“There are some ruins in the woods about a mile back.”
“Really? I don’—I don’ wander around.” She took his empty cup from him and refilled it. “Suppose you’ll want ter know wha’ me family is.”
“I met the O’Muldoons,” he said, “but they didn’t mention you.”
“Noice couple. Laddies are screamers, but not really brutal.”
He nodded.
“Jaysus, yer polite.”
“Do you want me to be otherwise?”
“It makes me unaisy.”
He looked down at his cup and then up at her again. “How far along are you?”
The question did not strike her as hard as he had thought it would, but she did look as though something had hit her. “T’ree months.”
He nodded.
“Am I showin’?” She wore a shapeless, ratty blue gown.
“No, but you keep putting your hand over your stomach.”
She laughed. It was nice to hear. “Yer a smart bugger.” She poured the last of the milk into her cup and sat down across from him. “Me ma and pa didn’t approve whaen we said we wud git married. Wanted nothing ta do wit’ me. And he didn’ want nothing to do wit’ me, either.” She put a hand over her forehead, blocking eye contact. “He bought me some medicine ta get rid of it. I said no.”
He crossed himself, but only gestured for her to continue.
“So he kicked me out. But he gave me a wee nicker for de road, an’ I bought dis gaff wi’ it.” She looked down. “An’ ’ere I am.”
“Is there a town around here? Somewhere to buy food?”
“’S about foive miles down de road.”
“Is the market still open?”
“’Til dusk.”
He stood up. “Then I had better get going. Thank you for your hospitality, Miss MacKenna. I will return, with God’s help, in a few hours.”
“I can’t pay yeh.”
“Money means nothing to me,” he said. “Too many years as a monk, I suppose.” And with that, he abruptly left her presence and set off to town.
When he returned, it was getting dark, and his back ached again from being laden with packages. She looked shocked—almost horrified—to see him politely enter and then set the packages down on her kitchen table. “There’s bread—and grain, for the cow and chickens—and some mead, and some whiskey, and sugar—”
“Sugar!”
“And I don’t know, some other things.” He collapsed into a seat, the day’s events wearing on him, and it was almost time for Vespers. “Excuse me. It’s time for prayer.” Without another word, he walked out the door and to the side of the house, where he recited the entire service by heart to the setting sun. She had opened all the packages and the contents were scattered, but she was standing there, quite uncomfortable in her own house. “I’m sorry. Have I done something wrong?”
“Yer always apologizing,” she said. “I can’t pay fer dis.”
“I told you, you don’t have to—“
“Yeh even a pilgrim? Who are yeh?”
He sighed. It was always about his blasted money. “My English family is quite wealthy. My brother will give me whatever I want. But possessions mean nothing to me, besides the necessities of life. That’s the way I was raised and it remains my mindset,” he said. “Food is a necessity—for both of you.”
“Do yeh—do yeh want somet’in’?”
He sighed. “I’m very tired. May I sleep on your floor tonight?”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, Miss MacKenna—that is it.” He rubbed his eyes. “And if you will excuse me—I am very tired, and would like to sleep a little before Compline.”
“Oh.Yes. To be sure,” she said, and disappeared into her room, emerging with a rug. “I’m sorry—”
“It will be fine. I can sleep on stone. Thank you.” He laid out the mat and a small pillow from his bag.
“Dere’s nothin’ else?”
“No, Miss MacKenna.”
“Yer sure?”
“Yes.”
She did not seem to believe him. Perhaps she had calculated how much he had spent and knew that it was a small fortune. He lay down, but she would not let him sleep. “Are yeh still a monk or somethin’?”
“What? No, I said, I’ve actually been…” It dawned on him that she was hovering over him in a particular manner. “No, no! That was not why I came here.” He could feel his cheeks burning. “That is not what this is about. If I behaved inappropriately—”
She stepped back, a little alarmed. Perhaps they were both embarrassed. “I just—I didn’t know. Fer sure.”
