They had calculated that Miyoshi Shiro was two and twenty. What had Brian been doing at two and twenty? He had been raising his brother, trying to manage their funds, and see to the education of a boy who was losing his vision. He took him north to Scotland for a dangerous cataract removal surgery. Danny, who had yet to hit his growth spurt, cowered at the sight of the table they had to tie him to so he wouldn’t move his head. Brian was forced to talk him into it. The surgery was successful but an infection followed, throwing Danny’s life into danger instead of just his eye. When his fever finally broke, and his young body defeated the infection, Brian brought him home to London, exhausted in a way he could not describe. While still unacceptable, the stupor into which he fell as soon as his brother left for Cambridge was, on some level, understandable. “You don’t believe in redemption, Miyoshi-san?”
“I do believe in redemption. A samurai’s redemption is in his death.”
“Are you so sure?”
“Yes,” Miyoshi said without hesitation. “Whatever it may seem to you, I made my pledge to the Amitabha Buddha and I will keep it.” He spat. “What do your gods expect of you?”
“Repentance.”
“And how do you go about doing so?”
“Prayer, admitting that you were wrong. Not as dramatic, but still…” He shrugged. “It is our way. If I had taken my life, I never would have met my wife. For me, I think this was the best way.”
Miyoshi turned back to him. “Put your sword in your obi, like I do.”
Brian did so, sliding it into place. His blade was straight, and Miyoshi’s was curved, but the effect was largely the same.
“Kneel.”
Swallowing, Brian did so.
Miyoshi knelt across from him, some distance away. “The first lesson I was taught is to expect attack at any moment. You must first learn to draw your sword from a sitting position. The release of the blade is the deciding moment of the battle. Now, do like so…”
Chapter 33
The Labors of Brother Grégoire
1813
After the Maddoxes (and company) returned to Town and the other guests had gone, Elizabeth retreated into Pemberley to begin her confinement. “I admit it snuck up on me,” she said to Jane. “Did seven months really pass?”
“Thank God they did,” was Jane’s reply, and Elizabeth could not help but agree.
Life began to return to normal at Pemberley. Urged by his wife, brother, and sister, Darcy immersed himself in the ledgers and the maintenance of his estate, which had been almost entirely left in the hands of his steward even since his return. Fortunately for everyone, it did not seem to be a particularly harsh winter, and some travel was possible, not just between Pemberley and Chatton, but also as far as Lambton. Lord Kincaid, who thought their weather was a gentle breeze, came down to Lambton to call on Georgiana. Over time, Darcy’s manners were less distant toward his future brother-in-law; it helped that his children adored the man who would be their uncle. William Kincaid was a man of perpetual good humor; he did have an amusing accent to the sheltered Darcy children, and anything that made Geoffrey and Anne happy was good enough for Darcy. Sarah was now trying to walk, which was a rather tiring delight, because Elizabeth was exhausted from chasing her, and it was yet another thing for Darcy to focus on.
News continued from the Continent, and while Darcy paid little attention to it, the winter was not a good one for Napoleon or his troops, with a botched invasion of Russia. When some news did pass by his ears, Darcy could only feel relieved that his brother was home in Pemberley, safe from all of it.
Grégoire did not always join them for meals and spent most of his time in the library when the chapel was too cold; the stone was not a good protector against the winter climate. One day, Darcy inquired as to his brother’s whereabouts, and Mrs. Reynolds said that Master Grégoire was taking his meals in the chapel for the time being.
“Is there some holiday I am unaware of?” Darcy said as he entered the chapel, a room no larger than his master bedchamber, with three rows of wooden pews and an altar. Grégoire sat on the stone steps to the altar, drinking from a teacup.
“No,” Grégoire said quietly as he drained the last of the tea and set it aside. “I am sitting in vigil with the saint.”
“Oh,” Darcy said, glancing at the reliquary beneath the altar. “What is a vigil?”
“It is a period of prayer and contemplation in honor of the saint.”
“Is it his day?”
“No. His feast day is in August,” Grégoire said, standing up. “I promised Count Olaf I would do this.”
“Who?”
“The count who helped us rescue you,” his brother replied, “in Austria.” He made no comment at Darcy’s blank look. “His daughter, Nicoleta, was with child when we left. She is due to deliver about this time. He asked that I pray for her and the health of the child. I could not help but accept after all he’d done for us.”
“Of course,” Darcy said, not recalling a Count Olaf but not doubting for a moment that there had, at some point, been one. “That is it—prayer and… contemplation? No fasting?”
“No, no fasting.” Grégoire added, “I will stay awake until it is over.”
“And how long is that?”
“Until it is over, Darcy,” Grégoire said, “not very long.”
“Because—”
“I will not harm myself, if that is what you are thinking.”
Darcy looked away in embarrassment, because he had been thinking it. “Of course. Well, I will not interrupt.” He put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, and Grégoire did not sway or look ill. In fact, he looked the healthiest Darcy had perhaps ever seen him. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
“And if you wouldn’t mind—terribly—putting in a prayer for Elizabeth?”
Grégoire smiled. “Of course.”
