. There was only the flag left, and he unfurled it, but he couldn't read the words. It was Oriental language. Michael waved it in the air. "This is mine!"

"Yes, that is yours," the Japanese said, and Mrs. Darcy started crying.

Suddenly the things weren't so interesting anymore, even the sword, though he wouldn't let it go. He tried to hold it up as he walked towards her and she sat on the ground against the wall. It was very awkward, but the sword was his and he would not let it go now that he said it. There were tears in her eyes, and he didn't know what else to do except hug her like he used to hug his mother, and she wrapped the blanket over her shoulders around them both.

"I will always protect you, Michael-chan," she said. "Even when we are very far away. There was always someone there for me and now there will be someone here for you. I promise."

He didn't know what she meant – she was married, she certainly couldn't be his mother even if she got divorced and married his dad, and she lived in England. But it didn't matter at that moment, as she rocked him to sleep.


"Do you really have to leave?"

Georgie finished her prayer and lit the final incense stick before rising from Mugen's grave. She took Michael's hand as they began their descent from the hill to the town beyond. "Yes. Alison needs to go home."

"But you don't have to!"

She smiled. "I have to. I came because I promised my teacher I would come, and now I've fulfilled that promise, and it's time for me to leave."

In truth, a month was not a long time to spend after three months at sea, but her visit to Japan – likely her final one – was completed. They lingered a few weeks, buying some things and seeing sites that had not been available to them in 1820, and Georgie tutored Michael on how to read and write, neither of which he had perfected. With those two things coming along, his father was perhaps the least eager person to see them off. But Michael had his own objections. "When will I see you again?"

"I don't know, Michael-chan. Someday soon. We'll write until then."

"Will you visit me in America?"

"Maybe. Or you'll visit me in England. Your father travels a lot. Surely he will come to England and he will bring you."

Dorje met them at the docks as Michael was reunited with his father. "I am glad we found each other," Dorje said. "How did you know?"

"The bracelet, then the birthmark where Mugen had his tattoo," she said. "And born Southwest, in Philadelphia. But I knew anyway, when he called me wolf."

"But you won't tell him?"

"He is who he is," she said, watching Michael say his goodbyes to Alison and Nadezhda. "Michael Walker. And he will grow into this person, too. I can only support him."

"If that is what you wish, Rinpoché. Will I see you again?"

"Only if we both live a very, very long time," she said. "Goodbye, Lama Dorje."

"Goodbye, Nuba Rinpoché."

They touched foreheads and separated as the ship was finally loaded.

"I don't know what you've done, or how I'll replace you, Mrs. Darcy," Mr. Walker said, his hands resting on his son's shoulders. Michael could hardly be called a good little boy, but under her instruction he found focus. "Not to imply you can be replaced."

"Of course not." She was joined by her husband, who was both sad to leave and eager to return to England. "You will come visit us?"

"I'm sure we can find some room at Pemberley," Geoffrey said.

"Father! Can we?"

"I will consider it." Mr. Walker's answer was enough to satisfy Michael for the moment.

It wasn't until the plank came down that Michael broke from his father and ran to tug at Georgie's skirt. "Don't leave me, Darcy-sensei!"

"I must. Britain is not so terribly far away. We'll see each other soon."

"Promise?"

She took his hands off the hoop lines of her skirt and kissed him on the head. "I promise."

... Next Chapter - King Knut