“An odd time to dismiss a lady-maid,” he said, and no one found a proper response.
The Bingleys got into bed later than usual, as they had every night since Geoffrey Darcy had stayed at Chatton without his parents around. One look from his father was still enough to scare him into listening to Nurse, but his Uncle Bingley was not his father and had trouble making such a severe face as was appropriate. Jane had to put three small children to bed and thus was similarly exhausted when she climbed next to her husband, and they lay there for some time with the candles still lit.
“I suppose we should give more responsibilities to Nurse.”
“I suppose.”
“A good gentleman does not take such interest in his children until they are properly grown,” Jane said.
Charles turned on his side to face her. “And who told you this? Your father?”
“Hardly! My mother.”
“Of course. I should have assumed. Well, then I am not a proper gentleman. I am sorry to disappoint you, a gentleman's daughter, who deserves only the best. Surely you are disappointed in me.”
“Most disappointed, Charles,” she said, and kissed him. “I suppose it would be horrible of us to speculate about exactly what we did today.”
“Yes.”
“And to assume only the best.”
“Yes. But we are both thinking the same thing, correct?”
“I am not a mentalist, Charles, so I do not know what you are thinking. In fact, the matter is entirely puzzling to me.”
“Well,” Bingley said. “Then it is my husbandly duty to enlighten you as to what I am thinking, which most unfortunately, is a bit gossipy. But duty is more important than gossip.” He held her hand as they talked. “I do not think Mrs. Reynolds was entirely forthcoming with us today.”
“That I did realize.”
“It was more what she left out. Now, Miss Bellamont, whoever she was, occupied a treasured position for many years and, for her to do so, we will assume that Mrs. Darcy had some attachment to her. It is quite unlucky to upset the normality of the household during confinement. So Miss Bellamont must have done something to make Mrs. Darcy quite upset—or Mr. Darcy suitably upset to dismiss her despite his wife's protests. Now, the first thing I can think of for a servant is theft, but Mrs. Reynolds would have known about that and would have had no shame in saying it. News of a dismissal would have gone around all the servants, no doubt. But Mrs. Reynolds omitted the reason, which she surely must have known. So—I will assume the latter of the two offenses I can imagine.”
Jane looked curious. “Pray?”
“She was with child.”
“Not so horrible. I know the Darcys are a particularly upstanding and proper household—very proper—”
“—Very, very proper,” Bingley said as they giggled.
“—But that sort of situation cannot be unknown with an entire retinue of servants who are all apparently expected to be celibate, despite lacking a religious vocation that requires it. Am I wrong, then, that the established rules of conduct may be broken occasionally?”
“Occasionally, yes. But to dismiss a treasured lady-maid…” he trailed off and turned on his back.
She tugged at his arm. “Charles.”
“I am saying… I don't want to say what I am thinking.”
It took her a moment. “That it must have been someone of some standing within the household. Mr. Wickham?”
“Already passed on. And his son too young at twelve.” Charles gave her a look.
Jane covered her mouth in horror. “It couldn't have been—”
“It would explain everything quite neatly. The hidden records, the impromptu dismissal, the fact that Darcy is only discovering this now, and probably by circumstance. It is a terrible thing to think, especially of the dead. Darcy held his father in such high esteem—and still does, so if true, this would be a terrible blow to him.”
“Did you know the elder Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes. I spent my summers at Pemberley when I was still at University, Darcy had graduated, and my father was still alive to care for my sister. Darcy's father was a kind man, very proud but not vain, the perfect gentleman, and an affectionate man nonetheless. He taught me how to fish, as I suppose his son had to best me at something. The only thing we did in competition was hunting, and I had more affection for the sport than Darcy did, so I was more accomplished. But I never became the fisherman that Darcy is. And fencing—I have no desire even to pick up a blade, much less face Darcy. Mr. Darcy was everything Darcy described him to be, or so I thought… until today.”
She put a hand on his shoulder. “We may be assuming too much. We may be unkind to his legacy.”
“Perhaps. Yes, let us assume that until we hear otherwise.” But he had a feeling they would be hearing otherwise.
THE LAST MONKS OF MONT CLAIRE
THE TRIP TO MONT Claire was a particularly brutal one for Darcy, not just because of the bad roads and the uphill (and at times, dangerous) climb. There was also the intolerable matter of his wife not speaking to him. After many hours of being bumped about, when bodily contact could not be avoided, she finally accepted the comfort—after rejecting it many times with a grunt—of him putting his arm around her to protect her shoulders from the jostling of the carriage, but she continued her stony silence.
They were a little surprised to discover nothing at the top of the mountain but the ruined remains of a monastery, now a winery, and a small community surrounding it. They found no inn and applied to the local tavern for information. No one in the town knew the name Bellamont, and the Darcys' poor French made the discussion worse, but they managed to scrape together that they would have to get their information from the town priest, who lived in the winery.
For a medieval structure, the monastery was small, but it had been built over the years and with great care, its gothic stone resisting the temptation of the times and the horrible mountain winds that came up from the valleys beneath. The land was relatively bare for the planting season and was being worked furiously by the peasants they passed. Though the Darcys waved with smiles, their presence was greeted with cold stares.
