The Plight of the Darcy Brothers (10 page)

BOOK: The Plight of the Darcy Brothers
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It was late in the evening when the messenger came to the Maddox townhouse, but this was no surprise. As both a doctor and a surgeon, Dr. Maddox was often called at all hours, as illness had no particular time schedule. His wife was quite used it and kissed him as he went off to work, as if he were doing so at a more proper time.

He did not tell her where he was going. His patient list was confidential, to the point of most of it being in his head. Before marrying Caroline, he had been practically destitute for years, with nothing but a shabby apartment and a collection of books he had managed to save from the people who came to collect everything that belonged to his profligate brother, and thereby, to him.

Maddox had saved many books by sneaking them out in the night. Those books were precious treasures that kept him company and were his only solace as his brother fled the country
to avoid his debtors. Maddox had spent many hours reading by daylight when he worked a long night shift and spent the next day recovering. When the print on some of the pages began to blur, he had to shell out a small fortune—most of his savings—to get his glasses changed.

He took every job he had no major moral objection to, and that he was physically capable of, even the ones considered beneath proper doctors and assigned to surgeons. Surgeons, in his opinion, were not well trained, and doctors rarely put their training to use. He was also extremely discreet, partially from having no one to tell and partially from wanting the repeat business.

As a result, though his wife did not know it, he was one of the favorite people to call for every madam and pimp in Town. He did not treat the women of easy virtue unless their maladies were something that could be mended, though he was very polite to them—as he felt a gentleman should be, whatever his profession—he could not cure their diseases because there were no cures that he knew of. Yet despite explaining this at length, and many times, he still found the women throwing rather risqué and grotesque descriptions of their symptoms at him, so that he probably knew what was wrong with every fancy lady in London.

On this particular evening, when he arrived, he was ushered along to a familiar room with a woman, barely covered by a silk robe, standing at the door.

“Hullo doc,” said the woman.

“Hello, Lilly,” he said.

“How's the good doctor these days?”

“Married,” he said quickly, and ducked into the appropriate room, which was not properly lit, but he knew his way around it. A man wearing trousers and an undershirt lay on the floor beside
the bed, holding a cloth to his bloodied chest with one hand and a bottle with the other.

“I'm the doctor,” Dr. Maddox said very formally, kneeling beside his patient and setting down his bag. “Do you mind if I look at the wound?”

“Go ahead,” said the man, and removed the cloth. “There's been a lot of blood.”

Dr. Maddox removed his glasses and held up the lamp, peering in very closely. “The wound doesn't look deep. It was mainly done for dramatic effect, I imagine, but it's more of a surface wound. I'm going to probe it, if you don't mind. There may be some discomfort, and the instrument is a little cold, but it's more sanitary than my hands.”

“Goddamn it,” the man said, taking a swig from his bottle. “Goddamn whore.”

Dr. Maddox ignored this and opened the bag, carefully removing his instruments. The madam appeared at the doorway. “The usual water, please, in a clean bowl, and some towels.”

She nodded and disappeared. He turned his attentions to his patient. The wound was indeed mostly superficial, meant to draw blood (which had a fright factor) but not do serious harm. However, the initial blow, before Lilly had dragged the knife along his chest, was deeper, and the bleeding would not cease. The fact that the man was especially fat had given Lilly more room to work with.

“If you would allow, sir, I'd like to give you a few stitches on the top, perhaps no more than three or four.”

“If I would allow it?” the man said, his cultured, obviously high-class accent slurred by drunkenness. “
I bleed.
Go ahead.”

“I usually prefer consenting patients when they're conscious,”
Dr. Maddox carefully explained, and went about his business. His patient rambled on as the doctor did his work, explaining that Lilly had attempted to renegotiate the price after the deed. When he refused, she had stabbed him, and she was a “crazy woman.”

Actually, Dr. Maddox suspected Lilly was quite sane, if a bit in love with the knife, as this was not the first patient with a stab wound that he had been called to, but he kept that counsel to himself. He focused instead on stitching the wound while having his patient press down on the lesser wound area until the bleeding stopped. In the end, five stitches were required, more than Lilly's usual.

“These will need to be removed in about a week. I can give you my card, or you can have someone else do it,” Dr. Maddox told his patient.

“I'll take your card, but I may not use it,” the man said, putting his shirt back on with a grunt of pain.

“I understand completely. Keep the wound clean. I recommend boiling water and letting it cool before putting it over the wound to prevent infection. Do this at least once or twice a day until the stitches are removed, keep the area bandaged with something clean, and you should prevent infection, which, of course, would be most serious.” He quickly put his instruments away, washed the blood from his hands, and stood up. “Good luck.”

The patient raised his bottle in a sort of toast. “Good job, Doctor. I did not get your name.”

“Dr. Maddox,” he said, and doffed his hat.

He was nearly out the door when his patient said, “You have not asked my name.”

Maddox turned back to him, took one look at the man in the diminished light, and said, “No.” Then he left with all expediency.

When he returned to his house, his manservant was up to greet him, as these calls were not unknown, and Dr. Maddox found it convenient to drop his bag with a servant and be able to reasonably expect the instruments to be cleaned and ready in the morning. He found himself tired, probably from the hour, and inquired as to his wife. “Mrs. Maddox is retired.”

