The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (40 page)

“Charles?”

“Mmm?”

“What did I say about Monkey in my chamber?”

It took him a moment to recall. When she said his name, after all, he had been fast asleep, and waking up beside his wife the day after Christmas, he didn't wish to be alarmed by anything. He snaked his arm across her belly. “Why do you ask?”

“Open your eyes, dear.”

Reluctantly he complied, and his eyes came to focus on Monkey, sleeping on their pristine white sheets in the space between their legs. He was mostly covered in something brown that looked like mud and his trail to the bed was obvious by the tracks. “Monkey?”

No response.

He sat up and picked up his animal, who stirred with a little squeal and then settled into his chest, and he lay back down.

“Charles?”

“What? Oh, come on, he's been so good as of late, we can't—Is that chocolate? It smells like it. And something else, too.” He picked off a mushy lump and licked it. “It's Christmas pudding. And…port, I think.”

Jane cracked a smile. “Do we even want to know why our animal is covered in Christmas pudding and spirits?”

“So you admit he's
our
animal?”

“Only if you will bother to notice he's staining your lovely Indian bedclothes.”

He patted Monkey on the head.“I would, but as it seems I will be spending the day interrogating our children as to how this came to be, which is not something I relish, I will enjoy this moment, in bed with my wife and a chocolate-covered, possibly hung-over monkey.”

Many hours later, when it was all sorted out that some of the children had gotten into the port and the pudding and then let
Monkey into both (the last being hardly the least of their crimes), the children were sent to their respective chambers to sit (on pillows) and think about what they had done, and their parents were left to endure the laughter from the parents of the children who
had
behaved.

“The first time I was drunk was with Wickham, and I was but nine,” Darcy said. “So we must keep a sense of perspective.”

Eventually, the animosity between parents and naughty children receded, and life returned to normal as they awaited the approach of the New Year. It was during that period that it snowed at Longbourn, to the delight of the children. While most of the staff were outside, making sure that the children didn't hurt themselves or get sick, Darcy noticed that George was alone in the library (where the mess had been thoroughly cleaned up and the port moved), staring out the window as his younger cousins played.

“George,” he said, “there is something I should tell you.”

George did his best to hide that he knew something of what was coming. Fortunately, it turned out that there was enough new information to intrigue him. Either Geoffrey did not know the half of it, did not understand it, or had not been told the contents of Great-Uncle Gregory's journal. Each possibility could be real, but he did not speculate. There was too much to think on.

His Uncle Darcy's unspoken message was clear; he understood Gregory Darcy's suffering and he knew that George did, too, on a level that the others didn't. It was just too painful to actually say.

“Our conclusion,” Darcy said, “was that what could have been a minor social handicap was exacerbated by incompetent doctoring. Many people would be driven mad by the treatments he describes. He even wrote that he begged your grandfather to stop the treatments, and he agreed.” This was not an easy subject for either of them. Darcy mostly looked away, out the window or toward the fireplace. “For all of my father's faults, which are detailed in the journals, I believe he did learn from watching his brother suffer, and could not bear to subject me to the same thing.Which is why
I am here today, a family man with a wonderful marriage, a healthy estate, and a horde of screaming children. And not on some island.”

“I don't want this burden,” George said in despair.

“I know.” Darcy put a hand on his nephew's shoulder. “But you have something that Gregory did not have—you are not alone.And never will be. That, I promise you.”

Fitzwilliam Darcy was not known to make promises lightly. That knowledge alone made it so much easier to bear.

CHAPTER 26

GRÉGOIRE, WHO HAD NEVER been so far north, passed the holidays with the Kincaids at their estate in ____shire. Not only could he shower attention on his youngest nephew, he also found that William Kincaid was a scholar in his two favorite subjects, religion and history. William Kincaid was a staunch Presbyterian, but only in the way that debates with Grégoire amused him. One afternoon in early January, they discussed predestination: people were selected for heaven before they were born and there was nothing anyone could do to change their fate.

“We must assume that the Lord knows who is saved and who is damned before they are even born, because he is omnipotent. So our fates are decided.”

“Not
decided
,” Grégoire said. “Just
known.
I still prefer to think that my actions in this life determine my fate in the next life. Otherwise, we're wasting our time, and might as well be off fishing or something.”

“The lake is frozen.”

“Then skating. I don't know!”

“So we have reached a tie,” Kincaid said as his wife entered, carrying their son. “Dearest, you must settle this debate for us. We need a deciding vote.”

“There is no tie! You just refuse to give in to logic!”

Georgiana cast an amused glance at her brother, and then said, “And what are we debating?”

“If we have any chance of salvation by being good people or if we should all just go skating instead,” Kincaid said. “Or ice fishing. Yes. I suppose we could do that.”

“Can't we do both?” she said.“Go skating and still go to heaven?”

“I like her opinion,” Grégoire said.

“I agree,” Kincaid said. “Georgiana, you have won the day.”

“Then be a dear and take our son off my hands for a few minutes!”

“Let me,” Grégoire offered, and took the infant into his arms. Robert was now six months, and could stand—with help—on Grégoire's knees. “Look at you. Are you bothering your mother?” Robert giggled as Grégoire tickled his stomach. Georgiana took a seat at their long table and poured herself a cup of tea.

“You're so talented with children,”William said. “I suppose your family has already mentioned the idea of having some of your own.”

“Mentioned it, yes,” Grégoire said. “I…well, I was never in a position to think of such things before. Besides, there are many orphans who need a parent.”

William shook his head. “You're so intent to bypass the fun part? There's a worthwhile debate with a logical conclusion.”

Grégoire just blushed, and Georgiana put a hand over her husband's own. “Leave my poor brother alone. He gets enough of this from Darcy.” She turned to her brother. “Do you have any more mundane ideas for what you might like to do in the spring?”

“Yes,” he said. “Go to Ireland.”

“Indeed!” his sister replied.

“I have traveled most extensively, but never on my own and without a Rule to guide me. And I have never been to Ireland. St. Bede wrote extensively about his travels and their merits.”

William shook his head.

“Yes, the father of English history,” Grégoire said. “Excuse me, the father of the history of those invading Saxon bastards.”

“Grégoire!” Georgiana cried, but her reaction was muted by the sound of her husband's laughter.

“So,”William Kincaid said,“what is it about St. Bede and Ireland?”

Grégoire balanced his nephew on one knee. “He never visited the place, but he knew of it, and the church there, which had yet to be fully Latinized. There are many holy sites in Ireland.”

“You want to make a pilgrimage, then?”

“I doubt that any of the sites are still there except the actual ground itself,” Grégoire said, “but yes, perhaps I do.”

The Darcys and the Bingleys returned before the hard snows set in, but when they did, they received no visitors, only the occasional postman with a stack of late letters. Grégoire had returned in time as well, and for months they were all prisoners together within the walls of Pemberley, emerging only occasionally to go to Kirkland or Lambton, but no farther.

In February, an alarming letter came in the post. Or, it would have been alarming, had it been phrased in a less nonchalant manner, but as the authoress was Caroline Maddox, the offhandedness could only be expected. It was sent to Jane, with permission to give the news to her family and the Darcys.