There was no one to greet them at the winery. Darcy rapped his walking cane against the heavy wooden doors, and an elderly monk answered. Darcy tried to explain in French what they were doing there, but the monk only shook his head and opened the door. “L'Abbé,” he said. But he put his hand up at Elizabeth's attempt to enter. “Aucune entrée.”
Darcy turned helplessly to his wife. To his surprise, Elizabeth said, “I will wait in the carriage.”
Those were her first words to him in three days.
He turned, somewhat angrily, to the monk at the door. “L'Abbé.”
The hallway Darcy was led through was impressive, with its gothic arches, but it was also incredibly drafty. He imagined that, with only a single wool robe, the old man in front of him must be cold regularly, as he himself was freezing.
“English?” the monk said.
“Yes, please.”
“No, English.” He did not mean the language, but Darcy's nationality as well. “The Abbot speaks.”
“I thought the monasteries were dissolved.”
“Revolutionaries come, Father Abbot goes to Belgium, then Ireland, and comes back for Napoleon's promise. He is allowed four monks, no more, all French.” He knocked on the beaten wooden door, which had holes from where a cross must have once hung in grander days, and Darcy was shown into the Abbot's study.
“Excusez mon intrusion. Je suis Monsieur Darcy de—”
“Excusez, but I speak English,” said the Abbot, through a heavy French accent.
Thank God. “May I—” And with a gesture from the Abbot, he took a seat on a very uncomfortable stool before the desk.
“You are Geoffrey Darcy?”
“No, his son, Fitzwilliam. Mr. Darcy passed on some years ago. But I see you are familiar with the name.”
“Yez.” The Abbot did not exp
lain himself. “Your purpose for this visit?”
“I am looking for a boy named Grégoire Bellamont,” he said, his voice wavering when he said the name. “He may have been here at some time. A banker has led me to believe so.”
“Yez, yez, of course, Monsieur,” said the Abbot, his rough tone not particularly welcoming but not dismissive all the same. “Brother Grégoire.”
Startled, Darcy leaned on his cane. “He is a monk?”
“Yez, he is to take his final vows at Christmas. He has been with us since his mother died, but he took the cowl in 1804 when we received permission to reform a brotherhood. Before that, he was my assistant in the parish.”
“So… so he is not—anymore? A little boy?”
Whatever the Abbot made of Darcy's surprise, his own expression betrayed none of it. “No, Monsieur. He is nineteen.”
There was the severe temptation, when he had fully processed this information, to run out of the monastery to Elizabeth, who was undoubtedly still fuming in the carriage, and scream at the top of his lungs, “He isn't mine!” Not that he was cleared of all charges, but the weight of possibly discovering an unknown bastard son by chance was lifted from his shoulders.
But… for his father to have left such an impressive sum to someone who must have been almost nine or ten at the time of Mr. Darcy's trip to the Continent, a connection had to exist. No, that could not be it. This was Geoffrey Darcy, his excellent father, his idol and his own son's namesake. He would not—
“Forgive me,” Darcy said, putting a hand on his head. “I'm just—not fully aware of the arrangements here.”
“Of course.” Then quite calmly, as if it was nothing, the Abbot said, “Do you wish to meet your brother?”
“Yes,” Darcy spit out before his own mind could reply. It was just instinctual. “Very much.” It can't be true. It isn't true. It is all a mistake.
The Abbot escorted him, and the long trek gave him plenty of time to sharpen his mind against the possible truth of the situation. His father, Geoffrey Darcy, a most upstanding man, had trained him to be an upstanding gentleman, to be discreet and loyal in all matters. Darcy could not imagine—it was not possible to imagine otherwise—Not until he had all of the proof before him.
But then the proof was before him, in the form of a young man bent over the spigot of a cask of wine. With great precision, the young man measured a small amount into a glass, sniffed it with obvious expertise, and then tossed the wine out to the side on the dirt floor, where cats immediately appeared to attack it and lick the dusty remains. He did not stand up until he heard the approach of his Abbot, so consumed was he in his work, but then he bowed to his master and to the other man before him.
“Brother Grégoire,” the Abbot said in English, making it plain that the monk understood the language. “This is Monsieur Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
The monk took off his spectacles, which were little more than two lenses held together with rope and wood, and stood in full to look at the visitor. He did not match Darcy in height—he was shorter and smaller and considerably less well nourished, or so it appeared under his shabby robe. His brown hair, identical to Darcy's in color, was perfectly tonsured, and while there were differences in their facial appearances, the familial resemblance was undeniable. Clearly terrified, Grégoire bowed to Darcy, who quickly returned the gesture. The Abbot said something quickly in French to his charge, who nodded and bowed to the Abbot as he departed, leaving them alone.
Grégoire turned to the towering figure of “Monsieur Darcy” and said in strangely accented English, “I understand English like to tour the grounds… if you would, Monsieur.”
Darcy could only reply with a “yes.”
The garden was being turned over to prepare for the seed planting, and they moved slowly to an unattended section. How Grégoire was not freezing in his poor clothing was beyond Darcy's understanding, as the winds whipped up again.
