Manner of Devotion

"Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."

Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

Author's Note: The wedding scene in the previous chapter was largely copied from Dean Mahomet's (1759-1851) description of a Mughal wedding he attended before moving to Britain. If the notions of what consisted a Muslim wedding in India seem outdated to the modern reader, that's because they are.

Chapter 3 – To the Ends of the Earth

While Elizabeth Darcy privately held the opinion that of course her son had been the most beautiful male baby in the world, she said otherwise as the newborn flailed his tiny limbs around. "He is perhaps the most adorable boy I've ever seen." It wasn't a complete lie – Viscount Robert Kincaid was indeed a little treasure, still rather pink and often refusing to open his eyes. His hair – what little of it there was – was brown, like his father's.

Lady Georgiana Kincaid (nee Darcy) beamed with motherly pride, as only could be expected, and well-deserved after the nerve-wracking and life-threatening experience that was labor. Despite everyone's fears, all went well, and the baby Kincaid came into the world after just six hours of labor. Within only four days Georgiana was well enough to stand at the christening, with her brother and sister as godparents.

The Darcys had arrived in the last weeks of Georgiana's confinement, children and all. The castle and mansion was not how Elizabeth remembered it – it had been renovated to be more livable and lively, but you could only make a castle so modern. Lord Kincaid was in fine form, in so much as he was good at hiding his nerves, which were mainly expressed fencing with Darcy and Geoffrey, who had recently been allowed to take up the sport and seemed to relish it with his father's old enthusiasm. Between Darcy having to fight on his weak side and Geoffrey's age and experience, Kincaid easily bested them both, but was good enough to make it not seem as so. Darcy was not so determined to see his son a fighter as much as to see the future master of Pemberley engage in all forms of masculine activity, and not be overwhelmed by the influence of having three younger sisters. Fitzwilliam Darcy loved all of his children as much as a father possibly could, but there were moments when they were all in a room together that he felt he could sympathize with Mr. Bennet. And his daughters weren't even near being in their teens yet. He didn't wish imagine it.

Darcy had worried obsessively about Georgiana's state during her entire pregnancy. He had been relieved that she was not with child for the first few years of her marriage, and the earl did not seem to mind in the least. When the day did come, she was now five and twenty, and it was obvious she was ready. Still, he had to steel himself with a full glass of whiskey. Their mother had died giving birth to her. He had little memory of the labor – it was a woman's thing – and was thoroughly confused by this small thing that was supposed to be his sister, though where in the world she came from, the young Master Fitzwilliam could not tell and no one enlightened him. But when his mother took ill the next day, he noticed it. He would have stayed with her, but they kept him well out of the room. He only saw her twice before her death two days later. He had lost his mother and was left with this tiny thing that made noises but did not seem like it would ever be a person. It did not seem like a fair trade. Only his father could assure him that some good had come of it, and as Georgiana grew into his darling sister, he believed him.

But Georgiana did survive, and by all appearances remained in good health as he held his new nephew in his arms. William Kincaid stayed with Georgiana as soon as he was allowed back in the room, even while she slept and he sat awake. It was a happy time for all of them. There was only one person missing.

"Mr. Darcy," Lord Kincaid said to him on the third day, "I've asked for a painter to come and make a small portraiture of Georgiana and Robert for her brother. Do you think he would take it?"

"I think he would love it," he said. "I will send it with my next correspondence, as soon as you say it is prepared. Did you tell Georgiana?"

"Not yet."

"I'm sure she will be glad to hear it."

Grégoire was missed, but he was happy in Spain by all accounts and very busy there, working with the community. If he could arrange it he would escape the hot Spanish summer to England, but it didn't happen every year. Surely, this year he would get permission with the birth of a nephew.

The Darcys stayed for the christening and the next few weeks. Georgiana would not be traveling for some time and was reluctant to have them leave. Elizabeth found herself unaccustomed to being without her sister, especially with Mr. Bingley abroad, but Jane was in London with her children, and the Hursts stayed with her, and of course the Maddoxes were in Town until the Prince left for Brighton. The Bingleys (sans Mr. Bingley) would be traveling to Longbourn for the summer as soon as Georgiana Bingley returned. For whatever reason, Jane had been cajoled into allowing her daughter to accompany Princess Maddox to Ireland for a brief tour of the coast. The Princess had never been without her husband and Georgie without her father, so they stuck together while Mr. Bingley and Mr. Maddox made the business trip to Japan (with a stop in India). Their last correspondence had been from a post office in Johannesburg, to say their ship had rounded Africa's coast safely. Beyond that, correspondence would be unlikely, as it would move no faster than they would.

