The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (23 page)

Read The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Online

Authors: Marsha Altman

As he could not expect his wife and children to arrive very soon in their carriages, Darcy rose in the morning after a fitful sleep and ventured to the Bradley household. George and Isabel Wickham immediately offered to visit their uncle, having not been previously informed (the former Mrs.Wickham showed no particular interest, but that was expected).
“Uncle Grégoire!” Isabel Wickham shouted as she ran into his room. He did his best to welcome her, but could only manage to shake her hand. They had managed to flip him onto his other side, because his arm was getting sore. “Why didn't you tell us you were sick?”
“Some things sneak up on me,” he said, his voice barely above a gasp.
George was next. He bowed. “Uncle Grégoire.”
“George.” He smiled. “You look just like your father.”
“I know,” he answered.
“It—it isn't a bad thing,” Grégoire said, not apologizing. He was speaking naturally, if in a very weak voice. “Your father gave his life to save Darcy and me. He was a great man for that alone. Whatever…anyone else says…is nonsense.” He reached out and touched George's face. “I have heard from Darcy about you. You would make your father proud.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” George said, not sure what to make of his comment. People either said bad things about George Wickham
the older or nothing at all. “When you recover—will you help me with some Greek? Because I'm not going to Eton or Harrow—”
“I would be honored,” Grégoire said with a smile.
George observed his uncle was drifting off. “I'll be back tomorrow, or the next day. Rest, Uncle Grégoire.”
“Bless you, George.”
George nodded and stepped out of the room, making way for Dr. Maddox to enter. Outside, his sister was waiting.
“He's going to be all right, isn't he?” Isabel said.
“I think so,” he answered.
“He doesn't look good.”
“I know. He's been sick for a long time, but he's better now.”
“I have so many uncles and he's the nicest.” She was instantly aware of shuffling in the background. “Oh, Uncle Darcy, I did not mean—”
He smiled. “No matter. Grégoire is gifted with the most generous disposition of us all. I won't deny it.” He gave her a reassuring pat. “He will be fine.”
“Can I bring my cat? Do you think he'd like that?”
“Perhaps. Ask Mrs. Maddox first.”
She curtsied and ran off to do so, leaving Darcy with George. “How is your mother?”
“Fine. Brandon has started sleeping through the night.”
“Good for all of you, I imagine.”
George nodded. “Is everyone else coming?”
“Yes, I just rode on ahead in a panic. Aunt Darcy should be here tonight or tomorrow morning with your cousins.”
He said in a lower voice, “Is he going to be all right?”
“Physically, I'm told, yes. But he needs support that no one knows how to give him. Beyond that, everyone has to find their own way.” That wasn't true, entirely; from his first breath, Fitzwilliam Darcy had been destined to be master of Pemberley and had time for no other occupation. Younger sons, sons without estates but with money—they had freedom, but little occupation for them.
George might be happy in the Church of England; Grégoire would not. Or maybe Grégoire would surprise them all. He was certainly quite capable of doing so.
Their reverie was interrupted by Emily Maddox. “Mr. Darcy! George!”
“Hello, Miss Maddox,” Darcy said. “What do you have there?”
She had in her hands a sheet of paper. “It's a gift—for Grégoire.” Before either of them could protest, she ran straight to the door and opened it on her father, who was just exiting. “Papa, can I see him?”
“He's just had his medicine, so you can try, but he might not stay awake.”
“She seems rather eager to try,” Darcy said.
Dr. Maddox could deny his daughter nothing, and they reentered the room, where Grégoire looked at Emily with glassy eyes. “Hello.”
“I made you a picture. Mama says I have to learn drawing, and I was tired of making pictures of flowers and buildings.”
“Oh.” His eyelids closed.
Dr. Maddox plucked the picture out of her hands, which was fairly well drawn for an eight-year-old. “It seems to be you, Grégoire, and—a man I don't recognize. He has a halo.”
“Papa! He's Jesus. Don't you know what Jesus looks like?”
