“Mrs. MacKenna,” Darcy said, bowing to her. She was, after all, a lady.
“Mrs. MacKenna.” Grégoire’s voice cracked as he bowed.
MacKenna grabbed her by her thin, frail arm. “If yeh excuse me, I’d loike a moment ter make sure me struggle an’ strife understands everyt’in’...” Caitlin whimpered as MacKenna pulled her along to the bedroom. In thirty seconds, he was back. Darcy sensed Grégoire tensing beside him.
The husband turned back to Darcy and tossed him a five hundred – pound packet of notes. “Ta be fair—fer de child.”
Darcy barely had time to piece together what he had meant by that before he heard the scream. Where was Kincaid?
Grégoire, of course, rushed heedlessly forward to the doorway before Darcy could stop him, only to face MacKenna turning to him with his pistol drawn. “You can buy me wife, but not me child!”
The crash of the window was what startled MacKenna, and his shot at Grégoire went astray, hitting the wall instead as William Kincaid leaped into the room in a swathe of tartan. “What in feckin’ hell—”
“Feckin’ hell is where you’re going,” Kincaid said, but did not run him through with his claymore, the “great sword” of the Scots Highlanders. Instead, he bashed him on the head, hard enough to knock him out. Grégoire was just fast enough to avoid the gigantic Irishman crashing down in front of him. He leaped right over the body and into the bedroom.
“Handle him!” Darcy told Kincaid, and entered the bedroom to find Grégoire over Caitlin, who was still screaming.
“Shh,” he told her as he slowly drew out the knife that had been stuck into her stomach. “It will be all right—”
“Feck no, Grégoire, it will not be feckin’ all right!” she screamed. Darcy was impressed that she actually pronounced his name correctly.
He turned to Kincaid. “I’ll get a surgeon. MacKenna?”
“If he rises, I will make him regret it.”
Darcy nodded and bolted out the door.
This had not been the plan.
When he returned with the surgeon and a constable, both the MacKennas were unconscious. Grégoire sat on the bed beside Caitlin MacKenna, pressing down on the wound in a desperate attempt to make it stop spurting blood. He was pushed aside by the surgeon and collapsed on the ground in exhaustion. “She is still breathing—”
“What in the hell is this all about?” said the diminutive constable, who was far too calm for Darcy’s liking. At least he was English. He turned to Kincaid, who only raised his sword.
“Lord Kincaid of Clan Kincaid, Earl of _____shire,” he said. “This man stabbed his wife and tried to shoot that man over there, Mr. Bellamont.”
It was yet another stroke of bad luck that Mr. MacKenna chose that moment to return to consciousness, and this time the presence of the constable prevented Kincaid from beating him back. MacKenna quickly backed down from whatever he had been planning when he saw that he was on the floor and disarmed, and he was also facing Kincaid, Darcy, and a man in uniform.
“What’s all this?” the constable asked, rightfully, of the man who owned the apartment.
“These men—they came to take me wife!”
“That’s not true,” Darcy said. “He agreed to a monetary transaction and separation from his wife—”
“Because your feckin’ friend seduced her! Me wife!”
“Sir,” Kincaid said, “this man has stabbed his wife and shot at my brothers-in-law because of a conversation.”
“Is this true?” the constable asked MacKenna.
“I—I did try to shoot him,” MacKenna said, pointing to Grégoire in the door frame, “after he stabbed me wife! She’s carryin’’is child!”
“That’s a lie!” Grégoire shouted. “You stabbed her! You wanted to kill the baby!”
The constable’s whistle brought them all to silence as his men stamped up the steps. By now, most of the other houses had heard the screaming and quieted down so that they could listen through the window, especially the family across from the apartment, who had allowed Kincaid to jump through their own window to get to MacKenna’s. “Men,” the constable said, “take these two into custody.” He gestured to MacKenna and Grégoire.
“What!” Darcy resisted the urge to shake this little man—this man whom he had brought to arrest MacKenna—“That man is a liar! My brother has done nothing! You cannot lock him up for trying to save a woman’s life!”