Of course she was. The sky was practically lightening. He did not want to disturb her, so he took to his own bedroom, as was his custom when returning from a late call, and collapsed on the bed.

THE INVITATION

“DANIEL! DANIEL, WAKE UP!”

Dr. Daniel Maddox opened his eyes to the normal blurry world and a figure that was undoubtedly his wife. He knew her figure, but the red hair always gave it away, even if her voice didn't. Though her voice was not particularly piercing, it was very excited and, therefore, a little rattling to someone who was sound asleep. “What?”

“Daniel.” She leaned over, and he had only the vaguest idea of what the gesture was, being unable to see it with any clarity, until she kissed him on the head. “You won't believe what I have to tell you.”

“I already know you're with child.”

“Stop being a doctor for once,” she said. “We've been invited to a royal ball.”

That
made him sit up. If not for the level of pure exasperation in her voice, he would not have begun to believe it. “What?”

“I know! I cannot properly explain it, unless
you
can. Here.” She handed him the invitation, which was very large in his hands.

He held it up to his face and let his eyes adjust to the morning—well, probably afternoon—light, as the letters became clear. “It seems we have. Dear, can you hand me my—” But she already had his glasses and put them in his hands. He put them on, and as the world became clear, he lay back and gazed at the invitation and then at his wife. She was dressed properly, so it must have been at least a decent hour of the morning, probably later. “I cannot explain it either.”

“You are descended from nobility.”

“I have never in my life spoken to the current earl of Maddox. Nor would he have the authority to invite me to a royal ball.” He gave her back the invitation. “But this is—uhm, good news. This Friday, so frightfully soon.”

“I know. I never thought I would say this about a ball, but I haven't a thing to wear.”

“Neither do I.” It would certainly cost him, but as they had no choice in the matter, and as his wife was exuberant over the idea, he was readily willing to spend every last shilling on her dress. He also had the wisdom not to share this with her at the moment. “I suppose something will have to be arranged.”

“You will not admit it,” she said, and kissed him as she sat down next to him, “but I know you had something to do with this.”

“If you are inclined to keep rewarding me as such, I will not contradict you.”

The invitation was set aside.

“Just so you know,” she muttered, “the Hursts are coming to dinner, and Charles may be in town in time to be invited.”

“And… and when is that, exactly?”

“In about three hours, dear.”

“Oh,” he said. “Good.”

As it turned out, Charles Bingley was in Town, arriving at his own townhouse just in time to be ready for dinner at theirs. “Business with my steward,” he explained, and nothing else was asked. “Everyone is well. I mean, nobody is sick, except from worrying.”

“Have the Darcys written?” Maddox asked over the first course. He felt it odd, sitting at the head of the table with guests far above his own station, even if they were all his relatives. Georgiana Darcy was also dining with them, as Caroline had a great affection for her, and since she was in Town, finding Pemberley “too closed and empty” for her liking.

“They wrote when they arrived in Calais, and Darcy reports that they are fine. His letter was a bit brief. Elizabeth's was longer, but it was addressed to Jane,” Bingley said.

“Never liked France,” Mr. Hurst mumbled over his soup. “Too much rain and too many vowels.”

Maddox stifled his laughter as Bingley gave him a smile, and Caroline announced the great news, which had everyone turning to the doctor, who merely shrugged.

“Isn't your uncle an earl?” said Mr. Hurst.

“He passed on long ago. I am not acquainted with the current earl. Not that that would explain it.”

“Are you going to meet the king?” Georgiana whispered, though loud enough for everyone to hear.

“He's not going into public these days, is he?” Mr. Hurst said.

“I hardly think a private ball qualifies as public,” Mrs. Hurst retorted.

“I heard he wasn't,” Georgiana said. “I mean… being seen.”

“Or they are not
letting
him be seen,” Caroline said. “It must be, because we have not heard anything in the papers for a while now.”

“The invitation failed to specify,” was all Dr. Maddox had to offer. “The Prince of Wales is the host. I suppose he will make a decision based on his father's particular mood at the moment, if we are meant to be presented to him at all—and I have no idea if we will be.”

“So you know something of his illness? I mean, beyond what we all know,” Bingley said, passing a dish of vegetables to his sister. “Perhaps that would explain it.”

“I sincerely hope they have no medical expectations of me,” Maddox said, and when the idea sank in, it worried him even more. “I've no expertise on the mind. No one does. It's too closely connected to the soul, perhaps. I only know what I've heard from other doctors who are more closely following the reports.”

“Which is?” his wife said expectedly.

“That his madness passes in and out, and sometimes he can be quite sane,” he said. “But apparently not enough to rule the country, as his moods are very unpredictable. I doubt his condition has anything to do with us, because he has the best doctors in the world treating him. I hardly believe they would resort to a Town doctor.”

“Terrible malady,” Mr. Hurst said. “Madness.”

“Is it treason to say that of His Majesty?” asked Georgiana innocently.

“Maybe
in front of
His Majesty,” Caroline said, “but not in this house. You are allowed to state the obvious, Miss Darcy.”

“Perhaps you will learn for yourselves,” Charles said. “Well, I think you're very lucky. I can't even imagine being invited to
a royal ball. Darcy, surely, has been presented, but he's Darcy of Pemberley and Derbyshire. Do you have a sword, Doctor?”

BOOK: The Plight of the Darcy Brothers
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