The Question of Consent

By DJ Clawson

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice"

Chapter 16 – The Chief of Clan Kincaid

Jane Bingley arrived at Pemberley with exceptional speed, even when the missive containing the current events did not ask her attendance. With the lateness of the hour, only her sister was there to great here in the doorway. "Lizzy – "

"Jane – "

They embraced, and for a moment, no words were spoken.

"Everyone is all right," Elizabeth said, clearly meaning 'everyone relevant.' "Papa has just retired and I've put Geoffrey to bed."

"My husband?"

"Oh, it's my fault," Elizabeth said, putting her hands over her mouth. "I shouldn't have let them go."

"Go?"

"The men. Into a room to discuss things with Lord Kincaid – the younger brother of James Kincaid. I shouldn't have left them alone."

"Lizzy," Jane asked, "Whatever do you mean?"

Behind closed doors in the parlor, four gentlemen sat around a small table, which was now loaded almost to capacity with wine and whiskey bottles. Mugs and glasses had been nearly forgotten, and there was quite a bit of straight from the bottle drinking, but at the moment, three of the men were cheering the forth on, as Darcy finished the contents of the drinking horn with a long gulp, and promptly collapsed back in his chair, the horn hanging by its chain around his neck, a dazed expression on his face.

"Cheers!" Bingley raised his empty glass.

"To the new chief of Clan Kincaid!" said William Kincaid, still in highland garb but having lost his hat when he tipped over. "Chief ... wha's his name again?"

"Darcy," offered Maddox, who was having trouble trying to balance an empty bottle on his palm upside down.

"Chief Darcy! Hail to the Chief!"

"Silly man," Darcy said. "Listen to how he says 'tooo.' 'Heil too tha Chief!'" he said, doing his best to imitate the Scottish burr. "Is there a rule for how long I must contain the wine?"

"Shuttup, English! And what kind of English name is Darcy, anyway?"

"'s French," slurred Darcy. "Dah'arceee."

"What? You're not even a proper Englishmen? Then what's all this nonsense about?" He turned to Maddox, grabbing him by the arm with an unintentionally harsh twist. "You – you're English, right?"

"By birth," Maddox said, taking a deep breath so he could speak clearly. "But ... you know ... the name is not ... 's Welsh."

"I'm English!" Bingley protested, raising his glass again.

"You?" Darcy said. "Look'it you. Look'at your hair, man! You're as Irish as ... as ... a famous Irishman; I can't be bothered with th' history!"

"He probably has peat bogs growin' in his backyard," William said.

"Hey!" Bingley said, pointing at the Scotsman to his left. "Hey!" he repeated, apparently not completely at his wits. "Hey, stop it!"

"So none of us are proper English?" Maddox inquired.

"Aye," said William. "To the Bonnie Prince! To the Jacobites!"

"Didn't your prince escape by dressing up like a woman?" Darcy said smugly, rocking back on his chair.

"Stop being so smart all the time!" Bingley said. He slammed his hand on the table, which rattled the bottles. "You – you Frenchmen! Go back to Napoleon!"

"And fight you? The man who spent the whole battle tonight unconscious on my fine floor?"

"Yes! Wait, no ... Yes! And stop it with Pemberley this, Pemberley that, I'm sick of it!"

Darcy was so drunk, his eyes so unfocused, his speech so uneven in tone, it was hard to tell if he was being serious, "Do not smudge the honor of Pemberley, Bingley."

"O'Bingley," Maddox giggled. "I'm marrying Caroline O'Bingley."

"Okay, you shut up!" Bingley pointed in Maddox's general direction, because that was all the hand coordination he had. "This is between me and Darcy! Now you stop talking about Pemberley and how great it is!"

"And why – why should I do that?"

"'cuz – I know things. About you. I could tell that story. You know, the one from college." He turned to William. "He said he'd kill me if I ever told it. But we're like Gaelic brothers or something, so you'll defend me, right?"

