Manner of Devotion

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

Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

Chapter 5 – The Infamous George Wickham

"No. Absolutely not."

Dr. Maddox sighed. The refusal was not unexpected. The formal letter of resignation was still in the Regent's hands, fluttering in the wind. Somehow, he had succeeded in getting his patient to walk in the park, but the Prince of Wales was so stricken with gout and extra weight that he only made it to a bench not far from the house. "Your Highness, you know I will eventually retire on account of my –"

"You would be a better doctor blind than half the Society," the Regent said.

"With all due respect, that's a ridiculous proposition. You are underestimating the intelligence of my colleagues in the field, sir."

The Regent put down the letter, squinting in the sunlight. "What's this all about, then?"

"I want to do more charity work. I want to maybe write a paper or two." He frowned. "I want to spend more time with my family."

This gave the Regent pause. "I suppose your current schedule doesn't much suit theirs."

"No, sir, it does not."

"That does not change the fact that I need your medical advice – not that I take much of it," the Regent chuckled. Dr. Maddox said nothing to that. "But when something serious does happen – as you keep so diligently warning me – I will need you." He handed the letter back to the doctor. "However, one of my father's constant lessons, when he was still capable of lecturing us, was the importance of family. And not listening to him – well, you see how that turned out for the house of Hanover."

Again, Dr. Maddox had no comment, and looked at his shoes.

"I will be here another month. Less if I can help it, more if Parliament can help it. You have that time to find a suitable day replacement, but will remain my chief physician and will be expected to respond at a moment's notice when possible and as quickly as you can when not possible if something dire were to occur. You will remain at the same salary, and will be expected to keep in regular touch with the attendant physician – at least once a week correspondence – so that you are apprised of my current condition. You are still forbidden to work in the cholera wards, or any public hospital in London. I won't have you dying on me just yet. Otherwise, you may do as you please."

He bowed. "Thank you, Your Highness." Though he had expected at least some kind of new arrangement, he was still overwhelmed. This was the best he could have hoped for. "Thank you very much, sir."

"I had heard you were offered a position at Cambridge – would you take it?"

"I – I don't know. It depends if my wife and children wish to live there."

"Do you make any decisions for yourself, Dr. Maddox?"

He colored. "I made this one."

The Regent laughed. He was generally a jovial person when not horribly depressed. "If you do decide to take a position at Cambridge or Oxford, let me know immediately."

"Yes sir."

"Go forth, my good man, and do the world some good. I loosen your chains, though I have not broken them," said the Prince, ever a fan for the dramatic. "And if I find you in estrangement from your beloved family, which you hold above your sovereign, I will hang your words from the highest tree, I shall!"

"I will not disappoint you, Your Highness," Dr. Maddox said with a smile.

The first sound that greeted Dr. Maddox was not the sweet voice of his wife or the laughter of his children. It was the harsh, loud, metallic sound of a recorder note. After his coat and wig were removed, he immediately headed up to the nursery, where he found his three-year-old son sitting angelically on a blanket on the floor. "When I said I wished him to learn something about music," Maddox said to Nurse, "I did not wish him to be quite so enthusiastic." He pulled the recorder right out his son's mouth, and prevented a tantrum by immediately picking him up. "Daniel, I love you very much, and while it is not lessened while you are playing that instrument, I thoroughly suggest you take up a new one."

"Father," his son said, squirming in his arms. "I like it."

"Because you enjoy music or because it is loud?"

His son looked up at him, but could either not understand the question or did not know the proper answer.

"I thought so," Dr. Maddox said, kissing him on his head of curly red hair before setting him down. "You can have it back tomorrow, preferably when your mother and I are out."

"Finally, the voice of reason," Caroline said in the doorway. She called for Nurse to put their son down for an afternoon nap and they moved into her chambers. "How was it?"

"I am still to be his well-paid chief physician," he said, "but no longer his nursemaid. I have to hire a new one before he goes to Brighton, but otherwise ..." He trailed off as his wife embraced him. "Not so many wives would be so eager to have their husbands at home all day."

"I was assuming you would be spending it at White's," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "Drinking and gambling and leaving us all well enough alone."

