However, marriage was more than charity. It was a holy sacrament, not to be undertaken lightly, at least ideally, even though it often was done lightly or for any number of convenient purposes. Darcy, who had a reason to marry and produce an heir to Pemberley, had avoided it until he was eight and twenty. But then again, Darcy was not a social animal and mistrusted everyone, while Grégoire heedlessly saw only the good in people, often to his disadvantage. He tried to see Caitlin in shades—she was scared, she was tough, she could be moody, and she had little tolerance for stupidity (in terms of customs, not learning, of which she had basically none). She was not demure. She was not soft (even though her skin was). She was not a churchgoing woman, but she did have faith, even if it had only a subtle means of expression. He could not have a discussion with her on the influence of the Council of Trent on doctrine, but he could talk to her about God and she would listen. It was not that he sought to alter her character, but rather that he had a need to express his feelings to someone. And she was always a willing listener, and often would see the obvious where he could not. He told her of the places he had visited, the things he had seen, the things in the world he could not understand and could not be explained in books. It was not a structured debate over a dinner table or in a parlor room, but a confession and an earnest response.
“What do you think of predestination?” he said to her on a whim, and explained the concept.
“Why worry ’bout a silly thing like dat?” she said. “Either ’tis true or ’tisn’, but I’m not goin’ go around wonderin’ if people I meet are destined for heaven or hell or just goin’ there because of somet’in’ dey did. ’Twould be downright rude of me.”
He laughed and tightened his hold around her. It was getting harder for them to lie close together, at least at the torso, and he put a hand over her swelling stomach and kissed it.
“I luk loike I ate somethin’ wrong.”
“You look beautiful. Also, you look as though you’re with child, which should not come as a surprise to you.” It was his business to make her laugh. Otherwise, she was often increasingly anxious about her condition. They didn’t speak of his staying on, or their relationship—that subject remained too uncomfortable, as neither of them had the answer. She didn’t ask him to stay, but he didn’t leave of his own volition, and for the time, they were both happy with that.
Late one day in the early summer, Grégoire walked to Tullow, to find not only a letter from Scotland but one from Darcy, which was longer than usual.
Dear Grégoire,
My steward has located James McGowan. He is alive but in debtor’s prison outside London. I do not know the specifics in their entirety, but in a particular engagement with the French, he had a fight with his superior and made a movement interpreted as running from battle, a punishable offense. He was fined, and his pay after Waterloo was smaller than he had assumed, so he borrowed money to pay it and found himself in debt overnight. His debts are 600 pounds; there may have been other losses from gambling or drinking while he was afield. I understand that many other soldiers from his regiment are also housed in the same prison along with him.
I await your decision as to how to resolve this.
Your brother,
Darcy
He purchased paper on the spot, penned a response in the post office, and sent it express.
Dear Brother,
Please see to it that the 600 pounds is removed from my account to pay his debt, and any others he may have incurred. Also, purchase him a ticket to Dublin, and some money for travel to Drogheda, to be given on the condition that he is to return to his parents immediately. They are desperate to see him. Do not mention my name at any point in these proceedings.
Your grateful brother,
Grégoire
P.S. I apologize for the brevity of this letter. A longer one will follow about far less pressing matters.
If he were face-to-face with his brother, Darcy would probably say something against it, even though it was a small amount for Grégoire. But then Grégoire would just remind him that Elizabeth had once told him that Darcy had paid off their brother (not knowing the brotherly connection) with ten thousand pounds, just to save a girl’s reputation.
Grégoire was apparently still smiling when he returned to the house, because Caitlin immediately grilled him on his grin. “My brother. Pound wise, penny foolish.”
The next morning, he forced his sister’s letter upon Caitlin as they lay together in bed. “So—So ha—”
“He.”
“So he seen—”
“So he can.”
She shoved the letter in his face. “Jist read it.”
He collected his sister’s letter, and kissed Caitlin on the cheek. “You did very well.”
“Rubbish!”
“I am most serious. I always am. Except when I’m not.” He squinted, as he was without his spectacles and was not eager to remove himself from his position to retrieve them.
Dear Brother,
It is so strange that I miss you most terribly even though you are now only a short distance away, in comparison with Spain! I accept your apologies that you will not be attending Robert’s first birthday. We do not need to hold him up so he can stand now; he does it on his own! Only with much falling over, so that I worry horribly for him, but William only laughs and the housekeeper tells us that all children are the same way, covered in bruises as they find their footing. I can’t imagine our brother or Elizabeth allowing their children to run about at such a young age, but I will hardly contradict my husband or the nurse.
Brother may come up and bring Geoffrey, but Elizabeth is reluctant to be so far north with her mother unwell, even though her condition has not changed. We have not had many English guests, but the Maddoxes and Mr. Mugin came up, as they were traveling the country a bit. Mr. Mugin is set to leave in the late summer, and he had never been to Scotland. I am told the Japanese love to travel—much like you, I suppose!
Mrs. Wallace from the next estate has been over often to advise me on my garden, which I am afraid has been in neglect since my confinement, and she says that perhaps—
“It goes on about this for a while.”
