The Price of Family

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

By DJ Clawson

Chapter 11 – Appointment with a Doctor

Monday for Doctor Maddox was spent mainly in fittings for the proper attire of a royal servant. The haberdasher offered to trim back his hair so that the wig would fit properly, and he had to put up a considerable resistance before the man would relent and managed to get a wig to fit over his bushy bangs.

His reward, he supposed, was having Caroline see him the next morning in full dress, on the way to the palace. She apparently had none of his fears, or if she did, she hid them well. She was the ambitious side of the marriage, and that suited him just find, because it took some pressure of him. "Don't be nervous. It's not as if you haven't seen him before."

"Twice, now." But his hands would not stop shaking.

"He must like you."

"He will not like having stitches removed. That I cannot promise will endear him to me."

"You worry too much," she said, and kissed him on the cheek. "You're the best surgeon in Britain."

"A mild exaggeration," he said. "I love you."

"You sound so positively grave when you say it like that," she replied, and saw him off. His trip was relatively short, but he had to be led through the monstrous grounds of Westminster, his black bag signifying his identity as yet another anonymous servant of the crown. No one paid him any heed, or even inquired as to his name, and he was merely made to sit and wait for some time on what was the most undoubtedly expensive chair he had ever sat on in his life (and he had sat on some rather expensive-looking ones at Pemberley, but these people were royals), until he was called and brought into what seemed to be the dressing chambers of the Prince Regent, who was dressed but for his ornamentals and his waistcoat.

"Your Royal Highness."

"Doctor," the Regent replied, without the same formality. "I suppose we should get this bloody business over with."

"As you wish, Your Highness." He gave his normal instructions for clean water and soap to be brought for him, and began unpacking his bag as the Regent undressed, looking more like the person he had first encountered and not the grand host of a royal ball (and technical ruler of England). But he was a surgeon, and he had a surgical task at hand, because no good doctor in England would touch their patients out of propriety, much less operate on them. In these motions, he was comfortable, as he rolled up his considerable sleeves and washed his hands.

"I had a surgeon once who did not believe in soap," said the Regent, now sitting on a chair with his cravat removed and his shirt open.

"Not all soap is beneficial. You can usually tell its inherent qualities by the smell, unless it has been disguised by being mixed with spices, and is not in fact, soap."

"You are familiar with this?"

"I believe in cleanliness, yes." He turned his attention to the wound, removing his glasses and hanging them on his breast pocket to do so. "It has healed very well. I would recommend removing the stitches now."

"Another one didn't used gloves instead of his bare hands."

"That I cannot recommend, unless they were new gloves," Maddox said, removing his tools from the kit. "They can be carriers of disease. In fact, leather gloves are not washed, so they are exceptionally good ones." He pulled up a stool beside the Prince. "This is going to be a bit uncomfortable. My apologies, Your Royal Highness."

"At least the first time around, I was soused. I can hardly remember it."

"Putting them in is a much different experience," Maddox said, peering close to locate the first knot, and cut it with scissors. "Excuse my closeness. I am nearsighted."

"I know," said the Prince, who grunted as Maddox began to slowly weed out the snipped wire, similar to fishing line. "Your eyesight began to decline in your teenager years, did it not?"

"That is true," he said.

"How long before you lose it?"

If it was anyone else, the question would be outright rude, especially from a sober patient. But this was the Regent. He could say whatever he pleased, and apparently, he did. "I hope very much to see my children go out."

"Yes, congratulations are in order for your wife."

Maddox was an experienced enough doctor to be able to maintain his work when he wanted desperately to pause. "You have done your research very well."

"Not me. My intelligence, of course. It's easier for them when I hand them the card. They had practically everything on you by – ow - morning light."

"Apologies."

"No, it's my own poor countenance." But there was a bit of blood, from the hole where the lacing had been removed. Maddox wiped away with a towel. "Your brother, they did not find."

"My goodness. Is he being sought after by the Crown?"

"No, just the local authorities. Still, know where he is?"

"No," he said, and pulled out another snipped cord.

"You are willing to lie to the ruler of England?" the Regent scoffed, but in a playful manner.

Maddox, in his serious doctor mode, was not as playful. He was neutral, until his given task was completed. "I am willing to go through considerable lengths for the man who raised me and paid for my education."

"And ruined you, apparently."

"Gambling is a vice that has destroyed the best of men," was Maddox's quiet reply.

