As housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds was at the head, and she paled at the sight of Grégoire, even though he had not been identified. Darcy put his arm around the monk and approached her. “This is Grégoire Bellamont from the Monastery of Mont Claire. Mrs. Reynolds, I believe you have something to explain.”
In the master study, the aged Mrs. Reynolds had to face not one, but three Darcys, as only Geoffrey and Georgiana were excluded, with Geoffrey seeming very annoyed at being pulled away from his mother. When the door was soundly shut behind them, Darcy took his seat at the desk. Above him hung the portrait of his father, looking regal and proper. “Now,” he said as his wife sat next to the terrified housekeeper, and Grégoire stood, “You have undoubtedly surmised Grégoire's heritage. Though I doubt you have ever said a dishonest thing to anyone present in your life, that does not mean certain things were not made known to me, I assume under Father's instructions. But now I would like to know how you came to know these things.”
“Yes, Mr. Darcy, of course.” Mrs. Reynolds was shaking. “Oh, please forgive me, but your father's last wish to me was that you not know of these things until the proper time.”
“Which would be now,” Darcy said.
“Yes, of course.”
1797
Mrs. Reynolds had to quietly admit to herself that she did enjoy her position as housekeeper. It did bring tremendous responsibility, and the status was not something she had sought greedily, but there was something to be said for taking pride in keeping Pemberley in top shape. It had been hard at times with three children in the house, one a toddler and two in their teens at the time of her elevation, and no guiding mother to rein them in. Mrs. Wickham and Mrs. Darcy had died during or immediately after childbirth, and young Master Fitzwilliam, who did so dislike being called that, was the only one who had experienced having the pleasure of a mother for his first thirteen years.
While their nurses and governesses were responsible for the children, they answered to Mrs. Reynolds as well as Mr. Darcy, who was busy and a gentleman and, therefore, not quite expected to act paternally toward Miss Georgiana in an overly interested way, though he did at times. Until the end of his days, Mr. Darcy was often busy with keeping up the estate or away from Pemberley, and while he was there, his chief concern was raising his son, the wild Fitzwilliam, who had to grow up some day to be a gentleman and master.
And grow up he did. In fact, despite their single year of age difference, Master George and Master Fitzwilliam seemed to be going in opposite directions with their lives, despite a fierce (and often, outright indecorous) competition between them at all the things boys competed about. When they were children, they competed at riding, fishing, and fencing. When they were young men, the competition turned to women, though the young George Wickham certainly had the edge there, because Mrs. Reynolds never heard a word about Master Fitzwilliam and any servants or local girls from Lambton, and she heard every word that Pemberley whispered.
When Mr. Wickham, the steward, died, Mr. Darcy took on all the responsibilities of raising and educating Wickham's son. The master was not known for being unkind, but he certainly exceeded the general expectation of generosity in doing this. By the year the boys went to Cambridge, he was actively turning his eyes away from the young Wickham's actions. Mr. Darcy said nary a word when Mr. Wickham was sent down from Cambridge, embracing him back into the estate while Master Fitzwilliam continued his studies.
The year that Mr. Darcy's illness became obvious was the year that Master Fitzwilliam returned from touring the Continent, as required by any respectable gentleman newly graduated from university and not quite ready to settle down for the rest of his life. Upon young Darcy's return, his training as future master, which had truly begun the day he was born, resumed actively and even sped up a bit when Mr. Darcy's prognosis was delivered. They learned they had a year left together, and it was well spent, so that the transition between masters would be smooth. The little boy who had once refused to bathe after jumping in a lake stepped up to his responsibilities in a way that made everyone proud.
Late fall should have been a pleasant time for everyone before it got truly cold in Derbyshire, but the angel of death hung over Pemberley. To his dying day, Mr. Geoffrey Darcy would not be idle. He was signing contracts and record books until forcibly locked in his chambers for rest. A week before the angel came, Mrs. Reynolds was called into Mr. Darcy's office— not an unusual occurrence, except that Master Fitzwilliam was not present, as he had been at every meeting for months now, and she knew of no particular topic to be discussed. Clearly the master had one; she merely didn't know it.
