The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy

by Marsha Altman

  “Yes, but I was more subtle than that. I said I had my courses.”

  “Your what?”

  “Girl’s thing.” She looked at the ground. “So are you looking forward to school?”

  “Yes, I love tests and I hate the country.” He wasn’t in the mood to play the usual game with her. She was interested in him now, but she had snubbed him only a few hours earlier. “What do you think?” Honestly, he didn’t know what she thought. Sometimes it was as though he couldn’t talk to her anymore. “They have female seminaries, you know, if you’re so jealous.”

  “Shut up.You know that isn’t what I meant.”

  “Then stop gloating because you get to stay in Derbyshire while I have to go to school and take exams and face bullies and teachers who won’t like me because I lack a title.”

  Her expression softened. “I wasn’t gloating. I’m sorry.”

  He sighed. All of the fight was gone from him. “Georgie—” But when she raised her eyes, he stopped in his tracks. He couldn’t face that stare. “Listen—we’ve established that I don’t want to go and you don’t want me to go—but I’m going. Because that is what my father did and…well, I don’t know if they had Eton then, but if they did, Grandfather Darcy went.There are expectations.”

  “Do you always do what you’re told?”

  “I pick my battles. Which is why I remain in good standing with my parents.”

  It was the wrong thing to say—in fact, it was the worst possible thing he could have said.This time, her eyes were lowered and so she couldn’t stop him with her gaze. He came forward and embraced her, letting her lean against his chest. “I’m sorry. It was the wrong thing to say.” He sighed. “I’ll be a terrible master of Pemberley. My father never says anything wrong.”

  “That’s because your father never says anything,” she said, some of her good humor returning, even when her voice was cracking. She pulled back, wiping the tears away.“I have to get back. I’m supposed to be resting in bed.”

  “You could try occasionally being honest with your family,” he said with an encouraging smile. “It might work.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Your advice is sage.”

  They embraced again. “I’ll see you at Christmas,” he said. “I’ll try not to be much taller than you, but this I can’t promise.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “Good luck.”

  “Try to keep Derbyshire in one piece for me.”

  “No promises. We own a monkey,” she said, and released her grip on his hand before sneaking back out the door. He didn’t know why, but the sensation of her touch on his palm stayed with him a long time.

  Nothing was as frustrating to Elizabeth about Grégoire’s engagement (or the events surrounding it) as the fact that Darcy was reluctant to speak of it except in purely factual terms. She had become accustomed to his opening his heart and mind to her when he would with no one else, which made his refusal to do so now all the more cutting. Georgiana was the one who supplied all of the details of their trip to Ireland—even the gruesome ones—and Darcy did confirm them later, but did not add his own commentary.

  For the three months that Grégoire spent waiting for Mrs. MacKenna to leave her mourning days behind her, he exhibited all the traits of a man besotted and denied his passion. This was tempered only by his quiet determination and his reticence about a subject close to his heart (he was, after all, a Darcy). He was overflowing in his emotions, but he would become lost in a smile whenever she was mentioned. Darcy offered Grégoire no suggestions, but on the other hand, did not discourage his brother from his affections.

  It was not until Grégoire was gone that Elizabeth confronted Darcy in her favorite place to do so—in bed, with the sheets twisted around them. “If you truly disapproved, you would have said something to him by now.”

  The look of defeat on his face meant she had planned the discussion’s location correctly. “I suppose. But must I remind you that I have never approved of any of Grégoire’s choices?”

  “True.”

  “Of all the life-altering decisions he has made, I find marriage to be the least detestable of them. So I am willing to compromise on his choice of an Irish peasant.”

  The wedding would have to be in Ireland and, of course, be Catholic.That would not be in open discussion until Grégoire returned, assuming he found Mrs. MacKenna alive and well and assuming she accepted his offer of marriage. That would limit the guest list considerably, but she imagined Grégoire preferred it that way. And he would not be taking his wife on the grand tour of town. “He might have to wear real clothing for that,” was Darcy’s reply when she playfully suggested the idea.

