The Price of Family

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

By DJ Clawson

Author's Note: The next chapter will be a significant epilogue, along with fun historical facts (last chance to look up the name Giovanni Ferretti) and news about possible sequels. It may not be posted until after Rosh Hoshanah on Sunday.

Chapter 27 – Sympathy for the Devil

The very next day, Doctor Lucas, Professor Emeritus of King's College, arrived in Derbyshire. Darcy's health had not returned. Though his hand was healing, the pains in his body would not relent. He had trouble taking food, and sleep was nearly impossible. He was, however, still Darcy, who was a man who was affronted when anyone, even his doctor, stormed into his room with a chamber pot. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"As your physician, Mr. Darcy, I must know all of your – proper functions." He did not have to say that the chamber pot, which had just been carried out by the manservant, was filled with blood.

"Do you know ... all of the Prince's ... proper functions?"

"I know his every venereal disease, yes."

Darcy blinked.

"Now, will you please tell me: Is blood coming from anywhere else on your body?"

"No."

"You are including everything?"

"Yes." Darcy, at least for the moment, seemed to have his senses about him. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I am trying to ... conjecture if an organ has failed."

"And if it has?"

Doctor Maddox passed the pot off and did not respond as he washed his hands. "I need to see the spot again."

Darcy groaned and turned on his side so the doctor could not have a look at the bruise on his back. Not his only one, but the largest, so much so that he had circled it, like a butcher preparing to carve up meat. "So it is that horrible?"

"I have to ask you this question, Mr. Darcy – Are all of your affairs in order?"

"That horrible. Yes. What could would I – ow, stop it! – would I be if I had left for the Continent without doing so?"

"I'm not even touching you!"

"Well, it feels as though you are!"

Maddox was used to stubborn patients, but usually he was able to deal with it by assuming it was derived from their medical trials and not their personality. With Darcy, he could not make that assumption. "Do you feel a stabbing pain on your side? Here?"

"Yes! Now by G-d, do something about it!"

"Darcy," he said softly. "I am afraid to kill you."

"I would prefer your knife to a slow death, Maddox."

Doctor Maddox was too flustered to respond.

It was decided. The specifics of the surgery were not explained in full by either Maddox or his former professor, and Mr. Bennet said in private to Bingley that he doubted either of them knew precisely what they intended to do. It was a matter of whether Darcy's insides were fixable or not, and that they could not see from the outside. The surgery would be in the morning, it was announced. A pale of gloom feel over Pemberley, though everyone tried to keep a cheery face for Darcy himself, who managed with his very small bits of strength to give them annoyed looks at their intentions. Fitzwilliam Darcy would not be fooled. He spent a long talking to Bingley with his steward present, and there could be no doubt as to what they were discussing.

Darcy insisted, despite advice otherwise, to see the others at least sitting up in a chair beside his bed. His son was sat in his lap. "Are you going to die?" But even with Geoffrey's regularly lack of tact, his voice was outright terrified.

"Hopefully not," he said, playing with Geoffrey's hair. "Ow, don't hug so hard. Please, for father."

"Am I supposed to be Master Darcy now?"

"No. When you're much, much older and I'm a doddering old fool."

"Was Mr. Wicked really my uncle?"

"Mr. Wickham. And yes, he was."

"Then why did you hate him?"

Elizabeth must have seen the look on Darcy's face, the way he slumped in his chair, because she came rushing. "Geoffrey, don't. Your father has been through a lot with Wickham. I'll tell you when you're older. Now, don't wear your father out."

"Yes," Darcy said. "You'd best get ready for bed. Then you can come in and say good night."

"Okay." Geoffrey kissed his father on the cheek, and then scrambled off, to be escorted off by Nurse.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Elizabeth tried to maintain her composure. "I assume Bingley will be responsible for Geoffrey's welfare if anything happens to me?"

"Yes. I apologize for passing over your father."

"It could hardly be expected of you. Bingley is younger, better with money, and in Derbyshire."

Georgiana wanted a private audience. She hugged her brother and between sobs managed to say, "I'm so sorry."

"For what? You've done nothing wrong in your life."

"For tearing you and Wickham apart."

"Georgiana," he said, "those seeds were planted before you were born. You were merely a link in the chain. And if anything, you have broken it."

She smiled wanly.

Grégoire was next. He bowed to his sister and took his seat. He looked a bit ridiculous, with the bandages wrapped around his head, but no more ridiculous than his normal hairstyle, Darcy supposed. Maybe now it would have to grow out. "Do you have any sins you wish to confess?"

"May I remind you that your poor brother is a believer in the Church of England?"

"That does not make my question invalid."

