Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

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

Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, guys. I was away. My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first.

Chapter 22 – A Matter of Propriety

It happened that two very respectable ladies were riding to Town, one an earl's wife and the other her cousin, when they spotted two people walking down the road with bowls on their heads. They were almost tempted to tell the curricle driver to slow down so that they might get a better look, but seeing the couple was armed, they decided otherwise. They didn't look much like bandits – one was a woman in a silk bathrobe and the other a man walking on wooden sandals.

"How curious!"

"Oh, that's just Princess Maddox," said the driver. "She was heir to some small kingdom in Austria until she married an English gent. Comes up and down all the time. And 'er servant, I guess."

He did slow down a bit, but the travelers ignored them, talking in their nonsense language so fast that the words were impossible to pick apart. "How strange, those Austrians!"

"Indeed, marm."

Visiting the small village close to her home was always a pleasant walk for Nadezhda Maddox, Princess of Sibui. It was a much less hassle than having a carriage take her to Town for simple things like groceries. She knew most of the people in the village, where she felt more at home than London's high society despite her aristocratic blood. She usually brought a man along to carry the special items that were too small to have delivered, but now she had Mugen, at least until the next ship to sail to the Orient.

"Sa! Why so many? Are we having a feast?"

"Since when are you opposed to a feast?" she replied. "All you've done since you got here is stuff yourself. And yes, we are. Bingley-san is coming to discuss business with Brian and he's staying a few days." She continued on in Japanese, ignoring the people who happened to be traveling down the dusty road, fully aware of their gawking. "He is bringing Georgiana."

"You say it like it's a bad thing."

She glanced at Mugen, laden with packages, but did not stop walking. "You know, Jorgi-chan isn't a little girl anymore."

Mugen was irreverent as always. "So?" It was a good sign.

"So what I mean is, they have rules in this country, about what men and women do together."

"I noticed."

"Mugen, you're not being serious."

"What am I supposed to be serious about? Jorgi is a kid. She is ... what, ten?"

"Twelve." She sighed. "Her father is going to be more protective of her. And more suspicious of her going off into the woods with men. From now on, I go with you."

"You decided this with Brian-chan?"

"We didn't need to discuss it. Brian's English. He pretends not to be, but he is. English ladies are proper."

"Proper?" The translation didn't quite make it through the Japanese.

"Respectable."

"Ah," he said. "So, you're going to chaperone me? What is the worst that could happen?"

"You're seen holding hands with her by a local and you have to marry her."

Mugen stopped in his tracks. Nadezhda intentionally kept her face in an expression to disguise whether she was being serious or not. Only half of her was. Georgie was only twelve. Hesitating first, Mugen slackened. "And what if I refuse?"

"To what, marry her?"

"Yeah."

"I'll make you."

They stood in perfect silence. Not a bird chirped for that one moment. There were no passengers on the roads.

Mugen dropped the packages, drew his sword, and swung all in the very same movement. Nadezhda had already ducked out of the way. Her wakizashi was blocked only by the metal beneath his shoes as he tumbled to the ground. He kicked her sword away and rolled across the road, back onto his feet as Nadezhda charged. Their blades drew across each other with a horrible shriek and the sparks of steel striking steel, until the dust settled. Nadezhda had the edge of her blade at Mugen's neck. He had the tip of his pointed at her chest.

Without ceremony, he pulled away and replaced his blade in its sheath. "You've gotten good."

"I am a childless housewife. I have time to practice."

She replaced her blade and he picked the packages back up, and they resumed their journey.

"Are people really so upset about these things?" Mugen said. "If her reputation is so important, she should have a man protecting her."

"But not alone with her, because even he cannot be trusted."

"Heh. Jorgi-chan doesn't need a man. Certainly not a gaijin. She can take care of herself."

"Yes, but her father doesn't know that."

He huffed. "Fine. Their country, their rules."

They spoke no further on the subject.