"How good is the story?"

"Which one is it?" Darcy said. "Is it one from Cambridge?"

"Yes. I mean, aye, yee, 'tis," Bingley said, doing his best Irish accent and not succeeding very well.

"Fine," Darcy said, crossing his arms and attempting to keep his head up. "Is it the one where I almost dueled my fencing partner in the tavern?"

"No."

"The one where I punched Wickham?"

"Which time?"

"Any one."

"Uh ... no."

"Uhm," Darcy was clearly having as much trouble as he was dredging up the memories. "The time I flunked my examinations?"

"You flunked your examinations?" Maddox asked.

"Hungover. Bribed the headmaster, took 'em again," Darcy explained. "There, Bingley."

"Not that story."

"Uhm, all right. How about that girl?"

"Which one?"

"The ... I don't know, pick one."

"It's not, by the way."

"By G-d, put us out of the bloody suspense," said William.

"'kay." Bingley focused his attention on William Kincaid. "So, this one time, it was a moonlit night, and we were studying, uhm, that play – the Jew one. By the Bard."

"The Jew of Venice," Maddox said.

"Right. Wait, is that right? Darcy, is that right?"

"The Merchant of Venice," Darcy corrected.

"Right. All right. So, we're all studying and we're talking about Antonio and Bassanio and Darcy turns to me and he says, he says, 'Bingley, have you ever –,'"

Whatever Bingley meant to say, it was cut off by Darcy socking him in the face. Darcy had to reach over the table to do it, and Bingley went right overboard, his chair hitting the floor. "My eye! You bastard, my eye!"

But he was laughing as he said it, and before long, they were all laughing and pulling Darcy upright, upon which, he announced he needed to be sick. "I said I'd kill 'em. He's dead, right?" Darcy said before trying to stand to run out of the room. He was not able to do so, and would have gone right over had William Kincaid not caught him.

"Frenchmen. Can't hold down anything stronger than their fancy wines," he said. As he was obviously the most sober of the group, he grabbed a precious vase from the display case and helped Darcy expel the contents of his stomach into it, which if anyone heard over their giggling, they made no comment. "O'Bingley, you okay?"

"Someone get me up, or I'm going to be sick," Bingley announced, and Maddox pulled him and his chair back into a proper position. He removed a hand from his eye, and there was no obvious injury, other than some redness around it. "Okay, no more double malt. Single malt only." He attempted to drink from an empty glass and didn't seem to notice this discrepancy. "Seriously, doctor," he said, gripping his future brother-in-law's shoulder very hard and almost leaning on him entirely, "I'm English. Raised just outside London."

"Oh, no worries."

"Isn' your brother dying or something? Right now?"

Maddox squinted. "I think so."

"Can you bring people back from the dead?"

"Wha? No!"

"Then what kind of doctor are you?"

"Only Jesus could bring people back from the dead," Maddox said.

"And the Bonnie Prince," William said. "He could do it. I saw him do it once. I swear."

"My G-d man, you must be very old!"

"The Gaels, we age well. Right, Bingley?"

"I'm English, damnit! And I'll fight anyone who says otherwise!" Then he thought the matter through. "Anyone I can fight. Uh, doctor?"

"What?" Maddox had almost gone into a drunken doze.

"I could take you. I could him, right, Darcy? He's a pacifist!"

Maddox seemed insulted. "Who said I was a pacifist?"

"Do you know how to fight?" Darcy said calmly.

"No."

"Well, then." He looked at William. "Five pounds."

"What? Oh, to see them fight. Who are you betting on?"

"Doesn' matter. I just want to see them go at it. You in?"

William Kincaid took a look at Bingley with his multiple head wounds and Doctor Maddox with his shy demeanor and nerdy classes. "I would put five pounds in. Winner gets all ten."

"I will not fight Doctor Maddox!" Bingley announced.

