The Price of Family

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

By DJ Clawson

Chapter 10 – His Royal Highness

With a combination of the circumstance, the immense social pressures at work, and the various drinks continuously offered to him, Doctor Maddox knew he needed an escape. Fortunately his wife was thoroughly enjoying talking to the ladies of court, and he slipped out onto a balcony. Only the fresh air kept from being ill altogether. There was a servant there to attend him, but he shooed him away with more anger than he normally would have. Caroline was happy, but that was because she had no idea of the noose that was around their necks, perhaps not even metaphorical. And how was he ever to tell her? If he was to tell her?

"Lovely evening, isn't it?"

He knew that voice, now from two different places. His intended escape had resulted in an opposite effect – he was trapped on a balcony with the Prince Regent himself. He bowed, another threat to his ready stomach, but managed to keep down all of the alcohol he had so foolishly ingested to calm himself. "Your Royal Highness."

The Regent didn't return the bow. He didn't have to, wouldn't have. This man ruled Britain, and even if he wasn't Regent, he was still the Prince. "My G-d man, you look positively spooked. It seems I have that effect on people."

"It's just – I just – I'm not accustomed to being in the presence of royalty – sir – Your Highness."

"But you are," corrected the Regent.

"I – I wasn't going to say it," he said. He wanted to bow again, but now he was fairly sure he would lose his stomach if he did. Instead he removed his glasses and began to clean them with a handkerchief, even though they were perfectly clean, because it removed the distinctness of the world and had almost the effect of looking away, as if looking directly into the Regent would burn his eyes.

"You have a good deal of discretion, doctor."

"Uhm – thank you."

"You really had no idea who I was?"

"I don't – I don't inquire after my patients. Not – not at – well, I'm not going to say it. And it was dark. A-And I had never seen you before, so ... No. I saw a gold ring and you ... you overpaid me, but that just meant – you were titled or – or something. I don't know."

"But you could have asked someone there."

"I didn't. I don't do that sort of thing." He swallowed. "I'm just a doctor."

"You're a very good one."

"Thank you," he said earnestly. Very earnestly. He watched the blur that was the Prince Regent walk over to the edge of the balcony, probably facing out, not facing him. "Your Highness."

"So ... the stitches. Tuesday?"

"Tuesday would be fine, yes."

"I'll send a courier. And now, I must get back to my party. Evening, doctor."

He bowed yet again. "Your Royal Highness."

Somewhere in France, in a tiny, unnamed inn above a tavern, the Darcys were sleeping their first peaceful rest in days. Far north and a crossing away, the Bingleys had retired from their many guests and responsibilities with children, and the twins were giving them some peace. But between them, in a townhouse in West London, while Caroline Maddox was removing her many layers of complex gown and freeing herself of jewelry, her husband was emptying his stomach into a chamber pot by the fire downstairs. It was only after some time that he noticed his absence and appeared before him, a shawl wrapped over her nightgown. "Daniel?"

"I'm fine," he said, his voice weak. The servant had already taken the pot, and covered him with a blanket, and she sat next to him on the chaise, and held a hand to his head.

"You're freezing! Did you catch something at the ball?"

"No. No, no, I was in trouble long before that." He swallowed. "Forgive me. It will pass. I had too much to drink." He put his hand over hers. "Go to bed."

"Look at you – you're shivering and sick, and you're sending me away? Do balls really bother you that much?"

"No. Just – this one."

"Are you nervous around royalty?"

"Apparently."

She looked at him quizzically, which he pretended not to catch. "Go to bed, darling."

"Only if you come with me. If it's drink, I won't catch it, will I? Come." She was willing to drag him up, and he waddled up the stairs and was helped into bed. He was so very, very happy to have her. It would be such a shame to lose her, all because of his foolishness.

"I was going to regal you of tales of who I met, but it seems, you are not in the mood," she said. "So I will not torture you. But you will tell me why you made yourself sick."

"I didn't make myself sick."

"You are so prodigiously careful with your own health that I can hardly believe anything else," she said. Damn her, for being so intelligent! "Who did you meet?"

"Can't tell," he mumbled into his pillow. "Patient confidentiality."

"Are you saying your wife ranks below your patients?"

"I am serious, Caroline."

"So you met one tonight. Who was it?"

"Oh G-d, please, let us not talk of this. It will only lead to bad things."

"What? A former lover?"

"What? No!" He turned over to face her. "Of course not. There is no one in England that - well, you know."

"Does this line of conversation bother you so?"

"Have I not said that? Several times, I think, at this point?"

"Fine, then! If you don't like royal balls, you never have to go to another one! I will go alone if we are invited, and you will never see any of them again."

He considered, and then said, "On the contrary. I have an appointment with the Regent on Tuesday. Or, he has appointment with me."

