The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy

by Marsha Altman

  “I don’t want this burden,” George said in despair.

  “I know.” Darcy put a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “But you have something that Gregory did not have—you are not alone.And never will be. That, I promise you.”

  Fitzwilliam Darcy was not known to make promises lightly. That knowledge alone made it so much easier to bear.

  CHAPTER 26

  A Sight for Sore Eyes

  GRÉGOIRE, WHO HAD NEVER been so far north, passed the holidays with the Kincaids at their estate in ____shire. Not only could he shower attention on his youngest nephew, he also found that William Kincaid was a scholar in his two favorite subjects, religion and history. William Kincaid was a staunch Presbyterian, but only in the way that debates with Grégoire amused him. One afternoon in early January, they discussed predestination: people were selected for heaven before they were born and there was nothing anyone could do to change their fate.

  “We must assume that the Lord knows who is saved and who is damned before they are even born, because he is omnipotent. So our fates are decided.”

  “Not decided,” Grégoire said. “Just known. I still prefer to think that my actions in this life determine my fate in the next life. Otherwise, we’re wasting our time, and might as well be off fishing or something.”

  “The lake is frozen.”

  “Then skating. I don’t know!”

  “So we have reached a tie,” Kincaid said as his wife entered, carrying their son. “Dearest, you must settle this debate for us. We need a deciding vote.”

  “There is no tie! You just refuse to give in to logic!”

  Georgiana cast an amused glance at her brother, and then said, “And what are we debating?”

  “If we have any chance of salvation by being good people or if we should all just go skating instead,” Kincaid said. “Or ice fishing. Yes. I suppose we could do that.”

  “Can’t we do both?” she said.“Go skating and still go to heaven?”

  “I like her opinion,” Grégoire said.

  “I agree,” Kincaid said. “Georgiana, you have won the day.”

  “Then be a dear and take our son off my hands for a few minutes!”

  “Let me,” Grégoire offered, and took the infant into his arms. Robert was now six months, and could stand—with help—on Grégoire’s knees. “Look at you. Are you bothering your mother?” Robert giggled as Grégoire tickled his stomach. Georgiana took a seat at their long table and poured herself a cup of tea.

  “You’re so talented with children,”William said. “I suppose your family has already mentioned the idea of having some of your own.”

  “Mentioned it, yes,” Grégoire said. “I…well, I was never in a position to think of such things before. Besides, there are many orphans who need a parent.”

  William shook his head. “You’re so intent to bypass the fun part? There’s a worthwhile debate with a logical conclusion.”

  Grégoire just blushed, and Georgiana put a hand over her husband’s own. “Leave my poor brother alone. He gets enough of this from Darcy.” She turned to her brother. “Do you have any more mundane ideas for what you might like to do in the spring?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Go to Ireland.”

  “Indeed!” his sister replied.

  “I have traveled most extensively, but never on my own and without a Rule to guide me. And I have never been to Ireland. St. Bede wrote extensively about his travels and their merits.”

  William shook his head.

  “Yes, the father of English history,” Grégoire said. “Excuse me, the father of the history of those invading Saxon bastards.”

  “Grégoire!” Georgiana cried, but her reaction was muted by the sound of her husband’s laughter.

  “So,”William Kincaid said,“what is it about St. Bede and Ireland?”

  Grégoire balanced his nephew on one knee. “He never visited the place, but he knew of it, and the church there, which had yet to be fully Latinized. There are many holy sites in Ireland.”

  “You want to make a pilgrimage, then?”

  “I doubt that any of the sites are still there except the actual ground itself,” Grégoire said, “but yes, perhaps I do.”

  The Darcys and the Bingleys returned before the hard snows set in, but when they did, they received no visitors, only the occasional postman with a stack of late letters. Grégoire had returned in time as well, and for months they were all prisoners together within the walls of Pemberley, emerging only occasionally to go to Kirkland or Lambton, but no farther.

  In February, an alarming letter came in the post. Or, it would have been alarming, had it been phrased in a less nonchalant manner, but as the authoress was Caroline Maddox, the offhandedness could only be expected. It was sent to Jane, with permission to give the news to her family and the Darcys.

  Dear Sister,

  Forgive the delay in this information, but we decided not to tell anyone until the procedure was all over, so as to not leave you in unnecessary suspense.

  Two weeks ago, Dr. Maddox consulted his physician about the loss of some vision in his left eye, which was apparently caused by a cataract. Fortunately, the doctor whose specialty is this particular surgery was in town to treat His Majesty, and did the procedure here instead of making Dr. Maddox go up to Cambridge for it. It was a brief procedure, but we will not know the results for a few weeks. Frederick and Emily are taking great delight in calling their father a pirate until that day comes.

  If the roads clear and you feel compelled to visit, do not feel so obligated, because Dr. Maddox is intolerably cranky. He has refused to use pain medicine, the one exception being the day of the procedure. He is staring at me this very second, and in a moment he may inquire what I’m writing about him.

  The chances of infection are low, but please remember him in your prayers. Mr. Maddox and Her Highness (and, unfortunately, Mr. Mugin) are keeping us company to help pass the time.

