The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (21 page)

When Dr. Maddox returned to the ground floor, he could hear the servants in the kitchen, getting water heated for him to wash his instruments and his patient. His manservant was gone and probably would be for at least an hour. He washed his hands in a bowl in the kitchen and entered the room, where Nadezhda sat next to the bed, holding Grégoire's hand.

“Is he conscious?”

“He comes in and out.”

He took a seat on the other side of the bed, removing the cover and looking at the wounds again, trying to construct the procedure in his mind. The wounds were not deep, but they were so extensive that they were dangerous. He had probably lost blood when they reopened the wounds, however long ago that was.The surgical thread they used in Spain was inferior; no wonder it had caused infection. He took a sponge and slowly began to wash some of the areas of skin that were uninjured but were caked in dried blood. Grégoire cried out all the same. “I'm sorry, Grégoire, but I have to do this.” He noticed the rosary clutched in the monk's—former monk's—hand was itself filthy with grime and blood. “I will give it right back,” he said as he pulled it from Grégoire's hand.

“Don't—”

“I promise, you'll have it right back.” He dunked the rosary in the water bowl, scraping off the dirt with his hands until it shone again. “There.” He took the opportunity to open Grégoire's hand and wipe it clean before returning the rosary, cross in palm. “Just like new.”

Grégoire nodded into his pillow in affirmation. He was not strong enough to speak further.

“When was the last time he drank something?”

“A few hours now; we were giving him broth on the ship.”

“Then you're a better nursemaid than most of the doctors I know,” he said, and left the room to call for some soup to be heated and brought to them.

Only with Nadezhda's pleading did Grégoire swallow a few spoonfuls. “You need your strength.”

What is left of it,
Dr. Maddox thought.

CHAPTER 14

DR. BERTRAND ARRIVED JUST BEFORE the first rooster crowed. He was quickly introduced to Mrs. Maddox and the doctor's brother and sister-in-law. Then he joined Dr. Maddox alone with the unconscious patient.

“The surgeon will be here by six,” he said. “Mr. Stevens.”

“I know him,” Dr. Maddox said as he removed the covers over Grégoire, giving Bertrand time to make his own visual assessment.

“Who is this?”

“A monk and my cousin through marriage. Or he was a monk until last week.” He frowned. “The problem, as I see it, is if we cut away all the infected flesh, there won't be much to sew back together.”

“Skin from his leg?”

“Too risky.Too many veins.”

Dr. Bertrand nodded. “His arms.”

“I'm not happy about doing it. Have you ever done a skin graft?”

“I've seen it done,” Bertrand said. “But I don't have personal experience with it. On the battlefield, many soldiers need medical attention at the same time. So soldiers as wounded as this patient usually die before I can treat them. Do we know how deep the wounds are?”

“No, but they're fairly superficial, I think we can assume. We must do this quickly. He's already lost blood twice over this. I don't know how much he has left to lose.”

“Who did this? This is a mess.”

“An incompetent physician in Spain,” Dr. Maddox said with disgust. “Twice, too. When the surgeon gets here, we'll begin.You take skin from the arm, I'll handle the back. Mr. Stevens will monitor his pulse and his breathing.” He started opening his medical case and selecting equipment. “Did you sleep or are you just coming straight from duty?”

“I went home early. I haven't slept yet, but I will be fine for another few hours,” he said. “Have you operated on relatives before?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Dr. Maddox replied.

By the time Brian returned with a Catholic priest for Grégoire, the household was awake, aside from the children. Caroline Maddox was writing a letter to the Darcys, telling them to come immediately, knowing full well that Grégoire could be dead in a few hours. Father LeBlanc, who had been appraised of the complex situation on the way, was ushered into the room. “May I have time alone with him, Doctor?”

“Sadly, no,” said Dr. Maddox. “Andrew, you stay.You're not his relative. Wake him up with the salts. Father, this is Dr. Bertrand, who will monitor the patient.” He bowed to the priest and exited as Dr. Bertrand went back to shaving Grégoire's arm.

In the living room, Dr. Maddox collapsed on the couch and called for tea. His brother sat beside him, with Nadezhda leaning on her husband's shoulder, asleep. “It was a long ride home,” Brian explained, not looking particularly rosy himself. “What do you think?”

“It's close,” he replied. “I'm surprised he made it this long.”

“He's a Darcy.They're fighters.”