Darcy considered. "All right. But – we don't exactly have a booth here."

"I suppose – we could put up the dressing screen from Elizabeth's room."

"How did you know Elizabeth has a screen in her quarters?"

"I – I just assumed – "

Darcy admitted, he liked watching Grégoire blush. "Just have them bring it."

The screen was set up as a make-shift confessional barrier, and Grégoire took a seat on the other side. "I should point out that I am not, technically, a priest."

"And I should point out that I am not, technically, a Papist."

"Very well." Grégoire cleared his throat. "Do you have any sins to confess?"

"What if I am a perfect man?"

"There is the sin of pride."

"Very funny. Uhm ... should I begin at the beginning? It will take an awful long time if I cover everything you consider a sin."

"What do you consider a sin, Mr. Darcy?"

Darcy sighed and shifted on the bed, which did nothing to lessen his pain. "When I was a boy, I was very rowdy. Very disrespectful to my elders. And Wickham ... we got into terrible trouble. Well, not so terrible. Boyhood pranks and the like." He smiled. "I can remember some good times."

"So you did care for him."

"Yes, at times. It just – became more vicious. As we grew older. We fought." He laughed, but it was more of a cough. "And by Cambridge, I had given up on him. I could not follow his lead. Oh, and while this is confessional, I should mention I slept with a prostitute after he paid for her services so I would ... enter into manhood. Which you should try, some time, by the way."

"I am just your confessor now, Mr. Darcy."

"You don't know what you are missing," he said. "So ... when Wickham was gone, when he flunked out, I was lost. I descended into the same debauchery he so enjoyed, only I was more subtle about it. And then I met Charles, my last year, and desired to keep him away from the path I and Wickham had strayed. But I was not always a good friend to him."

"How?"

"I misled him. About Jane, when she was just Miss Bennet. I drove them apart."

"But they did find each other again, not of your own design. And they are very happy."

"Actually, I apologized to Bingley and pointed him back to her."

"So you have repented thoroughly. Hardly a terrible friend."

"And ... I was cruel to Elizabeth. My first proposal was most insulting."

"Proposal?"

"For marriage, monk. The thing normal people do."

"Respect for the church is also an important virtue."

"Depends on the church. So ... and then there was that night – but I can't tell that story."

"If it was a sin, you must."

"Well, we didn't really ... I don't remember what we did after the third bottle. But ... enough. So there was my father."

"Yes. What of him?"

"I fought with him, at the end, over Wickham. Now, looking back, how much it must have pained him that I wanted to disown my own brother."

Grégoire said merely, "He did not tell you; therefore, you could not have known. While you were I suppose disrespectful in some fashion, you did not dishonor him in that. Did you not model your life after him? Did you not listen to his wisdom?"

"I have tried ... every day of my life. With the one exception that I have been loyal to my wife since the day I first saw her eyes across a ballroom."

"But yet, you cannot forgive father."

"No. Is that a sin?"

"Forgiveness is a virtue, hatred a sin."

"I don't hate him. I just – do not comprehend his actions. He was so virtuous, and yet did such great sin."

"We cannot all be saints, Mr. Darcy."

"Are you asking me forgive father?"

"I am not asking. But I think it would bring you comfort to begin to let the last be the past."

"Yes, the past." Darcy frowned. "And there is the matter that I killed my own brother."

"Did you not do it to save my life? And your own?"

"That does not change the fact."

"And so it seems there are two people you must forgive, if you are to find peace," Grégoire said. "At this point I would say, 'my son,' but that feels odd."

"Indeed."

"You have lived, by all accounts, a virtuous life. A good gentleman, a father, a husband, a friend, a son. The amount of family that surrounds you even now is ... overwhelming. They have forgiven you, if they ever thought you were in the wrong in the first place for your actions with George. Now you must forgive yourself. You cannot take this self-torture with you now."

"And you are the expert on self-torture," Darcy said.

"I will not dignify that with an answer. Darcy, you know what I mean. I am told George died begging forgiveness. For you, from your family, it has already been granted, and G-d grants it now, but only if you forgive yourself."

"That ... that you cannot ask from me."

"I am perfectly capable of asking. Your reply is up to you."

Neither master or mistress got much sleep that night. Darcy, because he was in such pain, and Elizabeth, because it was hard to sleep while clutching him so tightly and yet sill trying not to hurt him. "For the record," she sobbed, "if you die, I will kill you."

"I must point out that that is technically impossible."

"Then I will have your tombstone signed with that awful nickname where Fitzwilliam should be."

"Then I will have to do my best not to die, then," he said, but could not, despite it, lighten the mood.