  Though the Bingleys and the extended family were aware that Grégoire had found a potential wife in Ireland, the specifics were not public knowledge, nor was the date of his return, which was only an estimate. They were not in communication with him until he reappeared, two weeks after he had left.

  Caitlin MacKenna did appear at first to be the typical Irishwoman. Her hair was long, straight, and reddish blonde. It flowed down her back, which made Elizabeth initially think her younger as she approached Pemberley, hiding beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat. While they were still out of what she apparently assumed was earshot she said, “Now t’is is a feckin’ palace.”

  Grégoire laughed.Whether Darcy heard it or not, he said nothing as they approached. “Grégoire. Mrs. MacKenna.” He bowed to both of them. “This is my wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy.”

  Mrs. MacKenna curtsied.

  “Please come in, Mrs. MacKenna. Grégoire, welcome home.” Darcy had told the servants not to make a fuss, but that did not keep more than a few of them from finding a reason to walk by as they entered Pemberley proper. “The Kincaids have been delayed by the weather in Scotland, which washed out the roads. They should be here in a few days.”

  Mrs. MacKenna was introduced to the Darcy daughters—Anne, Sarah, and Cassandra. “My son, Geoffrey, has just left for school,” Darcy explained.

  “How is he? Has he written?” Grégoire asked.

  “Unfortunately,” Darcy said, to which Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “He is terribly homesick, of course. That’s Eton for you. I will not deny that I was any different.”

  Mrs. MacKenna said little, noticeably intimidated by Pemberley and her future family. Propriety was preserved, but she did occasionally grab Grégoire’s arm, which he never stopped her from doing.

  “And this,” Darcy said in the portrait gallery, “is our father, my son’s namesake.”

  It was a picture of Geoffrey Darcy when he was young and dashing—he resembled Darcy, except that he was wearing a wig and long coat. Beside it was a portrait of an exquisite blonde woman. “My mother,” Darcy said. “Lady Anne.”

  Mrs. MacKenna did not inquire about Grégoire’s mother. She did not have to, and it would have been awkward if she had.

  Elizabeth was eager to get to know Mrs. MacKenna, but Grégoire would not leave her side, and so there was no opportunity on the day of their arrival. It took conspiring with Darcy to get him to drag his brother off somewhere. In a few days, the Kincaids would be arriving.

  She finally cornered Caitlin in, of all places, the chapel. Mrs. MacKenna was not praying so much as sitting in the final row and knitting. “Mrs. MacKenna.”

  Her guest quickly rose and curtsied. “Mrs. Darcy.”

  “We have not had much time to talk,” she said, “and we are soon to be sisters. May I sit?”

  “’S yer chapel, Mrs. Darcy.”

  Elizabeth took a seat on the hard wooden pew. “What are you knitting?” It did not appear to be embroidery.

  “A shirt fer Grégoire,” Mrs. MacKenna said, “since ’e likes ta dress all medieval.” Despite the skill with which she handled the needle and thread, her hands were shaking and she pricked herself. “Shite!” She shook her hand and put the thumb in her mouth. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Darcy. Christ, I promised Grégoire I wouldn’t curse. I’m not—I’m not normally like t�
�is.”

  Elizabeth had a feeling that she was, but she was under enormous pressure to present herself as otherwise, though probably not from her betrothed. It was just an unavoidable circumstance. “I apologize if I am making you nervous, Mrs. MacKenna.”

  “Yer not,” she said untruthfully. “Besides, everyt’ing’s makin’ me nervous. I don’ know why.”

  “I was at my wit’s end by the end of my engagement,” Elizabeth said. “Everyone was telling me what to do and what to say and, of course, Darcy’s family didn’t approve—”

  “Why? Yer a perfect lady.”

  “Maybe in your eyes,” Elizabeth said, “in which case, I am honored. And Georgiana, Fitzwilliam’s sister, did like me, but barely knew me. Darcy’s aunt, Lady Catherine, expressed her disapproval before he even made the second offer, on account of our lack of connections to society. He was her sister’s son and she wanted him to marry someone of a higher station.”

