The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy

by Marsha Altman

  “Did Grandfather Darcy tell you that?”

  “He did. He was a good master. One of the few things I remember about his funeral was how many of his tenants came out to pay their respects.” He looked at his son’s expression. “Do not worry yourself—I’ve no intention of giving up the ghost anytime soon.” He gave him a playful shake. “That’s enough for today.”

  “May I go to Kirkland?”

  “Yes. But be home before supper!”

  “I will!” He bowed quickly to his father before running off ahead of him.

  When Darcy had stepped into the role of father to his younger sister, Georgiana Darcy, he had felt despair and grief. When he became a father of his children with his wife by his side, he had felt only delight. Being a good father soothed his mind, which was tired from many nights of uneasy rest that he could not properly explain.

  “Dr. Maddox!”

  So happily was he asleep that he would have preferred to ignore the call, but it was annoyingly persistent.

  “I thought you were retired,” Caroline mumbled next to him as he sat up and reached for his glasses.

  “I thought I was, too,” he said, and shambled to the door, throwing on a robe as he did and opening the door just a slit. “Yes?”

  “Your brother is here with a patient. He said to get you up immediately, sir.”

  “My brother?” He was instantly awake. “Who is the patient? Princess Nadezhda?”

  “Grégoire Darcy.”

  He did not question what Grégoire Darcy was doing in his house, much less England. He secured his robe with a belt and followed the servant with the lantern down the steps, where he found his brother and sister-in-law bearing a stretcher. “Put him in a room over there, on the extra cot,” he said instantly. “Is he hurt? Or sick?”

  “Both.”

  He turned to his manservant, who was also in his bedclothes. “Get all my equipment together and my surgical clothes. I’ll change in my room in a few minutes.” He grabbed a candlestick and followed Brian and Nadezhda into a spare room he used for minor surgery. A narrow, plain bed sat in the middle of the room. “More light,” he ordered to the servant closest. “And get a maid up to start boiling water. And we’ll need ice, too.”

  “He’s pretty badly hurt,” Brian said. “He can lie only on his side.”

  “Align the stretcher with the bed, and we’ll transfer him.” He set down the candlestick and stood on the other side of the bed. “Here, Grégoire. Let’s see you.” Grégoire did not respond other than to shake, curled up tightly as he was. Fortunately, he was not heavy, and Dr. Maddox was strong enough to safely lift him from the stretcher to the bed. He felt his patient’s forehead. “How long has he had a fever?”

  “It’s been up and down, but more than a week now. We found him like this in Spain. He’s barely holding on.”

  Nadezhda stroked Grégoire’s hair. He was a mess, and had about two week’s worth of a shaggy beard. “You’re home, Grégoire.”

  “Before I cut off his clothes—where are his wounds?”

  “On his back,” Brian said. “They beat him for some infraction; nearly killed him. Then the doctor sewed him up badly and it became infected, so the doctor cut him open again to try to treat it, and that didn’t help.” He looked up and Dr. Maddox saw fear in his eyes. “It’s bad.”

  “He’s alive,” Dr. Maddox said. “After all this time.”

  “He was wearing a hairshirt.”

  “A hair-hairshirt?” the doctor stuttered. “Like Thomas Becket?”

  “Apparently.”

  Dr. Maddox did not have time to pass judgment. The manservant returned with his tools, and the doctor cut away the robe and the bloodied undershirt beneath it, revealing lines of bad stitching, green with infection.The smell was putrid. “I need help to do this.” He turned to his manservant, who handed him his surgical case. “Take one of my cards to Dr. Andrew Bertrand’s house. The address is on my desk. If he’s not there, track him down; he’s probably at Carlton House. And unless the Prince Regent is actively dying, get the doctor. I also need a surgeon from the clinic with the Royal Society, so tell Dr. Bertrand that. He’ll know how to procure one at this hour. Time is of the absolute essence.”

  His manservant, who was accustomed to serving the doctor, simply nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Dr. Maddox turned to his guests, bowing. “Sorry for not properly receiving you, but thank you for coming.”

  “Thank God you’re here and not in Brighton or Derbyshire,” Brian Maddox said. “Is there anything we can do?”

  He thought it over. “A priest, a Catholic one. I have no idea where you would find one, but there’s certainly any number of them in London.”

  “He was kicked out of the church.You should know that. It’s a mess that I’ll be happy to explain when we have time, but don’t call him Brother Grégoire, because he isn’t.”

  “But he’s not—he can talk to a priest?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  He nodded and embraced his brother. “It’s good to see you, by the way.”

  “You too, Danny.”

  Maddox bowed to Nadezhda. “Your Highness. Could you watch him while I prepare myself?”

  “Of course.”

  He had no time for further discussion. He hurried into his bedroom, which he had not used in weeks, and quickly dressed himself in his worst clothes and a black apron. He stepped out of the door to be greeted by his wife in her nightgown, leaning on the door frame of her chamber. “What is it?”

  “Grégoire is badly wounded and needs surgery.”

  She was clearly not awake enough to fully comprehend, but she nodded anyway. “Does Darcy know?”

  “I have no idea. Brian and Nadezhda have just arrived and Darcy is in Derbyshire, so I imagine not.”