“Yer sister sounds sweet,” she said, “but spare me, please.”
He closed the letter and put it on the new nightstand.
“What have yeh been tellin’ ’em?” Because clearly, he had not been telling them the whole truth.
“This and that. That I am happy here, near the shrine of St. Patrick, and am contemplating my future. All of which is true.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “The English talk about many things in their letters, but not the things that are most personal. Only if the circumstances are dire.”
“So is dat why yeh always take forever ta get ta de point?”
He laughed and kissed her.
CHAPTER 30
Intruder
NO PART OF HIS BROTHER’S REQUEST surprised Darcy, but nonetheless he was not pleased to visit a debtors’ prison. He had been there twice for a different half-brother, and under much more frustrating (and expensive) circumstances.
The door to a cell was opened. A sandy-haired man, still in partial uniform, emerged, looking tired and confused as he was told by the officer that he was free.
“Your debts were paid,” Darcy said, “courtesy of an anonymous donor who happened to meet your desperate parents, who’ve had no word of you since the war, Mr. McGowan.” He did not wait for the man to respond before shoving some bills and a ticket in his hands. “Your ship leaves in the morning for Dublin. This was all done on the good faith that you would return home to them as expediently as possible.You can make up whatever lie you like to explain your absence, but that would not be in the spirit of your patron. All I will tell you is that you had better be there for that ship’s departure and you had better be in Ireland by the end of the week.Your parents are sick with grief, or so I’m told.”
The former soldier looked down at the money and th
en up at him, wide-eyed. “And who be yeh?”
“His brother,” he said. He had no desire to associate with this man. “I’ll be there to make sure you get on that boat, Mr. McGowan.”
“I will.” He crossed himself. “I didn’ mean ta wind up—”
Darcy raised his hand to stop him, to telegraph, I don’t care. I’m just doing this for my overly charitable brother. Something about prisons put him in an especially bad mood. “Tomorrow, Mr. McGowan. Eight sharp.” He left without another word to the soldier he had just freed. He wanted only to be free himself of this task. He would remain to see James McGowan off, and then return to Derbyshire.
It was early yet, and he saw no reason to open the townhouse for just a few days, so he was staying at Bingley’s—who had needed to take a trip to Town for business, so they had traveled together, and dined with the Maddoxes. In the old days, Bingley had been trailed by his status-obsessed sisters and perpetually cup-shot brother-in-law Mr. Hurst. His traveling party was now much smaller, but no less annoying to Darcy.
“I have to bring him,” Bingley said in the carriage, petting Monkey, who was on his lap. “Otherwise, he’ll drive Jane insane. He gets terribly upset when I leave.”
“So between me and your wife, you must choose your wife.”
“Of course, Darcy.”
“A proper choice, I admit. However, I must remind you that your wife is less capable of throttling you.”
Bingley shrugged. “I’m not certain that you’re correct.”
When Darcy returned to the house after his task at the prison, the first person he was greeted by was not a person at all, though he did try to stand up like one. He announced himself with a squeal.
“I don’t care for you, either,” Darcy said, and poured himself a glass of wine as he waited for Bingley to emerge from the study.
Bingley finally did, and Monkey climbed up him and onto his shoulder, which he took no real notice of.“I take it that it went well?”
“As well as could be expected,” Darcy said, closing his book as Bingley sat down next to him. “I’ll know for sure tomorrow morning if he’s true to his word. Though I didn’t ask for it. Still, he can’t cash in the ticket.”
“And then you’ll write Grégoire? Assuming he’s still in Tullow?”
“Yes. Wherever that is,” Darcy said. “I suspect that he is wandering around the area or has holed himself up somewhere nearby. He’s not been terribly forthcoming.”
Bingley nodded. “How does he sound?”
“Happy. Or so Elizabeth assesses—she’s better at reading between the lines than I am. But he’s not going on and on about Irish monastic history anymore.”
“So you don’t know what he’s doing.”
Darcy was happy to have a friend who said the obvious, so he didn’t have to say it. “Correct.”
“I take it he has not set a date for his return.”
“No.”
A servant offered Bingley a biscuit from a tray, which he took. Monkey immediately grabbed the treat. “Monkey! Give that back!” But the monkey just squawked at him. “I suppose I don’t want something that’s been in your filthy paws anyway.” He took another biscuit for himself and dismissed the servant. “Well, if he continues to write regularly and he sounds well, then that is a great improvement. I would not worry.”
“You would worry if one of your children were in Ireland and behaving in a way that was out of character .”
“Grégoire is not your child. He is your brother, and is a grown man.” Bingley frowned. “He is not sophisticated, but he is nonetheless capable of making his own decisions. Has he wasted away his entire inheritance gambling?”
“No.”
“Has he attempted to rejoin the church, perhaps under a different name?”
“No.”
“Then you have no reason to worry.”
“I am not worried.”
“Darcy,” he said, “I’ve known you half my life now. I can read your indifferent stares better than your own sister can. The only one who can best me at that is Mrs. Darcy.”