"But you are – very well educated. Cambridge, Paris, Rome, all the right licenses with London University. You would be a fine doctor if you were not a surgeon."

"And then I would be not much good to my patients, if I was of too high a class to treat them," Maddox said before he realized that perhaps social commentary in front of the future king of England was perhaps not the best of ideas.

The Regent managed to laugh, though it was subdued by the experience of the stitches, no matter how carefully Maddox took them apart. "I will make no complaints about your patient list. Though, it would not be suitable for a royal doctor and surgeon to be visiting whorehouses. Unless, of course, I was there."

Maddox stopped.

The Prince just continued, "This would require, of course, a considerable shortening of your patient list, and you would have to be on the University's medical board, but that could be arranged, though it might require you to attend a lecture or two. But I suppose with your level of scholarship, you are not adverse to the idea of being invited to lectures? Especially if you were a paid guest?"

Maddox stammered, "No, Your Highness." He needed to focus. He still had a task before him, the last two stitches and then the stopping of the small trickle of blood, and the bandaging of the wound. Fortunately the flesh had healed nicely, and was free of infection.

"And it would tie you to Town rather strictly. I know your wife has a brother in Derbyshire, and he is related in marriage to the Darcys of Pemberley and that crowd, but for the most part, you would be required to remain in the general – ugh – vicinity. Was that the last one?"

"Yes, Your Highness," he said, pressing the towel against the wound. "Please press down until I say to stop." He set his pocket watch next to the bowl and washed his hands again.

"Thank G-d for that. How long is this to be?"

"About three minutes. Time for the blood to clot," he explained. "A very simple procedure. Avoiding infection is really the most difficult thing." He turned back to the Prince.

"You haven't said anything about my offer."

"It – I am working, Your Highness, and your immediate health is my first concern," he said, too shy to admit he was shocked by the forwardness of the offer. Sure, Caroline had suggested it multiple times over the weekend as a possibility, but just because he had removed some stitches? And did he want to be tied to the royal service? He would finally be able to provide for Caroline properly, not using up his savings as he currently was. It was the ideal position. "There. Let me see it, if you would."

The Regent removed the bandage, and no blood came up. Maddox took a very careful look, and checked the cloth for anything other than blood, and then pronounced him relatively healed. All that was required was a quick bandage so any possible blood wouldn't stain his shirt, and he was done.

"Will it leave a scar?"

"A very small one," he said, repackaging his bag. "In response to your offer ... I don't know quite what to say." He replaced his glasses and this time looked more generally at the Prince Regent, who was straightening his shirt.

"Most men would jump at that offer, aside for the reasons that I have already given."

"This is true. And I do not say it is not enticing. But I cannot, in good faith, refuse a patient I have been treating for some time. I can shorten my list, and stop visiting these houses, but I still have those I treat who are perhaps not proper patients of a royal physician."

"And for that, you would give up a lifetime of financial security and probable knighthood at the end of it if you didn't accidentally kill me in some prescription?"

Maddox considered it. "I suppose I would. How very foolish of me."

"Or how very noble of you. Well, my offer stands, doctor. Whatever your patient list may be. Infect me with cholera, though, and there will be severe ramifications."

"Of course." He collected things and was getting ready to bow when he released the Prince Regent was offering his hand. To shake. He was shaking hands with the Regent of England. He was touching him in a non-surgical way. "Then ... we are agreed."

"I will have the papers drawn up, and if they are to your liking, you may consider yourself a royal doctor, Doctor Maddox," said the Regent. "My father wants his staff treating me, of course, but as his staff can't treat him, I'm more eager to find my own."

"I am honored, Your Highness." And this time, he did get his chance to bow.

The most direct route was not a terrific one to travel, especially during the spring thaw, and the Darcys spent many a night in a roadside inn, the two of them on a bed that barely fit one person, much less them both. It was the only part of the accommodations that seemed to bother neither of them. Neither did they complain about the food, which was fantastic.

Grégoire did not break bread with them, maintaining to the Rule of contemplative silence during his own meal of largely more than bread and some plain cooked meat. He joined them separately for their dinner, because then he would talk, and they quickly discovered he was most convenient for sniffing out – literally – wines. It was, after all, his main occupation at the monastery, even if he didn't partake in it himself except when there was nothing else to drink. He put his very discriminating nose in many a glass before they found the best wine in the tavern, and Elizabeth and Darcy tasted the finest vintages of their lives.

