The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (26 page)

“From pawning them?” Bingley said. “Goodness.”

“I hope this was from the bandits,” Brian said, “and not from the duchess' jewelry box when she wasn't looking.”

“You take me for thief?” Mugin said. “You wait; I
am
thief.”

“I take it you enjoyed the hospitality of Her Grace?” Dr. Maddox said.

“Fat women have best food,” was his reply as the others inspected his treasures.

“Some of these have inscriptions,” Bingley said. “They could be returned if their owners are located.”

Mugin looked at him coldly.

“How much gold do you need?” Brian said. “You'll just gamble it away anyway. And there may be rewards.”

“Yes, rewards! He has a point, Mugin,” Bingley said.

Mugin picked out a particularly pretty bracelet, with jade beads. “For Nadi-sama.”

“She will appreciate it,” Brian said.

The rest of the spoils were divided up into things that could perhaps be traced back to their owners and things that could not, which Mugin put back in his bag. He didn't make it halfway out the door when Georgiana Bingley came running down the hall. “Mugin-san! Where were you?”

“Being kissed by hog,” he replied.

It was a while before Mr. and Mrs. Bingley had a chance to speak privately. The Maddox house was sizable for town, but it was no country estate. “How is he?” she asked.

“Darcy or Grégoire?” he said with a sigh.

Jane took his hand encouragingly. “Darcy tortures himself over his brother, who will mend in time. Dr. Maddox says so. Grégoire has been through the worst of it.”

“Physically,” he replied. “But what is he to do with the rest of his life now?”

“I don't know.What do they do in India?”

“Oh, he wouldn't—” He stopped. “Jane, I love you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bingley,” she replied. She would have said more, but she was interrupted by a kiss. Then her husband ran off to find that Grégoire's room was open for visitors. The children had each had their turn, and then he had been left alone to rest. But no matter what they said or did, he rose with what they now recognized was each monastic hour. His body was tuned that way and would not so easily give it up.

Bingley had seen Grégoire before, briefly, when he brought in his children. He closed the door behind him. “Hello, Grégoire.”

“Mr. Bingley,” Grégoire said.

“Are you too tired for a visitor? Be honest or the doctor will have my head.”

Grégoire smiled. “No. All I do is rest. Please sit.”

Bingley took a seat. “I wish you well, Grégoire. Darcy is—”

“I know him well enough. He is suffering.”

“He is concerned.”

“Everyone is concerned. I am all appreciation, but there are pains that concern does not relieve.”

Bingley nodded. “Listen, while I was in India, I heard a story that apparently is very famous in the whole Orient—everyone I met had heard it, even Mugin. The versions differed a bit, but it's—well, I wrote it down, and I don't have my notes with me, but I certainly heard it often enough—”

Grégoire nodded. “Please. I am unable to do much but listen.”

“Well,” Bingley said, settling himself into the chair. “First, I must warn you that it is a heathen tale. The first time I heard the story, we had just docked and procured a room at an inn in India. Each morning, a man with a shaved head would come with a begging bowl. I would give him a little something, but after a few days, I had to wonder at it, so I asked Brian, and he said he was a monastic and
they believed that begging is a way to salvation. So the next day I asked the monk what the path to salvation is, or what he thought it is, and instead he told me this story. It took a long time to tell and by the end I had almost forgotten why I'd asked it, but anyway, here it is.

“There was once a prince, a very long time ago, in India. He was part of their caste system, at the very top, and his father was a great king. His father and mother loved him and wished to shelter him from the horrors in the world, so they raised him in absolute splendor, so that he didn't even see someone old or sick until he left the palace and he could not tell what was the matter with them.

“After seeing people suffer, he decided to dedicate his life to finding a way to end human suffering. So he went into the woods, where these ascetic people lived. They sat all day in meditation, eating grass or maybe dung, and starving themselves and depriving themselves of all pleasures. He did this almost to the point of death, and even though he had many disciples, he was not satisfied.

“And this is where the tale varies a bit, but apparently, he just got up and left that life. One person said a little girl offered him rice. The monk I spoke to first said he heard a woman tuning a harp and she said that it had to be tuned just right, not too sharp or too flat. Either way, he had a revelation. The people who know this story and follow him—they are called Buddhists, because he was later called Buddha, but I'm skipping ahead. Anyway, he decided to devote himself to the middle way, which is to find the middle path—not to live too luxuriously or too ascetically. So he went and washed himself and cleaned his hair for the first time in years. His ascetic disciples abandoned him, and he sat under this tree. I saw it, actually. It is very large, and it's called the Bodhi tree, and he sat under that and meditated and was tempted by the devil many times, but each time he refused until he attained what they call enlightenment. He lived another fifty years or so, and by the end had thousands of disciples, and now his religion is all across the Orient, with perhaps millions of monks. I don't know if he really lived, but
I met a man who claimed he had seen the case that contained a tooth of the Buddha, and he was very proud to have seen it. The Buddha left all kinds of teachings, some of which I wrote down, but my notes are still a mess. And, well, that is it.”

