The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

Chapter 9 – The Royal Ball

The few days leading up to the ball were as busy as those leading up to his wedding, mainly because Doctor Maddox had to manage his normal patient list (which he kept to a minimal, occasionally responding that he was unavailable to a call) and how in the hell he was to be dressed properly. Fortunately, Caroline was on airs, and did a lot of the work for him, procuring him a sword and setting up his haberdasher appointments. While he was busily nervous, she was busily in a sublime mood, and what little time he had left was busy taking advantage of that, which led to a lot of late nights that had nothing to do with calls for his surgical services.

When the evening arrived, he was still no closer to finding the source of his invitation, but the point was he had it, and his wife was the happiest he had seen her since their wedding day, and that alone was enough of a comfort, even if seeing Caroline walk into his chambers in her beautiful emerald gown did make him a bit weak in the knees. "You are quite dashing, Daniel." She kissed him, meanwhile straightening out his collar a bit.

"I do hope so," he said. "I do hope I won't be called for military service of some sort," he said, touching the sword at his waist.

"It's ceremonial, dear," she assured. "But are you saying you would not lay down your life for king and country?"

"If it is to be between king and country or be a husband to a wife and child, then I suppose I will opt with treason," he said, and his hand strayed to her stomach, which was hidden behind layers of gown. Fortunately she was not far along enough to make a ball an impropriety.

"I do not deserve you," she whispered, and then continued in her normal voice. "Your hands are shaking. Are you nervous?"

"I've – never been – "

" – Nor I."

"And it's been ... quite a while ... since I've been to a proper ball."

"Do you remember how to dance?"

"Every good gentlemen knows how to dance."

"Then, you are only obligated to stand up with me, or perhaps someone else you run into that you know. So, you may do as you please, and you are not an eligible bachelor who women will be chasing after and you will be stupidly dancing with every one, which only serves to confuse them as to your intents."

"I will assume you are speaking of your brother."

"Charles may have had blinders on to everything but the fun of dancing with a pretty girl, but he did manage to land one with a great deal of sense. Still, it was both amusing and embarrassing to watch."

"And you?"

"And I? I was not so silly."

"I did not resume that you were. But what did you do while your brother gallivanted about?"

"Made jokes about it with Darcy. To no avail."

"Good luck for me, then."

She laughed, and itself put him more at ease. It was well-timed, for the servant entered just then to say that their carriage was ready, and it was time.

The Royal Ballroom was in full display and decoration, dwarfing Pemberley and everything but his vague memory from his trip to Versailles, but that had not been during a ball, where the room was dressed with people as opulently as the windows. This was above both of them, and their invitation was checked, but Caroline quickly made herself a welcome addition to the gaggle of chatty ladies after the appropriate introductions had been made. She was in her element; there was no doubt about that. That her husband was not was irrelevant to him.

"You are Brian Maddox, no?"

He bowed to the man in front of him. "Daniel Maddox, sir."

"Ah, the doctor." The man bowed. He was wearing a gold chain and various insignia. "Excuse me – I am Lord Stephan, Earl of Maddox."

They did look a bit alike, if vaguely, and seemed to be in the same age range. "Very pleased to meet you, my lord."

"My lord! Please, we are cousins. I must be Stephan." He smiled. He sort of reminded the doctor of his brother, minus all of the debts, lying, theft, and the limp. As far as he knew.

"Daniel." They shook on it. "I must introduce you to my wife, as soon as I, uhm, find her – "

"Probably chatting away with the rest of them. Best to let them do it, yes?"

"Perhaps." Instinctively, Maddox took the glass of champagne that was offered to him – for his nerves. He knew very well that alcohol was a poor tonic for such things, and led to worse if it didn't make things better, but he saw no other options. He had to sit it out. "I am unfamiliar with these events, I admit. Is His Majesty to make an appearance?"

"He does, on occasion, but only when he's sane. But you probably know more about that than I do. Where was your degree?"