In the morning everyone was up bright and early, as Darcy was brought down and a lot of kisses and well-wishes were given, and he kissed his wife before she was ushered out of the room. Despite her protests, both surgeons were quite insistent that she no one else but attendants would be admitted, and Darcy was made to sit on a table. "A table?"

"Yes," Doctor Maddox said, wearing his smock and holding up a glass. "Drink."

"My G-d. How many doses is that?"

"As much as I think I could give you. I will not lie to you, Mr. Darcy. This is going to be excruciating."

"Terrific." Darcy lifted the glass. "Good luck, doctor."

"Good luck, Mr. Darcy."

Darcy did not truly fall asleep. He was familiar with the feeling of drifting into an opius haze. The pain did not leave him, at times could be intense, but it was distant, and he wasn't sure it was real. He felt between worlds, not literally. Some part of his brain knew it was all the power of opium combined with massive blood loss.

"So logical."

Darcy sat down next to Wickham. The fire in front of them was roaring. He had a special affection for the ancient fireplace in their shared dormitory at King's College. It was older than Pemberley, dating probably to the foundations of the college, and it had a very medieval feel, but yet for all of its history still kept them warm in the cold winter months at the beginning of the spring term. The armchairs had been restored many times, and with two young hounds, given to him by his father for Christmas, nipping at his shoes, his regular homesickness was somewhat abated.

"Excuse me for adhering to reason," Darcy said. Sitting back did not relieve or affect the quite literal stabbing pain in his back.

"Lower, Daniel," said Doctor Lucas. "Careful."

"What?" said Wickham.

"Nothing," said Darcy.

"Oh. Whiskey? Single malt."

"Anything decent?"

"I have standards, Darcy. They might not be as high as yours, but trust me when I say, this is a fine Scotch. Have a glass."

Darcy picked up his glass and allowed Wickham to pour him a glass. It tasted tasteless and very fine at the same time.

"You know what it reminds me of? Guess."

"I prefer not to think about what occurs in your mind, Wickham."

"You think me more perverse than I actually am. Which means you must think me a regular Nero."

"Have you actually been studying your books? Can you actually read?"

Wickham ignored the question. "Loch Lomond. Remember, when father took us to Scotland?"

"Oh, no. I had a terrible fever and did not go. You went with father and Mr. Wickham. And that must have been ... Georgiana was not born."

"No, I don't believe so. Father let me have just a bit of whiskey, at the distillery."

"Which father?"

Wickham just laughed. His face was lit up from the fire, and when he smiled, he did have the appearance of being charming. He had perfected it over the years; Darcy was outright jealous of his social ease. The future master of Pemberley could barely manage a grin in public, and only when he had overheard a snippy remark.

"All right, try this. New year's. We were – eight or so."

"Oh G-d! Was it that New Year's? The one where you convinced me to stay up past our bedtimes and drink half a bottle?"

"It was more than half, and it was your idea."

"Certainly not!"

"Remember, this was before you had your manservant insert that stick up your arse, and were actually a bit of fun."

Darcy, despite himself, chuckled. "Ah, yes. And we suffered for it."

"And we had to hide it from Nurse – "

"She thought us ill for having terrible headaches. We had to stop her bringing a doctor in."

"Ha! That was hilarious!" but he was cut off by a moan he could not prevent.

"Is it terrible?"

"I am told I have only a small chance of surviving."

"Then you'd best drink up."

Darcy did not contradict him, no matter how unsubstantially the alcohol affected him. "Why are you being so kind to me?"

"We are brothers, are we not?"

Darcy, again, could not contradict him.

"And then, were we not always, however unintentionally?"

"We were certainly terrible at it."

"Sibling rivalry is a long-standing tradition in almost any family. Especially one where the cards are so stacked against one." Wickham circled the glass with his hand and took a sip. "Though, I suppose, now that I think about it in hindsight, I would have made an awful Master of Pemberley."

"On this I can feel I can soundly agree."

"I would have despised all of that responsibility. And I would have trysted with the maids after marrying some girl who was pretty and only after me for her money, instead of your sensible marrying of Elizabeth Bennet. Thereby creating the same crisis that we had to all endure, even the little monk."

"His name is Grégoire."

"So French."

"His mother was."

"Ah, yes. But I imagine I would have left so many that we could have had a proper battle instead of a duel. With tactics and everything. Two armies of bastard sons."

Despite it, Darcy had to chuckle.

"G-d, Darcy, you are positively – well, I might say, pleasant when you're positively doped. Perhaps you should consider a more constant habit."

"That stick is still there, Wickham. Or I suppose I should say, George." He stared down into his glass, finding it hard to focus his eyes. "Father always wanted me to call you that."

