The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy

by Marsha Altman

  Another amusement was the fact that Mrs. Bennet could never seem to grasp the presence of Monkey, and was surprised every time she saw him. “My goodness, there’s a wild animal in this house!” Such repeated proclamations did not put her on either side—those who despised the monkey (Darcy) and those who loved him (everyone else). Darcy had found an ally with the arrival of the Bradleys and the Wickhams in Isabella Wickham’s cat. Fortunately, Monkey was a better climber and took refuge on the nearest person’s head whenever the gray tabby entered the room.

  It was on a shooting expedition with Mr. Townsend at Netherfield that Bingley said, “What happened to young Mr. Wickham?”

  “The same thing that will happen to Geoffrey soon enough,” Darcy replied.

  “May I say it?”

  “Yes, he does look like his father,” Darcy said. “Even more every day, it seems.”

  Mr. Townsend, who had not known Mr. Wickham senior, replied only, “Looks are not everything. Especially when his father has been described to me as dashing. And George is a sensible boy.”

  “He is,” Darcy said, and Bingley’s anxious look softened. “Very sensible. He is set on Oxford as soon as he can manage it.”

  “Oxford?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Probably for the reason we think.” (Mr. Wickham’s alma mater—like Darcy’s—had been Cambridge.) “And probably because Oxford was his grandfather’s university,” he said, referring to Mr. Bennet.

  Done for the day, they set a time for the following week, a day before the party.

  “Am I inviting the Maddoxes?” Mr. Townsend asked.

  “Only if you want to be eating fowl for months,” Darcy said. “Her Highness is quite a hunter.”

  The Collins family arrived in time for services on Sunday, and for Mrs. Collins to spend time with her parents and also with her sister, now married to another retired soldier (perhaps England’s most popular occupation). Trailing them were their four daughters, who were no doubt loved with the same subtle frustration that Mr. Bennet had loved all his unmarried daughters. Nobody dared to say “The Bennet Curse” in earshot of either of them.

  Indeed, the dynamics had changed much since Mr. Collins’ visit to Longbourn more than twelve years prior. He still stood to inherit Longbourn, but whether he would have the finances to keep it up was an unanswered question. If he died without a son, the entail would die with him, and the property would be sold, presumably to Joseph Bennet (who could not inherit because of his illegitimacy). Mr. Collins’ benefactor was none other than Mr. Darcy, master of Rosings, who set his pay. Fortunately, Mrs. Darcy and Charlotte Collins remained friends despite the change in fortunes, and Mr. Collins was in no great financial trouble.

  Mr. Collins’ desire to please his patron and patroness with a deluge of compliments had not changed. Fortunately, a plan was quickly developed to divert this; Mr. Bingley trained Monkey to jump at Mr. Collins whenever the vicar spoke to Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bingley, however, had yet to receive thanks from Mr. Darcy for his effort.

  Final arrivals included the Earl of Fitzwilliam, his wife, and their three-year-old son, Henry.The Kincaids sent their regrets, but Lady Georgiana could not be expected to travel so far with a newborn. At last, the Maddoxes arrived, all four adults and all three children, with one lost Japanese thug in tow. True to Darcy’s predictions, Prince and Princess Maddox were happy to join the hunting party, and Her Highness felled what seemed to be an entire flock of pigeons. Brian brought a gigantic painted bow and succeeded in hitting many trees and other relatively wide, inanimate objects. His wife was all encouragement.

  Mr. Bennet was in high spirits as the adults sat down to a massive luncheon—not lacking in game meat—while the children played outside. In theory, they were under watch by an army of nurses as the adults toasted Mr. Bennet’s good health.

  Outside, one adult refused to sit down for a long dinner with a bunch of barbarians, and instead slept off his own meal (which had been considerable) and drink (also considerable) against a tree while the smaller children tugged at his feet. “Mr. Mugin! Mr. Mugin!”

  “Go ’way,” he said, lifting his leg and taking little Cassandra Darcy on a ride as she grabbed his ankle. “Little gaijin.”

  “Why do you wear sandals?”

  “Why do you have tattoos?”