  “Wait—de second—?”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth blushed. “Our long courtship was full of misunderstandings. The first was that he thought I would be obligated to accept his offer because of my family’s inferior social status, and the second was that I thought he was a stubborn, arrogant man whom I could never come to love. His first proposal, I rejected.” She added, “The circumstances were bad, and we both said things we could not take back, but it led us to a greater appreciation of each other. Oh, and I had opinions of my own. Apparently, his aunt thought this was too high-spirited of me.”

  Mrs. MacKenna smiled at that. “But it did—I mean, it has al’ worked oyt.”

  “Yes. But it has worked out because we have worked to understand each other. Also, Darcys are not known to give up on love.”

  After a moment, Mrs. MacKenna said, “An’ afterward?”

  “Mr. Darcy is an adoring husband and most loving father to his children—”

  And that was when it broke.There was a tension lurking beneath the surface that was more than social awkwardness for this woman from Ireland.The shirt abandoned, Mrs. MacKenna broke into sobbing that was so hard she was unable to speak for some time. It was only with Elizabeth’s embrace—which Mrs. MacKenna did not resist—that she was able to gain some control over herself. “Sorry. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Darcy—”

  “Mrs. MacKenna, you do not have to be sorry, but you must tell me what is bothering you.”

  “I ’ate that name,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to wipe her tears away. “I ’ate him. I ’ate me dead husband. ’S that so terrible?”

  “No, not at all,” Elizabeth replied. “Caitlin, tell me what is bothering you, besides that.”

  “I—’e says it’s not a problem. I know ’e means it because ’e’s just so good, but—” She faced Elizabeth for the first time, her eyes red. “Why would ’e want a banjaxed doll? Is he gonna say, down de road, I want laddies? He loved de other one and it wasn’ even his. He loved ta feel it kick. I ’aven’ been bleedin’ since it al’ ’appened,” Caitlin MacKenna said after a long pause. Elizabeth held her tongue at hearing courses referred to in such a way (for it seemed that this was a difference between them that was not so easily bridged). “I just want ta make ’im happy. I don’ wan’ ’im ta regret anyt’ing.”

  Elizabeth pondered her response before giving it. “Caitlin, Grégoire has made many tough choices in his life, and no matter what their outcome, he has never regretted any of them.”

  Caitlin could only nod, but it was clear some understanding had been reached and some nerve had been soothed. “If you are worried about it still,” Elizabeth said, “you should know that we have never seen him as happy as he has been since he met you.”

  “Even if I made ’is ’air fall oyt?”

  They shared a chuckle. “That mystery remains unsolved,” Elizabeth said. Grégoire had returned to England with a bald spot that had not been there before, but it did not seem to be spreading. The loss of hair had abruptly stopped. “I once heard Grégoire describe the tonsure as the crown of the church. He was upset when he was told that he was no longer allowed to wear it. We all saw how devastated he was as the hair grew back. That the tonsure has mysteriously reappeared is not something I am wont to question.” She added, “Though, I have had to reassure Darcy almost daily that it is unlikely to happen to him. He is terrified.”

  Their laughter filled the little chapel of Pemberley for some time before they rejoined the men.

  CHAPTER 36

  The Dress

  “NOW, JUST BECAUSE YOU are not my actual grandchild does not mean I find you any less adorable,” Mr. Bennet said to Robert Kincaid, sitting on his lap. The toddler could now sit up and even balance himself on someone’s knee fairly well, and was beginning to shout things that resembled words more than random cries. At the moment, though, he focused on putting his hand in his mouth. “Especially when you do that,” Mr. Bennet added.

  The master of Longbourn had taken up what seemed like permanent residence in an armchair in Pemberley’s library. He expressed relief that, since coming to Derbyshire, he had yet to receive the attentions of another woman determined to marry.

  He was there for Elizabeth when Geoffrey left for Eton. Though she smiled encouragingly until her son was in the carriage, tears came as the carriage pulled away. Darcy comforted her, but he had been to Eton himself. It was part of his heritage; it was what boys did.

