The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (49 page)

“You don't have to be.”

“I got rattled—I don' know.” She looked at him with a weak smile as he ran his hand through her hair. “I don' deserve yeh.”

“I would say the same,” he answered, sitting down across from her. “If you really want me to leave, then say so. It will hurt, but I'll do what is right. But I won't leave unless you push me. I love you too much for that.”

She said nothing, but squeezed his hand.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.” Grégoire crossed himself and immediately began, not looking through the screen, even though he knew very well who the priest was. They rarely talked person to person; it was too awkward. “I have decided to ask Caitlin to marry me.”

“Dis is a pure, gran' step, me sun.”

He sighed. “I don't like the circumstances. It should be a happy time, but she's increasingly ill from her condition. Her emotions are everywhere.We haven't spoken the words, and yet she begs me not to ask for her hand—and I know exactly what she means. Then she tells me she loves me, and I know she means it.”

The priest did not hold back. “Why do yeh t'ink she is confused? Yeh 'av toyed wi' 'er emoshuns for months nigh.”

“Father, I would never—”

“Yeh tell 'er yeh love 'er?”

He turned to the lattice that kept the priest from him, his voice near anger. “Yes. Every day.”

“An' do yeh continue ter nu 'er carnally, even in 'er condishun?”

“Yes.”

“An' yeh continue ter provide for 'er. In every way, yeh are 'er'usban' except under Jasus. Dat step, yeh seem reluctant ter take.”

“I just said I would take it!” he shouted and then stopped in horror, crossing himself. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I just yelled at a man of the cloth.” It lightened the air just enough for the conversation to continue. “Is this what love is? This torrent of emotions?”

“Many people 'av said so, me sun.”

“I wanted this to be happy. I didn't plan it, but I suppose in the back of my mind, I wished that the time that I chose to take
a wife would be the happiest moment of my life—and yet I am also so confused.”

“Den yeh must truly be in love,” said the priest. It was one of the most clever things he had said in their short but complex association. “Yeh will recall the story of Jacob and the angel.”

“Yes, of course. He fought with him and won, and earned the name Israel.”

“Yes.'N' yer man wept, as well. 'Is life ter dat point wus av doubt, for stealin' 'is brother's birthright by trickin' 'is owl lad an' den runnin' away. But he wept not whaen he wus on de road ter redempshun, but he did not weep until de final moment whaen he physically wrestled wi' 'is emoshuns through de aingayle, an' prevailed. So God blessed 'im an' from 'is seed came de twelve tribes av Israel, an' from de tribe av Judah, de ma av our Lord Jasus Chroist,” he said. “Doubt an' de despair dat follows it whaen yeh dwell on it too long withoyt actin' are failures, but dey can be reversed an' overcum, an' den yeh truly becum de paddy God intends yeh ter be.”

Grégoire swallowed this information, and was silent for a few moments as he did so. It did not dismiss all of his emotions—or any of them—but it made his path clear. “I think I understand.” He leaned forward. “If I ask and she says no, what will I do then?”

“'Av feth in Christ an' hill show yeh de way,” the priest said. “Say ten Hail Marys fer de sin of fornication. Jasus bless yeh, me sun.”

“Thank you, Father. Go with God.”

He did not linger. He said his prayers and left the church. When he returned home, he had no more questions. He had only a beautiful woman with dinner waiting.

Caitlin's emotions evened out again when she became accustomed to the baby's kicking, even when it disturbed her sleep. Grégoire laughed as he put his hand over her and felt it. “I think this child will be doing a lot of dancing.”

The next Sunday, he went to church and prayed. On Monday, after early Mass, he went to Tullow to pick up the ring he had ordered. It was a gold band with emeralds set in it so that they looked sewn in, like the knots he had seen on the old crosses of Monasterboice. “I'll take it,” he said, and put the box in his pocket.

It was a long way back from Tullow. He stopped on the road for none prayers, and hoped to be home in time for Vespers, which were followed by their supper. It was summer and the days were long, so he did not worry about light. The fields thinned out and the forest became thicker, until at last he came upon the house.

He did not smell dinner cooking. The fire was not even going. The place was a mess, as if it had been torn apart, and he stepped inside and set down the bag in shock. He barely had a moment to react to being grabbed by a strong set of hands and hurled against the wall, which was enough to knock him to his knees, but not onto the floor entirely. A hulk of a man backed away.