The carriage from Derbyshire arrived and the three Bingleys (two human, one animal) were received with delight. Monkey went almost everywhere Bingley did, usually because of Jane's unilateral declaration that as much as she loved her husband, she would not have his wild animal running around their bedroom and making a fuss when he was gone, which is precisely what Monkey did when his owner went away. Georgiana was the only child old enough to fully manage him, and this time, she was with her father.

The young Miss Bingley was not so much traveling around on her father's coattails as she was going to visit her Aunt Nadezhda. While she was on good terms with every member of her very extended family, there were certain people that she truly seemed to like and it was obvious enough who they were – Nadezhda, Brian, and Geoffrey. Her father was borderline. Her mother fell in with everyone else; consequently, it was a joint decision by her parents that she would spend time with her father over her mother, as he seemed to be the closest one to her.

Charles Bingley was not unaware of her friendship with the disreputable Mugen, but it was all managed through Nadezhda, and he held the princess' judgment in high regard. Besides, if he ever insulted Her Highness in front of Brian, Charles was quite sure he would have his head cut off within seconds. So Georgie loved to play outside with Nadezhda and Mugen. Let her be a child a bit longer. He believed, looking back on it, that his sisters had both assumed the position of being ladies too quickly, which had negative effects on their personalities for years.

They arrived in time to clean up for dinner, which was relatively normal English food. It was always a gamble to visit the Maddox house as to whether you would be sitting on the floor eating raw fish or at a proper table. He did find Oriental food interesting, but he had spent most of the trip incredibly sick from all of the unfamiliar spices.

"Ah, English food," Brian said. "The more tasteless it is the better."

"He's talking nonsense," Bingley said to Her Highness, gesturing to his plate of beef. "He would have been salivating at this in India."

"There is something to be said for real meat, yes, all right. But how about dinner with that martial arts master?"

"What, before we were running for our lives back to Hong Kong?"

"We were running. You were being carried because your back was nothing but bruises. And you were foolish enough to try every dish they offered you without asking what it was." Brian turned to his wife. "I would take you there, but Mugen ruined the reputation of all foreigners forever in that village by beating the master senseless."

Mugen, who had yet to contribute, said in Japanese, "I refuse to lose because Bingali was injured and you run like a woman."

"I told you, I have no control over it!" He turned to his wife again. "Nady, do I really – "

But his wife had already broken into laughter. She tried to smother it in her napkin, but to no avail.

Nadezhda had succeeded in getting Brian and Charles into a sake drinking contest with each other, which of course ended with them both collapsing and being dragged to their prospective rooms. The servants had all gone to sleep when she changed into more ragged clothing and woke Georgiana. "Put this on."

They lived not more than a few miles from Town. The two adults were quite capable of running it, Georgie managing to keep up behind them. Fortunately the bad section of London was closer than Town proper. Mugen wrapped a shawl over his face; from a distance, he could almost be mistaken for an English dockworker, except for his shoes. Georgie was also dressed like a boy, which she could still pull off.

"We just watch," he said to her.

They slipped in the side door of the warehouse, or what had once been a warehouse, or some kind of slaughterhouse. It was a square building, empty of furniture except for boxes and the occasional chair, and dirty straw on the floor. Gas lamps lit the middle of the room, and the men gathered around it, already shouting as the two men entered the ring, one wearing only an undershirt and the other nothing above the waist. The man had not hit the bell with a spoon before they started pummeling each other. When it got too gruesome, Georgie covered her eyes, or Nadezhda did it for her. There was no referee; it continued until one man wound up unconscious on the floor and was dragged off, while the men (and some women) cheered for the muscle man. As the bets got higher, there were fewer and fewer takers to fight. Georgie sat on Mugen's shoulders. "Are you gonna fight him?"

"...Could get in trouble," he whispered.

"But you would win!"