"Cambridge. And the Academy in Paris, which was less indefensible at the time," he said, sipping his drink. "But I'm no mind doctor. No, it was just idle curiosity." The sudden burst of trumpets made his stomach turn. "What is that?"

"Probably the Regent arriving. Fashionably late, of course."

The doctor nodded, and finished his drink, which was quickly taken from him by a near-invisible servant. The general activity in the ballroom stopped, and people cleared away and conversation died down – slowly enough – to make way for the present head and future king of England, George Augustus Frederick, the Prince of Wales and the Prince Regent. All of his titles were announced, and between that and the music, Maddox found it quite deafening. Between that, his general nerves, and the champagne, he was a little light on his feet.

That was until the Regent entered, and he saw him clear. Then Doctor Maddox was ready to pass out entirely; only grabbing on to his newfound cousin's arm enabled him to keep from doing so.

It was an ordinary dinner in the Bingley house, with its current guests in residence, so that meant a lot of talking on Mrs. Bennet's part and a lot of nodding silently while rolling his eyes on Mr. Bennet's part. Bingley was at the head of the table, with his father-in-law at the other end, and the women between them. The Hursts and the Maddoxes were in Town, and Bingley, being used to even the most unwelcome house guests, was more than happy to welcome the Bennets to Kirkland for Mary's term. That did not, however, always make it easy.

"Mary, you must eat something!"

"Mama! I've eaten!"

"So little!" Mrs. Bennet had eventually made the transition from mother concerned about her daughters future welfare to a mother concerned with the immediate issue of her daughter's pregnancy, especially now that the rest was out of their hands. "Mr. Bennet!"

"What?" he said, looking as though she had never said anything like this in his life. It was amusing to watch. "Oh, I'm not foolish enough to tell a woman with child what she should or should be doing. Do you ever remember telling you to eat more or less?"

"Then you should know to back me instead of this foolish business of always contradicting me!" said his wife. "She must eat more! I will call for a mid-wife if I must, if no one here will hear sense! Mr. Bingley?"

"Hmm?" he said, attempting to imitate Mr. Bennet's exact 'surprised' dinner expression. According to Jane, in private, he was getting rather good at it. "Oh yes. Mid-wife. I'll call for one in the morning."

"Mama, I am not unwell," Mary insisted. "I am just full."

"You always ate like a bird. Proper for a lady I suppose, but the lot of good it has come to. Now Lydia – and Lizzy. They are eaters. Could eat a horse."

"Mama!" Jane said, as her husband broke out into laughter next to her. "Charles!"

He mumbled an apology and covered his mouth.

Of course, Mrs. Bennet was ready to fill the uncomfortable silence. "Now I suppose, perhaps Lydia can finally see Derbyshire. Mr. Bingley, would you treat your mother to finally getting to see her daughter and grandchildren without having to travel to Newcastle? Because Mr. Bennet has forbidden them to Longbourn and Mr. Darcy has forbidden them to Pemberley ... And I would like to see her."

"She would talk, though, mama." Surprisingly, this came from Kitty before anyone else could say it. "About – you know."

"Kitty! Have some respect for your sister! And who would she tell, the regimentals at Newcastle?" She turned her attentions back to Bingley. "Mr. Bingley, would you please be so kind to invite the Wickhams to Kirkland? If only for a short while?"

The rest of the Bennets openly cringed at the idea. Bingley hid whatever he was thinking and merely said, "I will put it under serious consideration."

"Oh, do not be so stubborn! You have no dispute with Mr. Wickham. And when is Mr. Darcy so far from Derbyshire as we can afford to invite him?"

"My dear," Mr. Bennet said, "Mr. Bingley is the master of Kirkland and can invite and not invite whoever he pleases and for whatever reason, if I need remind you."