  “You’re nervous.”

  He was usually good at hiding it. “No, I’m not.”

  “Do you think he will die?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know. It will be close.”

  She embraced him, kissing him softly. “You’re the best surgeon in England. He’ll be fine.”

  “How do you always know what to say to me?”

  She gave him a little smile. “I’ve been your wife for a while now.”

  When Dr. Maddox returned to the ground floor, he could hear the servants in the kitchen, getting water heated for him to wash his instruments and his patient. His manservant was gone and probably would be for at least an hour. He washed his hands in a bowl in the kitchen and entered the room, where Nadezhda sat next to the bed, holding Grégoire’s hand.

  “Is he conscious?”

  “He comes in and out.”

  He took a seat on the other side of the bed, removing the cover and looking at the wounds again, trying to construct the procedure in his mind. The wounds were not deep, but they were so extensive that they were dangerous. He had probably lost blood when they reopened the wounds, however long ago that was.The surgical thread they used in Spain was inferior; no wonder it had caused infection. He took a sponge and slowly began to wash some of the areas of skin that were uninjured but were caked in dried blood. Grégoire cried out all the same. “I’m sorry, Grégoire, but I have to do this.” He noticed the rosary clutched in the monk’s—former monk’s—hand was itself filthy with grime and blood. “I will give it right back,” he said as he pulled it from Grégoire’s hand.

  “Don’t—”

  “I promise, you’ll have it right back.” He dunked the rosary in the water bowl, scraping off the dirt with his hands until it shone again. “There.” He took the opportunity to open Grégoire’s hand and wipe it clean before returning the rosary, cross in palm. “Just like new.”

  Grégoire nodded into his pillow in affirmation. He was not strong enough to speak further.

  “When was the last time he drank something?”

  “A few hours now; we were giving him broth on the ship.”

  “Then you’re a better nursemaid than most of the
doctors I know,” he said, and left the room to call for some soup to be heated and brought to them.

  Only with Nadezhda’s pleading did Grégoire swallow a few spoonfuls. “You need your strength.”

  What is left of it, Dr. Maddox thought.

  CHAPTER 14

  “To Forgive, Divine”

  DR. BERTRAND ARRIVED JUST BEFORE the first rooster crowed. He was quickly introduced to Mrs. Maddox and the doctor’s brother and sister-in-law. Then he joined Dr. Maddox alone with the unconscious patient.

  “The surgeon will be here by six,” he said. “Mr. Stevens.”

  “I know him,” Dr. Maddox said as he removed the covers over Grégoire, giving Bertrand time to make his own visual assessment.

  “Who is this?”

  “A monk and my cousin through marriage. Or he was a monk until last week.” He frowned. “The problem, as I see it, is if we cut away all the infected flesh, there won’t be much to sew back together.”

  “Skin from his leg?”

  “Too risky.Too many veins.”

  Dr. Bertrand nodded. “His arms.”

  “I’m not happy about doing it. Have you ever done a skin graft?”

  “I’ve seen it done,” Bertrand said. “But I don’t have personal experience with it. On the battlefield, many soldiers need medical attention at the same time. So soldiers as wounded as this patient usually die before I can treat them. Do we know how deep the wounds are?”

  “No, but they’re fairly superficial, I think we can assume. We must do this quickly. He’s already lost blood twice over this. I don’t know how much he has left to lose.”

  “Who did this? This is a mess.”

  “An incompetent physician in Spain,” Dr. Maddox said with disgust. “Twice, too. When the surgeon gets here, we’ll begin.You take skin from the arm, I’ll handle the back. Mr. Stevens will monitor his pulse and his breathing.” He started opening his medical case and selecting equipment. “Did you sleep or are you just coming straight from duty?”

  “I went home early. I haven’t slept yet, but I will be fine for another few hours,” he said. “Have you operated on relatives before?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Dr. Maddox replied.

  By the time Brian returned with a Catholic priest for Grégoire, the household was awake, aside from the children. Caroline Maddox was writing a letter to the Darcys, telling them to come immediately, knowing full well that Grégoire could be dead in a few hours. Father LeBlanc, who had been appraised of the complex situation on the way, was ushered into the room. “May I have time alone with him, Doctor?”

  “Sadly, no,” said Dr. Maddox. “Andrew, you stay.You’re not his relative. Wake him up with the salts. Father, this is Dr. Bertrand, who will monitor the patient.” He bowed to the priest and exited as Dr. Bertrand went back to shaving Grégoire’s arm.

  In the living room, Dr. Maddox collapsed on the couch and called for tea. His brother sat beside him, with Nadezhda leaning on her husband’s shoulder, asleep. “It was a long ride home,” Brian explained, not looking particularly rosy himself. “What do you think?”

  “It’s close,” he replied. “I’m surprised he made it this long.”

  “He’s a Darcy.They’re fighters.”

  Dr. Bertrand did succeed in rousing Grégoire with salts, and the ex-monk seemed to be at least semicoherent. “Mr. Darcy, this is Father LeBlanc.”

