“You are an eligible bachelor now, Papa. She was mercenary before her husband died, and now I fear it is worse.”
“On the day of the burial! She’s not cold in her grave…” he said and trailed off, leaning on his hand. Elizabeth rose and hugged her dear father, who was crying again. “There will never be another Mrs. Bennet. For all of the years I complained of my marriage, I could never imagine having any other.”
“Papa,” she said.
“This is my happy ending,” he said. “My daughters are all married to good men and have children of their own I am most proud of. My wife will not have to worry about a place to live after I die. Poor Mr. Collins will have to contend with raising at least four daughters under the roof of Longbourn—the perfect irony. There is no better way this could have happened. And yet, why am I so miserable?”
“You are sad. We are all sad because we had not the wit to know a truly great thing until it was gone,” she said.
“Perhaps we cannot be faulted for that,” he said. “For many years, she cleverly disguised it.” His wistful laughter seemed to settle him a bit—and her. “There will never be another Mrs. Bennet.”
“That I think we can safely say is true,” she said with a somber smile.
When all the guests had departed and it was just family—still a large crowd—there was one final matter to attend do. Not so serious, but in many ways, still a blow to them all. Mr. Bennet announced that he did not wish to live at Longbourn without his wife rattling on and on, and because the Bertrands had more business in Town than in the country, they had decided to buy their own townhouse, and would lodge with the Bingleys while they searched for one. Longbourn would be closed until Mr. Bennet wished it reopened or his death. He said he would travel to see all his daughters, but they knew he detested traveling and would likely just stay at Pemberley once he reached it. The former Bennet sisters reluctantly agreed—although they could not stand the idea of Longbourn being closed up, they could not imagine keeping it open for nothing but memories.
All the arrangements were made, and with final good-byes to his southern-living daughters, Mr. Bennet departed with the Darcys for Derbyshire.The Bingleys briefly delayed their departure to Kirkland to help the Bertrands choose a suitable place. Darcy said to Dr. Bertrand in private, “I hope Bingley has learned to make that kind of decision.”
“He is just giving advice.”
“Well, it cannot all be praise.”
Mr. Bennet insisted on riding in the carriage with Grégoire, whom he had not had a chance to grill about his adventures in Ireland. He had heard only through gossip that he had met someone there.
“Tread lightly, Papa,” Elizabeth said. “The end result was reached only through the most painful circumstances.”
“Is there any other path to true love?” he replied, smiling for the first time since his wife’s death.
“Mugin-san! Mugin-san!”
But Mugin-san was not outside, where he usually was when Georgiana Bingley made one of her visits, no matter how unannounced. He always just knew. Sometimes he sat on the porch of the Japanese wing of the Maddox house and smoked a long pipe, but today, there was no pipe and his geta shoes were just outside the door, meaning he was inside.
“Mugin-san? What are you doing?”
He was sorting through his small bag. Mugin always traveled lightly. He had no house to put things in; he was a nomad. “Leaving.”
“But you weren’t supposed to leave until September!”
He did not look up from what he was doing. “I am leaving tomorrow instead. So sorry, little ookami. I have business at home, and this is not my home. I will always be a stranger here.”
She grabbed his hand and tugged him away from his packing, which only happened because he allowed it to. “For a thief and a criminal you’re no good at lying.”
He smiled. “I have—how do you say—overstayed my welcome.”
“Did you gamble all of Uncle Brian’s money away?”
“No.”
“Did you get into too many fights?”
“No.”
“Did you kill someone important?”
“No.”
“Did you sleep with every prostitute and now you’re bored?”
Mugin laughed. She was now too big for him to casually pick up, the way he had in the old days. Instead, he just walked around her and slumped onto his bed mat. “See, this is why I go. I am a bad influence on you.”
Georgie could not comprehend him. “Why are you leaving?”
He picked up his pipe from the nightstand—more of a low stool—and began to pack it with tobacco. “I just told you. Weren’t you listening?” He took the matchbox she handed him and struck a light. “I told him everything.”
“Who? Papa?”
“Not so bad. Brian-chan.”
“Why? Why would you do that?” Her surprise and confusion quickly turned to horror.
“Because I was drunk, Jorgi-chan. Very, very drunk. Like you say, in the drink.”
“In the cups.”
He shrugged. “Whatever. I was drunk and he asked. Maybe he is not as dumb as he looks.”
“And he’s making you leave?”
He inhaled and then exhaled a long stream of smoke, not in her direction, as he rose and stepped out on the porch. She followed him. “He is very mad. He thinks he’s a samurai but he’s gaijin at heart, with all of this—how do you call—propriety. You are supposed to be a good little girl who is to be a good little lady, not a warrior. He knows your father will be very angry if he finds out. He is very mad that I was teaching you otherwise, and I do not like being around angry armed samurai whom I am not allowed to kill. It is a tricky situation.”
“But Mugin-san—”
“He wants to strike the wall. I do not want to be the wall,” he said.
“Will you come back? When he’s not as angry?”
He looked in her eyes. That was all it took.
Georgie abandoned all pretense and hugged him, grabbing hold of his waist and burying herself in his silk jacket. “You can’t leave me! I won’t let you!”