"I am sorry to disappoint," he said. "He was reluctant to relinquish me."

"I assume you were persuasive."

"I said something about wanting to spend time with my children."

"You know how to manipulate a sovereign as well as anyone on the Privy Council."

"Just that sovereign," he clarified, and kissed her. He was not the dashing man of one and thirty that he had been when they were married – if he would have ever considered himself dashing – and he had come home from his trip to Austria with more than a few grey hairs, but Caroline never once complained. She still loved to run her hands through his bushy hair, and he still loved her creamy white skin.

"I invited the Darcys for dinner," she said when she had a moment to breathe.

"They've returned from Scotland?"

"Georgiana had her child, a son."

He nodded. "I know we aren't – technically stressed by my rushing off after dinner, but –" He didn't have to finish the sentence. Some rituals did not have to be altered. Their door remained closed until it was time to dress for dinner.

The Darcys arrived on time as usual, bringing with them their two eldest. Geoffrey and Frederick got on well despite their age differences, and Emily and Anne were best friends the way only ten-year-old girls could be, which involved a lot of giggling and squealing. In other words, the children entertained each other as the adults sat down for dinner. They toasted the Darcy's newest nephew and Dr. Maddox's semi-retirement.

"No, he is still not permitted to talk about his patient," Caroline said.

"I doubt very much that I know more about His Highness' physical state than half of Town," Dr. Maddox replied.

"Are you to go to Brighton?"

"We are searching for somewhere else to summer," Caroline said.

"Very few people can boast being sick of Brighton," Elizabeth said.

"There were some places in Wales that are very fine in the summer," Darcy added.

"You say that because you went shooting once with Charles," Caroline said. "He was going to buy a house there before we both talked him out of it; too distant from proper society."

"There's always Bath," Elizabeth suggested, "and it has all those positive health qualities." Dr. Maddox merely grumbled at that. Since he rarely grumbled at anything, she added, "Do you have a professional assessment of the healing waters of Bath, Dr. Maddox?"

Before Caroline could lodge an attempt to stop him, Dr. Maddox answered, "If you were in your own home and you bathed while ill in water with another person who had a different illness, would you consider that healthy? Or even sane?"

"You always have to go ruining medical fashion with your logic," Caroline said, to which, she and Elizabeth had a laugh, and the husbands exchanged amused glances.

"I rest my case," said the doctor.

With no great fanfare, George Wickham turned thirteen. He did receive a larger bed from Mr. Bradley, for which he was very grateful. His mother was consumed by attending to her smaller children, and did not host any kind of family gathering. It was George and Isabella that received visitors who came to drop off gifts. The Gardiners came buy with their children, now of age except for the youngest, Lucy, who was Isabella's closest companion. He was given new clothes – which he desperately needed, having grown nearly six inches in six months – and a pocket watch. Aunt and Uncle Townsend and his grandparents both sent their presents by post – books from Grandfather and handkerchiefs from the Townsends, sewn by Aunt Kitty herself. (Mr. Townsend included a small envelope with two sovereigns for George to use 'as he saw fit.') Aunt Bingley had left her present at the house to be delivered that day.

"How many books are you going to get?" his sister said. "You can't eat them."

"You could make furniture from them at this point," Mr. Bradley said, and slapped his stepson on the back.

In the afternoon, the Darcys visited. George had already spent time since their arrival at their townhouse with Geoffrey, who was adept at using him as an excuse to get out of his lessons. George didn't mind; he could count the number of friends he had on his hand, and not use all his fingers.

To his surprise, Aunt Darcy sat with her sister and Mr. Bradley while Uncle Darcy offered to take him out to a club for lunch. He had never been to one before, and Geoffrey rather noticeably expressed his annoyance at not being invited. "Your time will come to eat bad food and watch rich men make fools of themselves," his mother said when he complained.