Mr. Darcy coughed and asked that she make sure the door was closed, and then he had her lock it on his behalf.
“Mr. Darcy.”
“Mrs. Reynolds.” He did not get up. First, she was a servant. Second, she doubted he could do so easily. He was leaning on the desk, propped up by an elbow, his eyes bloodshot. Had he been crying? “Thank you for coming. Do be seated.”
Another strange occurrence; the good master was obviously out of sorts. He fumbled with something in his hands—a locket that she recognized as having belonged to his late wife. “I know you are a busy woman, and I will not take up much of your time and mine, which I am told by my doctors is now precious. Instead I will merely burden you with the most terrible of secrets, as it should be spoken once more before I die, and as you will come to understand, it cannot be told to my son—yet. I will also thrust upon you the trust that you will find the day to tell him.”
She did not know quite what to say to this.
“You will recall the affair with Ms. Bellamont, my wife's lady-maid. You were, I believe, laundress at the time? But it must have been known all around Pemberley. I have no doubt of that.”
“I do, sir, though I recall few of the specifics, and those that I do, I care not to repeat.”
“Then I will summarize. Ms. Bellamont was discharged when my wife discovered she was with child, and the part you perhaps do not know is that the child was mine.”
No, she did not know that. She could not fathom it, even as he said it, even as the intensity of his gaze confirmed it. The French-born maid was of excellent standing until her dismissal, working her way up the ranks of Pemberley. That she was dismissed during Mrs. Darcy's confinement with Georgiana was the most damning thing about her departure—until this point. This implied, of course, that not only had he had a dalliance with a lady-maid (not entirely unknown, but something she would have never expected from Mr. Darcy), but he did so during his own wife's confinement.
“Earlier this year,” he continued, expecting her stunned silence, “I went to the Continent on business, and that business was to set up an account for my son, who was apparently named the French version of Gregory, after me in some fashion. He lives with his mother in the west of France and intends to join the church. According to the specifications of the account, he will receive a considerable yearly income for the rest of his life. No records of this account exist in England, and the account can only be altered by myself or the executor of my estate—meaning, Fitzwilliam, who obviously knows nothing of this.
“The timing is terrible, because I do not wish my son to lose both me and his esteem of me at the same time. I do not know what would happen to him or to Pemberley, but I cannot take the chance. He might go the way George went—as they are so very closely related.”
He had another coughing fit, and Mrs. Reynolds rose to pour him a glass of water, for he had dismissed the servant meant to do exactly that. After swallowing some, he was able to continue in a hoarse voice. “I do not know which sin is more terrible, but there are two. George Wickham is also my son.”
Her heart quickened. Yes, that made sense, on a logical level. He had raised George as a father would raise a son, beyond normal responsibilities, and his affection for his steward did not explain it beyond a certain point. Mr. Darcy had had many fights with his own son—his proper son—over Mr. Wickham, who was meant to
receive a sizable living in the church upon Mr. Darcy's death. Master Fitzwilliam felt this inheritance was undeserved, and many servants believed he had every right, knowing Wickham well enough, to insist that that man deserved no more assistance from Pemberley. But Mr. Darcy would not relent, and no one could figure the reason. Now, of course, it was clear.
“I love my sons—all three of them. I have provided for all of them, partially I suppose out of guilt… guilt I should rightfully feel for being part of the worst kind of deception with Mrs. Wickham, a lovely woman until the day she died, as we never told George. He believed his son was his and named him so, and I did not prevent it. I did not have the courage to come forward and torture this man with the truth. So I am a coward as well as an adulterer. I am the worst master Pemberley has ever had.”