Bingley sat back in his chair, looking a bit lost in thought. "I will consider it. I would hardly want to get in the way of you seeing your own grandchildren, Mrs. Bennet." Actually, he didn't want to get in the way of Mrs. Bennet and anything. And she did have a point about neither Darcy nor Elizabeth being even on the same island as Wickham. When would they have a chance for that again?

But something else was occupying him, and he was largely silent for the rest of dinner. George Wickham – he had met him only once, the day of his wedding, but knew of him extensively by reputation. He had no reason to be hostile to him, if he ignored the past, but that was not what bothered him.

"Charles?" Jane put a hand on his, shaking him out of his apparent stupor. "Are you all right?"

"Oh. Oh, yes, I'm fine," he said.

"Tell me later," she whispered, and dinner continued. So, he would not escape her. That was also on his mind as they wrapped up things, all through the night, and they got all of the children to bed.

"What was that about?" Jane said as she helped Geoffrey put on his nightshirt. They were in the other nursery, the twins already asleep. Thank G-d, they were now sleeping through the night, because Jane refused a wet nurse and handled her children personally, and it was terribly hard to sleep at times.

"What was what about?"

"You were – thinking."

He placed Georgie in her cradle and tied up her nightcap. "Am I not allowed to think?"

"Was it about Wickham?"

"Should we really discuss this in front of the children?"

"I don't care where we discuss it. Do you have an issue with Wickham coming or not?"

"No. To be perfectly honest. Aside from me helping Darcy toss him out a window, we've never had an uncivil conversation. We barely know each other, and I'm sure he would be on his best behavior."

"What was that about – ?"

"The point," he said, briefly interrupted as he leaned over to kiss his daughter good-night, to which she giggled, "is that no, I was thinking of something else. But it is not for me to say."

"It is not for you to say?" Jane asked, because she had never heard him say that.

"Yes, sadly." He leaned over and kissed her. "This is a most private matter that, since it does not involve your sister and hardly involves me, I have no business in sharing, unless you insist."

"Perhaps when Wickham arrives, if he does arrive, I will insist. But until then, you may have your secret."

She kissed Geoffrey and left. Bingley heaved a sign of relief and looked over into Geoffrey's crib. "You have no idea."

But thankfully, Geoffrey was too sleepy to answer, and turned over and ignored him entirely.

11 Years Ago

As they approached the nineteenth century, Charles Bingley found himself at ease. His first year at Cambridge had gone quite well in every respect, and his father was pleased. As a sort of reward, he was given no obligations beyond attending his sister's marriage to Mr. Hurst in early June, and then he was free to travel about a bit. He was overjoyed, of course, when the newly-graduated Darcy invited him to Pemberley. It was not the shooting season quite yet, but there was still plenty of wildlife in Derbyshire year-round, or so he had heard. His father was also interested that his son had developed a friendship with the famous Darcys of Pemberley; such a social connection could only bring about good things. Bingley himself had not that intention when he traveled up north. He wanted to see his friend and get out from under his sisters for a bit.

Darcy was less a man of leisure, as his father was continuing his education in how to be master of Pemberley, and he was himself to leave for a year on the Continent in the late summer, giving them only a month together. Several hours of the day, sadly, Darcy was caught up with his father, an amiable but serious gentlemen, because it seemed that the Darcy fortune was an incredibly complicated thing and hard to master, with so much of it coming from different marriages and stocks in overseas companies, and almost the whole of Pemberley caught up in entail, and then all of their land in Derbyshire that they rented to the peasantry and the income that that brought. Darcy remarked that he had utterly failed until that point to estimate his own worth, but had decided to say it was ten thousand pounds a year, because it was "a nice, round number" and probably not terribly far from the truth. He would stick with that number for years to come, when Bingley with a tradesman's blood knew that Darcy was worth far more. Clearly, becoming the head of such an estate was looming for the young Darcy, and he treasured his free time. They spent many an hour outside, to the point that the cook said she was positively out of different ways to season bird and they ought to shoot something else. There was Georgiana, barely in her eighth year, running about and trying to join them, and occasionally inviting "Mr. Bingley" to tea parties. Darcy informed him that if he responded positively, he would have to sit on furniture that was too small. Clearly he had done it many times. Bingley did say no, but he gave her enough rides on his back to make up for it.

