The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (60 page)

“What're yeh talkin' about? Don't yeh 'ave family dere?”

Mrs. Maddox colored, and Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley quickly put their hands over their mouths. “No,” Mrs. Maddox said coolly. “I'm afraid I do not.”

“Yeh sure? Yer t'e most Irish-lookin' fancy lady I've ever—”

Mrs. Maddox excused herself so quietly and quickly that it was hard to make out her actual words as she left the porch. It was well that she did, because she was barely back in the house, with the sliding door closed behind her, when everyone around Caitlin burst into laughter. “What'd I say?”

“Only the obvious,” Mrs. Darcy said.

“We're being cruel to my sister-in-law,” Mrs. Bingley said between giggles.They were laughing so hard they were almost crying.

“Well, I think it was worth it all the same,” Princess Maddox said, and that, of course, brought on a whole new round of laughter.

Sometime after Mrs. Maddox had been calmed down—and how that was done, Caitlin did not inquire—they sat down for dinner and Grégoire's relatives toasted the couple, who were to be wedded in the coming weeks, after the arrangements were complete. Only in privacy did Caitlin admit to herself and Lady Kincaid that she might like to be married in one of those pretty white dresses (even if she hardly deserved to wear white). A white wedding dress was,
she believed, what a princess would wear, even if the only princess she knew didn't seem to act much like she had imagined princesses would. Grégoire came to the table with red eyes, as his loving relatives had conspired to get him a little drunk, and he consented to every toast, and insisted that one be made to St. Patrick, who had brought them together, and St. Sebald, who had brought him home to England, and to St. Buddha, whoever that was, and St. Bede—and he was lucky to make it to dessert before passing out cold on the settee.

“The soul is always in a state of joy for the love of God,” Brian Maddox said, “and alcohol allows the body to join the soul in that joy. It can be spiritually uplifting in the right circumstances.”

“I know many churchmen who would disagree with you,” Darcy said, the least drunk of them all, having had hardly anything. “Where in the world did you hear that? The Orient?”

“Russia. From Rabbi Zalman of Liadi,” he said, raising his glass. “We spent a winter in his house. His congregation used to drink and dance every Friday night until the sun came up.”

“And spend Saturday sleeping it off,” his wife added. “The rest of the week, they drank much less. Only for special occasions.”

“I think that when a monk marries, it is a special occasion,” Mr. Bingley said. “Or at least a very rare one.”

The party dispersed to return to their respective homes in town. It was during this shuffling about (and carrying, in the case of Grégoire) that Darcy stopped in the darkness beside Caitlin and Grégoire's carriage. “You have made my brother very happy, Mrs. MacKenna.”

“T'ank yeh.” He rarely spoke to her, and so was very intimidating.

“As you seem to be the only one capable of doing so, I will be pleased to see the two of you wed,” he said, and stepped into his own carriage before she could respond.

“There's no reason to be in a snit—”

“She assumed I was Irish!”

Dr. Maddox, who had had more than a few drinks and was still feeling the effects upon retiring to their chamber, said only, “She is certainly not the first and I doubt the last.”

Caroline growled and climbed into bed beside him, but before she could slip away from him, he pulled her close. “If you are so upset, dye your hair. But it will not match your fine skin and I would be very annoyed with you, because I would not have you any other way than you are now.”

“Says the man who can hardly see.”

“I can see well enough still.” He kissed her on her forehead, and could feel some of her anger abate. “If you really wish to be a snooty Englishwoman, you should know you married a Welshman with a proud heritage of clan Madoc. So it is a hopeless case.” He chuckled. “Do you really have any other reason to dislike her?”

There was a long moment of silence. “I suppose not. And Grégoire is visibly smitten,” she said. “Will she ever have children?”They knew only minor details of her history with her previous husband.

“The doctors in Ireland said it would take a miracle,” he replied. “Fortunately, Grégoire is known for them.”

As an unspoken peace offering, Mrs. Maddox escorted Mrs. MacKenna to all of the best shops for wedding dresses, and between that and the pre-wedding gifts of jewelry, the women of Grégoire's extended family conspired to make her a very modish bride.