“A woman he got with child? A woman not his wife?” the constable said skeptically.
“That’s not the story—please, just listen to me, and I will tell you everything, and Lord Kincaid will confirm—”
“Course you will,” the constable said, apparently thinking himself a brilliant detective, “because he’s your brother. Now I just want to talk to both of them and all of this will be sorted out—”
The thing that kept Darcy from taking a swing at the man was Grégoire’s voice. “Darcy! Don’t!” He was not resisting as the officers shackled him. “Let it all come out. Just take care of her now.”
“I will not see you in a cell!”
“I lived in a cell,” Grégoire said. “The truth will be sorted out. Just save her!”That was his last plea before they pulled him away.
“Come on, Darcy,” Kincaid said, putting away his blade and tugging at his shoulder. “The walls are thin as paper here. Everyone in the neighborhood heard us. We can gather enough witnesses to have Grégoire out by first light.”
Only the distraction of Caitlin’s scream as she woke was enough to shake him from his horrified stupor, and he did not care for the world it brought him into.
Grégoire’s interrogation began immediately. A skilled confessor, he recalled everything in neat order, showing his wound from the earlier knife fight in the house near Tullow.Yes, he knew she was with child. No, he had not known that she was married and had not touched her since he found out she was. He named all the people who knew her story of abuse and neglect, and all those he had spoken to since he met her—names and locations, one after another.
“You never told her what you were worth?” the constable said, appropriately astounded by the number. With interest from years he had not spent his fortune, Grégoire was worth about 50,200 pounds.
“The desire of money is truly the root of all evil,” he said, “if this is all it brings.” Mercifully, they had allowed him to keep his rosary, and he worried the beads with his fingers the entire time he spoke. “I tried to buy her health when she was starving. I tried to buy her happiness when she was upset. I tried to buy her freedom when I found her enslaved to a man who said he wanted her child—his child—dead. And now I am in jail and she is, for all I know, dying. What has money brought me but misery?”
Everything that had happened in Dublin, he explained. Their plan had been, as they had said to MacKenna, for him to agree to a separation, the only thing that would keep his hands off her and her future child, and they would pay anything for it to happen. In fact, had Mr. MacKenna not been so vengeful, he would have simply walked out the door a very wealthy man.
“And the Scot?”
“My brother-in-law was protection—in case something terrible happened.” He tried to cross himself, but his shackles prevented him from doing it properly. “If she dies, you might as well lock me away, because my life will be nothing.”
When they were satisfied, they put him in a cell, different from his monastic cell only in that it had bars, and he was chained to a wall. There, he collapsed. The cell boasted a tiny window, and he could see only the sunlight of morning. There was no food for him.
“Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned,” he said. “Most recently, I missed Vigils because I was being interrogated. But before that, I did terrible things, for which there is no accounting.”That was how he began Lauds, the prayer for the sixth hour of the day, which he recited from heart on his knees before collapsing on the wooden board that served as a cot and slept. His body was relentless—he woke again for Terc
e and yet again for Sext. He thought maybe he would go through the entire monastic cycle before he saw another person. Then, as he was finishing his psalms, he heard boots against stone and the constable came around the bend, followed closely by Darcy, who lost his color upon seeing his brother. Grégoire absentmindedly realized that he was still largely covered in Caitlin’s blood.
“Mr. Bellamont,” the constable said, “you are free to go, but are requested by the department not to leave Dublin proper until Mr. MacKenna’s trial, as you will be called to witness.”
“Of course, officer,” he said. He couldn’t believe how weak his voice sounded as the constable unlocked the heavy padlock and then the locks that held him to the wall. “I swear it.”
Darcy helped him up. “She’s alive,” he whispered. Darcy was cleaner, but beyond that did not look much better than he did. He looked profoundly tired. “She’s lost the child.”
It sank in Grégoire’s chest harder than any of his shackles. “Was it a boy or girl?”
“Does it matter?”
“Was it a boy or a girl?” He was surprised by the insistence of his own voice.