George didn't mind; he knew Uncle Darcy cared about him more than his father ever had and more than Mr. Bradley ever would, and part of him was now old enough to realize why. He had been six when his father died, and unlike his sister, he remembered him and he remembered the funeral. Uncle Darcy had spent it in an armchair because he was too weak to stand and nearly died of his own injuries. George's mother had never made any kind of secret of how her first husband had died, and how much Uncle Darcy owed them for "killing my husband." Thankfully that died down when she married Mr. Bradley, because it always brought Isabella to tears of disbelief. How could their father have been a bad man? How could Uncle Darcy have killed him in a duel? Unfortunately, George was old enough to remember some details, and the Darcys never denied it, but never looked pleased when she brought it up. Actually, Uncle Darcy always looked horrified, and would unconsciously hide his right hand, which bore the scar from the fight. Young Master George was not very talkative, but he was a good observer.

Despite all the history between them, he saw no reason not to like Uncle Darcy. He liked all of the Darcys, he had decided long ago despite all of the evidence not in their favor. He closed his ears to his mother's complaints, though it made him uneasy to do so. But he swallowed these anxieties with the small amount of whiskey offered to him as he sat down at White's with his favorite uncle.

Though he still had to return to the Bradley house on Gracechurch Street to reclaim his wife and children, Darcy was relieved that the visit had gone well and Lydia Bradley had been too distracted by her infant to lodge whatever current complaints she had with him. He knew she always applied to her sisters for money (and got it, though in reasonable amounts), but since Wickham's death, she had been relentless about hounding Darcy for money. He felt that his debts had been settled; he had paid for the funeral, and had been more than generous in sitting up trusts for both the Wickham children. His financial penance only went so far. He would not give her access to either of their accounts, explaining over and over again the nature of a trust fund and how it could not be accessed for ten years, but it fell on deaf ears. So he sighed and went back to his old habit of ignoring her.

When she lived at Longbourn, Mr. Bennet provided for her, but to an extent she deemed unsuitable (he had apparently learned the lessons of time). It had been a relief for everyone when she married Mr. Bradley. He was a former colonel who was injured in the battle of Toulouse in 1814, and was discharged with an eye patch, thereby escaping the carnage at Waterloo the following year. Aside from his injury reward and retirement pay, he inherited thirty thousand pounds from his aunt upon her death and quickly sought a bride, and the fact that he did not have to provide an inheritance for Isabella Wickham made the marriage possible. He was a pleasant fellow – not overly bright, but sensible enough to limit his wife's pin money to something manageable. His redeeming qualities were his love for Lydia and desire to support her, and his general concept for the well-being of the Wickham children he inherited with the marriage. While not flawless, he was good enough to be liked by the family as a whole. Lydia did her wifely duty of providing him with two children, one male, in the space of three years, so she must have been inclined to him as well. It was a relief to the family.

That left George and Isabella in a somewhat awkward position. Their financial futures were secure – more secure, in fact, than the rest of their family's – but even if he was a better father, Mr. Bradley was not their father. They would forever be "the Wickham children."

Young George's appearance stunned Darcy; he had shot up like a flower in spring and he looked more like his father every day; he only needed his sides to complete the set but was too young to grow them, and he had his mother's eyes. Fortunately, unlike the rest of the guests, the Darcys had enough tact not to say it. In personality he was pleasant, but quiet, often anxious, and his current stage of rapid changes to his physical form did not aid his social development. He lost his cousin Joseph when he moved out of Longbourn, and Geoffrey and Charles were in Derbyshire most of the year. He was not to go to Eton or Harrow. He would go straight on to University, and then probably the church or higher academia.

Darcy gave him a rare smile in the hopes of being reassuring, but there was only so much one could tell a man of three and ten that he would hear and understand. Instead he employed more neutral conversation over lunch. "How is your sister? Does she enjoy living in Town?"

"Very much," George said, trying to dissect his intimidating steak. "She much prefers it over the countryside, though I think she misses our grandparents and Aunt Townsend. And she's positively sick of being escorted everywhere."

"It is better for her to be sick of it than not have it," he said. "And how do you find Town?"

"I don't go out much," George said. It was rather well-known. "Dr. Maddox took me to a lecture at the Royal College of Physicians."

"Really? What was it about?"

"They were debating the new vaccines. There was a speaker, but at the end they were all shouting over him. Dr. Maddox said it's usually like that. Everyone has their own opinion."

"And Dr. Maddox's opinion?"