The adults adjusted to the scattering of the family with the knowledge that it was brief, but the children complained bitterly, so accustomed to one another. Geoffrey was not eager to go to Scotland – he had already lost Georgie and now he would not have Charles, only three younger sisters. Lord Kincaid, whom he had always liked, filled that void to some extent, though Geoffrey remained frustrated that the man he had to spar with was so much taller than him.

"One day, son, you'll grow as tall as your father and you'll be ducking under doorways and bumping your head," his uncle said. "So don't go complain' now. You'll hit it soon enough."

Geoffrey scowled, but his uncle was right. Geoffrey was twelve. His voice had already dropped an octave (even if it didn't stay there all the time) and he had cramps in his legs. He could pick up any one of his sisters, even Anne. But he still couldn't look up at his father and think this is what I'm going to be someday. Or, he couldn't believe it when it did strike him.

And then, of course, the question; he knew it was awkward, but he didn't know why. He could just sense it as he held his cousin Robert. "So babies come from stomachs?"

His father's immediate response was stony silence, which was what his father did when he was uncomfortable. His mother's response was to laugh and lean into his father. "Essentially," his father finally said, staring out the window instead of at him. And that was it. That was all he was going to get. Geoffrey looked back down at Robert. If Uncle Bingley was here, he would tell him. Uncle Bingley couldn't keep a secret. When he returned, Geoffrey would ask him.

"What did he say?" Anne asked him immediately when he left the room.

"Nothing."

"He's Papa; what do you expect?"

And so that mystery went unsolved. At least until Uncle Bingley came home.

"It is a boy," Jane announced to her audience of the Hursts and the Maddoxes. The post came after luncheon, but she held it for dinner. "Robert Kincaid."

"Viscount Robert Kincaid," Louisa said.

"Perhaps we should give him a few years before he is required to be titled," Dr. Maddox said.

"And at least five before he must attend a ball," said Mr. Hurst, raising his glass of whiskey in a gesture for the newborn.

"Does he favor his mother or his father in appearance?" Caroline asked.

"Lizzy says – he has Lord Kincaid's hair and Georgiana's eyes."

"Is he a lively child?"

"I don't seem to recall any newborns being interested in anything other than eating and sleeping," Dr. Maddox said to his wife.

"I believe she is asking if he is a screamer," Louisa said.

"She doesn't say," was all Jane offered. Even if he was, Lizzy would not write it to be read publicly.

"What you don't want," Caroline said, "is twin screamers."

"Oh goodness," Dr. Maddox said. "Yes. G-d, yes."

"Unhappy memories, Dr. Maddox?" Mr. Hurst said with a smile.

"I remember leaving for work in the evening with both of them screaming, and then returning in the morning to the same state."

"But you weren't there for the evening!" Caroline said indignantly. "You had somewhere else to be!"

"Oh hush, Caroline," Louisa said. "Whenever you complained about Charles, Mama would remind you that you were the loudest of all of us as an infant."

Caroline Maddox stared down her sister as her husband covered his mouth with his napkin to prevent her seeing his expression. "I don't recall any such nonsense."

"You were four – how would you? But I remember it."

Mr. Hurst burst out laughing, which was a godsend for the rest of the room to have an excuse to do the same as Caroline silently fumed and would not, even after much prodding, own to it.

"It's so hot out," Georgiana Bingley said, looking up at the sky. "Why is the water so cold?"

Princess Nadezhda Maddox shook her head. "The ocean is always cold. Don't be a baby." She had already waded in ahead of her niece, holding up her kimono to her knees so her bare feet could soak in the salt water. "What would your father say?"

"That it's not proper for a girl to play in the ocean without a proper bathing costume?"

"Well, good that he's in the Orient, then, and not here to say that," Nadezhda said. Her English was very good, marred only by her Romanian accent. "Now come in. You get used to it."

"My dress will be all messy!"

"Georgiana Bingley!" her aunt said with mock indignation. "When have you ever cared about a dress being dirty?"

Since Georgie could offer no opposition, she stepped out of her sandals and splashed into the water, which went up to her knees much quicker than it did for Nadezhda. "It's rocky."