“You could try to make me stay,” he said, “but you’re not that good.Yet.”
“That’s why you can’t go.”
He tried to smooth it over as he forced her to release him. “There are things I cannot teach you, Jorgi-chan. There are things I do not know, or do not know how to express.You have to find your own way.” He chuckled. “Besides, if I stay, we might have to get married—”
“Mugin! Don’t say that!”
“And then everyone would be upset at me,” he said. “There is a trunk in the corner of my room. After I go, it is yours.”
“Can I see it now?”
“No. When you need it,” he replied.
“I’m coming to Japan,” she said, trying not to cry in front of him. That would be the worst thing—to cry in front of Mugin. But if it made him feel bad, it would be worth it. “I am going to come find you.”Tears sprang to her eyes.
“I know,” Mugin said. “I’ll be waiting.”
CHAPTER 35
English Gentlefolk
IT WAS AFTER GRÉGOIRE WAS GONE that Caitlin became anxious. She considered herself a stable, tough person in general, but since the beginning of her pregnancy, things just hadn’t been the same. Grégoire, who seemed to know more than any of her acquaintances, said it was completely normal. She assumed that the anxiety would disappear as she healed from having her child cut out of her. She had made out well, she was safe, and she had more money than she knew what to do with. If Grégoire was true to his word (and he was always true to his word), he would return to her. Everything was fine for her now.
So why wasn’t she happy? It wasn’t physical pain that spontaneously made her break into tears. She was accustomed to pain. In fact, the fancy laudanum they gave her helped her soar through the first week. It was only when she emerged from the haze that doubts began to creep in. What if Grégoire didn’t come back?
What if he didn’t want her? What if his brother talked him out of it? She knew she was damaged beyond the scars on her stomach. She didn’t bleed anymore, or have courses, or whatever they called them in decorous England. She never felt clean. Somehow, she felt less innocent than she had as an adulterous woman with a child on the way, lying to her lover about her husband.
She did not know what to do or what to say to the servants. They made her uncomfortable, doing her errands as though she were an invalid. When she was suitably recovered, she tried to dismiss some of them (leaving someone for laundry—she hated laundry), but they cried and begged to keep their jobs.They wanted to serve her—or at least get paid. She was a good mistress. She was kind to them and treated them very respectfully. They did not want to leave. How could she say no? So she kept them on.
Caitlin went to church every Sunday. Circumstances had prevented it for the past eight years, since she had met Neil.At the time, she was only twelve. She had been out of the habit, but the service was familiar. It was soothing because it reminded her of her early childhood and because it reminded her of Grégoire. He had never pestered her about church—he had asked her once in a while if she wanted to join him, and her response had always been negative, and then he would nod with understanding in that way that said, I understand everything. It wasn’t rebellion—she knew she didn’t belong in the house of God, listening to the priest talk about sin. She had sinned enough and been sinned against. She would have returned home from services and sinned again. She didn’t need to hear about it. If there was one thing Caitlin MacKenna had no tolerance for, it was listening to things she didn’t feel comfortable with, or thought were silly or stupid. Sometimes, Grégoire had beliefs that seemed silly, or even stupid, but he said them with such earnestness that it was hard to dismiss them. He believed they all were following divine destinies; he believed that saints could intervene on people’s behalf.
He didn’t belong to her; he belonged to the church.They would take him back and he would disappear back into a monastery.That was her constant nightmare—that he would devote his life to God again. What kind of person did that make her, to want to stand in the way of that?
But she couldn’t imagine her life without him. It was too lonely and terrifying a prospect.
By the end of the third month, she was trying not to fully panic. She also realized quite suddenly that her whole wardrobe was black. What she had been wearing before her husband’s death could not be mended or cleaned. That was when she burst into the laundress’s workroom and begged, “I need somet’in’ ta wear!”
Rose laughed—not at her, but at the silliness over it.This woman had been ill and depressed after trauma, and now she was worrying about her clothing, when Grégoire would probably show up in the same tunic he always wore. Should she wear makeup? “No, ma’rm, the English gentlefolks don’t much care fer such things.”
So many things to worry about, and the only dress she could find on such short notice was an earthy brown and had to be tailored on the spot, as it had belonged to a much heavier person who formerly lived in the house, and Caitlin was a stick. It was her first day out of jet, and she tossed off her black mourner’s veil with no emotion about that except impatience. But Grégoire hadn’t wasted any time, and her dress was only half sewn to fit her when she heard the doorbell. “De pins! Hurry, please!” It was in that shabby, half-patched gown that she raced down the stairs, still not entirely sure if she was not armored by tiny needles, straight into Grégoire’s waiting arms. There were no pretenses of greetings. He had his arms open and she leaped into them. It was like receiving a dear husband who had been gone for years. “Yeh came back.” She buried her face against his shoulder so he wouldn’t see her tears.
“I always keep my promises,” he said. “I wasn’t…quite positive how you would still feel about me, but I prayed to the saints.”
“What did de saints say?”
“Nothing. So I just trusted my instincts,” he said. “That is, if you would still have me.”
“Yer messin’ wit’ me,” she said, “and ’tis not noice.”