  Caroline Maddox

  They replied that, of course, they would keep him in their hearts and minds and await further news. Many people went blind in their old age. But Dr. Maddox was not old, and had said on any number of occasions that he was determined to see his daughter go out, and that was that.

  “A sorry lot we are,” Brian said to his brother, who was attempting to read the paper. “I’m a cripple and you’re missing bits and pieces. We have opium and someone’s keeping it locked up as though he were the chief guard of the Tower of London—”

  “If you have any lingering pains, please tell me,” his brother said calmly.

  “I did.”

  “Well, this time, don’t be such a noticeable liar.”

  Brian laughed. Dr. Maddox did not. “Is there anything to do around here that does not involve reading?” he asked.

  “At your house?” Brian replied. “Hardly—though I could give you some suggestions, but you would find them all rather improper,” he said as he poured Daniel another glass of whiskey.“Why don’t you visit your infamous patient?”

  “He’s just been lying in bed, crying since his daughter died,” Dr. Maddox said. “The illness is not physical. In addition, he would laugh at me.” He did look ridiculous with a cloth patch over his eye and a bandage tied around his head to keep the patch in place.

  “You’d be comforting a mourner.”

  “I failed to do so when I was in perfect health. I see no reason why I should do it now.”

  “Are we just going to argue all day?”

  “We’re hardly arguing.”

  “You’re contradicting everything I say.”

  “That’s your imagination.”

  “There you go again.” He stood up and opened the door, just in time to catch Mrs. Maddox about to enter. “Mrs. Maddox.”

  “Mr. Maddox. What are you up to?”

  “Well, I tried to get your husband drunk, but he hasn’t had the second glass yet. Maybe I’ll shut the door and you’ll be more persuasive.”

  “Bugger off,�
�� the doctor said. He did, however, take another sip. As Brian left, Caroline kissed her husband on the part of his head that wasn’t bandaged and sat down next to him.

  “It is ten in the morning,” she pointed out.

  “And this is Town. Plenty of people are cup-shot at ten in the morning.”

  She put her hand on his forehead. “No fever. What else am I supposed to ask you?”

  “Is there any pus leaking from the eye?”

  “Oh yes. Is there?”

  “For the record, no.” He put his hand over hers. “I feel completely fine in every respect that you should be concerned about.”

  “Not every respect that I’m concerned about.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She smiled slightly. “Finish your whiskey. Perhaps you should get drunk—you might be less argumentative.”

  He finished the glass and pulled her into him. Even through all his layers of warm clothing, she could still feel his heart beating as he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “I know,” she replied, her voice softer. “You’re suffering.”

  “I’m worried,” he said. “This will be the second time. And I’m older now. Maybe I won’t be so lucky.”

  “You have another eye.”

  “It’s not particularly good.”

  “You are being argumentative,” she said, but without any dismissal in her tone. “You promised you would make it to Emily’s presentation before court, and I’m not sending my only daughter out when she’s fifteen, like some country girl.”

  “I wanted to make it to her wedding, but I like making reasonable goals,” he said. “And I am also rather fond of watching my other children grow up.”

  She smiled. “But you won’t see me wrinkle up into a knobby old woman with horribly dyed hair.”

  “I will not stand for that,” he said.“I love the smell of your hair. If you dare dye it, even tomorrow, I will not speak to you for a week.”

  “You would not.You could not.”

  “I would try.”

  She managed to laugh. Daniel was silent, but she sensed that some of the tension was gone from him. Every day, his pain decreased a little and his anxiety about the results increased some more. It was a horrible balance.

  “The last time I did this,” he said,“I didn’t have a wife to comfort me. Despite my mood, I much prefer my conditions this time around.”

  One crabby week later, and after many conspiracies to drug Dr. Maddox’s tea (all of which he discovered before they could come to fruition), it was time to visit Dr. Hunt at the Royal Society of Medicine house. Daniel Maddox was very methodical that morning in his usual preparations. Dr. Hunt, like most doctors, did not believe in washing around the eye, but Dr. Maddox did, as close as he could get. By the end of it, his hands were shaking.

  “Your eye will be fine,” his wife said. They had not removed the bandage, so he had no idea if the eye worked.

  “And if it’s not?”

  “Your eye? It’s not as if you don’t have another one.”

  He smiled and kissed her. “I will try to remember that.”

  It was Brian who took him to the doctor. It was as if he were four and ten again and Brian were his guardian. He was there to stand by him (but this time, not hold his hand) when the doctor removed the patch and inspected his eye—all of which, he could see. There was a quick exam of his distance vision with cards, and he was declared, aside from his severe myopia, to be in good visual health.

  But his real joy came when he arrived home and his children ran down the stairs. Little Danny outpaced the other two in his excitement. “Father!” He was small enough to still be picked up.

  “Look at you,” he said.

  “A sight for sore eyes,” Brian said.

  The servants, who held their master in esteem, were all relieved and quickly set him down with something to drink for his tribulations. He toasted with his brother, wife, and sister-in-law.

  “You know,” he said to his sons, “one reason I became interested in medicine was because I went to so many doctors when I was a child. Do either of you want to be doctors?”