“No, please! I assure you, nothing of the kind. I am not under any…vow, but that was not why I came here. Please believe me.”
Her face was red now, too. “I believe yeh. I’m sorry, I t’ought—It doesn’t matter. Forget it.”
He nodded, unable to think of anything else to say, and she disappeared into her bedroom. He did not, however, find sleep before Compline, only afterward, and it was an uneasy one at that.
Grégoire rose, as he always did, for prayer in the dead of night. He lit a candle so that he could find his way and not trip over half the kitchen. He was not successful and knocked over a chair.
“Yeh need anyt’ing?”
“No!” he said, embarrassed again. “I just…am very clumsy, trying to find my prayer book.” He turned and saw her in the hallway leading to her bedroom, holding her own candle.
“Well if yeh don’ mind—I’m starvin’,” she said, and began to tear through the bread, starting with the white and moving to the black. “Oh, God, I’ve been so hungry.”
“A normal human response. I get hungry and I’m accustomed to fasting for any reason.”
She downed her bread with milk. “Yeh were really a monk? Robes and everyt’ing? Funny haircut?”
He ran a hand over the top of his head. “It just grew back, actually.”
“Why did they keck yeh out?”
“Many reasons, but mainly, I think I would have killed myself with my monkery,” he said. “Martin Luther said that, but it was true for me, too. Without the heresy.”
She finished off the milk. “It wud ha’ ben a shame.”
“If what?”
“If yeh’d killed yerself.Yer such a good man.”
“Thank you.”
The awkward silence lasted a long time. He wasn’t counting, but it must have been a good twenty seconds before she kissed him, and he put up no sacred or religious resistance. They practically toppled over the table. “Careful of my back,” he said. She was right; he wasn’t a monk anymore. At that moment, he certainly didn’t want to be.
“I didn’t come here for this,” he said, forcing himself to pull away from her for a brief moment. It was also to catch his breath. “Everything I told you was true. Do you want me to go?”
“Stupid monk,” she said. “Am I actin’ loike I want yeh ter leave?” She paused. “Is it ’cuz of the—”
He shushed her, taking her hand away from his shoulder and putting them both on her stomach, where there was a small swelling. “No. I just—am not very experienced with women.”
His confession did not seem to put her off. Grégoire did not leave the house, nor did he return to his mat on the floor.
CHAPTER 28
Missives from Ireland
THE DARCYS RECEIVED A number of correspondences from Grégoire, as he had promised. Some came in clumps, others did not, but he was nothing if not a prolific writer about the places he went and the sites he saw. It was the first and the last of the letters that concerned Darcy. Along with his travelogue meant for the entire household, he included a letter to Darcy.
Dear Brother,
I need to make an inquiry but am unable to do so from my present location. If you employ your steward, I would happily compensate him for his time.
I was hosted by a couple named Hugh and Nora McGowan. Their son, James, served in the ___ regiment in His Majesty’s armie
s. They do not know how to read, so he did not write them while abroad, but the last they heard, his regiment had been sent to Waterloo and there it suffered many casualties. However, they have never been informed of his death, and he has not returned or sent message that he is alive. Although they are not believing him to be alive, they would like to know what became of him. They do not have the finances to travel to London and conduct further inquiries. I, of course, offered them my services. With the information enclosed (physical description, etc.), perhaps something can be dug up in London, or one of the members of his regiment can be spoken to about his death.
I also include their address. Please use it if it can be concluded that he has passed on to the next life. If he is alive, some effort could perhaps be made to get him to visit his grieving parents.
When I am at a location where I can be reached, I will let you know. Otherwise, I leave this task to you. If you do not have the time, I open my accounts for someone to be hired to investigate it. Spare no expense.
Thank you.
Grégoire Darcy-Bellamont
That Grégoire was championing the cause of some lost soldier’s parents was no surprise to his older brother, who showed it to his wife.