He frowned, unsatisfied with his ending. He looked at Grégoire, who had not spoken through the entire telling, and had occasionally closed his eyes, but was now very much awake, if very still from exhaustion.

“Mr. Bingley,” he said, “will you perhaps allow me, when I am recovered, to copy that story from your notes?”

“Yes, of course—no! Ridiculous, I'll do it myself. I have to sort them anyway. I'll have my man write it out so you can actually read it, too. Anyway, I know it's all pagan nonsense, but I don't know what else to say. It's that or the tiger story again.”

“I've not heard the tiger story,” Grégoire said, “but I admit I am tired now, and it is time for prayer. Thank you, Mr. Bingley. Thank you very much.”

“You're welcome,” he said, shaking the hand that was offered to him. “Do you need the doctor or anything?”

“No, I just want to rest. Thank you.”

Bingley rose and excused himself as Grégoire closed his eyes. As he shut the door, Bingley looked up at the anxious Darcy. “He'll be all right, you know,” Bingley said. “He just has to find his own way. And no, you can't help him with that. It's the basic
principle
of the thing, Darcy. Come now, you've had too much to drink.”

“I've had a glass! What did they do to you in India?”

“They don't drink. Or eat cattle. We would all starve there, I'm sure.”

“You may have your own obsessions, and even keep your own wild animal—but if you cast meat from your kitchen, I will never accept an invitation to dine at Kirkland again.

“I'm not likely to shun meat,” he said. “But do you know that some people in Hong Kong are vegetarians?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means they eat only vegetables, I think.”

“My God!” Darcy said. “That can't be very healthy, can it?”

The final family members to visit the former Brother Grégoire arrived the very next day—his sister along with her husband and child in a carriage with the colors of the earldom of Kincaid. Georgiana Kincaid would have leaped, weeping, into Darcy's arms had she not been holding her son as Darcy assured her that yes, her little brother was alive and getting stronger every day.

“We came as soon as we heard,” Lord Kincaid said with concern.

“He will be very happy to see you,” Elizabeth said.

Her prediction was not at all wrong. Nothing cheered Grégoire as much as seeing his sister and holding his new nephew in his arms. As he was now healed enough to lie on his back, it was less considerable a feat, and there was a light on his face that they had not seen since his arrival. He tickled the baby's tummy, which little Robert took a serious liking to, and it seemed the Scots were not so inclined to bundle their children so tightly, so Robert's limbs were free to squirm and kick. “You like that, don't you, little Robert?” Grégoire asked. Darcy and Elizabeth watched from the doorway. “What a truly beautiful child, and so full of energy.”

“He gets that energy from his father,” Georgiana said. Lord Kincaid didn't deny it. His hand was on his wife's back as she sat beside her brother.

“Can you grip my finger? Yes, you can!” Grégoire laughed as he held out his finger and Robert tugged on it. “What a strong grip you have, Viscount Kincaid! What was the name of that Scot, the great king who fought the English?”

“Robert the Bruce,”William Kincaid answered.

“Yes, that's the one.”

“Was he not one of the few Scottish kings who were not assassinated?” Darcy said.

“Yes,” William said. “He lived a long and fruitful life, and died in his bed—of leprosy. Which was quite a bit better than most of them.”

“Well,” Grégoire said as he made the sign of the cross over the baby, “then you should live a long and fruitful life—without the leprosy part.”

CHAPTER 18

AS GRÉGOIRE'S HEALTH continued to improve, the Darcys and the Bingleys retreated to their respective houses, visiting every day (Georgiana and her son were regular fixtures at the Maddox house). Dr. Maddox read the abbot's letter to Grégoire no less than four times before his patient was well enough to begin reading himself. Bingley gave him all the notes he had and a few books from his own library, and Grégoire read it all, but very slowly. Most of his time was still consumed with visitors and prayer, as his body continued to adhere to the monastic cycle that began at half past three in the morning and ended at eight at night. His pain medicine was continually reduced, though Dr. Maddox was relieved that Grégoire was no longer ashamed to ask for it when he needed it to sleep.

When he was able to sit up in a chair for a short while, they had a minor quandary about his dress. Grégoire's robes had been torched, as they were bloodied and infested with disease, and he had no right to wear them anyway. He found the English method of dress scandalously immodest because of its tightness (and was not too reserved to say it, to Darcy's consternation and Elizabeth's secret delight at the expression on her husband's face). Brian Maddox, who was no stranger to dressing in a bizarre fashion, provided him with a suitable option. Nadezhda happily knitted him a long brown tunic, and he eventually consented to at least a cloth obi belt (leather was too
ostentatious), and he wore an undershirt that was soft on his scarred skin. He agreed to grow his sides but not all the way down and far too wide, so that in the end he resembled an itinerant worker. But that seemed to satisfy him. He still had his cross and his rosary, so his affiliation was obvious enough, but his tonsure was gone, lost to a thicket of brown hair slightly curlier than Darcy's.