“Who are you and what have you done with Caitlin?” Grégoire demanded.

“Yeh must be the one keepin' 'er 'appy wit' yer fancy gifts. I'm not the best 'a men, but yer scum!”

Grégoire grabbed the table to help stabilize himself. He was nearly a head shorter than this man, and had never struck a man in his life. He would not win in a fight—not a physical one, anyway. “You have not answered my question. Who are you?”

“Caitlin? Yeh want ta tell 'im who I am?”

Caitlin emerged from the bedroom. To Grégoire's horror, her clothes were torn, with some pieces bloodied, and her face was red and swollen. “Please jus' let 'im go.”

The man had red hair like fire and his personality was similar—easily brought to the peak of destruction. “Yeh tell 'im who I am!” Grégoire looked at her as she came forward, shaking, to take the man's side, but not to touch him. Her voice was a whisper. “E's me 'usband.”

CHAPTER 31

“IT'S NOT POSSIBLE,” GRÉGOIRE SAID.

Mr. MacKenna grabbed Caitlin by the arm so hard she cried out. “Why don't yeh tell yer rich lover de trut'h?”

Grégoire could see that Caitlin was wavering. The man did not release her arm, and eventually she raised her terrified eyes to face Grégoire, “I—'tis me husband. He tol' me he didn't want anoder mout'h ta feed, but I wouldn' do it.”

“An' what did yeh do, Mrs. MacKenna?”

“Ran away,” she whispered, but loud enough for them all to hear.

“And?”

“Stole de money ta do it.”

Mr. MacKenna was still angry, but he did cast a triumphant glare at Grégoire, still backed against the wall.

“Cait-Caitlin,” he stuttered, “your family—”

“Died wi' me brah'der, whaen I wus twelve. I didn' have anybody—'cept Neil.”

“Normally, I'd be mighty inclined ta quid da man who's been feckin' me wife,” Neil MacKenna said, “but I'll make an exception dis time. Now, go runnin' back ta England or wherever dey make cheatin' fecks.”

Grégoire wanted to apologize—legitimately, as it was called for—but he looked again at the beaten, sobbing form of Caitlin, swallowed, and said, “I will not let you take her.”

“
What?
”

“I said I will not let you take her.” He stood up straighter. “I understand now she is your wife and I respect that, and I will never touch her again, but if you treat her and the child this way—”

“'S gonna sell da baby. Or kill it,”Caitlin wimpered.

“Shut yer
bake!
” her husband said, and struck her.

This, Grégoire would not stand for. Not in the place he had come to think of as his home—not anywhere, for that matter. He tried to come between them, which only earned him a smack on his face hard enough to knock him to the ground. MacKenna released his wife long enough to take a knife from the kitchen counter and drive it into Grégoire's arm, pinning him to the wall. Grégoire wasn't sure what bothered him more—his cry or Caitlin's own.

“Yeh don' come afta 'er,” MacKenna said. “Yeh leave with yer loife, English.”

In what seemed like a blur to Grégoire, the MacKennas left. He remembered only the pleading, apologetic look on Caitlin's bruised face, and the scrap of rag she dropped on the floor as she left.

It was not until they were gone that he was able to pull the knife out, not so much because it was lodged in him but because it was lodged in the wooden wall. He set it on the ground and pulled up his shirt. The wound wasn't bad—just a pierce through the top layers of flesh on his upper arm, barely more than a graze compared with earlier wounds. He pulled himself up with his good arm and scrambled for a piece of cloth. Eventually, he removed the window dressing and tore off a length, wrapping it tightly around his arm to stop the bleeding. The pain in his arm and the sting on his face were not nearly as bad as the ache in his heart, just beginning to set in.

No. He needed to concentrate.That was what Darcy would do. He needed to find a surgeon to sew him up, and then he had to follow them. He looked around at the looted room. All the good
items appeared to be gone. As he stepped over it, he remembered the piece of cloth and picked it up. It was not cloth—it was paper with the word
dreser.

He stumbled to the bedroom, which had also been ransacked. The mattress had even been overturned. On the dresser, in a pile of things apparently deemed worthless—his clothing and the like—he found a note scribbled so quickly it was barely readable. But his name was spelled correctly, as he had taught her.

He knew if he gave into his emotions, he would lose too much time. Instead, he swallowed them as best he could, stuffed his bag full of the things he thought he needed, and left, Caitlin's note tucked in his satchel.