That was enough incentive for Mugen, who passed her to Nadezhda. "Don't get yourself killed. Because if you do, we're running. We're not rescuing you."

"Ha. I know." He stepped into the ring formed by men, still mostly covered.

This was not the kind of place where they wrote down (or even asked) the names of the challengers. Mugen got into the same pose as the champion – two balled fists up in front of his face, and the bets were being shouted against him, especially when they saw him in stilt sandals.

"Listen, Dutchman, I ain't gonna be respons'ble fer ya," said the champion.

Doing his best impression of an English accent, Mugen said, "Me neither."

"All right little man, let's see what you can do!" said the announcer, and rang the bell.

The champion gave Mugen a moment – perhaps he felt like being a bit nice – but Mugen did nothing. So the man – apparently his name was Harry, or so the announcer called him – charged forward.

That was when Mugen dropped his hands behind his back and dropped to the floor, holding himself up by his palms and letting his raised foot meet the approaching fist. Knuckles hit metal, and the crunching was quite audible. Mugen pushed himself up, taking the fighter down with his foot, and stood over him. "Give up," he whispered. "Or I'll break both your hands."

"That wasn't fair!"

"You are bigger than me. I do what I can."

Harry looked up at the man he was facing, but the light was obscured so he couldn't see much of his face. He pulled away, and Mugen gave him a chance to get to his feet. One arm he held up, but it was bloodied and red. The other was still fine.

"Round one for the Dutchman!" said the announcer. "Round two!"

Mugen still held his arms behind his back as the bell rang. He stood there, unmoving, before his opponent. The crowd was torn between booing and just waiting to see what the wily little foreigner would do. Mugen physically was much smaller than his opponent, and would have been a whole head shorter if not for his geta shoes. He was not overly muscular. He did not have a lot of weight.

"Fight like a man!"

Mugen said nothing. He just waited. He was in front of Harry, but when the muscled Harry charged, he wasn't there. He leapt on his shoulders, and then over him, landing on the ground as Harry went into the audience. There were no barriers, so it was not unknown for the first row to get injured, but usually not for these reasons. Harry barely had time to reorient himself before Mugen kicked one of his legs out from under him at the knee, actually grabbing the man's hair so he would not fall forward onto some smaller audience member, but tugging him so he fell backwards, flat onto the dirty floor with a thud. Mugen put a shoe on his chest again. "Hurt me, not audience." He kicked him, and Harry rolled away, slowly getting to his feet.

The announcer approached Mugen. "Look, Mister, if you can understand English, you have to use your hands. Okay? None of this foot stuff."

Mugen huffed, and kicked off his sandals. Only then did Harry get back into stance. This time, Mugen made no attempt to imitate his style. He drew one of his hands up behind him and the other out flat in front of him, palm up.

"Man, I'm never goin' to Dutchland!"

"Fight like an Englishman!"

Mugen ignored his decriers and stayed in position. This time when Harry came charging, he stepped sideways, caught the man's arm, and twisted the wrist so hard it turned Harry over and he hit the ground again. Mugen towered over him.

"'lright!" Harry shouted. Mugen offered him a hand, and he painfully took it, as one hand was broken, and the other wrist badly sprained. Compared to how the previous combatant had fared against him, beaten to a pulp in the head, he was still relatively intact.

Mugen bowed to a dizzy Harry, and the announcer raised Mugen's arm. "Winner!" There were both cheers and jeers, and after collecting his prize money, Mugen made a hasty exit while Nadezhda and Georgie made their own, meeting up half a mile away, and began a more leisurely walk back to the house.

"You count," he said, handing the pile of bills and coins to Nadezhda. "All right, Jorgi-chan, what did I do right?"

"You threw him down three times!"

"And how did I do that?"

"With your legs!"

As they reached the edges of the small estate, Mugen stopped. "How did I really beat him? I was smaller than he was. I was weaker than he was. I was shorter than he was."

"You got out of the way."