"Not if you know where to step. Look down. Look how beautiful the water is," Nadezhda said, and Georgie did so. "The first time I ever saw the ocean was in Russia, on the coast. The port was half-frozen and the water was so dark it wasn't blue. It was almost black. Not like this." She kicked at the water, splashing Georgie, who cried out and then laughed. "The second time I saw the ocean from land was when I came to the docks at the filthy Thames. Look how beautiful this is." All around them was green – the rocky coast and the rich shades of green from the Irish fields. It seemed to color the water into an odd and perfect shade of blue.

"Will ye be needin' any'ting else, Yer Highness?" called O'Brien, their coachman. "'sides from the towels and da tea."

"No, thank you."

He doffed his dirty cap and walked off, leaving them alone on the shore. Technically he was their bodyguard, but Nadezhda's sword was intimidation enough, especially when she walked like she knew how to use it, not some aristocrat with a sign of his office. She was a samurai's wife, and she took that as seriously as her husband. No one questioned her odd dress when they heard her accent – how were they to know the difference between an Austrian Princess dressed as an Austrian and an Austrian Princess dressed as a Japanese?

Nadezhda and Georgie eventually tired of standing in the water and played on the shore. Nadezhda set up a branch in the sand as a target and had Georgiana hurl coins. Very few of them hit. "Some did," she said encouragingly, before taking down the makeshift tree with one good flip of the wrist to its lower trunk. Georgie picked up all the coins, large circles with sharpened edges and a hole in the center, and Nadezhda put them back on the string in her pocket. Wet from the splashing of the waves against the rocks and the sea breeze, Nadezhda towed off Georgiana's hair, her own protected by her headdress.

"Can I braid your hair?"

"Tonight," Nadezhda said. "Not now. Someone might come along and see us."

"But they can see my hair."

"You are not married and you are not from Transylvania," her aunt responded. Georgiana had shot up in the past six months, not so much to a normal adult height for a woman but much higher than she had ever been, so Nadezhda did not have to kneel to be at her level. "My hair is for my husband, not other men."

"Did you let him see it before you married him?"

"I did not. He was most curious about it," she said with a smile as they collected their things and made their way back to the path that would take them up to their coach. "If you hide something, it makes people curious. If you show it all the time, they get bored. With men, especially. I cover it and it becomes special, something only for him." Among other things, she added silently. "And you. But if your brother asked, I would not let him."

"What about Uncle Maddox?" she said, referring to her proper uncle, the doctor.

"Only if I was wounded there."

"What about Papa?"

"No."

"What about the King of England?"

Nadezhda grinned and looked down at Georgie. "It would never come up, but no. Not even for the King of England. For husband only."

The sun was setting when they returned to their inn. From the room they could see the water and hear the waves. Despite the beauty of it all, Georgie was noticeably melancholy as she watched the skyline turn red and then a deepening blue.

Nadezhda put a hand on her shoulder. "We will be home soon."

Georgie nodded.

"You miss your father?"

She nodded again.

"I miss husband," Nadezhda said, taking Georgiana into her arms. "But they will be home soon."

"Do you think they're okay?"

"I'm sure Brian will take good care of your father."

"It says what?" Brian said, not having heard the first time over the din of the crowds cheering as the wushu master on the platform defeated yet another opponent by pushing him off the stage.

Mugen, who could speak Chinese but not read it, had to have it read to him by the man offering the sheet of rice paper. "It is a death contract. In case the challenger dies in the fight, it is legal."

"We've not seen a single person die in one of these fights," Bingley said, his eyes still on the champion.

"We've just been witness to limbs broken and bashed in. Nothing serious," Brian said to Bingley.

"I still want to do it."

"Of all the stupid things I've let you do on this trip – "

"I told you, I did not know the word meant prostitute! I thought she was a dancer! How good do you expect my Punjabi to be the first time I hear it spoken?"

"For G-d's sake man, you put your head in a tiger's mouth before I could stop you!"

"The handler said it was safe," Bingley shouted in reply. "And I emerged with my head intact."

"Because I saved you!"

"Arguable. Compared to the other times where you have definitely saved me, that one is up for debate." Bingley turned to Mugen. "Is it safe? The contest?"

"You won't win, Bingley-chan."

"Of course not. I just want to try it."

Brian growled. "Will you please find things to try that don't involve wild animals, compromising situations, or experts in martial combat?"

"Oh, Brian Maddox has never done anything daring or outright insane."

"Not while I was guarding a relative, no." He paused. "Well, yes, but not this time."

"I will take care of it," Mugen said, and began to argue with the official in Chinese. Eventually money changed hands and he handed the contract to Bingley. "Sign."

Before Brian could lodge protest, Bingley signed his name and the wushu master, a rather young man with a pleasant disposition for his violent trade, smiled and helped him up into the ring.

