The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (47 page)

The days and nights fell into an easy pattern. He went to church without her. She had her own reasons, both societal and personal, not to show her face in the house of God, especially beside a man who was not her husband while carrying a child that was not his or a husband's. “Pray fer me,” she would say, and kiss him good-bye every Sunday.

Maybe she noticed all of the little improvements around the house and kept track of them and what they would have cost her, or maybe she didn't. He never fully revealed his wealth (she would have found the number imaginary), but he found ways to slip things
into her life on some pretense or another. They needed a new leg for the table, so he found one.They needed new sheets for the bed, so he bought them. Expensive items, such as soap and sugar and even chocolate, found their way onto the shelves. After a bad rain, he had Mr. O'Muldoon come over to help him repair the roof.

“The Missus is goin' ta ask me, so I might as well ask yeh—are you t'inkin' a marryin' her, or are yeh not de type?”

“Marry your wife? That would present some difficulties.”

The man laughed so hard he nearly fell off the roof, but insisted on an answer to the question.

“I don't know,” Grégoire said. “I have no experience in this area.”

“Who has experience in marryin' someone before dey get married?”

He could not fault his logic there. “I suppose you're right. I just never imagined I would be considering this question.”

But he was. He would be lying to himself if he thought otherwise, and his confessor (the only priest in the church) kept reminding him of it. If Caitlin was not married in four months, her child would be a bastard. Although Grégoire was himself a bastard, he could not imagine what Caitlin would do. Mr. Darcy had given his mother money to go back to France—enough money for her and Grégoire to live on for years in Mon-Claire.

However, marriage was more than charity. It was a holy sacrament, not to be undertaken lightly, at least ideally, even though it often was done lightly or for any number of convenient purposes. Darcy, who had a reason to marry and produce an heir to Pemberley, had avoided it until he was eight and twenty. But then again, Darcy was not a social animal and mistrusted everyone, while Grégoire heedlessly saw only the good in people, often to his disadvantage. He tried to see Caitlin in shades—she was scared, she was tough, she could be moody, and she had little tolerance for stupidity (in terms of customs, not learning, of which she had basically none). She was not demure. She was not soft (even though her skin was). She was not a churchgoing woman, but she did have faith,
even if it had only a subtle means of expression. He could not have a discussion with her on the influence of the Council of Trent on doctrine, but he could talk to her about God and she would listen. It was not that he sought to alter her character, but rather that he had a need to express his feelings to
someone.
And she was always a willing listener, and often would see the obvious where he could not. He told her of the places he had visited, the things he had seen, the things in the world he could not understand and could not be explained in books. It was not a structured debate over a dinner table or in a parlor room, but a confession and an earnest response.

“What do you think of predestination?” he said to her on a whim, and explained the concept.

“Why worry 'bout a silly thing like dat?” she said. “Either 'tis true or 'tisn', but I'm not goin' go around wonderin' if people I meet are destined for heaven or hell or just goin' there because of somet'in' dey did. 'Twould be downright rude of me.”

He laughed and tightened his hold around her. It was getting harder for them to lie close together, at least at the torso, and he put a hand over her swelling stomach and kissed it.

“I luk loike I ate somethin' wrong.”

“You look beautiful. Also, you look as though you're with child, which should not come as a surprise to you.” It was his business to make her laugh. Otherwise, she was often increasingly anxious about her condition. They didn't speak of his staying on, or their relationship—that subject remained too uncomfortable, as neither of them had the answer. She didn't ask him to stay, but he didn't leave of his own volition, and for the time, they were both happy with that.

Late one day in the early summer, Grégoire walked to Tullow, to find not only a letter from Scotland but one from Darcy, which was longer than usual.

He purchased paper on the spot, penned a response in the post office, and sent it express.

If he were face-to-face with his brother, Darcy would probably say something against it, even though it was a small amount for Grégoire. But then Grégoire would just remind him that Elizabeth had once told him that Darcy had paid off their brother (not knowing the brotherly connection) with ten thousand pounds, just to save a girl's reputation.

Grégoire was apparently still smiling when he returned to the house, because Caitlin immediately grilled him on his grin. “My brother. Pound wise, penny foolish.”

The next morning, he forced his sister's letter upon Caitlin as they lay together in bed. “So—So ha—”

“He.”

“So he seen—”

“So he
can.
”

She shoved the letter in his face. “Jist read it.”

He collected his sister's letter, and kissed Caitlin on the cheek. “You did very well.”

“Rubbish!”

“I am most serious. I always am. Except when I'm not.” He squinted, as he was without his spectacles and was not eager to remove himself from his position to retrieve them.

“It goes on about this for a while.”

“Yer sister sounds sweet,” she said, “but spare me, please.”

He closed the letter and put it on the new nightstand.

“What have yeh been tellin' 'em?” Because clearly, he had not been telling them the whole truth.

“This and that. That I am happy here, near the shrine of St. Patrick, and am contemplating my future. All of which is true.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “The English talk about many things in their letters, but not the things that are most personal. Only if the circumstances are dire.”

“So is dat why yeh always take forever ta get ta de point?”

He laughed and kissed her.

CHAPTER 30

NO PART OF HIS BROTHER'S REQUEST surprised Darcy, but nonetheless he was not pleased to visit a debtors' prison. He had been there twice for a different half-brother, and under much more frustrating (and expensive) circumstances.

The door to a cell was opened. A sandy-haired man, still in partial uniform, emerged, looking tired and confused as he was told by the officer that he was free.

“Your debts were paid,” Darcy said, “courtesy of an anonymous donor who happened to meet your desperate parents, who've had no word of you since the war, Mr. McGowan.” He did not wait for the man to respond before shoving some bills and a ticket in his hands. “Your ship leaves in the morning for Dublin. This was all done on the good faith that you would return home to them as expediently as possible.You can make up whatever lie you like to explain your absence, but that would not be in the spirit of your patron. All I will tell you is that you had better be there for that ship's departure and you had better be in Ireland by the end of the week.Your parents are sick with grief, or so I'm told.”

The former soldier looked down at the money and then up at him, wide-eyed. “And who be yeh?”

“His brother,” he said. He had no desire to associate with this man. “I'll be there to make sure you get on that boat, Mr. McGowan.”

“I will.” He crossed himself. “I didn' mean ta wind up—”

Darcy raised his hand to stop him, to telegraph,
I don't care. I'm just doing this for my overly charitable brother
. Something about prisons put him in an especially bad mood. “Tomorrow, Mr. McGowan. Eight sharp.” He left without another word to the soldier he had just freed. He wanted only to be free himself of this task. He would remain to see James McGowan off, and then return to Derbyshire.

It was early yet, and he saw no reason to open the townhouse for just a few days, so he was staying at Bingley's—who had needed to take a trip to Town for business, so they had traveled together, and dined with the Maddoxes. In the old days, Bingley had been trailed by his status-obsessed sisters and perpetually cup-shot brother-in-law Mr. Hurst. His traveling party was now much smaller, but no less annoying to Darcy.

“I have to bring him,” Bingley said in the carriage, petting Monkey, who was on his lap. “Otherwise, he'll drive Jane insane. He gets terribly upset when I leave.”

“So between me and your wife, you must choose your wife.”

“Of course, Darcy.”

“A proper choice, I admit. However, I must remind you that your wife is less capable of throttling you.”

Bingley shrugged. “I'm not certain that you're correct.”

When Darcy returned to the house after his task at the prison, the first person he was greeted by was not a person at all, though he did try to stand up like one. He announced himself with a squeal.