  “Can you see like normal people?”

  “Can I get a tattoo?”

  “Can I see your sword?”

  “Do you have a wife?”

  “Do Japanese people get married?”

  “My dad says you’re a convict. What does that mean?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Can you carry me on your back?”

  He moaned and opened his eyes to the little children. “Ugh. Children loud.You know what children do in Japan?”

  “No!” they collectively shouted.

  “Children scrub floors! Like servants! You want be in Japan?”

  The children screamed and ran away, or at least the youngest and most gullible did. Mugin went back to sleep.

  The older children had gathered by the fence, which was as far as they were allowed to go without supervision. Anyone older than seven had an air of authority and tried to shoo away their younger cousins.

  “So when Grandfather dies, Mr. Collins gets all of this?” Charlie Bingley the Younger asked, gesturing to Longbourn.

  “Grandpapa’s not going to die!” Anne Darcy cried, clutching her older brother. “Geoffrey, say it’s not true!”

  Geoffrey sighed and looked to Georgiana Bingley, who just shrugged. “Everybody dies, Anne. It would be weird if everybody didn’t. There would be too many people.”

  “She’s right,” Geoffrey said to his sister.

  “It’s still not fair,” Charles said. “Someone should decide who gets Longbourn. It shouldn’t go to Mr. Collins just because he’s Mr. Collins.”

  “That’s the way it works,” said George, who was sitting on the fence. “You shouldn’t talk.You get Kirkland.”

  “Of course I get Kirkland. What do you mean?”

  “You get Kirkland and Edmund doesn’t, because you’re older,” George huffed.

  “What about Georgie? What if she wanted Kirkland?”

  “She can’t have it. She’s a girl.” This earned him a cold stare from Georgiana. “It’s just the way the law works.”

  “You don’t know everything, you know,” Geoffrey said, in an attempt to soothe Georgiana. “Just because you’re older.”

  “Fine. Look it up. Or ask your father.”

  “Why can’t we make a system where everyone takes what they want?” Charlie said.

  “Because then we’d be barbarians,” George replied, but was ignored.

  “Fine!” Geoffrey said. “I’m going to take Kirkland then, because my dad can beat up your dad.”

  “He cannot!”

  “Can too!”

  “His arm doesn’t even work!”

  “His hand,” Geoffrey corrected him. “And your dad doesn’t even fence.”

  “He shoots.”

  “Stop it!” Anne shouted. “Our dads would never fight. And Dr. Maddox wouldn’t fight because he can’t see, so if we all had to fight, Mr. Bradley would win. So he gets everything!”

  “He has one eye,” Frederick Maddox said, referring to Mr. Bradley. “My dad has two, and they sort of work, so my dad wins.”

  “At what? He doesn’t fight and he doesn’t shoot,” Geoffrey said.

  “Shut up!” Frederick said, already angry. “He could trounce your dad! He’s taller!”

  “No, he couldn’t!”

  “Yes, he could!”

  They were shouting now, and soon Frederick threw a punch. Not a particularly good one (he was eight), but it didn’t even connect before he fell on his back, and Geoffrey Darcy was knocked into the soft grass. Georgiana Bingley had gotten between them and instantaneously pushed them both down.

  “Stop fighting!” she said. “Or I’ll beat you all up! And then�
�I take everything!” She turned to the stunned George. “And don’t even say it, because I’ll throw you over that fence faster than you can finish your sentence!”

  “She’ll do it, too,” Geoffrey said from the ground.

  There was a scared silence, and then finally, clapping.

  “Good, good,” Mugin said, shambling into the crowd as the boys picked themselves up. He patted Georgie on the head. “Now, children, stop fighting. Is no reason. Your parents all weak. Huge weaklings. I beat them all, take everything.”