On one night, Darcy indulged himself in second glass, far before beyond his norm, and they retired early. In their tiny room in whatever nameless traveler's inn he sat before the fire, not drunk but his eyes red and his mood more in ease than it had been since their trip to the old d'Arcy estate.

"Darcy," she said, taking his hand, which was warm and inviting. "There is something I would be remiss if I did not discuss, but I fear it will not be something you want to hear."

He waved it off with the sort of look that he gave people when he wanted them to keep talking.

"Grégoire said something to me in innocence, not knowing the ramifications. And his memory may not be perfect, please keep in mind –,"

His mind seemed to click on. "What is it, Lizzy?"

"He said that you – the two of you – are not your father's only sons."

At this, Darcy began to smolder quietly. She knew this. She had expected it, but she had yet to see him a better mood, so she decided to chance it. She detested keeping secrets from him, especially secrets he had every right to know.

Darcy replied quietly, hiding his emotions, "And he chose to tell you over me?"

"It was by happenstance. He assumed you knew."

"How would I know? I am only just discovering this."

"Because – Darcy, because you know him. Because Georgiana is named after him, and because he, too, received a generous living from Mr. Darcy while he was alive, and was left one after his father's death."

Not fully working at full speed, Darcy's mind had to turn over the various possibilities before saying, "Impossible."

"That Grégoire said so or that it could be?"

"It is impossible," he said with more force. "You will recall, there was a Mrs. Wickham, married to a Mr. Wickham until the day she died, giving birth to George."

"And your father kept a picture of her in his dresser Rue des Capuchins. Along with a picture of young Wickham."

"Mr. Wickham did often travel with my father. Some of those things could have been his."

"I am not saying it is true. I am only saying, considering the evidence, it is perhaps possible – "

"Evidence!" he said, raising his voice as slowly he did his body from the chair. "What evidence is presented before me? The accusations of a mere boy of a man, who must have heard it from my father years ago, when he was but ten?" He did not bother to hide his anger, as it was directed to Elizabeth. "I will not accept such slander!"

"Darcy – "

But he was already storming out of their room and down the hall, where he found his half-brother in his room, with his items spread out on the floor beside the unused bed, preparing himself for evening prayers. "Monsieur Darcy – "

He was no match for Darcy. He had age, but not strength, or intent. He was nothing to Darcy, full of rage and an accomplished sportsman, who grabbed him by his holy robes and hurled him against the wall. "Did you say this lie to Elizabeth? Did you slander our father further?"

"I – I cannot – "

"Darcy, don't!" Elizabeth shouted, trying to pull them apart, but was altogether unsuccessful. "Listen to me. I made him promise to not say a word. I wanted to do it. I thought you would accept it better if you heard it from me."

"That does not free of him of my questioning!" Darcy shouted. "Do you believe my father told you that George Wickham was also his son?"

"...Yes," Grégoire said meekly.

"Why would he say such a thing?"

"I – I do not presume to be in the mind of my – our – father," he said, gasping for air, as Darcy was pressing on his neck, unintentionally strangling him.

"Darcy!" Elizabeth said in her sternest voice. "Release him! It is not he who is at fault here!"

Darcy looked at her coldly.

"Mr. Darcy," she said, returning the glance with equal fervor. "Please do unhand my brother-in-law."

He hesitated, but at least, he did release Grégoire, who dropped to the ground with a thud, and had to be helped up by Elizabeth. "I did not mean to speak ill of anyone, Monsieur Darcy. I thought it was common knowledge."

"What – exactly – did father say to you?"

"I was inquiring as to my family, and he said he had a proper heir, which is you, Monsieur, and a young daughter, and another son he raised as well, but his identity kept secret, for the scandal, and not to hurt his steward's pride during his waning years. So, four of us. And he was named George, after his supposed father."

"And mother knew of this? My mother?"

"I know little of her, but apparently she did, because she insisted on naming Georgiana such in spite."

It was too much. Elizabeth saw it on Darcy's face. As much as he had come to have some attachment to Grégoire, perhaps now severed, he could not begin to fathom taking George Wickham in as a brother. And Georgiana – Perhaps it was having a monk in the room, but Elizabeth could not help but think that G-d Himself must have intervened to prevent that elopement from coming to be. How close, unknowingly, the entire family had come to terrible danger. She looked to Darcy with a look that she could help but be a piteous one, and he sighed and stepped out without a word. "Darcy!"

But he did not return the call. She did find him in their room, or downstairs in the tavern. The front door was open, and he was gone.

...Next Chapter – The Longest Night