"Maybe if we get some other people in on it – " Darcy looked around, but of course, no one would offer. "Fifteen pounds!"

"Twenty!" William said. "C'mon, Irish!"

"I'm not Irish!" Bingley said. "Darcy, back me up 'ere."

But Darcy's response was to pass out face-first on the table.

"Frenchmen. Could never stand up to good Scotch!"

"I thought he was your chief?" Maddox pointed out.

"Did you say twenty pounds?" Bingley asked, and turned to Jane as she burst in the room. "Can I fight the doctor for twenty pounds? Darling?"

"Charles!" she screamed. "You're drunk!"

"No, I'm English!"

"Darcy!" Elizabeth ran to her husband, and picked his head up by his hair. That was enough to return him to consciousness. "How much did you have?"

"A – Oh, Lizzy," he said, his voice nearly incomprehensible. "I lofe you."

Elizabeth released her grip on him and his head dropped to the table again with a thud. "How much did he have?"

Bingley giggled, and even Maddox could not hold back a smirk. "Have 'im sleep on 'is chest."

"Maybe I should just leave him here," Elizabeth said.

"You're all drunk!" Jane said. "You, Doctor, while your betrothed stands vigil over your dying brother!"

"Scottish tradition," William said in a deep burr. "After'r battle."

"As a cultured woman I consider myself respectful of other cultures," Elizabeth said, "so I will hold my tongue on this one and put my husband to bed."

"And I the same," said Jane.

"I'm – I can still - " Bingley stuttered. "I can still sit up."

"I will be the judge of that," his wife said very authoritatively. "Come, darling!"

It was not meant to be merely a suggestion, and if there was to be opposition, Charles Bingley was too in the cups to do it. Or, more accurately, in the bottles.

Doctor Maddox refused to be helped up or to bed. He was fortunate in that he, aside from the hardy William, was the only one who could stand and walk about, even if he occasionally had to lean on something to get where he was going, but he was a doctor demanding to see his patient and this carried some amount of authority.

Brian Maddox had been put on a mattress under guard in one of the available rooms, where under the doctor's strict instructions he was to be kept hydrated and clean, but nothing else. When Dr. Maddox entered, Brian was obviously awake but could barely lift his head up, and had to wait for his brother to join him at his side. He made a quick inspection of the wounds, and announced, "If you don't develop an infection, you won't die."

"Lucky me," Brian said in barely a whisper. "Please, could you -"

"No."

Brian turned his head and sighed. "I know, I deserve it."

"Yes."

"I've ... been a fool. But I never thought ..." He coughed uncomfortably. "He just said – "

"I don't care what he actually told you," Maddox said. "The man tried to rape my wife and you let him in!"

"I didn't – "

"I will be generous and say you are not a fool – just, very easily led, and a bad gambler."

"I ... will not deny it," Brian said. "I am sorry."

"Sorry. Sorry?" the doctor said, his voice a bit slurred, but lacking none of the intensity as he shook his brother, which elicited a cry of significant pain from the wounded man. "If anything ... anything had happened to my wife – "

"She ... is ... your fiancé – I believe – brother, please – "

"I don't care!" But he did release his brother. "I would have –" He broke off. "I would have killed you."

There was a moment before Brian Maddox, obviously in great pain, could speak again, "You ... really ... love her."

"You doubted it?"

"No ... I just ... have never seen you angry ... before," he wheezed. "Or throttle a patient."

Maddox took an uneasy step back, and sat on the mattress beside his brother, taking off his glasses so he could wipe his eyes. He was, he had to admit, not in the best of senses, but that did not excuse his behavior, however much his brother soundly deserved it. If a stitch had come loose, he doubted he had the coordination to repair it properly. He had so many emotions, stronger than the ones he was used to in the years of playing the caring but relatively removed doctor, and an entire bottle of Scotch prevented him from properly processing them all. There he stayed, for an undetermined amount of time, his brother either asleep or in so much pain that it prevented conversation, until he was tapped on the shoulder.

