The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (45 page)

“So you've never shown anyone?”

“A lot of doctors, my brother, and my entire abbey, but I don't remember it. And even then, I was ashamed.” His grip on her hand unintentionally tightened.

“All right,” she said, letting go of his shirt. It stayed on.

They were both ravenous, and dove into all available food. Grégoire went out to feed the chickens and the cow.Those animals seemed to somehow convey surprise at his presence and his actions. He returned to the house with a pail of fresh milk. Caitlin drank to the point of being ill, and he helped her get outside in time, holding back her long hair.

“'S been this way since—yeh know,” she said. “But it wus less, cos I wasn' eatin'.”

“You need to eat. Even if it makes you sick.” He carried her back into the house and set her in the only chair with a back, providing her with a little mead, which he had thrown a shaving of ginger into. “Sip.”

“How do yeh know so much aboyt
afflicted women
or whatever yer callin' it in England?”

“I've known many women with child. Relatives and townsfolk near my abbey in Spain,” he said.

A little worn from her recent experience, she sipped the concoction before setting it on her lap. “Are yeh 'eadin'?”

“Leaving?”

She nodded.

Did he know what he should do? Certainly not. Did he even know what the right thing to do was? She was an increasing woman—unmarried, and in need of someone, and no child would result of their union. “Today? Not unless you tell me to.”

She did not. Did he know what he was doing? No. Did he care? Not in the least.

The next day, Grégoire was on his way back from the trip to Tullow to set up his post box when he encountered Mrs. O'Muldoon, who greeted him: “Mr.—I'm so sorry—”

“Grégoire. But you can call me Gregory, if it pleases you,” he said, bowing to her. It was not something to which she was accustomed,
and the plump Irish housewife forced herself into a curtsy. “Mrs. O'Muldoon. How are you?”

“I wasn' 'spectin' ta see yeh here.”

“I am planning on staying in the area. For how long, I know not.”

“I 'eard a rumor—are yeh at—nearby ta us?”

“With Miss MacKenna, yes,” he said. So he admitted to living in sin. “This is probably inappropriate of me but—what do you know of her?”

They continued down the path away from the market toward their homes, where she pulled him to the side. “She com here'bout two months ago. Bought de house for a song—de animals wi' it—'cuz the owner 'ad jist lost 'is struggle an' strife—his wife, yeh know—an' wanted ter move ter de city. He was lookin' for any deal he could make.” She took his arm. “She was in a real bad way. I suppose she told yeh dat.”

“She did tell me the circumstances were difficult, yes.”

“She's a nice lass—can't say much for her livin' alone, but she wus shuk. We woulda taken 'er in, but we have a baby and we couldn't afford it, yeh know—”

He nodded kindly. “I know, yes. Of course.”

“She wus al' banged up; bruises and the loike. She could barely walk straight. She towl me a wee aboyt her paddy not takin' well to her leavin', but not much. We talk about these t'ings, women. Yeh know.”

He nodded again. “Since then?”

“She's been alone. Not seen a soul fer all we know. She used ta go ta market, but den she stopped.”

“I understand. I just wanted to know—”

“Terrible t'ing, to be all alone. But that doesn' mean yer obligated in any way, Mr. Gregory—”

“No, I understand,” he said. He was just trying to confirm Caitlin's story—dirty as he felt in doing it. It was something his brother would do. “Thank you, Mrs. O'Muldoon. I'll see you at church.”

“Jasus bless yeh, Mr. Gregory.”

“God bless you.”

They parted and he continued down the path to the house.

Was it physical satisfaction he felt, or was it something more? Either way, he liked the feeling, even if he could not distinguish it properly. Nothing tied him to Caitlin; he could leave her at any time, and if he felt generous, even leave enough money to get her through her pregnancy without making a dent in his annual income. He didn't tell her that, but he didn't lie about his finances, either—she had enough sense not to ask. He was content in a way he had never felt before.
It must be physical affection
. He had known the love of brotherhood, of God, and of family. A woman had been beyond his experience. His one night in Bavaria did not count; he could see that now.

How am I to go to confession?
It was the thought that truly bothered him.
How can I confess to a sin with no intention of reform?
He did not want to ignore the orders of a priest, but then again, hadn't he done that before?