“So kind of him,” Elizabeth said. “What will you do?”
“Have a solicitor sent to London,” he said.
The next notable letter, beyond traveling tales, was remarkably brief.
Brother,
I have decided to stay in County Carlow for a little while. I find it very pleasant here. I have opened a box, so that I can receive posts from you. Write to me at Tullow, Box Number 0828.
God Bless.
Grégoire Darcy-Bellamont
“His lack of explanation is stunning,” Darcy said. It was the sort of letter Darcy would write, but not Grégoire. Or, it was not in the style of letters he had been writing.
“Maybe he met a girl and he doesn’t wish to admit it.”
Darcy returned Elizabeth’s look, and then both broke into laughter at the idea.
Two weeks before, the paper on which he would write the final letter was still rolled up in Grégoire’s sack, unused. He stirred for Vigils with no desire to get up; it was just his body’s natural reaction and he rolled over, trying to ignore it. He did not want to wake from his dream and find himself alone in that little shelter of a ruin, beside the saint. It seemed so wet and miserable, and this was much better, even if the bed wasn’t exactly high quality.
He swallowed all of his alarm when he realized that it was not a dream and there was a woman beside him by reminding himself, You are not a monk. If this was the way he had to get used to it, it was not such a terrible thing.
Caitlin did not stir beside him, even when he removed his hand from her belly, where it had roamed in his sleep. It was barely daybreak as he yawned and reached over to open the shutters, bringing the morning sun into their faces.
“Ow!” came a cry beside him. “Why—what time is it?”
“Time for Vigils,” he said. “I’m sorry—my body just knows.” He made a move to rise, but she grabbed him by the cross around his neck and pulled him back down. “All right, all right.”
“I don’ want ta be alone,” she said. “Is dat so brutal?”
“No,” he said. In fact, he didn’t think it was terrible at all. There was something to be said for waking up next to a live person and her warm body, no matter what the outside temperature was. He had only one other experience with it, and it had been so guiltridden that he barely remembered the specifics.
“Why—why did yeh do al’ dis for me?”
He assumed she was referring to his stocking her kitchen for a month. “I would have done it for anyone. I have the money. I can’t take it with me.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he said, facing her. “As for the rest of it—I suppose I’m not much of a monk after all.” He smiled and kissed her head. Her hair needed a wash, but it was a lovely color of red and blonde together, and not curled or pinned up like the hair style of an English gentlewoman.
She giggled and leaned into him. “Yer shirt is so soft.”
“It’s cotton.” It was more than a little worn because he had washed it often, but it was softer on his skin. He wore it as an undershirt at the abbot’s orders and Dr. Maddox’s strong suggestion.
“I ’ave never felt cotton before.”
“Neither had I.” He was used to only wool and linen.
She laced her fingers with his. His were calloused from long hours of various kinds of manual and scriptural labor, hers the same. She was not a soft English rose. She had probably grown up on a farm and done her share of chores.
“Why do yeh ’ave cuts on yer arms?”
She was referring to the scars on his forearms, which went up nearly the length of them. “Oh, that was from where they had to take skin—” He stopped. “It’s not a pleasant story.”
“Neither is me gettin’ knocked up an’ Neil leavin’ me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeh always say dat,” she said, “and I t’ink yeh mean it. I ’ave never met anyone loike yeh.”
“And I have met no one like you, Caitlin.”
That must have been the right answer, because she kissed him. He had largely lost all linear thought when he had to stop her from pulling up his shirt, the only thing he was still wearing besides his religious jewelry. “Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because—I don’t want you to see it.” The mood—at least on his end—was temporarily discouraged. “When I said I almost killed myself in my discipline, I was serious.”
“So you’ve never shown anyone?”
“A lot of doctors, my brother, and my entire abbey, but I don’t remember it. And even then, I was ashamed.” His grip on her hand unintentionally tightened.
