The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (20 page)

“Of course, Mr. Darcy.We don't have much to offer you—”

“It's not necessary,” Darcy said as they entered the house, which only had a few rooms. Jenkins hurried to get them something to drink; they were offered two glasses of watery beer, which they accepted gratefully. Darcy did not impose on Mrs. Jenkins, an old woman in a rocking chair in her bedroom, exchanging greetings with her as she coughed and sniffled and apologized profusely for not being able to better receive them.

“It's no trouble, I assure you,” Mr. Darcy said.

“And this is the young master?” Mrs. Jenkins said with a smile at Geoffrey. Not only was the heir to Pemberley always a subject of speculation among the locals, but the Jenkinses had a son. That young man had died at Waterloo. “Hello, Mr. Geoffrey.”

“Mrs. Jenkins,” he said, bowing.

That duty finished, Darcy looked around the building as he talked with the husband. “So is it just a cough or is it a cold?”

“It's a cold that comes and goes. She can never seem to be fully rid of it.”

“There's an apothecary by the name of Ashworth in Lambton. He sells mainly tonics, but he has a particular brew for the cough that contains lemon. Ask him for it and tell him I sent you. It costs barely more than a bottle of gin and it does wonders. I use it myself sometimes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy. About the rent—“

Darcy held up his hand.“I have a question for you, if you would.”

“Of course, sir.”

Darcy walked to the end of the hallway, which led to the kitchen with its little stove. Several bottles of different cold remedies sat in the middle of the kitchen table. The logs of wood that were the walls were held together with plaster, and the floor was beaten wood, probably hollow, above a stone foundation. “How long has it been since work was done on this house?”

“I—I don't know, sir. We bought it after we were married, and I used to have a man come by to fix the plaster when there were holes. But he left to find work in London.”

Darcy glanced at his son, and then crouched down and pushed down on the floorboard. The other end went up a little. “Your house must be freezing in the winter.”

“There's always a draft, even in the summer. In the winter, it's terrible, but who doesn't freeze in the winter? This isn't the south.”

Darcy nodded, pacing for a moment before halting over a floorboard that rattled when he stepped on it. “Well, I can explain your increased coal use, and probably your wife's continual cold. The cold air comes up through the floorboards from underneath the house.You need to have your floors done.”

Jenkins laughed quietly. “I can't afford something like that.”

“I happen to have a very good carpenter who owes me a favor. If I sent him over to redo your floors and tighten the plaster, would you agree to the new rent?”

“I don't—yes.” He nodded, as if assuring himself. “But if it's still cold—”

“Then we'll discuss it again, but I don't think it will be. He's a very good carpenter. He redid all the shooting boxes at Pemberley and you could sleep in them.” He offered his hand, this time for business purposes.

Jenkins shook on it. “I agree. May I have an extra week to gather the new rent?”

“You may. My solicitor will be around.” He nodded for his son. “And remember—Mr. Ashworth. If he charges you more than five farthings, tell him I sent you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy.”

They said their good-byes and walked out into the sunlight. They took the long path on the way back, on the road that sloped up gently instead of the steep incline of the grassy hill.

“Do you really have a carpenter who owes you a favor?”

“I don't,” he said to his son. “And it'll be at least twenty pounds to fix that house. Far more than Jenkins could dream of affording.”

Geoffrey knew what he was being asked, and counted on his fingers. “You'll lose money! The increase won't cover it for years.”

“You're discounting the fact that the rent will rise again eventually, most likely, but yes, I have just lost money. Why do you think I did it?”

His son grappled with the idea. “Was it charity?”

“It was, in a sense, but it was not the same as giving money to a beggar. Besides, if I had just offered up money because he was poor and his wife was suffering, why didn't I just give him free lodging? Or hand him coin to pay for his own repairs?” He answered for Geoffrey.“Because it would have insulted him. He's a working man, my boy. He doesn't want to be treated like a beggar. Besides, I had another reason.”

Geoffrey was given ample time to think as they strolled up the path at their leisure. Finally, he said, “I give up.”

“There were two reasons to do it, beyond charity for his sick wife. First, the rents are going up everywhere, equally, and it is bad to show favoritism. If I made an exception for someone because I felt bad for him, word would get around and I would have everyone at our door, telling me their sad stories, true or not. People talk—they compare notes, especially about the rich and what they do. So the rent had to go up, but I brought down his cost of living—he was buying his wife those expensive miracle cures. You
noticed there were a few of them in the kitchen? And, of course, there is the matter of the cost of coal to heat the house.”

“But you
still
lost money.”

“But I
bought
something important—respect. Landlords are despised because people have to pay them money to live in their homes. A landlord who is liked is a hard thing to find. When Mr. Jenkins works out the real price of the renovations, he'll know I did right by him, and if someone raises objections to the way I treat my tenants in some tavern in Lambton, he might say something against it.” He put a hand on his son's back. “It is very important to be liked by the people who owe you money. I would not do this for every tenant, but not every tenant has such an easy problem to solve. So the larger picture is more important in this case. The master of Pemberley must be regarded as a respectable man and even-handed landlord and employer, sometimes even at his own expense.”

“Did Grandfather Darcy tell you that?”