There was one particular morning where Darcy had no standing obligations, and they were about to set out for a particular creek so Darcy could teach him to fish when Mrs. Reynolds appeared at the top of stairs. "Master Fitzwilliam."

"Yes?"

"Master Darcy requests your presence in the study immediately."

That hadn't happened yet, not during Bingley's stay. In fact, the look on Darcy's face made it obvious that the severity in her voice was alarming to him. "Bingley, you may wish to go without me."

"But I can't – Oh, forget it." Because Darcy was already gone, in the direction of the study. Bingley managed to avoid the temptation to follow him there and listen in through the too-thin door for a whole five minutes of furious pacing before he gave in to his instincts, and only because he was busy shooing Georgiana away in the first place.

The Darcys – father and son – had voices that could, to some extent, be considered raised, as Darcy said back, "How could you even accuse me of this? I am insulted just at the implication!"

"What you do in your spare time – "

"I have never, ever used my spare time at Pemberley in such a way and you know it! Have I ever given you reason to think otherwise?"

"I've heard stories about your behavior in college," his father said coldly.

But Darcy was quick to answer, "And who told you those stories? Wickham?"

"Whatever you like to be called yourself, you will show him respect and use his proper Christian name!"

"Fine! George. Because he is the person who should be in question here, not me. This is hardly the first time this has happened, and every time, he has been responsible! How many maids have you had to fire since he became a man?"

"You will not speak gossip about George in my house!"

"It is not gossip! It is fact! And I just cannot see ...," And there was a pause, and Darcy's voice upon returned was considerably calmed, almost upset in a different way. "I cannot see why a man of your wit and intelligence will continuously turn a blind eye to it. And to even go as far as to accuse your own son over him!"

"You will not sit in judgment of me!"

For he was right, at least on that account. Darcy, however annoyed (or correct, from the sound of it) he was, he could not call out his father. It was a biblical sin.

After some time, Darcy's voice changed again. "I ... am sorry, father. I reacted strongly to your accusation and I had no place to do so in front of you. But I stand behind my resolution that George is the father."

"Mr. Wickham – "

"With all due respect, father, Mr. Wickham was a saint of a man, but died long ago and his own countenance seems to have little bearing on his son's." He added more desperately, "Why do you not see it? How much evidence must be before your eyes before you open them?"

"And would you like me to use these same harsh eyes to look at you?"

"I've – done nothing wrong! Please, father!"

There was silence on both ends. Eventually, Mr. Darcy replied gruffly, "Excuse my accusation. Of course you would have more propriety than that. It was one of the other servants. You may go."

This time, Darcy did not contradict him. He stormed out, looking not halfway surprised that Bingley was there.

Their trip to the lake was a strange one, not to be repeated in the same fashion. This time, Darcy took liberties with the bottle of wine that was in one of the baskets, and Bingley learned more about Wickham and less about fishing that afternoon as Darcy ranted on. Bingley and Wickham had, it seemed, only missed each other by a few weeks, as Wickham was in residence when Darcy returned from Cambridge, and had decided he had enough of Darcy's "stuck-up attitude" and left. Not, apparently, before impregnating another servant girl.

"And my father!" Darcy said. "I do not – I don't – we don't often misunderstand each other. Please do not let me give you that impression," Darcy said through slurred speech. "I just do not understand it. I do not understand it. He treats Wickham like his own son! He gives him a home, an education, a living – all of which he has wasted away! There wouldn't be a fertile woman working at Pemberley if he could help it!" He shook his head, and took another swig at the bottle. "I just ... don't understand it."

Bingley admitted that he did not. Over a decade later, he had a feeling that he did.

Next Chapter – His Royal Highness