***
While he did not consider himself duplicitous, Grégoire Darcy had become a master of knowing when to leave out important details. He had made a promise to Count Olaf that he would sit in vigil for his daughter’s health; because of the length of the vigil, he would not fast. Instead, he would stay awake.
It was harmless, but difficult and increasingly so. He ate little because food brought on sleep. He drank tea excessively and began chewing on the leaves more often than drinking the actual drink. When he felt himself tire, he took off his sandals and walked across the cold floor barefoot, or took a walk outside, where the frigid air was enough, for the time being, to restore his senses. Eventually he conspired with the servant assigned to him—Thomas—to occasionally ring a bell when he seemed to be nodding off. “Thank you, Thomas,” he said politely, which never failed to surprise Thomas, who was unused to this level of informality from his master.
On the third day, he quizzed Geoffrey on his vocabulary, reading him passages from the Bible, the ones children would like. Geoffrey, now too large to sit in his lap, would constantly ask him questions that his mildly impaired mind could not always process.
“Why did the Izrealishes get lost in the desert?”
“Israelites, Geoffrey.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“Did I say Israelishes?”
“Now you said it a different way!”
He smiled, pushing up his reading spectacles so he could rub his eyes again. “I meant Israelites. Your uncle is very tired.” He tried to focus on the page. “They didn’t get lost. They were made to wander in the desert for forty years.”
“Why?”
“Because they built a golden calf.”
“Why?”
“Because a golden calf is an idol. The Egyptians worshiped them. This made God very angry. He did not want them to worship false idols.”
“How do you know if an idol is real or fake?”
“Because
—I don’t know, Geoffrey,” he said, and his nephew looked up at him. “I do not know everything.”
“Are there still people in Egypt?”
“Yes. Napoleon invaded Egypt a few years ago.”
“Do they still worship calves?”
“No. I believe they worship—I forget his name. Mohammat. S-something like that.” He took another swig from his jug of tea. It was cold, but he didn’t care. “That is enough for today; perhaps tomorrow, if I am not asleep.”
That night, Thomas presented him with a caged bird. “The damned thing won’t stop squawking,” he said. “It was meant to be a present to my younger sister for Christmas, but no one can stand the poor thing.”
“It does certainly provide a lot of noise,” Grégoire said, covering his ears and staring at the bird fluttering around in its wooden cage. “Thank you, Thomas. You are a lifesaver.”
On the fourth day, he attempted to have a rational theological conversation with Lord Kincaid, which was an utter failure because his mind could no longer maintain one path of thought, much less an argument, and before long they had ventured into why things were shaped the way they were.
“No, Brother Grégoire, I have no idea why the sun isn’t square,” Kincaid said, laughing. “Are you sure you don’t need a quick rest?”
“I am sure I need one; however, I will not have one until my promise is fulfilled! And so, I have defeated you! There!”
“You’re right; the Pope is the true Vicar of Christ. What was John Knox thinking? If only he’d talked to an overtired monk, Scotland would surely never have fallen into heresy!”
“Overtired and hungry,” Grégoire corrected.
“Are you fasting as well?”
“No, but food makes me sleepy. It is better not to fill my stomach.” He chewed absently on a scone. “This is horrible. You Scotsmen know nothing about bread!”
“What would a Frenchman know about—oh, I do suppose you have a point,” Kincaid said. “But my pride won’t let me admit it. I do rather like your wines.”
“I made them myself, you know.”
Kincaid chuckled, “All of them?”
“Yes! All of them!”
It was then that Georgiana interrupted them, thereby announcing her entrance, “William, what are you doing to my poor brother?”
“No worse than what he’s done to himself, I assure you,” Kincaid said, smiling at his betrothed.
Georgiana smiled and kissed Grégoire on his tonsure. “Do not let Darcy see you, or he will tie you down and force you to sleep.”
“’Kay.”
On the fifth day, he decided to stop sitting down, as it had a tendency to lead to slumping over. He was also quite sure he was hearing things, because every time he asked, no one had heard anything, other than the endless chirping of that bird. Grégoire could no longer read because his eyes could not focus, so he paced back and forth, reciting the psalms he knew from heart.
“God help me,” he pleaded, this time a very legitimate plea. “I fear I have made a promise I cannot keep.” He was drinking tea with more leaves than water, in it, eating almost nothing, constantly on his feet, and yet at any moment, darkness seemed imminent. “Holy Father, I beg of you, please bring about a speedy conclusion to Nicoleta’s term so that I may sleep,” he said, blinking. “Precious, precious sleep.” He did not know the Latin for that.
“Somnus is sleep,” said his abbot.
“That I know!” Spinning around a little too fast, so much that he lost what little balance he had, he grabbed the edge of the pews to stay standing. “Father, forgive me I—” Again, he forgot what he was apologizing for. “I am seeing you. I mean, you are not here. Nonetheless, I think one should pay his respects.”
“Yes,” a new voice said. It was his abbot from Austria, where his monastery was no more. “Do you remember what I said to you?”