  The long day of feasting, chatting, gossiping, and herding the children (and some of the more inebriated adults) to bed by the women ended with a fiery crescendo of fireworks, supplied by Charles Bingley and Brian Maddox. Mugin insisted that lighting the Chinese rockets would not be dangerous until one blew up in his face, and he ended up dipping his face in the pig trough to cool it. In the end, he had only ashes irritating his eyes to contend with, as it had been a small rocket, but the rest of the rockets were handled with much care. The children were allowed to stay up for the fireworks, including the final one, which vaguely made the shape of a dragon in its red and purple journey to the sky. Then the children were all put to bed, and the servants dismissed for their own party (as they did certainly deserve one), leaving those adults still awake and aware to quietly enjoy the evening of one long and memorable day.

  “Thank you all for joining me,” Mr. Bennet said in a final toast. “I doubt I shall turn seventy again, but with any luck, I will hit another nice round number and still have enough wits to realize it.” With that he retired, his tightly held wife by his side.

  “I am off to bed, too,” Elizabeth said and kissed her husband.

  “I will be there soon enough,” he said, holding back his yawn until she was gone. He really was getting older. He looked around; Bingley was asleep in the armchair, with Monkey curled up on his head, having made a bed out of his hair. Dr. and Mrs. Maddox had retired after their children were put down. Nadezhda was doing embroidery while Brian stoked the fire.

  “Mr. Maddox,” he said, approaching him.

  “Mr. Darcy,” he said and bowed. “You have the good fortune of being limited in your intake of spirits, or you would be already asleep or else dreading tomorrow morning like the rest of us.”

  “True,” he said. “I heard a rumor from Bingley that you are off to the Continent soon.”

  “Yes, for business. Nady and I are going to France to make a deal with a vendor. And she has never seen Paris. Why do you ask?” Even at his least alert, Brian Maddox had a knack for knowing when something was on the wind.

  “Is there any chance you could use your company’s ship to visit Spain?”

  “It could be arranged,” he said in a lowered voice. “Why?”

  “There was some kind of error with the bank in Madrid that supplies my brother with his income. Apparently, the money never made it there. I’m not overly concerned about the money and I’m sure it will be sorted out or chalked up to a highway robbery, but I wrote Grégoire about it weeks ago and he hasn’t written back.”

  Brian nodded. “He lives on the coast, doesn’t he?Very far north?”

  “Yes.”

  Brian was quiet for a moment, and then said to his wife, “Nady, would you like to go to Spain?”

  CHAPTER 10

  Ghost in the Chapel

  ABBOT FRANCESCO CHIARAMONTI was guardian of thirty-two souls in the ancient monastery overlooking the Spanish coast. This particular afternoon, his concerns focused on one of them. Turning away from the window, he looked at the ancient mosaics of the saints—Benedict, Gregory, and Peter—as the bishop sat in his chair, perusing the documents the abbot had now nearly memorized. St. Benedict looked heavenward, a book in his hand, believed to be the Rule he had written for his monks. Peter had his hands outstretched and his head bent down, with the keys to heaven in golden illumination hanging from his belt. Only Gregory looked straight ahead, his eyes facing the window, his halo seeming especially brilliant because it was in the right position for the sun to hit it just right. All of them were serene in expression—and yet, how they all had suffered. Beneath the altar in their very sanctuary was a reliquary with a tooth from Peter’s head, which, by history’s count, was resting in four different places. How were they, in death, so unaffected by their experiences in life?

  “Where is he now?”

  He was pulled from his reverie. “What,Your Excellency?”

  “Where is the monk?”

  “He is at the threshold of the oratory, of course.”

  Bishop FernandoValerano of Oviedo removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “Does he know all of the charges laid before him?”

  “I was not aware of the extent of them when he was excommunicated. The details should be fully explained and he should answer for them.”

  “Do you think he will answer truthfully?”

  “He will,Your Excellency. I have no doubt of that.”

  “You have great faith in this monk who has disobeyed the Rule and lied to his elders in two different monasteries now.”

  “This I will not deny,” he said. “Nonetheless, if we ask him, he will not lie. Especially now that he has been given time to meditate on his sins.”

  The bishop did not look impressed, but the abbot had no way to impress him. Bishop Valerano did not know Brother Grégoire, and probably never would have known him, if not for this.

  “Your Excellency,” the abbot said, “I do not think this situation will become any less untangled without the aid of the soul in question. I will not rely on stories on the wind.”