"Right, little ookami," he said with a playful pat on her head. "The others, they stood up against him. One heavy object hitting another heavy object until one goes down – always the smaller one. Stupid gaijin. If your opponent wants the wall behind you so badly, give it to him." He leaned over. "You always remember that."

"What if I'm fighting someone smaller than me?"

He smiled. "Then just be kind. That poor person."

Darcy felt something in the pit of his stomach as their little boat approached the island. After they left for the Isle of Man proper, he felt pangs of remorse for subjecting Grégoire to this – no, for subjecting himself to this. The last time he was here was when he was five and ten, but he remembered everything, for it seemed as if nothing had changed.

The solicitor was there to greet them on the bright fall morning. "Hello, Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bellamont. We've cleaned up the place a bit – both for the sale, and for your own inspection. Obviously it's been closed up for years so there was a bit of work to do."

Behind him was the house, that long, strange one-level house. The previous owner (before the Darcys) had just kept adding room after room, instead of building another level above. It was one long hallway to the end, where his uncle had spent his days and nights.

"We brought in some food and a cook. You'll be staying how long?"

"Not more than a few days, at most," Darcy said, already wanting to leave. "Thank you."

In the immediate rooms there were several to the side, and they heard a maid singing to herself. She scuttled out, curtseyed to them, and asked them when they wanted dinner. Besides that, she made herself invisible.

It was just room after room as Darcy opened the first set of doors to reveal a sitting room that had obviously been recently dusted, but the furniture was as he vaguely remembered it. Was this the room he sat in while his father talked with his uncle, undoubtedly about him? He could not remember. The next room looked the same, almost exactly – except for a pile of books in the corner that had not been dusted. "He liked to read," he said to Grégoire.

The next room was the same, except more books; all in piles, none on shelves. It was not a room meant for bookshelves, just another sitting room. How much sitting could a person do?

It went on and on. Each room was more books, to the point where there were actual cases of them, and furniture shoved aside to make room. Everything looked the same – they had changed nothing, just abandoned it. There was even a chair overturned for some reason. Grégoire set it up properly before they moved on.

"This is it," he said. "They might have cleared it, I don't know." But he opened the door, and discovered they had not. They both stepped in, the silence impenetrable.

His uncle's room was exactly as he remembered it, except there was no longer a mattress, just the wooden frame of the single person bed. All of the walls were bookshelves except the one with the window, facing out to the sea. There were books piled up on the dresser, beside the bed, under the bed – everywhere, as if he had just been finishing up a few novels yesterday. But Gregory Darcy was long dead. There was a closet full of clothes, but they both coughed when it was opened and the dust burst forth. The ancient garb of their father's generation hung before them, half-eaten by moths.

"Brother," Grégoire said, and Darcy turned around. Grégoire focused on the desk before the window, where their uncle undoubtedly sat for hours on end. He lifted the lid and opened it. Inside, aside from the pens and bottles of now dried ink and the knickknacks, there were piles and piles of paper, all filled with writing. Some were even hand-bound. Grégoire picked up a bound one. The title read 'November 1778 – October 1779.' "He wrote."

What mysteries were contained in there? Did he really want to know? Darcy avoided the question by instead opening the dresser drawers. Aside from the yellowed shirts and hair powder, there were portraits. "Look at this," he said, calling Grégoire away from the journals. He held up two portraitures, connected by a metal bracket. "Our father and uncle." They looked very similar, with only their names inscribed on the back to identify them. Each one looked maybe one and ten, two and ten; they were about the same age as Geoffrey was now. The resemblance was similar but certainly not identical. Geoffrey favored his mother in many ways.

Darcy looked down at the journal in Grégoire's hands. "Do you think he wanted someone to read them?"

"His death, he planned. He could have burned them beforehand if that was the case."

"Are you so sure he did not want to be forgotten?"

"No," Grégoire said. "I want to find out."

...Next Chapter ... (no title at the moment)