Grégoire, who had not gone to sleep quite yet, smiled. “Let me see.” He opened his eyes as Dr. Maddox held the picture up. “I seem to be—yes, I am holding hands with Jesus.” It was a drawing of him in a monk's brown robe and Jesus in a blue robe, with a beard and a halo. “Why are we each holding boxes?”
“I asked Father LeBlanc what a monk was, and he said a monk was a man who devoted his life to God the Father. So I thought you must be friends with his son.”
“Yes,” Dr. Maddox said in amusement, “but why are they holding boxes?”
Emily grinned. “Because they're going shopping! Don't you know
anything
, Papa?”
Grégoire laughed into the pillow. “Why…why am I going shopping with Our Lord and Savior?”
“Well, it's what Mama does with
her
friends.”
Dr. Maddox had a hard time containing his laughter. “Would you like me to put it up, Grégoire?”
“Please…
after
you show Mrs. Maddox.”
The rest of the day brought something they had not expected—rain. It descended on London from the north, so they could only assume the carriages from Derbyshire would be further delayed by weather. A well-muddied rider arrived to say just that—that Mrs. Darcy and the children were stuck at an inn until it relented; more waiting, and another restless night for Darcy. He had slept without Elizabeth before, but not in Town when he was so disturbed and needed her. More important, Grégoire needed her. He needed to see the children—he loved the children.
Maybe Grégoire could run an orphanage
, he thought.
Or run a school. He would enjoy a life of charity and he adores children
. But Darcy could not bring himself to start discussing possibilities. Grégoire slept most of the time, waking mostly when his medicine wore off,, clearly in terrible pain. He would grapple with things later. Darcy bothered him no further. Darcy spent the afternoon watching him sleep, wondering what else he could have done.
Maybe now I can convince him to get married and have some children of his own. I would have to be subtle
.
Brian and Nadezhda had not returned to their home outside Town yet. Brian had business to attend to, and they wanted to hover over their former charge as much as anyone else. It was Brian who produced a letter during one of the hours when Grégoire was both awake and aware. It was still sealed. “This is from the abbot. He said it would bring you some comfort. Do you wish me to open it?”
Grégoire nodded.
Brian broke the seal, revealing several pages of Latin. “This may
have to wait. We have your spectacles—we were allowed to take your spectacles and portraits of your family.”
“Can someone read it to me?” Grégoire asked. “If it is not too much trouble.”
“I haven't used my Latin since Cambridge,” Darcy said.
“I didn't go to Cambridge,” Brian added. “I'll get Daniel.”
They summoned Dr. Maddox, who was, of course, obliging. “My pronunciation will probably be terrible, but I think I can read it aloud.”
Grégoire begged for him to do so. Darcy and Brian excused themselves, shutting the door behind them. Whatever was between the abbot and the monk whose life he had destroyed was certainly private, even if it was in a foreign tongue.
Dr. Maddox cleared his throat. “My apologies for any horrible mispronunciations.”
“That is fine,” Grégoire said. “I am a most willing listener.”
The doctor nodded and began, not entirely understanding the lines he was saying, but getting the general sense of it as he went along. If Grégoire did not understand anything, he gave no indication.
Dear Grégoire Bellamont-Darcy,
I can imagine what you are going through, though I am old and I may be entirely incorrect in my assumptions, and you may find yourself already well and happily settled in England. If this is true, then you will find no comfort in these words, but they may not be upsetting either. My intent for this missive is twofold: to explain fully my actions, so that you know how and why you came to be where you are now, and to confess to you my sins, for I cannot be forgiven otherwise.You have no obligation to feel any tenderness toward me, for I deserve none, but I cannot find any solace until I have at least begun my confession. If you do not wish to hear it, toss it in the fire. But I wish to write it.