"And father always wanted me to call you Fitzwilliam."

"You opted instead for insulting nicknames. In front of women, too."

"You know my mouth hurt for weeks afterwards from that? That was the last time I ever got between you and a girl with pretty eyes – Oh, I am wrong. But the second time, you defeated me soundly without even punching out one of my teeth, so an improvement on both sides. And you got to keep the woman."

"As I am currently in the most pain I have ever been in, and am quite sure you are merely a side effect of its hallucinationary effects, my heart does not go out to you."

"My heart is out. I think I left it on the road somewhere."

"Thank you for that lovely image, Wickham."

"We could have gotten along quite well, don't you think?"

"What, if you were not a gambler and a promiscuous man to steal the honor of what I must assume is an endless amount of ladies, and I were not a proper gentlemen with no patience for such improprieties?"

"If I loosened up less and you loosened up more, perhaps, we would be at least bearable to each other. And do not hide for a moment behind this 'proper gentleman' business!"

"Are you implying I am not?"

"I think I see it," Maddox's voice came in, booming in the room, though Wickham didn't hear it, and continued undisturbed.

"You are a gentleman. I will not deny it. But you take it to extremes because you are ... disabled."

"Disabled?"

"You are afraid of people, Darcy."

"I am not afraid of anything!"

"Perhaps a better word," Wickham said. Darcy had forgotten that he could display a high degree of intelligence. But he was, after all, the son of Geoffrey Darcy. "Uncomfortable."

"What do you mean?"

"People that you do not know. People that you do know, but lack the means to play that social dance, and I do not mean a literal dance, as you are quite accomplished in that respect despite your lack of practice."

"I think I've just been insulted and complimented in the same breath."

"It was not so much an insult. I was not saying you are stupid, or mentally ill, but behind all of that propriety and that stiff posture is a real man, waiting to get out. Or perhaps, you show him to Elizabeth. She is then a very lucky woman, because you can be quite pleasant if you wish to be. Even likeable."

"So," Darcy said. "We have a man with no scruples but excellent social abilities, and the very opposite. And one killed the other."

"And it has not been established if I did not return the favor quite yet. It depends on your brother-in-law. You could not find a doctor with proper eyes?"

"He has an excellent record and have saved my life before."

"I can't quite decide if that was if that is good or bad for me. I did not mean to kill you, Darcy."

Darcy sighed. "I cannot honestly say the same thing."

"If I had not attacked Gregory – "

"Still." He shook his head. That, he could manage to do. "My hatred was too deep for me to forgive, even when considering one of them was made by accident. Had you approached Georgiana more formally-"

" – Mrs. Reynolds would have said something." George Wickham, of course, did not have this information. Or maybe he did; Darcy didn't question it. "And while it would have changed our lives, it would have prevented the intended marriage, certainly." He said in a softer voice, one that actually sounded concerned, "You know I never compromised her. Or even came close. I never laid a hand on her, except to escort her around Brighton."

"I know."

"But that does not unburden me – even with her forgiveness. Something things cannot be forgiven, however unintentional."

"Or perhaps they can," Darcy said. "You said she did."

"Yes."

"Then I must follow in her lead," Darcy said. He raised his glass so he did not have to say it. "I feel as if ... a terrible burden is off my shoulders."

"Maybe they amputated them while we sat here in front of this pleasant little fire."

"Be serious."

"See, we are opposites. Like you and Bingley, only he meets your stringent requirements of virtue. But otherwise, we are partners in a strange friendship."

Darcy raised his glass. "To brothers."

"To brothers. And brothers must forgive and forget. Both of us."

"Even for the most heinous of crimes?"

"As we both fall into that category, with attempted incest and fratricide, we must overlook them if we are to forgive each other at all."

"Done, then."

They clinked glasses, which shattered, along with his world.

It was nearly nightfall when the doctors, their bloodied smocks hastily removed, with blood still staining their undershirts, emerged from the room and soundly shut the door behind it. Doctor Lucas cleared his throat, apparently an indication for his student to address the crowd, knowing them better.

Maddox swallowed, realizing suddenly how tired he was. "Baring infection, Mr. Darcy will recover fully."

Elizabeth Darcy did not hold herself back from running forward to hug Maddox until he couldn't breathe, as there were cheers all around, and a collective breath was released in Pemberley.

"What did you find?" she whispered to him.

"Darcy is now sans one kidney, which was badly damaged. Fortunately, G-d's grand design for the human body involves having a spare kidney. To this day I could never figure it out."

"And now you have?"

"Of course. It was to save Darcy."

...Next Chapter – Epilogue