“No, Sir—”
“Do not try to contradict me. Any good I tried to do in this life will not lift this terrible guilt from my heart. There is no absolution for me because Anne would not give it.” He coughed again. Mrs. Reynolds, her mind still reeling, could not help but notice that Mr. Darcy, despite his affection for his wife, never called her by her first name in front of a servant.
“On her dying day she cursed me. She had found out about Miss Bellamont, and so she cursed me by refusing forgiveness and naming our new daughter Georgiana. The whole story had come out, and I would always hear that name—George, the name of my first sin—when I spoke the name of my own daughter, who I would have to raise alone. Anne forsook me, and she had every right and reason to. But I could not stand my son doing the same at my own deathbed—for he could hardly do otherwise, with the morality I've raised him with. Some things, Mrs. Reynolds, are worse than death.” He seemed to shield his eyes from her. “Surely you will try to understand why I ask this of you.”
“To be plain, sir, what do you wish of me?”
“That you tell Fitzwilliam and Georgiana at the proper time, whenever you judge it to be. For some day, they should know. Perhaps when they are settled and happy and are ready for a blow such as this. When they are, do you know of the old d'Arcy estate? The Hôtel des Capuchins?”
“I've heard of it, sir.”
“I have an account at a bank near there that is funding Gregory, or Grégoire as he is called. He knows of his heritage because I spoke to him in February, but I doubt he would come to England of his own motivation. That is perhaps the best way to find him, if this is to be years away. And God, I hope it will be.” He wiped his eyes with his trembling fingers, because he was definitely crying now. “I have not said a word of this to anyone but him and his mother since the day Anne died. And now, you will be the only one who will know. I will trust you with this awful burden, Mrs. Reynolds. It is the last thing I will ask of you before Pemberley goes into my son's capable hands.”
She nodded and agreed, and he dismissed her. As she went out, she noticed Master Fitzwilliam, soon to be the Mr. Darcy, passing by with a folio. She did her best to hide her tears from him. Thankfully, he seemed not to notice.
1807
“So,” Darcy said after the considerable silence that followed her tale. “Wickham is my brother. I had but one strand of hope left that it was not true. And, I suppose, if he had not attempted an elopement with Georgiana—”
“—I would have said something immediately, of course, Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Reynolds, again in tears, said. Elizabeth put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. The atmosphere in the room, though tense, was not damning. In fact, Darcy was quite cool in his own tone, not dismissive of her at all. “Immediately. Or perhaps I failed and should have said something earlier.”
“None of us had that foresight. It seems fate saved us all from a sin of biblical proportions. Excuse me, God saved us from this sin,” he said, as Grégoire crossed himself. “Georgiana knows about Grégoire, but not Wickham. I cannot imagine how to tell her, but I must do it.”
“Darcy—”
For once, Darcy held a hand up to his wife. “I must do it. There is also the other person who knows nothing—Wickham himself. This matter must be settled with him first, as I have no idea of his reaction.”
He sighed and continued, “Though I cannot say I am pleased with this news of my own father's failings, I cannot find fault with the carrying out of your duties, Mrs. Reynolds. For you did not know of Wickham's plans for Georgiana any more than I, her legal protector as well as brother, did. You pointed me in the direction of Grégoire at a time when I was content with life and ready for such a blow. I have gained at least one brother in this.” He looked at Grégoire and smiled wanly before turning to Mrs. Reynolds. “I am sorry to put you through this inquisition. Now at least you are freed from the responsibility of such a secret.”
“If you wish me gone, Mr. Darcy—”
“Very much the opposite; in a way, Father was right, and I am grateful. I modeled my life after the good in him and am now reaping the results. I would not want to imagine it otherwise.” He smiled. “Please see that Grégoire is situated in whatever accommodations he chooses. My only insistence is that, while in my house, he eats three full meals a day. He is very clever about his monkish habits, so keep an eye on him. Somehow we will have to find common ground between his heritage as a Darcy and his leanings as a Cistercian.”