Caroline, who was getting ready for bed, turned over in disbelief. "How did this come about?"

"I spoke to him."

"You – spoke to the Regent? When?"

"He cornered me on the balcony. About mid-way through the night, just after I'd met the earl of Maddox."

"What – what was he like?"

He shrugged.

"And he requested your services?"

"Yes."

"Why? I mean, not to insult you, dear, but it is not as if he does not have his own royal physicians – "

Something – maybe now that he was in bed and recovering – was making him a little more relaxed, enough to say, "I am going to tell you something that you cannot ever – ever – tell anyone. I'm serious. Not Mrs. Hurst, or Mr. Hurst, even if he's passed out drunk, or Charles, or Mrs. Bingley – "

"Daniel, I get it. Out with it."

He smiled. Maybe he was still, despite everything, a little drunk. "He requested me for the removal of five stitches on his breast. A surface wound, really, but it looked bad."

"And he asked this of you because – "

" – I put them in," he said. "Early this week."

It took Caroline, even with her quick wit, time to process this information. "You treated the Regent of England and you didn't tell me?"

"I didn't know he was the Regent at the time."

"Are you daft? How did you not know?"

"How was I to know? He was not properly attired, nor did he introduce himself, and I've only seen the Regent in newspaper etchings. And the light quality was poor. So no, I did not know who he was. I just figured he was nobility by the way he talked and the fact that he paid me extravagantly for the small work that I did. Honestly, people get so worked up over such a small amount of blood."

"Daniel," she said in total disbelief. "You are telling you treated the Prince Regent – "

" – yes – "

" – and you didn't know who he was."

"And I've already clarified why, I believe."

"You've not clarified a thing! Where on earth would you treat His Royal Highness for a cut? Where were his guards? His doctors? His carriage?"

Maddox groaned and straightened his glasses. "Now, this is the part of the story that is both treasonous and will not reflect well on my occupation. So for the initial reason, you cannot tell anyone. Seriously. You promise?"

"G-d, I promise, yes already."

"Caroline, I'm serious – "

"I know. And you're only dragging it out now."

She was right and he knew it. "Fine. When I met the man who I learned this very night was in fact, the ruler of England, it was in a house of prostitution, and he had been stabbed by his courtesan, who was attempting to renegotiate the price."

Caroline, who was usually never at a loss for words, started at him for a full thirty seconds – he counted – until she responded, "That's the worst lie you've ever told me."

"Good that it isn't a lie, then," he said, awaiting the eruption.

It came soon enough.

"What in the hell were you doing in a – a house of prostitution?"

He put a pillow over his head.

"Daniel? Daniel Stewart Maddox, I demand an answer!"

He was so ready for it that it was almost a relief to hear her at least be angry at him for it. It was strange sensation indeed. "I am a doctor, Caroline. More accurately, I am a surgeon as well, and for many years I was hard up for money and went wherever I was called without any judgments made. And so, because of my habit for discretion, it seems I am, sadly, quite favored by these particular ... houses. And they pay me very well, so I go."

"But you've never – "

"Oh G-d, no. Even if I was a bachelor and I was the type ... those women are all horribly diseased. I know because they describe their symptoms to me in great detail every time I pass, hoping for a cure that doesn't exist. But no, the patients I treat are men who've had too much to drink, or have had heart attacks, or been stabbed."

" – which would include the Regent."

"As has been established, yes."

"And she thought she was going to get away with it?"

Since her righteous anger seemed now somewhat abated, he removed the pillow. "I suppose she imagined he would not report it in the interest of avoiding scandal. So either she was secretly killed or she is very much alive."

"And you did not – ask who he was?"

"No. It is not what I do."

He had a pounding headache from all of it, and he relaxed for a moment as Caroline fell into a contemplative silence, swallowing all of the scandalous and horrible information he'd thrown at her. Finally she said, "So – the invitation - ?"

" – was undoubtedly so he could see me again and judge me to be a discreet man. Which, it seems I was, because he requested my services. That, or he intends to have me jumped and killed when I go to the castle on Tuesday. Either one."

"You realize where this could lead?"

"My head on a spike?"

She turned back to him. "No. A royal commission."

He'd been too panicked to think of it. "It's just stitches. He probably wants me to remove them so that his own surgeon doesn't ask questions."

"Still. It is not beyond the realm of possibility. And a nicer vision than your head removed."

"Most things are."

She fell into him, giggling, "The Prince ... in a whorehouse ... and I can never tell anyone!"

"No, you cannot. But I suppose, it is a rather juicy tidbit."

"That is putting it mildly," she said. "You are no judge of gossip."

At this, he had to laugh. "A terrible fault indeed."

"The Prince Regent! In a whorehouse!"