“Boy,” Darcy said grimly. “She will likely live, but she will not have children again.” He was now supporting his brother, half carrying him out, as Grégoire had lost most of his strength hearing those words.
“Lord, what have I done?”
Without hesitation, Darcy answered, “You have saved her life.”
CHAPTER 33
The Promise
FROM A CERTAIN PERSPECTIVE, Darcy felt it was fortunate that Grégoire could not be present for the events immediately following his arrest. He did not want his brother to have those memories to add to his other painful memories.
The initial surgeon on call had merely stitched up Mrs. MacKenna to stop the bleeding. For a bit she seemed to recover as they gathered her things for her and transported her to the hotel, but by the time they reached their room, she had suspicious cramps. Fortunately, Darcy had prepared for the worst and already found and had the card of the best surgeon in Dublin. When the surgeon arrived, two hours had passed and she was exhausted and nearly delirious, clinging to Georgiana’s arm and screaming Irish curses.
The surgeon immediately pronounced the baby dead and her body in a pseudo-labor. This idea, Mrs. MacKenna did not take well, even though she must have expected it. She was tired, distraught, and in great pain. She grabbed Darcy’s hand and squeezed it so tightly he was relieved it was the lame one. “Yeh take care a’ Grégoire.Yeh promise me.”
“He’s my brother. Of course, I will.”
“Yeh promise me!”
“I promise,” he said softly.
In the background, the doctor was mixing up his concoction for pain, probably some cheap version of laudanum. She did not seem particularly aware, just focused on Darcy. “I didna’ mean fer him ta get involved. It jest happened.”
“I know,” he said, but probably not in the way that she thought he knew. This was not the first time that Grégoire had gotten himself in over his head.
“I love ’im,” she said. “I loved ’im. It wasn’ right, but I did.”
He had less argument with how she felt about Grégoire and more with the massive deception for a period of months that had nearly cost his brother his life, but Darcy didn’t say that. This was not the time to say that. “I will tell him.”
The surgeon gave her a healthy dose of whatever was in the glass, and when that wasn’t enough, he made her sip whiskey. It knocked her out. William Kincaid escorted his wife out of the room; she had every right to sit by a normal labor, but this was not a normal labor and the only thing in question was how badly it would end.
They stayed in the sitting room of their suite and waited. Occasionally, she would return to consciousness and wail, until the doctor found some way to knock her out again. They sat in silence because no one could think of anything to say.
At last, the surgeon emerged and handed a bag to his assistant, who quickly left. “I’ve done the best I can.”
“Will she live?”
“If she is fortunate, yes. I do not think she will bear children again—that part of her is too damaged.”
Darcy nodded and paid the surgeon. He had to leave to begin collecting people to speak on Grégoire’s behalf and submit his own statement, but he felt the need to at least see her first.
To his surprise, Mrs. MacKenna was awake, if barely, in the bed. The hotel would not be recovering the sheets. “It was a boy,” she said with what remained of her voice.
“I am very sorry, Mrs. MacKenna.”
“I felt ’im kick. We laughed about it—now he’s gone.” But she had no energy left even to cry. She just let the tears fall. He briefly squeezed her hand, and excused himself to collect his brother.
It was nearly twelve hours later when he returned to the hotel. Darcy had not slept at all since the previous morning, and Grégoire, evidently little. Fortunately, witnesses were not hard to gather—the family who had let Kincaid jump through their window were immediately questioned, as was the landlady about Mr. MacKenna’s regular behavior (none of which spoke well of his character) and his shouting threats at his wife. There was also the matter that the knife was an old soldier’s blade, from the war of 1812, in which he had fought. With the evidence stacking against the other suspect, Darcy convinced them to release his brother, and the two of them numbly returned to the hotel.
His impulse was to somehow get Grégoire cleaned up before Georgiana saw him, with his clothing and hair still caked with dried blood, but Darcy was tired and that impulse occurred far too late to make any difference.
“How is she?” were Grégoire’s first words to his sister, who, all things considered, was taking the sight of him incredibly well.