“You—the saint—” It was all blurring together. “You said the saint talked to you. He is here with us—you can speak again if you want!” He pointed to the reliquary. “I brought him back to England—was that the right thing to do?”
“That was not what he told me. It doesn’t mean it was wrong, but it did not enter into our conversation.”
“Holy Father, I hope I have not erred.” He knelt on the floor. He could feel the cold of it through his heavy robes. “I have tried to do as you said, Father.”
“I did not ask anything of you. I gave you a choice. I said there would be a choice,” said the abbot. “But not a moment where it is clear that it is so, at least, not now. What did Saint Sebald say?”
“He said—he said that it is in fire and under hammers that strong things are created,” Grégoire said miserably.
“Your path to greatness will be a terrible one,” the abbot said. “That is not an easy message for me to convey. But it is through suffering that you have the potential for spiritual perfection. People will lead you astray—within the Church and without. You are not expected to succeed.”
“That is… depressing.” Grégoire was upset that he could not find a better answer for his abbot. He was sure his earlier one had been more appropriate.
“I believe it anyway,” the abbot said. “After all, without belief, we would truly have nothing.”
“Is that also what the saint said?”
“Ask him yourself.”
Grégoire sat down on the wooden pew. His feet simply hurt too much to keep standing. The bearded man beside him spoke in Latin, or Greek, or something that made sense and yet was foreign, “You requested a favor.”
“I—am to pray for the safe delivery of Nicoleta’s child,” he stammered.
“That has already happened. You know she was due a month ago, or you would have, had the count told you. After all, one cannot expect a letter to arrive so soon, even with a courier.”
“I—suppose.” He didn’t really have an answer to that. “So… why am I doing this?”
“Why are you doing this, Brother Grégoire?”
He didn’t know how the answer came to him. “Because people need my help, and I don’t know any other way to do it.”
Sebaldus met his eyes. “You knew I was Saxon? English?”
“Yes. Yes, I knew that; I must know that because my mind is making you up—”
“That is your wish—for a woman to safely deliver? For a womb to be opened? Like Sarah, who laughed when the angels came to tell her that her wish was granted, having waited a hundred years for that day to come.”
“Yes.”
There was something calm and peaceful in Sebaldus’s eyes, even though his features were foreign, his beard long. The saintly halo did much to lighten his eyes. Grégoire realized he was looking at that image of him painted on the plaster of the church walls at Nuremberg, an old one from centuries past. “This miracle I will perform, and you will bury me. I wish to do my miracles from heaven now, not a box,” Sebaldus said, standing up. He put his arms on Grégoire’s shoulders. “You will know because her name will be the first you hear after your rest. Good night, Grégoire.”
“But I can’t rest until—”
“Mr. Darcy?”
Grégoire opened his eyes. He hadn’t realized they were closed. The voice he heard was unfamiliar, and piercing in its reality. He rubbed his eyes and looked over his shoulder. “What?”
“Mr. Darcy?” the man said with his heavy Austrian accent, and looked again at the label of the envelope he was holding. “Mr. Grégoire Darcy?”
“Yes—that is me,” he said, his legs aching as he rose to greet the man in the overcoat.
“This is for you,” said the man in German and passed Grégoire the envelope with the seal of some local nobility.
“Thank you,” Grégoire said, his eyes opening in excitement as he realized what it was. “Thank you so much.” He grabbed the man’s hand and shook i
t so harshly the man actually shook. “The uh—Mr. Thomas will pay you.”
The courier bowed and saw his way out. Grégoire did not wait to tear open the envelope, revealing the letter inside, which was in French.
Dear Brother Grégoire of the Order of Saint Benedict,
As you have surmised, Nicoleta has delivered. It is a beautiful boy. We have named him Sebald, and wish you much luck and joy in your own earthly (and heavenly) endeavors.
Count Olaf of Sibiu.
He was laughing somewhat hysterically when Thomas entered. “Brother Grégoire, I—”
“It’s over. Thank you,” he said. He leaned over and kissed the reliquary. “And thank you. And thank God. Thank everyone!”
With that, he left the chapel, returning to his quarters, not far away, where he laid down on the mattress. He was still clutching the letter when he fell asleep.
***
Grégoire woke ravenously hungry the next morning, after sleeping some twenty hours. Still rubbing his eyes from sleep, he put on his sandals and headed straight for the breakfast room, where Darcy and Elizabeth were having a quiet breakfast.
“Grégoire,” Elizabeth said, rising to greet him. “We weren’t sure when you would awaken. The apothecary told us to just let you keep sleeping.”
“Yes,” Darcy said as his brother sat down next to him. “Despite appearances, I was concerned for you. But now, it seems, you are well and, this time around, have done no permanent damage to yourself—except that you might possibly choke.”
“I feel fine,” Grégoire said between mouthfuls of the muffins he was stuffing into his mouth.
“We were just discussing the Fitzwilliams,” Elizabeth said. “Richard and Anne would like very much to visit us. They would like to be here for the wedding.”
“Of course,” Grégoire said. “Excuse me—did you say Richard and Anne Fitzwilliam?” Something struck him, like a person emerging from a haze that was really an idea.
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