I must begin in Cesena, where I was born and raised with my younger brother, Barnaba Niccolò Maria Luigi Chiaramonti, now the vicar of Christ, Pope Pius VII. To the subject at hand, my brother went into the church, as was our family's tradition for younger sons, or even older sons if they aspired to power. He became a Benedictine and wrote home about his life in the monastery of Santa Maria del Monte of Cesena. I was never much one for politics, which are the bread and butter of an Italian family of wealth and power, and the quiet life was an attraction to me for the same reason it is to many people—an escape from the requirements of a normal life. My father did not oppose me becoming a novice even at a very young age, as he already had one secular son and two daughters, and the church could be a secular occupation as well as a religious one, should I ever incline in that direction. It was decided, however, that I would not join the same monastery as my brother, lest it be thought that I was merely following in his footsteps. I went instead to San Gregorio (coincidentally, this was the name my brother took for himself upon taking his vows—your name, Gregorio) and I took the cowl at fifteen. I confess that though I enjoyed the community to which I had vowed my life, I longed for other experiences—I confess to you now, not all were good, especially when I was a man of eighteen. My abbot sent me abroad, thinking I would either abandon my order quietly and respectfully outside the Roman sphere, or I would work out my feelings there and return satiated. I traveled first to the Holy Land, and was blessed to see the site of our Lord's crucifixion. There was no doubt in my mind that I would never leave the church, though I might think about straying from it or feel frustrations, as does any human being.
I was sent north to the Turkish empire's capital, and failed in my mission to convert the Turks to Christianity. They remain Muslims to this day.
That summer, I continued my journey to Bucharest, where I was charged with delivering messages to the brothers and bishops
there, who were in conflict with the Orthodox church. I lodged in an apartment, and every morning, a young Slavic woman brought me fresh milk. Needless to say, I was as tempted as any man my age, and proved that summer that I was no saint. At the time I regretted it, but put no stop to it; that was brought on by the order for my return to my monastery, which precipitated a great depression. This seemed to surprise my lover, who said she had known many a priest (though, she said, none so handsome as myself) who unmade himself as easily as any married man who promised never to stray from his wife, broke his vow, and then, of course, returned home for supper, so to speak. At this, I dropped to my knees and began to pray for God's forgiveness, and she said something to me that has stayed with me. “You think you are so pious—the apostles all sinned and you cannot?”
Our parting was tender, and I learned a good deal more humility from her than I ever learned from the Discipline. When I returned, much to my surprise, the abbot asked me to perform penance for my sins (which I most dutifully did) but was not impressed by my tale of sinful woe. “I do not know anyone in the church who has not done the same thing at one point, except those who have never left the doors of the monastery since their entrance—and they are often guilty of much greater crimes of the flesh.” He was as forgiving as was permitted within the Rule, for which I am forever grateful.
I had now been ten years in the Brotherhood of St. Benedict and my brother fifteen, and our father was growing impatient. My esteemed brother seemed interested in nothing but his daily labors of copying manuscripts, and my father desired that at least one of us aspire to a cardinalship. I was feeling particularly eager to please someone, and so against my instincts I accepted a small bishopric near the papal lands, which required me to often be in Rome, and there I lingered for the most miserable years of my life. His Holiness Pope Pius VI was a good man, but very political, and concerned with Jesuit policies and agricultural reforms, and throwing off the
yoke of France. None of this interested me, and all of the other things the city offered me were not to my taste, besides the usual pilgrimage sites and prayer. Rome, as you no doubt saw while you were there, was a city like any other city; it proposed to be something different, but there was sin there. It was nothing like the horrible tales from the days before the Reformation, of which there remained daily reminders, but it was still not what I sought. I do hear that His Holiness appeared rather unfavorably in some fiction by the Marquis de Sade, which is unfortunate. I would never read such literature, but I would assume, based on the barest of things I have heard, that he was not given credit as a vicar of Christ.
It was upon my father's death that I, when finished grieving, was free to request a transfer. I accepted a bishopric near Oviedo, and as you know, eventually became archbishop of the region. At the same time, my brother emerged from monastic hiding. As he rose through the ranks of Rome, apparently without being tainted by anything there, I wrote to him of my own despair even at the politics of Spain, and he encouraged me to do as I pleased with my life. Eventually, I gathered the courage to request the position of abbot at what is now my abbey. I had dined there on many occasions and spent time with the monks, and knew the former abbot, and was there at his death. It was an easy transition, and I was happy again, and marveled at how I had ever fully served God while in a state of misery, for is this world not created to be loved as a work of the Lord?