“Resting.You heard about—”
“Yes.”
Nothing else needed to be said. Kincaid offered his condolences, and Darcy had hot water and a tub brought up as fast as possible. In the changing room, they left Grégoire to himself, perhaps to find some peace in a tub of hot water.
With Grégoire safely released and Mrs. MacKenna out of danger, general exhaustion overtook the party, and somehow, clothed or with at least their outer layers removed, Darcy and the Kincaids fell into their separate beds.
Grégoire padded out of his room, clean and shaven, and back in his normal clothes. His fingers ran through the rosary beads as he crossed the parlor and slowly opened the door to Caitlin’s room, bringing the light from the parlor in. She was pale and even from a distance he could see her strained features, contorted in pain as she slept.
He was too distracted to pray, and he had no right to bless her. He turned to leave.
“I know yeh won’t come in,” she said, “and I am sorry—so sorry.”
“I’m sorry, about the child,” he said. “I think…I think I understand why St. Patrick pointed me to you.”
“What?”
He looked away. He could not look at her, even in her distressed state, and not see beauty. “I had to save your life. It cost you the child, and it broke my heart, but it saved you from him,” he said. “I only wish I could dismiss my task and move on.” God help me, I still love you. “I am sorry—I have to go.” He could not stay alone with a married woman—one he loved, and had loved, in every sense of the word.
“I love yeh,” she said. “I can’ not say it.”
“I know,” he replied, and left.As he padded, barefoot, back to his own room, his chest felt heavy. His limbs felt leaden. The weight of it all was just so terrible. The world had turned dark around him, and he felt the same way.
As they waited for supper, Darcy composed a letter to Elizabeth, relating the events of the past days and explaining that they would likely be in Dublin for the duration of the trial. If it would be long, he would ask her to come. He had not made that assessment yet. He did not know the speed of the local courts there.
Grégoire was still sleeping, and their guest was
being attended by a nurse. Georgiana joined Darcy in the parlor, wearing a shawl of the same tartan that Lord Kincaid had worn earlier. She kissed her brother’s cheek and then sat down across from him. “What will happen, do you think?”
“Mr. MacKenna will either have a long sentence in Australia if the law is exceptionally kind, or he will hang.” He did not mince words with her. He did not have the energy, and she was not a little girl anymore, even though she had a slight build.
“Then Mrs. MacKenna might become a widow.”
“I know.” He had been considering that possibility from the first moment of rational thought after the arrest. If MacKenna went to the gallows, Mrs. MacKenna could not be expected to wear jet for long. And then she would be available. “I think Grégoire should return with us to England, after this is settled. Immediately.”
“Brother! You are cruel!”
“He needs distance to think,” Darcy said.
“You would not approve of their marriage.”
“I do not approve of the way their relationship came about,” he said, though what she said was not untrue. Although it was amazing that Grégoire was thinking of marriage at all, did it really have to be a barren Irish peasant girl? “It was all deceit.”
Their voices were hushed. “Not all of it,” she said. “Just one important detail.”
“Very important.”
Georgiana smiled. “But consider what our relatives would think if he brought her home. Caroline Maddox might have apoplexy.”
“Georgiana,” he said sternly, but not all that sternly. “He needs time to think. If this is truly a love that knows no end, he will merely sit in a stupor for a few months while she publicly mourns her husband—and then rush back to her the moment he gets a chance. A man can take only so much heartbreak.”
They were in limbo for nearly two weeks. Mrs. MacKenna was seen again by the surgeon, who was pleased with her recovery. Darcy stood in the room as he gave his pronouncement, but it clearly brought no comfort to the woman who had just lost her child and any chance of another one. She sat in despair at one end of the hotel suite and Grégoire the other, and the two did not meet. Grégoire went to Mass every day, and he prayed. He did little else. Darcy bought him books to tease him into occupying his mind, and both the Kincaids tried to make conversation with him, but he would have none of it. His stitches came out and the bruises on his face faded and he was pronounced a healthy man, to which he said nothing.
The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Page 33