  “Hello, my son,” the priest said. He was an older man, without ornament aside from his black dress and his collar. He put a hand over Grégoire’s, which was feverishly tightened around his rosary. “You don’t have to say anything, but if you have something you would like to confess—”

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Grégoire said. He crossed himself as he lay on his side. “I—I don’t know how long it has been…since my last confession.” He blinked, his eyes bloodshot. “I don’t know anything.”

  “Think. Do you know the date of your last confession?” the priest said softly.

  “I—It was after the end of the month, but there was also the confession to Father Abbot; I don’t know if that counts.” His voice was weak, his eyes weaker. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned—I don’t know anything anymore. I am lost.”

  “I was told about the incident in Spain.You were not at fault. The abbot said so to your cousin.”

  “I—It doesn’t…,” he said and trailed off. “I don’t know what I did. I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know anything. How can I confess?” He was upset. “How can I confess? I don’t understand if I did anything wrong or what I did that was wrong—I don’t know my own sins—”

  “You do know that God’s mercy is boundless,” the priest said. “And that if you have sinned, you are forgiven. And if you feel you are lost, you have a family that will help you find yourself again. They went to great lengths to bring you here.”

  “I… am I …where am I?”

  “England.You’re in London, my son.”

  Grégoire did not understand him. “Where is my brother?”

  “I’ve been told he’s in Derbyshire. He’ll no doubt rush to your side, but that will take time. You’ll have to call upon your inner reserves of strength.”

  “And what if I can’t?” he said. “What if I don’t want to?”

  Father LeBlanc said slowly, “For this is thankworthy, if for conscience toward God, a man endure sorrows, suffering wrongfully.”

  “First Peter, Chapter 2, verse 19.”

  “Yes, my son.You are learned.You know that you do not suffer for no reason. God has a greater plan for you.”

  Grégoire opened his eyes again. “I’m familiar with the theology. I don’t want it to be true. I wanted to lead the life I was leading. Now that I can’t, why can’t I go in peace?”

  “That is not for you to decide. That is the Lord’s domain.” Seeing Grégoire’s despair, he said, “You have this moment to decide to live or die.You have to choose to go on before you can choose a new path—a new way of life—for yourself.”

  Grégoire did not respond with word or gesture. He did, however, remain awake, staring into space for some time.

  Then Father LeBlanc removed a piece of paper from his pocket. “I was asked to read this to you. It was written by your cousin, Mr. Maddox.” He cleared his throat. “‘Dear Grégoire: Please do not die. If you do, you will never meet your new nephew.’ Oh, dear. I should have read that first.” But he looked up, and Grégoire was smiling. “You have a new nephew?”

  “I had just received the letter—before this all began. His name is Robert Kincaid. My sister’s first child.”

  “I see.You seem to have quite a loving family, there.”

  “Yes,” Grégoire said, and he unclenched his fist to take the priest’s hand. “I am not at full wit—would you please, Father, say the Hail Mary, so I don’t fail to remember it.”

  “Of course, my son.” He made the sign of the cross over Grégoire. “Ave, María, grátia plena, Dóminus tecum. Benedícta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.…”

  Grégoire joined him. By the end of it, his voice had faded, and shortly after the “Amen” he had lost consciousness.

  Father LeBlanc blessed him again, and stepped out.“The patient, Grégoire, is ready.”

  Darcy had ridden for nearly two days, stopping only when his horse was about to collapse and to sleep a few restless hours at an inn. It was the same old road to Town, and most of the innkeepers along the way knew the traveler.The barkeep’s wife said something to him about appearing distressed. He ignored the remark. When he got to his room, he collapsed on the bed, waking only a few hours later.

  By midafternoon on the second day, he had passed all of the major centers before London itself. It was amazing to think that just the morning before, he had been breakfasting with his wife and about to go shooting with Bingley when the express courier arrived. Pemberley had been thrown into an uproar. Darcy had insisted that Elizabeth take a carriage; Elizabe
th had insisted that he not ride so fast as to have an injury along the way, as his brother would be unlikely to appreciate that. The letter from Mrs. Maddox said she had written Georgiana as well, but they had sent on a letter anyway, just in case the first was lost. They had told the Bingleys, who lived but three miles from them, and that couple had pledged their support and said they would join them as soon as possible. Mugin, who had been staying with them, had asked directions and taken off on foot.

  “God protect you on your journey,” Elizabeth had said as she kissed her husband good-bye. Grégoire, she knew, was probably already dead and had been so for at least a day.The condition Mrs. Maddox had described in her letter was not particularly encouraging (the former Miss Caroline Bingley was not very good at false encouragement, so she made no attempt).

  Why hadn’t he gone to Spain? Darcy went through all his reasons. The situation had not seemed dire. He had sent someone in his stead, who was probably still wandering around Madrid. He had written Grégoire and expected a response. He also didn’t much care to leave England, but that was beside the point—he would have done it without hesitation if he had known Grégoire was in trouble. Again. But he had had the foresight to send Mr. Maddox, thank God.That was his only consolation on the desperate journey.

  He arrived in town barely able to stand, and with his horse in a similar condition. Not bothering with anything else, he went immediately to the Maddox townhouse. The doorman was standing just outside. “Mr.—”