He went each morning to Mass in the local church, or High Mass if he was too lazy to get up, but it was several days before he stepped in the box and crossed himself. “Before I begin, I must ask—Father, are you a member of any of the monastic orders?”

“No indeed, me son.”

“I am excommunicated from my order and would be unable to speak to you if you were. That was why I asked,” he said, and crossed himself. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession.” He did not go through his entire history with this priest—he had confessed all those sins long ago and did not wish to go over them again. “I am living with an unmarried woman who is carrying another man's child.”

“Who is dis oither lad?”

“I do not know him. All I know is that he told her to get rid of the child, and she ran away from him, and was living on her own before I found her.”

“Where is 'er family?”

“She said they would not speak to her after they discovered her condition.”

The priest paused. “Yeh 'av relashuns wi' this woman?”

“Yes. Forgive me, Father, but I would be lying if I did not say that I have every intention of continuing.”

“Yeh intend ter marry 'er?”

He leaned back in the box. For some reason, he had not anticipated this question. “At this stage, I do not know. Marriage is a sacrament. There is more to it than physical pleasure or financial necessity.”

“Yeh are supporting 'er?”

“Yes.”

“In exchange for deese favors?”

He colored. “No. She was starving and I bought her food with no intention of things proceeding as they did. I was just returning from a pilgrimage to Jerpoint Abbey when I encountered her. I had no intention of staying in the region.”

“If yeh intend ter continue dees carnal relashuns, yeh must make an honest woman out av 'er.”

Grégoire swallowed. “I need time to consider it. I take sacraments very seriously.”

“But sexual prohibishuns, less so.”

He bowed his head. “Forgive me, Father. I was a celibate monk for most of my adult life. This is the first time I have ever been in a…relationship with a woman, aside from one other time, and I repented, and was forgiven. And that was when I was under oath. Now I have no such restrictions.”

“Yeh 'av de restricshun av bein' a Christian lad.”

To this, he did not have an answer. He had not looked forward to this, and he would not look forward to future sessions. But he could not marry Caitlin—he barely knew her. “If we are meant for marriage, then I will happily make her my wife and raise the child as my own. But as of now, I cannot answer you.”

It was the turn of the priest to stop to consider. “Yeh are rational and considerate, and doin' the woman a generosity. 'Owever, yeh are still livin' in sin an' must examine yer motives for doin' so. We are meant ter learn from sin—it leads us astray, but in doin' so, lets us see wha de right path wus so we can reclaim it,” he said. “Say ten Hail Marys and attend Mass at least once a week.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Go wi' God, me son.”

He had never felt as though that box were such a prison, and never so relieved to be free of it. It was not the punishment—which was nothing in comparison with anything he had experienced in his past—so much as what the priest had said. If this continued, he would have to marry Caitlin. On the other hand, if this continued, maybe he would want to.

After a brief refresher course with Mr. O'Muldoon and acquiring the right materials, Grégoire set to work repairing the floorboards of the kitchen, especially the ones that had a tendency to pop up when one stepped on the other end.The project would take hours.
Work is prayer
. So said St. Benedict, even though Grégoire was still required to set aside time for prayer itself, and to attend Mass, and, of course, services on Sundays.

“Are yeh sure yer not still a monk?” Caitlin said as he finished Sext and joined her in the kitchen for lunch. With the right spices and after some failed attempts, she had finally managed to get some good dishes together.

“Why? Do you want me to act like one?” he said, kissing her.

“T'be sure not,” she said, and began putting out the food. “It's just—all the people I know who are runnin' to church are either priests or so—”

“Self-righteous?”

“Aye.” She stopped her conversation and bowed her head as he said grace in Latin, and then they ate at a leisurely pace.

Caitlin took a sip of tea. “I jist mind dis lady hittin' me wi' a rod for runnin' up an' down de aisles whaen oi wus wee.”

“I don't think Christ would have hit you when you acted like a child,” he said. “I don't think he would ever have hit you.”

“Yeh shoulda told
'er
that,” she said. “'S like, yer just all good, nothing bad in yeh a'tall—” She stood up. “Excuse me.”