"The doctor thought they needed more testing before they could be deemed safe, but he barely said a thing the whole time. He said when he voiced his opinions they were very unpopular, and he didn't appreciate being yelled at for what he thought was a good idea by old fogies, so he would wait until he was a fogy to put forth his ideas."

Darcy smiled. "Dr. Maddox is a brilliant man in many respects. What did you think of it?"

"It was interesting, but I don't know how they do it. I can't stand the thought of performing a surgery. It makes me feel ill."

His uncle chuckled. "If you think you are the only person with such thoughts, you should ask the esteemed Dr. Maddox what he thought of his first surgical lecture at Cambridge. At the very least, ask him how long he made it into the lecture."

For the first time, George smiled. "I will; thank you."

George didn't fence or gamble, so there was little else for him at White's, and they left after dinner, walking back up the lane beside the Thames. It was an early summer day, and it was during the Season, so there was no small amount of girls under white umbrellas going up and down the lanes with their friends, and more than once, Darcy saw George turn his head.

He withered under Darcy's smirk. "I don't like people staring at me."

"I think you were more looking at them, young Mr. Wickham," Darcy said. "And do not be too flattering. You are still a boy. Chances are they are looking at me, a rich gentleman, as a more obvious match, and wondering if I am married despite my age. Who knows? I could be a widower."

Despite coloring at Darcy's comment, George still frowned. "I still don't like it."

Darcy stopped. He could see George fidgeting with his hands. "If you think people are staring at you, you are right. Everyone looks at everyone else in Town; it is the only regular activity some of these people get. People look and talk and gossip. It happens to everyone and there's nothing to be done. But unless you are doing something ostentatious, it is mostly harmless." He no longer had to bow down to look George in the eyes. "Do you think those people out there mean you harm?"

"No!" George said. "I mean, yes, all right, maybe sometimes," he stammered. "How do you know what I think?"

"Because I'm your uncle, George," he said, "and I have the same thoughts sometimes. But they're not rational. No one means you harm. Understand?"

George nodded.

"Let's be going," Darcy said, not wanting to linger on the topic that made even him uncomfortable. "I can only leave Elizabeth with your mother for so long before someone is likely to spontaneously combust."

They resumed their pace, walking in silence for a while before George said, "Can I ask you something, Uncle Darcy?"

"You can ask me anything, George."

"How much money is in my trust?"

Darcy glanced at his companion. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm interested." He added, "And my mother asked."

"You have a right to know, I suppose," Darcy said, "but not because Mrs. Bradley wants to know. The money has nothing to do with her."

"But – she is my mother. I should support her if she is in distress."

He had a hard time keeping his voice even. "Your mother is not in any sort of financial distress. Not only does Mr. Bradley support her, as is his moral obligation as her husband, but all of her sisters secretly send her money out of their own pockets except your Aunt Bennet, and they do it so secretly they think their husbands none the wiser. You are old enough to understand that your parents – all three of them – had and have their faults, and your mother's is quite obvious in this situation. However, I put that money away for you, so that you might have standing and a level of comfort when you are of age, and I did the same for your sister so that she will find a decent marriage. When you turn sixteen, you may do with it as you please, but I advise you to regard her pleas more skeptically than you are inclined." He softened his tone. "It's very hard to think that your parents aren't perfect. I believed so until I was nearly five and thirty, when I found out my father was an adulterer and my mother cursed him on her deathbed. It was as shocking then as it would have been when I was a child. But it was true nonetheless, and some good came of it." He looked at George, who seemed to be half-nodding, understanding on some basic level that it might be true. "In answer to your question, I put money away and it did very well, and you will have about sixty thousand pounds, and your sister about forty as an inheritance. Only you or I will be able to touch either of those accounts."

He saw fear, not greed in George's eyes at the sum. In a way, it was comforting to Darcy, because it meant George understood the value of money and that there were responsibilities that came with it. On the other hand, it was a very heavy yoke to lay on an essentially fatherless boy. "You have no obligation to tell your mother, or tell her the truth. Either way, it is not your responsibility yet. There is no need to be concerned now."

George looked up at him, his expression one of wanting to believe him, but not quite being able to do so.

...Next Chapter – The Newlyweds