  “I want to be a samurai!” Danny said, to which Brian laughed, earning himself a frown from everyone else in the room.

  “I want to be a fencing champion!” Frederick said.

  “I think I liked the samurai idea better,” Caroline replied. “At least it involves some bizarre honor system.”

  “At least it involves regular exercise,” said Dr. Maddox.

  “At least he didn’t say he wanted to be king,” whispered Brian, and his brother was in too good of a mood to do anything but laugh.

  Winter eventually became spring, and the snow and ice melted, and once again the roads were cleared for travel. The early spring was a time for many birthdays, the most significant being Georgiana’s and Geoffrey’s, who both turned three and ten. The following fall, Geoffrey would be attending Eton. Georgie now hovered in the precarious stage where she was no longer a child and not yet a woman, when she had to wear a wide-brimmed hat and not talk to men in the streets or even be introduced. Whether she resented any of this or not, she said nothing.

  George came up to Derbyshire for their birthdays. When asked what he was doing alone, he replied that his mother didn’t care where he went and then quickly changed the subject. At the end of Geoffrey Darcy’s first day as someone three and ten, young Mr. Darcy and young Mr. Wickham stayed up much later than the rest of the household and helped themselves to the good whiskey that the older Mr. Darcy kept in his study, having learned the lesson about port well enough. By sunrise, they were still awake and utterly in their cups.Whatever rift caused by the fight at Christmas had been mended.When Master Darcy rose, Mrs. Reynolds quietly informed him that his son had been found passed out cold on the terrace, and would probably sleep through the whole day.The master’s reaction to this was uncharacteristically mild. He did speak to Nurse and told her that when Geoffrey was to be woken (preferably by dinner), it should be done very loudly, with some kind of drum if at all possible. Otherwise, he had no comment.

  At the end of March, when all of the significant dates had passed, Grégoire Bellamont was seen off. Darcy went with him all the way to the coast, where he would take a boat to Ireland. He had spent months reading literature on the land and the history of its church. On more than one occasion, Elizabeth had to quietly remind her husband, “He is a grown man and can do as he pleases,” as he tried to oppose Grégoire’s plan.

  This time, Grégoire took something besides his prayer book, his spectacles, and his cloak. He took a bag of money—his own money, from his own account. Some had already been sent to Dublin, where it would sit in an account if he needed access to it. His route was established and he would write if he varied from it, so it would be not so hard to find him. Darcy had declared that he would let him go only with Dr. Maddox’s permission. Unfortunately, the doctor would not be in on the conspiracy and said Grégoire was well enough to travel. It had been more than eight months since his injuries and though his back was mainly scar tissue, it did not cause him pain or impede his movement.

  “When can we expect you back?” Darcy said as they walked along the docks to the waiting ship.

  “When I find what I’m looking for,” he replied.

  “And what are you looking for?”

  “That, I also must find.” He shook hands with Darcy. “Good-bye, Brother.”

  “Write me if you get into trouble. Or if you need anything. Or if you get sick. Or if—”

  “I will write.”

  Darcy nodded, composing himself. “Good-bye.And good luck.” He added, nervously, “Go with…God.”

  Grégoire smiled from the plank. “I will do my best.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Saint in a Box

  “SIR, ARE YEH AL’ RIGHT?”

  Grégoire was not.The walk from Dublin to Drogheda had worn him out. Usually, walking thirty miles over two days would have been no trouble for h
im, but perhaps he had not recovered as well from the previous summer as he had presumed. He was still standing only because of his staff. “Yes.” His voice said otherwise, and he looked sideways at the priest who had come up from behind him. “Just let me—” Without question, the priest came and helped him to the pew before the shrine. He cried out as his back hit the hard wood. “I will be fine. Thank you.”

  Now that he was sitting, he was sure he would be all right. He still could see the gorgeous shrine before him, with the afternoon sun just coming through the stained glass, and all the candles lit around the relic. Behind the glass was the head of Oliver Plunkett, the Catholic protestor who had been martyred by English authorities in 1681. There was talk about making him a saint, but nothing could be done without England’s consent, and England would hardly consent. Or, that was what the man at the entrance told him in a thick brogue.

  Grégoire crossed himself. He had missed Mass, as it was already late afternoon when he arrived, but he heard one in Dublin the day before and to his great delight. The last Catholic Mass he had heard was in July of the previous year.

  “Yeh al’ right?”

  This time, it came from the man next to him, who had just sat down. This man was no priest, just an ordinary fellow in shabby clothing who had knelt before the altar first. “I’m a little tired.”

  “Yeh nade a draink?”

  He nodded.

  The man passed him a flask, which apparently contained very watery whiskey, which quenched his thirst somewhat, even though it lit a fire in his throat. “Thank you,” he whispered, passing it back to him.

  “Wha yeh from, fella? Yisser accent is fierce quare.”

  “Lots of places,” he said. “France. England. Bavaria. Spain. Pick what you like.”

  “Been travelin’ donkey’s years, den?”

  He nodded again. “Yes.” He felt better now, sitting, and with the whiskey dulling the pain. “Why do you come to this shrine?”