"He's just going to knock him around a little," Mugen said, grabbing Brian's kimono to stop him from following his charge, "not hurt him."

"I hope the bribe was big enough," Brian said.

Bingley stepped up on the matted dais. The announcer began to speak to the crowd of men with identical queues, and raised Bingley's arm. "- Hongmao Guizi!"

There were boos from the crowd, and a little laughter. Mugen just laughed.

"What'd he call him?"

"Red-furred demon," Mugen answered.

Bingley, clueless as ever, was not put off at all by anything as the announcer raised the hand of the current champion, and the crowd cheered. The champion bowed with a hand gesture that Bingley failed to copy correctly (fist on the wrong side).

"5 dago he lasts more than three seconds," Mugen said.

"You know I don't gamble anymore, Mugen-chan; don't try and tempt me," Brian said, watching as Bingley assumed the pugilistic fighting position, "though it is rather tempting."

Brian would have won the bet. Bingley succeeded in throwing a single punch, which of course was sidestepped by the champion, who grabbed the arm by the wrist and pulled it forward as he kicked his challenger's feet out from under him. Bingley landed on his back as the crowd gave their noisy approval.

"Ow," Bingley said. He looked up, and the champion was offering a hand. "What? We're still going? All right, I'm a sporting man."

"So do you give up?" the challenger said in broken Japanese. He assumed a different but still complex stance as Bingley slowly got to his feet and tried again. And again. After landing on his back three times (the third in a full flip with the champion sliding under him entirely as he did it somehow), he tapped the ground.

"Ow. Okay. Winner," he said in Japanese, pointing to the champion. Smiling in amusement, the master helped Bingley again to his feet and Bingley raised the master and still-champion's hand up. That was about as long as he could manage to stay standing before he collapsed again and Brian and Mugen leapt up to help him off the stage.

"That was ... I think I need – to be ill," Bingley said.

Brian couldn't help but stifle his own smile as the cheering continued. As he helped Bingley to sit down on the stands again, he watched Mugen and the champion exchange some words before Mugen leapt off the dais and rejoined them. The official presented him with a certificate of his defeat, which Bingley probably would have appreciated more if he wasn't vomiting into a porcelain vase.

The day's fights over, the crowd began to disperse as people returned to their businesses. The champion stepped off the dais and approached the three of them, saying something to Mugen.

"He says, he was most interested to fight a foreigner," Mugen said. "He would like to invite us to dinner."

"Of course," Brian said, and bowed to the champion.

"His name is Ji Yuan," Mugen said, and translated their answer in more formal terms to the champion, who took his leave. "You are okay, Bingley-chan?"

"I'm going to be a bit – ow -," he said, trying to stand, "– sore in the morning, but I think so, yes." He squinted. "Do they have, say, doctors in China?"

An hour later, they were back at the inn, where a terrified Bingley was lying with needles in his back, a prospect he found far more intimidating than fighting a wushu master.

"Don't complain; you got yourself into this," Brian said, stepping into the other room. Bingley was bruised, but not harmed, as promised. In the next room, Mugen was drinking whatever the local vintage was. "What did Ki Yun say to you?"

"Ji Yuan," Mugen corrected. "He challenged me."

"And you said no? To a fight?" Brian leaned against the doorway. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing," Mugen said. "I did you a favor, you know. You should give me the money."

"What money?"

"The prize money. For winning."

Mugen was being amply compensated for serving as their translator during their visit to Hong Kong and their minor expedition into mainland China, so that was hardly the issue. "You would have won that fight, wouldn't you?"

"He is wushu master here. If I beat him, I take his title, his honor. His students abandon him. He has no reputation until he beats me," Mugen said, taking another swig and launching into his meat dish. "It would have been big trouble for all of us. More trouble than fighting is worth."

"I never thought I would hear you say that," Brian said to his final line. "Thank you, Mugen. But how can you be sure?"

Mugen took a mouthful, swallowed, and followed it with the liquor. "Ah, spicy. His technique was good, and he knows more about the use of chi than his competitors, but he doesn't know how to use that to make him faster." He offered Brian the bottle, but Brian turned it down with a gesture. "I studied wushu for three years in a school in the north. I'm faster; I would beat him."

"Do you think he knows it?"

"Yes."

"Then we do owe you a favor," Brian said. "But before you say it – I am not buying you a prostitute."

Mugen scowled at him and turned away in a huff.

...Next Chapter – The Scholars