"And stabbed by the very woman of the night who was with him!"

"And you did not recognize him!"

"Did I mention he was drunk, too?"

Caroline laughed into his shoulder. It was a wonderful feeling.

"Well, if he does have me jumped and quartered, at least I will die knowing we laughed about it the week before."

As expediency was key, the Darcys – all three of them – did not sit idle at the inn and began the long road south. There were places, they quickly discovered, where the spring showers had made the road so muddy that the wagon barely went faster than a man, and it was then that Grégoire got out and walked alongside the path, soaking most of his robe, but stubbornly refusing to return to the carriage.

"He's as bad as you are," Elizabeth said with a grin that Darcy tried hard to ignore.

At last the carriage came to a stop entirely, the wheels stuck in mood. Grégoire translated with the driver for a while to Darcy that the hold-up would not be long and the horses needed a break anyway, and that they were approaching a drier region, but he remained unpleased. Elizabeth had her own concerns, but she held them back, focusing instead on Grégoire, standing along on the hillside overlooking the valley. When she approached, he put his cowl over his head.

"Come now," she said. "I am your sister-in-law. And I'm a mess from traveling – hardly a spectacle."

After a moment he did relent, and pulled back his hood. Elizabeth couldn't help but notice this was their first moment alone together, as Darcy was on the other side of the carriage, yelling at the teamster in his broken French. Despite the physical resemblance, Grégoire was all humility, his gaze often averted, his posture uncomfortable. Or no, maybe he was the same, she wondered, but without the stout Englishmen upbringing. Darcy was uncomfortable around people despite his attempts to hide it (which quite often made it more obvious), but Grégoire made no such attempts, and whether it was the modesty of a monk or the general Darcy lineage was impossible to discern. So she looked out at the countryside, which was quite beautiful, and not at him, which seemed to put him at ease, as he could do the same.

"So," she said at last, "you are named after your father." Grégoire, after all, was the French translation of Gregory, unmistakably similar to Geoffrey.

"Yes," he said. "I believe was his intention to name all his sons so, but was obligated to do otherwise with Monsieur Darcy."

"Yes, Darcy is named after the Fitzwilliam family," she said. "He has a cousin named Colonel Fitzwilliam. It would have led to some confusion if Darcy didn't shun his baptismal name." She held back a laugh. "There's a long, silly story behind it. No actual animosity. He and Colonel Fitzwilliam are great friends as well as cousins."

"I thought it might be a custom, as you are calling him Darcy and he insists I call him that," Grégoire said. "I am not familiar with English customs. I only know that father only managed to name two of his sons similarly."

Elizabeth shook her head. "You are mistaken. You are thinking of his – your – sister, Georgiana."

"No, father said he had three sons." He turned and actually looked at her after the silence, and noticed her shock. "Have mercy on me. I assumed you were aware."

"You are sure?"

"It was what I remember. Though, I was a child, so my memory may not be clear. But – he did say his wife named Georgiana after him, out of spite."

Not only did she not what to imagine what had gone in the private chambers of the Darcy's parents when his liaisons had come out in obvious evidence and with exceptionally bad timing, but Elizabeth could only manage to think of one person who bore a similar name to Georgiana, who Mr. Darcy kept close, and provided for, and left a living for ... "Do not tell Darcy!"

"I am sorry – have I slandered father?"

"No – no, he has done quite enough of that himself," she said. "But – if it is – oh, G-d." Had two brothers married two sisters? "Do not tell him. Please, I beg of you. Not yet, if he is ever to know at all."

"I apologize if our existence is so disconcerting – "

"No, no, it is not you, though that was a bit of a shock, but you," she struggled to find her words, too busy with the gravity of his own, however unknown. "You are blameless. I cannot think of a man who has led a more blameless life."

"I am a poor sinner like any man."

"But not like this!" she said, unintentionally raising her voice, and to look that Darcy had not returned his attentions to them. Surely he would, soon enough, now that the wagon was almost free. "I will explain it all, but please, promise me you will not say a word!"

She grabbed his arms as she said this and almost shook him, and in such a stunned state as he was when she did this, he could only answer, "... I promise."

"Thank you." With that, she ran off, leaving a stunned monk, and fell into Darcy's arms.

"Lizzy? Lizzy, what's wrong?" he begged. When she refused to answer, he gave a cold look to Grégoire, who shrugged unconvincingly. "What did he say to you, Lizzy?"

"Nothing. It is nothing. It was not what he said...," she said, wiping away tears. "I will tell you at a more appropriate time."

"Of course," he said, helping her back into the ready carriage, but not before a stern glance at his half-brother.

She wondered, however, if there would ever be an appropriate time.

...Next Chapter - Appointment with a Doctor