"No, no," Maddox said. "I don't need help. I'm quite well." He didn't want any servants bothering him, telling him when to go to bed and when to get up and how to dress and say and do all things proper. He wanted to sit and think, as much as he was capable of doing in his befuddled state.

But the touch was not the touch of a servant's. It was soft and gentle and snaked around the back of his neck. "Caroline." He put on his glasses again so he could properly see that it was her, and his instincts were proven correct. "You shouldn't – "

"I shouldn't what?"

He realized he did not have a proper answer for her. He was so very tired, and still a bit in the cups, and so he only leaned on her shoulder, which was quite improper but comfortable all the same, and for a while, there was silence, except for Brian's labored breathing.

"I should give him something," he said. "So he can sleep."

"You are very forgiving."

He picked his head up and met her expression. "If you wish, I will not be."

"Nothing happened to me, Daniel."

"Something could have."

"But it didn't."

"Are you saying I should forgive him?"

"He is hardly a villain. A bad gambler, an idiot, and a thief, yes. But like you, when he says he had no concept of Kincaid's level of deceptions, I would believe him."

"You are being very kind."

"Well, he is to be my brother-in-law."

Maddox smiled and took her hand. "I love you."

"You should retire, dear."

"I should." He stood up with great difficulty, having trouble finding his balance, and went to his equipment on the table, retrieving the green bottle and a spoon. "This does not mean I entirely forgive you for being an imbecile," he said to his brother, to opened his eyes and swallowed what was offered to him. His duties finished, the good doctor drunkenly straightened his coat, looked around, and realized he had not the wits about him to see his way back to his room. Wordlessly, Caroline took his arm, and he did not object. The hallways were empty, as almost everyone else was long asleep, or at least at the mercy of their wives berating them for all of the appropriate reasons. Darcy probably had the good luck of just being passed out entirely.

When they entered his room, he dismissed the servant waiting, saying he was quite capable of removing his bloodstained clothing, thank you very much. However, this clothing contained a lot of buttons and most of them he found rather vexing when actually attacked.

"Here," Caroline said, and helped him remove his overcoat.

"I seem to recall ... this is most inappropriate of a lady," he mumbled.

"Are you objecting?"

He did not have a proper response. All he wanted to be was down to his underclothes and in bed, which happened very quickly. She kissed him on the cheek, and he turned, and returned the favor, but not on the cheek.

"If you don't leave," he said, "your brother may burst in with a shotgun."

"I think it has been established that all we have to do is clonk him on the head, and he will be incapacitated."

"Not that a concussion will endear me to him." He pulled her closer to her him. It was partially to make his point, partially do to the opposite. "I love you, but – I fear I am not in the most ... inhibited of moods."

"Neither am I. But I do not have an excuse."

He giggled. "That is true."

They together on the mattress, side by side, looking up at the ceiling for some time before Maddox finally said, "If I am to be a gentlemen again, I should perhaps act like one."

"Yes."

"And that would require you vacating my bedchambers at once."

"Yes."

Neither of them made a move for some time.

Finally, he turned on his side to face her, "Caroline, my darling, two things could happen. Either it will be something very improper, or I will fall asleep. Neither I would object to, but we should probably make a decision."

"Even in love you are so logical?"

"I am a scientist."

She giggled. It was so strange, to her Caroline Bingley giggle when not at someone else's expense – though perhaps at his, but not in that way. "Daniel, I love you, but I think I must retire."

"Good," he mumbled, "because I think I am too drunk to do the deed properly."

She snorted into the pillows. "That is what you get for trying to out drink a Scot."

"And an Irishman."

"Are you implying something about my family?"

He swatted her playfully, but that was all he managed as a response. She kissed him on the forehead, removed his glasses for him, and gathered up her somewhat tousled robes. By the time she reached the door, he was fast asleep.

Chapter 17 – The Great Bingley Heist of 1785