The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (22 page)

“God protect you on your journey,” Elizabeth had said as she kissed her husband good-bye. Grégoire, she knew, was probably already dead and had been so for at least a day.The condition Mrs. Maddox had described in her letter was not particularly encouraging (the former Miss Caroline Bingley was not very good at false encouragement, so she made no attempt).

Why hadn't he gone to Spain? Darcy went through all his reasons. The situation had not seemed dire. He had sent someone in his stead, who was probably still wandering around Madrid. He had written Grégoire and expected a response. He also didn't much care to leave England, but that was beside the point—he would have done it without hesitation if he had known Grégoire was in
trouble. Again. But he had had the foresight to send Mr. Maddox, thank God.That was his only consolation on the desperate journey.

He arrived in town barely able to stand, and with his horse in a similar condition. Not bothering with anything else, he went immediately to the Maddox townhouse. The doorman was standing just outside. “Mr.—”

He ignored him. Dr. Maddox had the poor fortune to be stepping out of his study, in plain view and ready to be assaulted by a dirt-covered, anxious Darcy. But before Darcy could say anything, Maddox said calmly, “He's alive.”

“Where—”

He pointed to a side room. “His fever broke this morning. He has defeated one infection; as long as he does not develop another, he should be all right.”When Darcy tried to move toward the door, Maddox grabbed him by the arm hard enough to hold him back. “Take a moment for yourself. He's not well. It would be better if he saw you in a calmer state.”

“What do you mean, he's not well?”

“He had a fever for more than two weeks, and though he's not senseless, his memories of what happened before and since it are not intact. Also, he's been tossed from the church.”

Darcy did allow the doorman to remove his soiled overcoat and hat, and provide him with a wet cloth to wash off his face. Dr. Maddox waited patiently with him, guiding him into the sitting room and calling for tea. It was dusk now, and with the light went Darcy's energy, but it was still hard for him to break from the state of heightened alarm he had been in for so long. “What happened?”

“I don't fully understand. The church hierarchs were cruel to him about holding back his money from the church, and the abbot thought he would be better protected if he left the church entirely. Or so I have been told. The story Brian told is a convoluted one.” “But Grégoire is safe.”

“He's lost everything,” he said. “You know that the church was his life.”

Darcy, who gladly accepted the tea to slake his thirst—he would have accepted anything wet—nodded. So many emotions ran through his head that he could not pick one. “Does he know? Does he remember?”

“Unfortunately, yes, he does remember
that.
When you talk to him, don't speak ill of the church. I know there is a temptation, but it would do him no good to hear it.”

“I understand.” He didn't, but he understood the message. “I assume there was—work done on him?”

“Yes. I will discuss the surgery after you've seen him. He can't be moved, and the stitches can't come out for at least another few days, but aside from his skin, he is not permanently injured.”

“I don't know what you did,” Darcy said, “but thank you.”

“Thank my brother for getting him here in time,” Dr. Maddox said.

Minutes later, Darcy entered his brother's room, more calmly than he was inclined. Grégoire was on his side, wearing a white shirt over layers of bandages wrapped around his torso. He had a small beard, and fuzz on his head from where his tonsure had been. He seemed only half aware of his surroundings as Darcy pulled up a seat beside him and took his hand. “Brother—”

“Grégoire,” Darcy said. “I'm here.”

Grégoire just nodded. He was not capable of much other movement. He was pale and sickly looking, but that was to be expected.

“I'm here,” Darcy repeated, to reassure himself that it was true. He stroked Grégoire's hair. It was so much like Geoffrey's. “Elizabeth and the children are on the way, but I rode ahead.They should be here perhaps tomorrow night. And Georgiana—I don't know if she can come, but I'm sure she will if she can.”

“How is she?”

“Radiant. She thoroughly enjoys being a mother. And Robert is…well, the second most beautiful boy in the entire world. The top prize belongs to
my
son, but do not dare tell her I said that.”

Grégoire smiled weakly. “I promise. How is Geoffrey?”

“You won't recognize him. He is a head taller than when you saw him last. Anne is forever demanding rides on his back. And then Sarah does the same thing, and then Cassandra does it as well. With three sisters who adore him, he hardly gets a moment alone.” Grégoire seemed to be enjoying listening, so he continued. “Bingley's children are well. Georgiana—well, I suppose she'll be out in society in a few years. I can hardly imagine it. She went to Ireland with Her Highness while Mr. Maddox and Bingley were gone.”

“Bingley's returned from India?”

“Yes, he came back with Brian. Didn't—”

“My mind,” Grégoire said, “is a blur. I did not connect the two events. How is he?”

“His usual overexcited self. He is coming to see you—they all are,” he said. “And I'll bring George and Isabel around. George is—well, you will be impressed. He looks just like his father, but is growing into a responsible and respectable man. And a scholar. Who knows, he may end up in the church—” He cut himself off, as if some alarm had rung in his mind.

“You can say it,” Grégoire said weakly, “but I have no advice for him there.”

He swallowed. “I was advised not to discuss the topic with you. I know you are hurt and…” He bit his lip. “I don't know what to make of it.”

“I don't either,” Grégoire said. His voice was slowly declining into a hoarse whisper, but he gave no indication of wanting the conversation to end. “I am lost.”

“You were wronged.”