“Where did you learn English?” Darcy asked, because even though the answer was obvious, it was a conversation starter.
“My mother,” Grégoire said. “She died when I was eleven, of cholera. Because I was a good student, and Father Abbot was so strapped for priests, he took me in to help with the parish. He said I was meant for the church.”
“And you believed him.”
“Times have been very hard—very trying in France for everyone, and for people to be without the Sacraments is even harder. Father Abbot was once a brother prior in the Cistercian monastery here, before the dissolution. He refused to sign the Civil Constitution, pledging himself to the Holy Father rather than France, and he became a refractory priest. To escape the guillotine, he had to flee.
“When Monsieur Napoleon formed his government and stopped most of the killings, Father Abbot returned and swore allegiance to him. In return, he was granted permission to open an informal brotherhood. Four monks—the other three were monks before the Revolution, all in hiding, and I am the only novice. My mother stood by the church when the soldiers came… this is what she would have wanted.”
“I assume your mother was Mrs. Bellamont? She never remarried?”
“She never married,” he said. “I will not deny it. I am a bastard.”
“I find it very hard to call a monk a bastard, no matter what his heritage,” Darcy admitted. “I do not know the formal connection…”
“And I have no wish to dishonor my father. It is a biblical commandment…” Grégoire countered.
“… But nonetheless, we are standing here, finally and only by happenstance, and it seems we are related. I think the dishonoring, if there was any, was done many years ago and involved neither of us.”
Grégoire considered this before answering, keeping his head low and saying shamefully, “My mother was your mother's maid. She was dismissed and sent home to France, where she had family, despite having come to England to find work at a very early age. I do not know the arrangements, and had no idea of my— heritage until I met our father.”
“You spoke with him?”
“Once, when I was ten, and the financial arrangements that brought you here were made. He was… very kind to me, very penitent. He offered me a living with the Church.”
“Not this living, I assume.”
“No, he offered to pay for my tutoring, then University, and then a bishopric. If he had lived—and at that point, he said he was certain he would not—he would have paid for a red hat. But I refused.”
“On what grounds?”
“I wanted to join the church to get close to the Holy Spirit,” he said. “Not to get rich.” He quickly raised his eyes. “I mean no insult, Monsieur Darcy.”
“No insult taken.”
“What I mean is, I believed that he meant his offer for my well-being, and I was honored that he should treat a bastard child in such a way. But I did not want it, so I refused. And he insisted on providing the money. So we reached an agreement with the current arrangements, most of which went to provide for my mother for the extra year she lived.”
“And now?” Because, considering the surroundings, Darcy had trouble imagining that this monastery swallowed up three thousand pounds a year, unless the monks were hoarding gold-plated relics somewhere.
“I receive my monies, and I donate them to various charities. The Revolution left many widows and also children filling orphanages. If you wish to change the arrangement, you may do so, but that will have no effect on my own living situation.”
Darcy looked out at the empty fields of Mont Claire and said, after some contemplative silence, “Brother, do you happen to know how to speak Italian?”
Upon sending Grégoire to his abbot to make the appropriate request, Darcy practically broke into a run to the carriage. He pulled open the door to a very expectant Elizabeth, who appeared to have something in her hands. “Well?” she asked.
“It seems the shades of Pemberley were thoroughly polluted long before you came into the picture,” he said.
“You—,”
Elizabeth was befuddled by her husband's expression, which was a smile.
“He's not mine,” he said. “He's my brother. Half—my half-brother.”
“So your father—”
“Yes.” He climbed into the carriage with her. “My father was not the man I thought he was.” He wanted to be close to her, now that he could, and now that her anger was dissipating. He wanted the intimacy that he had had to suffer without because of a perceived sin. Only with her securely in his arms did he notice that she was holding the portrait of himself that he did not remember taking from the old d'Arcy estate. At least, they supposed the boy pictured to be him. She flipped it over and held it so he could see the scribbled note on the back.
It read, Grégoire Bellamont.
“You knew?”
“I—had suspicions. But still that did not say everything, though the boy in this picture is—well, it was hard to tell.”
“But the portrait does prove—well, it provides considerable proof. And I suppose Grégoire would like to see it.”
“I am to meet him, then?”
“He is to go with us, with your permission. He speaks Italian, French, English, Latin, and some German. He has never seen the world outside of Mont Claire, within what he can remember.”
“They will allow him to leave?”
“He is just a novice. So we will see. Here he comes now.” He took her hand, which she gladly allowed, and she stepped out to greet two monks, an aged one who was obviously the abbot and a young man with an uncanny resemblance to her husband, although younger and with a gigantic, perfectly bald spot on his head. They both bowed deeply to her and Darcy.
“Monsieur Darcy,” said the Abbot through a heavy accent. “Brother Grégoire will accompany you on this journey, with my permission, and see Rome. After that, he will guide you back here, and then you shall part ways again. He has instructions as to the behavior expected of him, and you would do well not to interfere.”
Darcy was not cowed, but he had assessed the situation and recognized the need to appear respectful. “Of course, Father,” he said. “The carriage?” he said, gesturing that Grégoire could enter it.
The Plight of the Darcy Brothers Page 8