Grégoire flushed and put his head down, but he did not look entirely surprised at this. More significantly, he probably did not realize that Darcy had established him as a family member in front of Mrs. Reynolds, who would tell the servants to do so as well. Despite his own inclinations, the master had embraced him as a Darcy, and he would be treated as such. And oh, the little monk did look much like his father—unlike Wickham, who favored his mother.
Now the only obvious question was whether Darcy would show the same sympathy for George Wickham, unknowing in his parentage, and embrace him as a brother as he had Grégoire, however reluctantly. On this, Darcy remained silent.
THE WORST KIND OF CALL
THE MADDOXES—ALL THREE of them—were sitting down to dinner when the bell rang. Since the summons obviously was for him, the doctor walked past the servants, who were busy serving the meal, and answered the door, peering out into the lamplight of the Town's evening streets. “Hello?”
“Doctor.” It was the madam of one of the houses he used to visit. He was quite aware of which house and had politely informed them, upon his commission, that they would have to find another doctor, so her appearance was a surprise. Besides, she had always sent a man instead of coming herself.
“Mrs. Dudley,” he said with a bow. “I regret to remind you that I am no longer—”
“This is not about that,” she said, climbing the steps and moving close enough to whisper to him. “This is about Lilly.”
“I must also remind you, I am not a midwife.”
“She has delivered,” Mrs. Dudley said. “Three days ago. And now she is in a terrible way. I know you are not supposed to, and I will understand if you do not wish to be associated—”
“No,” he said. “Let me get my things.”
He hurried back and called for his doctor's bag and his coat, one of the shabbier ones. “A patient,” was all he said, but from his clothing, the patient was obviously not the prince. Doctor Maddox excused himself and kissed his wife good-bye before joining the madam in her carriage. “Describe her symptoms.”
“She has a fever and is bleeding a lot. We called the midwife back, but she could do nothing. And Lilly is in great pain.”
He nodded. He had already made his diagnosis, but he would not announce it until he saw the woman. They traveled across Town, to lodgings near the old house, and Dr. Maddox followed her up a set of very creaky steps to a tiny room where Lilly lay on the bed, barely covered, with some of her blanket spotted with blood.
“Miss Garrison,” Doctor Maddox said with all his doctorly formality, rousing her from her resting state.
“Doc?” Her eyes, somewhat unfocused when he brought the lamp up to see her properly, seemed to look hi
m over as if he had arrived from heaven.
“Yes, Lilly,” he said, and took her pulse and put his hand against her forehead. She had a raging fever, but the rest of her body was sweaty and cold. “Tell me where it hurts. Anywhere other than your feminine region?”
“So proper,” she said. “No. Just—yeh know.”
“Yes. If you wouldn't mind me doing a small inspection—”
“Plenty a men 'ave seen it, doc. Yeh know that.”
“That does not prevent me asking permission,” he said. Opening his bag, he removed his spectacles, which were monstrously expensive and did not work quite as well as his own eyes, but he used them exclusively when he had something he wanted to see clearly without getting in close range. He pulled up the blanket and asked the Madame to hold up the light so he could see. The smell itself was overpowering, so it was not hard to make his diagnosis. The problem was how to do it. He looked at the Madame grimly, but she did not seem surprised.
It was Lilly herself who sounded annoyed at the delay. “Out with it.”
Maddox took the spectacles off, replaced his normal glasses, and pulled up a chair by her side. “The tissue in your canal is torn from the birth, and it is infected.”
“From that terrible look on yer face, yeh might's'well just say it.”
He did not like this part. “Childbed fever, Lilly. The result of a great struggle to bring a child into this world.”
She must have known, even with some of her senses left from days of pain and fever, that there was nothing he could do. Infection could hardly be prevented, much less cured. Still, it was horrible not only to know that but also to watch the clear reaction on her face, the way she didn't question him for a magic pill or at least something to help.
The Plight of the Darcy Brothers Page 22