My life from then was as you know it, until your arrival, though that did not at first bring a great change. Over the years, many monasteries had been dissolved for one reason or another, and I had seen many monks come looking for lodgings, Benedictine and others.You I saw as another child of the world, of mixed parentage, heritage, and culture. How little I understood, to think there was not something greater in you, though you were in the first year a delight in the earnestness with which you took to your chores.
You will perhaps recall the conversation we had some months ago concerning your work with the people. As to the rumors being spread about you working miracles on the sick populace, I had my doubts for the same reason that you denied them being miracles—people are easier to take to superstition than scientific fact. How strange for a man of faith to say that, but it is nonetheless true. And we both know that some, perhaps all, of the miracles you worked were mere coincidence, or your wonderful herb garden, which I fear will wither away in your absence. I was not surprised when you turned down the job of prior, but I was saddened that I would see less of you, as you were so often out with the people, doing your work there and not within the monastery walls.
I do not know how the talk of miracles reached beyond the abbey gates, but it could have been any brother passing on information he had heard. There were those who spoke against you, saying that you were proclaiming yourself a miracle worker. These claims were easily dismissed. The townspeople denied you made such claims, instead assigning it all to God and medicine, so no fault could be found. I thought then, Lord, if you would see fit to continue Brother Grégoire on this path, he would do much good for the poor of the coast.
It was in innocence that the matter of your yearly inheritance and its use as charity was uncovered. A certain person along the chain of people in the banker's employ (whose name I will leave out) happened to mention it in a conversation with his priest, and that priest told the bishop, and the bishop wrote to me
I confess that I understand your motives completely.Your brother's advice is sound; handle your own money and give it as you see fit, rather than put it in the pockets of the church, where it might disappear. (Your brother and I see with the same eyes here.) However that is not the Rule, and I must and do take the Rule seriously, so I knew you could not escape punishment, but I hoped that it would simply be a matter of confession, punishment, repentance, and absolution, and some change in the agreement with
your brother in England. I told the bishop that he would never see your entire fortune, which he did seek, for I knew enough of the world to know that your brother would simply freeze the funds, and be right to do so. I thought that would temper the bishop's thirst. I shall never know if it would have; the events that followed took us on another path entirely.
The revelation of the cilicium—the hairshirt—was devastating to me. It was very noble and pious of you, and done only with the best intentions, and to some extent brought out the best in us, but the worst of us as well. I have no doubt that had you died from your injuries, you would have been taken to Rome and canonized as quickly as possible. And had you lived and stayed here, you would have been hounded by church hierarchs to go to Rome. I could not see a life so young ruined by a simple misunderstanding of what a miracle is. Excommunicating you from the order was the only way I had to protect you from Rome, be you alive or dead, without indicating that your soul was damned.
You are not damned. There is no stain on your soul, and you should go forth and live a pious life without fear because of what I wrote on a document. I did not mean half the words on them; it was a protective measure. I bless you in thoughts and prayers every day and will continue to do so, and I doubt anyone touched by your presence here at the abbey would do otherwise.
I will tell you one final thing, which I cannot properly account for. On the day the infection was discovered, a week after the punishment, the doctor reopened his own stitches and you bled terribly, so much that we had to collect it in a basin beneath your bed. Feeling ill myself, and knowing you were close to death, I wandered to the herbarium, looking for a little ginger for my beer. There was a monk there I did not recognize. Oddly, I did not become alarmed at seeing an unfamiliar person in the abbey, though I did question him. He said he was a friend of yours, a fellow Englishman. He had a beard and spoke Latin in a strange accent, if that is any significance to you. I asked him if he would
pray with us, as the bell had just rung for Vespers, and he said he would pray for you, but that he was sure that by God's grace you would live. We walked to the chapel together, but somehow I lost him along the way, and never saw him again. I am not overly inclined to question this event, for I was so overjoyed with the news that I felt I had good reason to believe, and lo, even now I do not entirely question whether you survived the journey.
Go and do as you will. If you ever see fit to forgive me for my sins in my treatment of you, I would be most honored. Go with God, Brother Grégoire.You will always be my brother in Christ.
Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti

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