“I hope that someone is helping Grégoire purchase suitable attire for his own wedding,” Elizabeth said in passing as Caitlin's gown was being pinned up by the dressmaker. “I don't know where he gets his clothing—”

“I make 'is shirts,” she said. “But I don' 'ave time before—I mean fer somet'ing fancy—”

“It is a royal tradition in England,” Princess Maddox said, to their surprise. “What? The queen is supposed to make the king's shirts. Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn fought over the right to do so for Henry VIII. Don't you English know your history?”

Jane and Elizabeth exchanged giggles. “I suppose we do not, Your Highness.”

“I do not think Caroline of Brunswick will be sewing any shirts for the Prince of Wales,” Elizabeth ventured.

“If he makes it to the throne,” Caroline Maddox said, and returned their looks with her own indignant stare. “What? I am only repeating the gossip columns.You know my husband tells me nothing, only that he is not yet allowed to retire.”

“The curse of being too good a physician,” Princess Maddox said. “Has he tried again?”

“He was asked to lecture next term at Cambridge on anatomy,” Caroline said. “If he ever plucks up his nerve, he might ask the Prince to officially release him, but as he has backed out twice now, I will not hold my breath.”

“Men are so easily unnerved,” Elizabeth said. “Mention our daughters and the word
out i
n the same sentence, and Darcy will flee the room.”

“My husband is afraid of standing up to your husband,” Jane said to her sister.

“Taking responsibility,” Princess Maddox said.

“Being outdrunk,” Georgiana Kincaid said.

“Losing de rest of 'is hair,” Caitlin said, and then covered her mouth in horror. “I shouldn'tna said that!”

“We won't say a word,” Elizabeth assured her. “We promise.”

The weather was much colder in Ireland when Grégoire and Caitlin returned than when they had left, this time joined by his brother and sister and their spouses. Despite all of her history, which made her anything but a naive virgin, Caitlin MacKenna still managed
to be a blushing bride in the church not far from her new home. Aside from the Darcys and the Kincaids, there were no other guests because of the weather and the location, but all they wanted was a small crowd, having already suitably celebrated and eager to get on with the matter. Their only local guests were the O'Muldoons, who had to travel some distance (for them) to the ceremony, bringing along their many children. Grégoire and Caitlin sent a carriage for them.

“From the moment I saw yeh in town, I knew yeh would do right by her,” Mrs. O'Muldoon said to Grégoire, who wore a very nice and appropriate vest over one of Caitlin's tunics, the best of the lot.

Lacking anyone else, Mr. O'Muldoon gave Caitlin away, and the service was, of course, in Latin. Darcy's only comment to Elizabeth about that when he returned from standing up as the best man was that he found it delightfully shorter than English services, where the vicar might have a tendency to go on and on about the sanctity of marriage. If it had been said in Latin (and neither had any idea if it had), it was brief.

On 1 December 1818, Grégoire Bellamont and Caitlin MacKenna were joined in holy matrimony, with the approval of his family, their friends, and the church. After a celebratory luncheon, the couple were given their space, and the many presents packed in trunks from England were dropped at their doorstep by the Darcys before their departure.

“There are some that couldn't get here in time,” Darcy said to his brother. “Too many.You should invest in bookshelves while you wait,” he said, slapping him on the shoulder. “If she makes you happy, she deserves you.”

“She is my wife,” Grégoire said with a smile. “It is no longer conditional.”

Georgiana gave her little brother the tightest hug she could manage. “You'll come in the spring.”

“We are not so far away,” he reminded her. “And I want to hear about my nephew.”

“He is fine!” Darcy shouted from his carriage.

“
Both
my nephews,” he corrected himself. “And tell George to feel free to write me. Or visit. But perhaps not for a few months.”

She nodded and kissed him and his new wife good-bye. The couple watched their guests depart in their carriages for Dublin. “Do you approve of my family, Mrs. Bellamont?”

“Who cares?” she said, and pulled him into the house with a tug, followed by a kiss. “My dress itches. I want outta it.”

He grinned. “I would be happy to assist you.”