Dr. Bertrand did succeed in rousing Grégoire with salts, and the ex-monk seemed to be at least semicoherent. “Mr. Darcy, this is Father LeBlanc.”

“Hello, my son,” the priest said. He was an older man, without ornament aside from his black dress and his collar. He put a hand over Grégoire's, which was feverishly tightened around his rosary. “You don't have to say anything, but if you have something you would like to confess—”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Grégoire said. He crossed himself as he lay on his side. “I—I don't know how long it has been…since my last confession.” He blinked, his eyes bloodshot. “I don't know anything.”

“Think. Do you know the date of your last confession?” the priest said softly.

“I—It was after the end of the month, but there was also the confession to Father Abbot; I don't know if that counts.” His voice was weak, his eyes weaker. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned—I don't know anything anymore. I am lost.”

“I was told about the incident in Spain.You were not at fault. The abbot said so to your cousin.”

“I—It doesn't…,” he said and trailed off. “I don't know what I did. I don't know what I'll do. I don't know
anything.
How can I confess?” He was upset. “
How can I confess?
I don't understand if I did anything wrong or what I did that was wrong—I don't know my own sins—”

“You
do
know that God's mercy is boundless,” the priest said. “And that if you have sinned, you are forgiven. And if you feel you are lost, you have a family that will help you find yourself again. They went to great lengths to bring you here.”

“I… am I …where am I?”

“England.You're in London, my son.”

Grégoire did not understand him. “Where is my brother?”

“I've been told he's in Derbyshire. He'll no doubt rush to your side, but that will take time. You'll have to call upon your inner reserves of strength.”

“And what if I can't?” he said. “What if I don't want to?”

Father LeBlanc said slowly, “For this is thankworthy, if for conscience toward God, a man endure sorrows, suffering wrongfully.”

“First Peter, Chapter 2, verse 19.”

“Yes, my son.You are learned.You know that you do not suffer for no reason. God has a greater plan for you.”

Grégoire opened his eyes again. “I'm familiar with the theology. I don't want it to be true. I wanted to lead the life I was leading. Now that I can't, why can't I go in peace?”

“That is not for you to decide. That is the Lord's domain.” Seeing Grégoire's despair, he said, “You have this moment to decide to live or die.You have to choose to go on before you can choose a new path—a new way of life—for yourself.”

Grégoire did not respond with word or gesture. He did, however, remain awake, staring into space for some time.

Then Father LeBlanc removed a piece of paper from his pocket. “I was asked to read this to you. It was written by your cousin, Mr. Maddox.” He cleared his throat. “‘Dear Grégoire: Please do not die. If you do, you will never meet your new nephew.' Oh, dear. I should have read that first.” But he looked up, and Grégoire was smiling. “You have a new nephew?”

“I had just received the letter—before this all began. His name is Robert Kincaid. My sister's first child.”

“I see.You seem to have quite a loving family, there.”

“Yes,” Grégoire said, and he unclenched his fist to take the priest's hand. “I am not at full wit—would you please, Father, say the Hail Mary, so I don't fail to remember it.”

“Of course, my son.” He made the sign of the cross over Grégoire. “
Ave, María, grátia plena, Dóminus tecum. Benedícta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus fructus ventris tui, Iesus
.…”

Grégoire joined him. By the end of it, his voice had faded, and shortly after the “Amen” he had lost consciousness.

Father LeBlanc blessed him again, and stepped out.“The patient, Grégoire, is ready.”

Darcy had ridden for nearly two days, stopping only when his horse was about to collapse and to sleep a few restless hours at an inn. It was the same old road to Town, and most of the innkeepers along the way knew the traveler.The barkeep's wife said something to him about appearing distressed. He ignored the remark. When he got to his room, he collapsed on the bed, waking only a few hours later.

By midafternoon on the second day, he had passed all of the major centers before London itself. It was amazing to think that just the morning before, he had been breakfasting with his wife and about to go shooting with Bingley when the express courier arrived. Pemberley had been thrown into an uproar. Darcy had insisted that Elizabeth take a carriage; Elizabeth had insisted that he not ride so fast as to have an injury along the way, as his brother would be unlikely to appreciate
that.
The letter from Mrs. Maddox said she had written Georgiana as well, but they had sent on a letter anyway, just in case the first was lost. They had told the Bingleys, who lived but three miles from them, and that couple had pledged their support and said they would join them as soon as possible. Mugin, who had been staying with them, had asked directions and taken off on foot.