  It was Mr. Bennet who was able to say the right thing to his daughter. “Your son will be home soon, and I sense he will never truly be far from Pemberley. As for your daughters, take heart in the fact that my son will never let them out of his sight, much less marry and move away.” He was able to soothe his daughter’s heart better than anyone else.

  The day after the Kincaids’ arrival, the earl was invited to shoot with Darcy and Bingley, as was their custom, especially in the fall.

  “If we are to be invited for dinner,” Bingley said, “it is on the condition that I will not be subjected to Irish jokes the entire evening.”

  “What are you, daft? You can’t make jokes with an actual Gael in the room,” Kincaid said. “Besides yourself, of course.”

  “She has lighter hair than you,” Darcy said to Bingley, who had not met Mrs. MacKenna yet. “Nearly blonde.”

  “What about Grégoire?”

  “You know very well what he looks like, Bingley.”

  Bingley gave him a look. “How is he?”

  “How would you expect? Besotted,” Darcy said. “And no, I have no intention of interfering with the match, despite all reason.”

  “Not all reason,” Kincaid said. “She is a sweet woman and she is devoted to him, and he has no need of a dowry.”

  Darcy said nothing, firing at a stray duck flying south but missing.

  “She is, Darcy,” Kincaid said, the only one who could speak with any authority on the subject present. “It is not just gratitude. She could easily have lived a life of comfort with the money he gave her.”

  Bingley, who had been privately told the particulars of the courtship (if one could call it that) of Grégoire and Mrs. MacKenna, could add something. “Great marriages have been built on less than gratitude. In fact, I am surprised you haven’t thrown a grand ball in celebration of the fact that he is marrying at all.”

  This did manage to soften Darcy, who had been even more guarded than usual, and had been since his brother had returned from Ireland. “They are to be married by Christmas.”

  “A felicitous time,” Bingley said, having been joined in marriage with Princess Nadezhda at the same time of year. “In Ireland, I assume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you wish us to take the children while you are gone? I am assuming you are not taking them.”The Darcy daughters were all still younger than twelve, and would be out of place at adult ceremonies, unless they happened to be held at home. “I think Jane could use the distraction.”

  “So I am to assume that Miss Bingley took Geoffrey’s departure as expected.”

 
Bingley smiled sheepishly.“Between her cousin and Mugin-san, she’s lost her two best friends.”

  “She’s scared away all her governesses—you might consider sending her to a school in London,” Darcy said.

  “It was discussed.” Bingley’s tone was dismissive. Meaning, his daughter had put her foot down against it. “Stop smiling, both of you.”

  “I didn’t say a word,” Kincaid said, though he was smiling. Darcy was smirking, which for him was quite a lot.

  Dinner arrangements were more complex on the Bingley end, because they were bringing their children along to see their grandfather and meet Grégoire’s betrothed. Though they had tutors, the four Bingley children were currently sans governess, and had only Nurse. Only Edmund Bingley was still young enough to not put up a fight—not that Charles or Eliza Bingley had any reason to fight.

  The problem was, of course, Georgiana. She refused to get dressed for the evening and was perfectly capable of scrambling out of anyone’s hold (not that her father wanted to try). She was four and ten, and her foul mood had begun when Mugin abruptly left England, and deepened when Geoffrey left for school. Jane and Bingley faced the daunting prospect of doing something beyond both of their characters—yelling at their child. It was still on the horizon, but it was there. Darcy, they were sure, could simply give any of his children a stare and they would obey, no matter what their age—but he was Darcy, and they were Charles and Jane.

  They were stuck in a debate about how to approach the situation after all arguments through the door had failed when Charlie, now one and ten, knocked on his sister’s door and was granted entrance. They decided to listen in and face the consequences if they were discovered.

  Young Charlie, the elder of the Bingley twins, resembled his father in almost every way except his hair, which was blond. He also hadn’t had his growth spurt yet, much to his annoyance.