  “Fine.” The bishop rose from the abbot’s chair, and though he was a much younger man than the abbot, who was a former archbishop himself, he moved as if he were exhausted. “Then let us hear what your monk has to say for himself.”

  As the bishop walked through the monastery, wearing his cap and miter, the monks bowed in reverence and hurried out of his way. The bishop and the abbot found Brother Grégoire where he was supposed to be, on the stone floor before the oratory, in silent prayer.

  “Brother Grégoire,” the abbot said as they stood over him. “The charges laid against you should be heard again before your penance is decided.”

  Because the abbot was old and hard of hearing, he had a bench brought for himself and the archbishop.

  “As you know, we have information that a certain noblewoman was given 200 ducados for the distribution among the poor of this diocese. How we came upon this information is not relevant,” the bishop said, and the abbot resisted the urge to cross himself. That poor noblewoman, thinking she was doing only good, had happened to mention it in conversation to her priest, who had then reported it to the bishop. “We now also have the confession of the man who delivered the money, a courier who had been hired before for similar purposes by a banker in Madrid. This, we have come to understand, was done at your command. Is this true, Brother Grégoire?”

  “Yes,” Grégoire said, his first word in a day, since he had been sent into temporary excommunication.

  “And you are in contact with this banker in Madrid? He is in your employ?”

  “He is not in my employ,Your Excellency. He is in the employ of my brother, but he does carry out my requests as part of his employment.”

  “Are you the owner of the money in this account?”

  “I am.”

  “And how much is it?”

  Grégoire stopped to reflect. “I d-do not know, precisely. It should be—maybe f-four or five thousand English pounds.”

  The abbot looked at the bishop, very aware of how his eyes reacted. His mouth must have been watering as he continued, “And this is your savings in Madrid?”

  “No,Your Excellency. It is my yearly income.”

  “For how many years?”

  “This year alone,Your Excellency.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “My father, God rest his soul, left me a great deal of money in hopes that I would bec
ome a gentleman. When I told him before his death that it was my ambition to enter the church, he insisted that I have savings of my own.When I refused, he closed my access to them. They are sent to me every year, whether I want them or not.” Grégoire swallowed and continued. “The controller of this account is now my brother, his legitimate son. The account is in London, and every year he sends some of the interest to Madrid.”

  “Did you have similar situations in your previous monasteries?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were the abbots aware of them?”

  “In Mon-Claire, where I was only a novice, yes. When I took the cowl in Bavaria, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “My b-brother appealed to me not to.”

  “Your brother is an Englishman?”

  “Yes. Anglican.”

  “Is he religious?”

  Grégoire seemed to weigh his answer. “To the extent within his sphere that he can be, he is,Your Excellency.”

  “Brother Grégoire,” the bishop continued, “are you aware of how much money is in your account in London?”

  Grégoire flinched. “Roughly, Your Excellency.”

  The abbot did not think this was relevant, but he would not raise this issue here. He wanted to see how it affected the bishop.

  “How much is it?” the bishop asked.

  “It is—fifty thousand pounds,Your Excellency.”

  The abbot sighed for all of them, giving Bishop Valerano time to drool. Even to Valerno, a bishop from a noble Spanish family, and Chiaramonti, an abbot from a well-off Roman family, this was an extensive fortune. When he finally recovered, the bishop said, “Father Abbot, do you have the brother’s petition?”

  “I do.”The only reason he had it ready was because it was necessary to perjure Grégoire; otherwise it remained locked in a box beneath the altar with the rest of the brothers’ petitions. He unrolled it. “Brother Grégoire, you do not need to be reminded that this is your petition to join the Brotherhood of St. Benedict, and your promise to obey the Rule to all of its extent. This includes the chapter about giving all of your worldly possessions to charity upon taking the cowl, or presenting them to the church to do such. In this case, I feel we may consider your said ‘income’ to be a gift from your brother to you because you have no legal control over it. However, you seem to have forgotten what you wrote here, which is that you would present all gifts to myself for approval and any money would be dispersed by the church, and not by you.”