Darcy said nothing, confirming Bingley’s initial assertion, but not willing to admit that, either. Instead, he changed the topic. “Speaking of children—”
“Oh, please do not tell my sister.”
“I’m sure she will get the truth of it out of you. Which, by the way, is?”
“That we had an incident in which we had a change of governesses.” He scratched Monkey’s tiny head. “As in, we no longer have one. Know of any?”
“Was she dismissed or did she storm out in a rage?”
“A little of both, actually.”
Darcy gave one of his half smiles. “How did Miss Bingley manage it?”
“This will impress you: hunger strike.”
“What?”
“She had nothing but well water with lemon in it for three days. And locked herself in her room. And left the key in, so I couldn’t open the door without removing the hinges.”
Darcy continued smirking. “I admire her fortitude.”
“It was a very…admirable…effort. In a way. And it did work. Mrs. Murrey gave up shouting through the door and was gone on the fourth day. Left a note of where to forward her last week’s pay.”
“Do you have any idea what brought it on? The particular incident?”
“Georgie does not like piano. Beyond that, no one is eager to ask her.”
James McGowan was good to his silent vow and boarded the boat bound for Dublin. Darcy witnessed his departure and then returned to the house to write a letter to Grégoire relating this event. Darcy whiled away the rest of the day fencing at the club. He was finally getting good enough on his left side to face his old opponents properly, a source of satisfaction to him. Every year, Geoffrey came closer to besting him. He knew that one day his son would beat him—but he wanted to at least make him work for it.
The next day, he took George out for his birthday. It was not George Wickham’s actual birthday, but it would occur within the month, and Darcy was not often in town. George Wickham would be four and ten, and he was obsessed with entering Oxford as soon as he could. Legally and financially, he could do it—Darcy had promised to front him the tuition while they waited for George’s trust to open—but George had not the tutoring to be ready for a university-level education. Nor did Darcy think that a young man not even halfway through the tens should go to university. Geoffrey would not begin Cambridge until he finished at Eton, and he would begin Eton in the fall. Darcy suspected that it was more that George wanted to get out of the house than he desired to further his education. He wanted to say, Don’t rush into adulthood. It has responsibilities beyond your imagination. But he could not express this, and instead he listened to George as he took him on a tour of the bookshops and purchased for him whatever he liked and did not already have.
“How is Mr. Bradley?” Darcy asked, leaving the broadness of the question open to interpretation.
“All right. Mother’s with child again, if you hadn’t heard.”
He hadn’t.
“Well, they’re not sure yet, but they’re fairly certain. I guess that is why there’s been no general announcement.”
“Your mother is certainly resilient,” he said.
“I know—I mean, I’ve read, I’ve asked—it’s not something she can control, but I wish…” he trailed off. Darcy let George find his words. “I wish she would slow down. For her health.” He didn’t specify physical or mental, if there was any specification to be made.
“What does Mr. Bradley think?”
“I haven’t asked Mr. Bradley what he thinks!”
“Of course not,” Darcy said as they walked down the street toward Gracechurch. “What do you think he thinks?”
“He seems…content. And he’s concerned about Izzy, wants her to become a dignified lady. And he hired me a French tutor, so… he does what he can.”
“I am pleased to hear that,” Darcy said. Very pleased indeed
. They arrived at the apartment, and were greeted by the sound of young Brandon wailing.
Mr. Bradley emerged when they entered. “Mr. Darcy.”
“Mr. Bradley. I trust all is well.”
“As it ever is,” Mr. Bradley said with a roll of his eyes. “George, did he happen to buy you any new clothes, or was it just all books?”
“Next year, Mr. Bradley,” George said.
“I will buy him a very smart suit,” Darcy said, “but not until I do not fear him outgrowing it.”
“Uncle Darcy!” Isabella Wickham came barreling down the stairs, bypassing her stepfather to curtsy to her uncle. “Did George keep his promise?”
“You should ask him that, Miss Wickham,” he said as George produced the embroidery pattern she’d been begging him for. He had insisted it was part of his own birthday present. Darcy did not discourage George from spoiling his sister, as no one else seemed to be doing so, and he did the same with Georgiana. It was not clear yet whether Isabella would take the path of her mother or follow in more sensible footsteps, but it would definitely be close.
“I don’t like to disappoint you, Izzy,” George said, and she hugged him and kissed him, which he didn’t seem to care for, big man that he now was. He was wiping it off as Lydia Bradley made her appearance, holding Brandon Bradley’s hand.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, not bothering to curtsy.
“Mrs. Bradley,” he said and bowed.
“I assume you wouldn’t be staying for dinner, even if I offered?”
He did not want to fight with her—not ever, but especially not in front of her children. “Unfortunately, I am engaged elsewhere and am returning to Derbyshire tomorrow. Do you wish any messages delivered to your sisters there?”
“Tell them they have a new nephew or niece on the way to spoil, if they feel inclined to stop by,” she said. “Feels like a niece.”
He did not attempt to smile. It was not something he did. He merely bowed politely. “Congratulations, Mrs. Bradley. Mr. Bradley.”
The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Page 30