“He did. He was a good master. One of the few things I remember about his funeral was how many of his tenants came out to pay their respects.” He looked at his son's expression. “Do not worry yourself—I've no intention of giving up the ghost anytime soon.” He gave him a playful shake. “That's enough for today.”

“May I go to Kirkland?”

“Yes. But be home before supper!”

“I will!” He bowed quickly to his father before running off ahead of him.

When Darcy had stepped into the role of father to his younger sister, Georgiana Darcy, he had felt despair and grief. When he became a father of his children with his wife by his side, he had felt only delight. Being a good father soothed his mind, which was tired from many nights of uneasy rest that he could not properly explain.

“Dr. Maddox!”

So happily was he asleep that he would have preferred to ignore the call, but it was annoyingly persistent.

“I thought you were retired,” Caroline mumbled next to him as he sat up and reached for his glasses.

“I thought I was, too,” he said, and shambled to the door, throwing on a robe as he did and opening the door just a slit. “Yes?”

“Your brother is here with a patient. He said to get you up immediately, sir.”

“My brother?” He was instantly awake. “Who is the patient? Princess Nadezhda?”

“Grégoire Darcy.”

He did not question what Grégoire Darcy was doing in his house, much less England. He secured his robe with a belt and followed the servant with the lantern down the steps, where he found his brother and sister-in-law bearing a stretcher. “Put him in a room over there, on the extra cot,” he said instantly. “Is he hurt? Or sick?”

“Both.”

He turned to his manservant, who was also in his bedclothes. “Get all my equipment together and my surgical clothes. I'll change in my room in a few minutes.” He grabbed a candlestick and followed Brian and Nadezhda into a spare room he used for minor surgery. A narrow, plain bed sat in the middle of the room. “More light,” he ordered to the servant closest. “And get a maid up to start boiling water. And we'll need ice, too.”

“He's pretty badly hurt,” Brian said. “He can lie only on his side.”

“Align the stretcher with the bed, and we'll transfer him.” He set down the candlestick and stood on the other side of the bed. “Here, Grégoire. Let's see you.” Grégoire did not respond other than to shake, curled up tightly as he was. Fortunately, he was not heavy, and Dr. Maddox was strong enough to safely lift him from the stretcher to the bed. He felt his patient's forehead. “How long has he had a fever?”

“It's been up and down, but more than a week now. We found him like this in Spain. He's barely holding on.”

Nadezhda stroked Grégoire's hair. He was a mess, and had about two week's worth of a shaggy beard. “You're home, Grégoire.”

“Before I cut off his clothes—where are his wounds?”

“On his back,” Brian said. “They beat him for some infraction; nearly killed him. Then the doctor sewed him up badly and it became infected, so the doctor cut him open again to try to treat it, and that didn't help.” He looked up and Dr. Maddox saw fear in his eyes. “It's bad.”

“He's alive,” Dr. Maddox said. “After all this time.”

“He was wearing a hairshirt.”

“A hair-hairshirt?” the doctor stuttered. “Like Thomas Becket?”

“Apparently.”

Dr. Maddox did not have time to pass judgment. The manservant returned with his tools, and the doctor cut away the robe and the bloodied undershirt beneath it, revealing lines of bad stitching, green with infection.The smell was putrid. “I need help to do this.” He turned to his manservant, who handed him his surgical case. “Take one of my cards to Dr. Andrew Bertrand's house. The address is on my desk. If he's not there, track him down; he's probably at Carlton House. And unless the Prince Regent is
actively
dying, get the doctor. I also need a surgeon from the clinic with the Royal Society, so tell Dr. Bertrand that. He'll know how to procure one at this hour. Time is of the absolute essence.”

His manservant, who was accustomed to serving the doctor, simply nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Dr. Maddox turned to his guests, bowing. “Sorry for not properly receiving you, but thank you for coming.”

“Thank God you're here and not in Brighton or Derbyshire,” Brian Maddox said. “Is there anything we can do?”

He thought it over. “A priest, a Catholic one. I have no idea where you would find one, but there's certainly any number of them in London.”

“He was kicked out of the church.You should know that. It's a mess that I'll be happy to explain when we have time, but don't call him Brother Grégoire, because he isn't.”

“But he's not—he can talk to a priest?”

“So I've been told.”

He nodded and embraced his brother. “It's good to see you, by the way.”

“You too, Danny.”

Maddox bowed to Nadezhda. “Your Highness. Could you watch him while I prepare myself?”

“Of course.”

He had no time for further discussion. He hurried into his bedroom, which he had not used in weeks, and quickly dressed himself in his worst clothes and a black apron. He stepped out of the door to be greeted by his wife in her nightgown, leaning on the door frame of her chamber. “What is it?”

“Grégoire is badly wounded and needs surgery.”

She was clearly not awake enough to fully comprehend, but she nodded anyway. “Does Darcy know?”

“I have no idea. Brian and Nadezhda have just arrived and Darcy is in Derbyshire, so I imagine not.”

“You're nervous.”

He was usually good at hiding it. “No, I'm not.”

“Do you think he will die?”

He sighed. “I don't know. It will be close.”

She embraced him, kissing him softly. “You're the best surgeon in England. He'll be fine.”

“How do you always know what to say to me?”

She gave him a little smile. “I've been your wife for a while now.”