“It doesn't matter,” he said. “I have not the strength to be angry. And I look ahead and see nothing.”

“You are a man with a great fortune, a loving family, and no obligations. Many people would trade anything to be in your position.”

“I pledged myself to God, Darcy,” Grégoire rasped. “How am I to fulfill that now?”

Darcy knew not to contradict Grégoire about his obligations. Grégoire Darcy would never be an English gentleman. He would never settle for a position in the Anglican church. Darcy felt despair. “I have no wisdom for you,” he said, his voice wavering. “What kind of answer is that? I can comfort my wife when she is in crisis, or counsel my son in his anxieties about his responsibilities, or reassure my sister when she needs it. But I can think of nothing for you.” He pinched his eyes, mainly from exhaustion but also because he did not want to show his tears. “I have failed as a brother. I could not lead Wickham to the right path, and I don't even know what yours is. How can I guide you? How can I help you?”

Grégoire did not answer for some time. Darcy, ashamed to look at him, wondered if he had fallen asleep. Then Grégoire spoke. “You can help me by getting the doctor. I need my pain medicine to sit up, and I am eager to do so.”

Darcy nodded. “Yes, of course.” He found Dr. Maddox in his study. “My brother asked me—”

Dr. Maddox looked at his watch. “Yes, it's time for his medicine.” He took Darcy back to the sickroom, where he shook a green bottle and fed Grégoire a spoonful of his opium tonic. “He'll probably go back to sleep now.”

“I'll stay with him.”

The doctor nodded and excused himself. Darcy turned back to his brother, who was attempting to sit up but failing. “What happened to your arms?”

“The bandages on my forearms?” Grégoire said. “I think—Dr. Maddox may have said he needed more skin for my back. Or I may have misheard him. Either way, the bandages are new.” Slowly, and evidently painfully, he came to a sitting position, using the pillows and Darcy's arms to hold him up. “It's half past seven, isn't it?”

Darcy looked at his pocket watch. “It is. Precisely. How did you know?”

“Compline. It's time for Compline,” he said. “Will you hold me up so I can say psalms?”

Darcy offered no argument. Grégoire leaned on him, whispering to himself in Latin and holding his rosary. This lasted a good ten minutes until he dropped off right in Darcy's arms. Darcy laid his brother back down on the bed, and kissed him on the head.

It was all he could think to do.

CHAPTER 15

IT WAS AN UNSPOKEN AGREEMENT that Darcy would stay with his brother at the Maddox house. After he had dinner and a bath, he sat down with Brian and Nadezhda Maddox, who told the story as best they understood it, based on what the abbot had told them.

“So they beat him almost to death for honoring his father's wishes,” Darcy said, holding back his emotions, “and then they decided he was a saint instead and made plans to honor him in Rome without his consent?”

“Yes,” Brian said. “There were also plans to inter him in Rome if he died, but Grégoire had told the abbot when he joined the monastery that he wanted to be buried at Pemberley instead of with the other monks in the abbey graveyard.The abbot wanted to honor his wishes.”

“And the abbot stood up to his archbishop?”

“The politics of Rome are complex. Apparently his brother is the pope,” Brian said. “Casting him out of his order was the only way to save him—physically—without damning his soul. He can be a layman, but never more than that without permission from his former abbot.”

Darcy digested this silently.

“This may be poor consolation,” Brian said, “but that abbot did everything he could for your brother. After the fact, yes, but he still did it. He was very upset about the situation.”

It was little consolation, but Darcy nodded. He excused himself to check one last time on Grégoire, who was asleep, and then headed upstairs. He met Caroline Maddox on the way. “Mrs. Maddox.”

“Mr. Darcy.”

“Thank you for writing,” he said. “I wrote to my sister, but I do not know if she can come down.”

“If you haven't been told—Daniel's new assistant for the Prince Regent was called in, along with a student surgeon. Daniel was terrified that he wouldn't save Grégoire.”

“I am grateful to your husband.”

They nodded to each other, and Darcy took his leave, retiring immediately. Caroline continued down the hallway, where she heard her husband talking to Brian and Nadezhda.

“I noticed you didn't mention the hairshirt.” The damage from it was obvious to a doctor like Maddox.

“I'm not going to be the one to tell him that,” Brian said. “I think it's better if he doesn't know. If you want to tell him, that's another matter.”

“I've always believed in patient confidentiality.”

Feeling a little guilty for listening in on a conversation (something she rarely felt guilty about), she joined them quickly. “What is this about?”

Dr. Maddox looked up at her from the armchair. “He was wearing a hairshirt for years before this. That was why his wounds were so severe.”

“What's a hairshirt?”

“It's a device made to mortify the flesh—you wear it as an undershirt and it slowly tears at your skin,” Brian said. “Thomas Becket wore one.”

“The English saint? The archbishop?”

“The very one,” her husband said. “After he was murdered by the king's knights, the men sent to strip him found he was wearing
a hairshirt, presumably as penance for almost giving in to King Henry's demands for more power over the church. For his suffering, he was made a saint.” He added, “Which was probably the precise thing on the church hierarchs' minds after Grégoire's initial punishment.”

“The abbot was right in sending him away,” Nadezhda said. “Politically for Grégoire, it was the right thing to do.”

“But that doesn't make it easier,” Dr. Maddox said.