“All right,” she said, letting go of his shirt. It stayed on.
They were both ravenous, and dove into all available food. Grégoire went out to feed the chickens and the cow.Those animals seemed to somehow convey surprise at his presence and his actions. He returned to the house with a pail of fresh milk. Caitlin drank to the point of being ill, and he helped her get outside in time, holding back her long hair.
“’S been this way since—yeh know,” she said. “But it wus less, cos I wasn’ eatin’.”
“You need to eat. Even if it makes you sick.” He carried her back into the house and set her in the only chair with a back, providing her with a little mead, which he had thrown a shaving of ginger into. “Sip.”
“How do yeh know so much aboyt afflicted women or whatever yer callin’ it in England?”
“I’ve known many women with child. Relatives and townsfolk near my abbey in Spain,” he said.
A little worn from her recent experience, she sipped the concoction before setting it on her lap. “Are yeh ’eadin’?”
“Leaving?”
She nodded.
Did he know what he should do? Certainly not. Did he even know what the right thing to do was? She was an increasing woman—unmarried, and in need of someone, and no child would result of their union. “Today? Not unless you tell me to.”
She did not. Did he know what he was doing? No. Did he care? Not in the least.
The next day, Grégoire was on his way back from the trip to Tullow to set up his post box when he encountered Mrs. O’Muldoon, who greeted him: “Mr.—I’m so sorry—”
“Grégoire. But you can call me Gregory, if it pleases you,” he said, bowing to her. It was not something to which she was accustomed, and the plump Irish housewife forced herself into a curtsy. “Mrs. O’Muldoon. How are you?”
“I wasn’ ’spectin’ ta see yeh here.”
“I am planning on staying in the area. For how long, I know not.”
“I ’eard a rumor—are yeh at—nearby ta us?”
“With Miss MacKenna, yes,” he said. So he admitted to living in sin. “This is probably inappropriate of me but—what
do you know of her?”
They continued down the path away from the market toward their homes, where she pulled him to the side. “She com here’bout two months ago. Bought de house for a song—de animals wi’ it—’cuz the owner ’ad jist lost ’is struggle an’ strife—his wife, yeh know—an’ wanted ter move ter de city. He was lookin’ for any deal he could make.” She took his arm. “She was in a real bad way. I suppose she told yeh dat.”
“She did tell me the circumstances were difficult, yes.”
“She’s a nice lass—can’t say much for her livin’ alone, but she wus shuk. We woulda taken ’er in, but we have a baby and we couldn’t afford it, yeh know—”
He nodded kindly. “I know, yes. Of course.”
“She wus al’ banged up; bruises and the loike. She could barely walk straight. She towl me a wee aboyt her paddy not takin’ well to her leavin’, but not much. We talk about these t’ings, women. Yeh know.”
He nodded again. “Since then?”
“She’s been alone. Not seen a soul fer all we know. She used ta go ta market, but den she stopped.”
“I understand. I just wanted to know—”
“Terrible t’ing, to be all alone. But that doesn’ mean yer obligated in any way, Mr. Gregory—”
“No, I understand,” he said. He was just trying to confirm Caitlin’s story—dirty as he felt in doing it. It was something his brother would do. “Thank you, Mrs. O’Muldoon. I’ll see you at church.”
“Jasus bless yeh, Mr. Gregory.”
“God bless you.”
They parted and he continued down the path to the house.
Was it physical satisfaction he felt, or was it something more? Either way, he liked the feeling, even if he could not distinguish it properly. Nothing tied him to Caitlin; he could leave her at any time, and if he felt generous, even leave enough money to get her through her pregnancy without making a dent in his annual income. He didn’t tell her that, but he didn’t lie about his finances, either—she had enough sense not to ask. He was content in a way he had never felt before. It must be physical affection. He had known the love of brotherhood, of God, and of family. A woman had been beyond his experience. His one night in Bavaria did not count; he could see that now.
The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Page 28