“So you would?”
“Why do yeh ’ave ter ask?”
He looked away shyly. “Because—well, I never thought I would ask this question of anyone, but will you be my wife?”
“Didn’t yeh promise yerself ta de church?”
“The church did not accept my application.” He held out his hand. In it was a gold ring. “Which was most fortunate. But you haven’t answered me?”
“Are yeh daft? Aye, feckin’ aye!” She snatched the ring and put it on her finger, kissing him. In a slightly more sedate tone, she whispered, “Aye.”
Could he really have doubted it? Either way, the relief on his face was evident. “Now, of course, highborn English couples must be chaperoned during their engagement most strictly, so as to not be tempted into anticipating their vows?”
“What?”
“So they don’t make love.”
She laughed. It was something only he would say to her, a private world they shared. “I t’ink we covered dat.”
“And neither one of us is highborn English gentry. Thank goodness for that.”
There were plans to be made—so much planning for something so far away. Unfortunately, at least part of Grégoire was, in fact, highborn English gentry, because his brother insisted on a three-month engagement, and the past three didn’t count. “And when he gets in a mood, it’s best to just put up with him.”
She wanted to cook him dinner, but she was too distracted. He confessed to being exhausted and hungry from his travels, so they shoveled in whatever the cook was serving. “I don’ want ta ’ave a cook,” she said when they were in private. “I want ta cook for yeh.”
They slept together, but not in the optional sense. “I’m not—you know.” She, who had been so uninhibited on their other first night together, was shaking at the idea. Not because it might have consequences, but because it might not.
He tucked his hand inside her robe. “Don’t!” she cried.
“I showed you my scars,” he said. There was such a gentleness in it that she could not help but relent. In the lamplight, she pulled apart the robe for him to see the scar, now almost four months old, from where the doctor had cut her open to remove the snuffed-out life inside her. He traced his thumb along the scar so carefully that it tickled instead of hurt. “I’m sorry.”
“Grégoire.” She swallowed. “I don’ t’ink—I don’t know if yeh want laddies—”
“I want children. Whether they’re of my blood or not makes no difference to me.” He kissed her cheek. “And I’d rather test the surgeon’s theory myself.”
“’E said it would take a miracle.”
“Good,” he said. “I believe in miracles.”
The next morning, they tackled the immediate matter of what to do with the house. Caitlin was surprised when he said he rather liked it. “I t’ought—”
“I feel no obligation to live in England,” he said. “Here, I am close enough to my family.”
She had not even considered that she would stay in the house—that it might be their house. It was not that the concept appalled her—it was just so foreign and unreal. “’S big.”
“You’ve not seen my brother’s house,” he said with a smile. After they wandered around the empty rooms, they went outside and sat on a bench by the coast. “If it is too big, I can sell it and get something smaller.”
“’S not t’at,” she said, leaning against him. “I don’t—it feels fierce quare, wit’ servants and de loike.”
“They could find other work,” he said, “but the house is bigger than you’re used to. Perhaps we could keep one or two servants.”
She interlaced her fingers with his. “I do ’ate washin’ clothes.”
“So a maid. And a man, to do the heavy work,” he said.
“Dere’s so many rooms.”
“I have a brother and a sister,” he said. “They’ll vi
sit. And I have books.” He kissed her on her neck. “I want to build a chapel.”
“God forbid yeh need to go too far fer church.”
He laughed. “And a garden. I used to have an herb garden in Spain. I liked it very much.”
They circled the grounds.The property itself was not very large, but it was isolated, surrounded mainly by a forest and a single road going in two directions. One way eventually led north to Dublin. In the south, there was a town that was large enough for a poorhouse and an orphanage.The rest of the land was farmed “If you are truly uncomfortable with the house—” he said that night.
“No,” she replied. “It just took gettin’ used ta.”
They slept in the same bed again, but did not make love. Caitlin was not sure she was fully healed. And Grégoire seemed to want to wait until after the wedding, which made Caitlin laugh.
Caitlin MacKenna, whom he considered to be the strongest woman of his acquaintance, timidly brought up her fears of meeting his family. “I don’ have anyt’ing really nice to wear.”
“We’ll get something in Dublin.”
“And I don’t know how ta act.”
“Be yourself. I would not expect anything less from you,” he said, and kissed her. “Though you should probably keep the swearing to a minimum.”
She giggled. “They’re not goin’ ta loike me, are they?”
“My family is full of good people. If anyone looks down on you, I will be extremely disappointed in them.”
Geoffrey didn’t want Nurse to pack his trunk. He didn’t officially keep a manservant yet, but he felt like a baby whenever she did something for him that he was capable of doing himself.
He snapped the locks shut, and jumped back at the sight of the person sitting on the windowsill. Her red hair made it all the more jarring a visual in a room with dark wooden panels.“Stop doing that!”
Georgie smiled. “So.You’re to Eton, then?”
“No, I’m to the Orient. What do you think?” he said, not truly annoyed but wanting to rise to her challenge. “You weren’t with your family when they came to say good-bye. They said you had a headache. Isn’t that what women say when they don’t want to go somewhere?”
The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Page 35
