The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (63 page)

He smiled. “No. I mean—I wasn't sure.”

“Even though you just asked me to help you punch people.”

“That is not precisely what I said, but yes. And it's still different.”

“I suppose,” she said, and returned to a more restful position as her brother returned.

The Darcys and the Kincaids—minus their children (Geoffrey was a last-minute decision)—arrived in Ireland to find the Bellamont house quite different from the way they had seen it after the wedding. Not only was a stone chapel under construction, but the house had its halls lined with bookcases and pictures—mainly of saints. The furniture was wooden, some of it carved. “Grégoire's really obsessed wid t'is carpentry business,” said an increasing Caitlin MacKenna, to which her husband smiled. She walked about the house and grounds as she wished, but did not seem eager to do much of it. Their dinners were cooked by a chef, for which she was apologetic, despite the fact that none of them expected it of her. “I would do deh cookin,'” she said, “but 's hard ta stay on me feet.”

Their rooms were not grand, but they were clean, and they were decorated. Grégoire and Caitlin had dedicated themselves to making the house their own. It was not the grand sort of renovations like the ones that Lady Kincaid planned for her house outside Cambridge. The drapes were not made of the finest materials, the carpets did not necessarily match, and there was less organization to everything, but everywhere, there was a touch of something that was clearly either Grégoire's or Caitlin's handiwork.

Darcy looked at the writing desk in the study, which faced the window and a view of the ocean, and picked up one of the wooden
figures on the shelf. It was a man with a beard and a halo surrounding his head.

“I'm not very good,” Grégoire said, “but I rather like the process.”

Darcy replaced the figurine. “This desk looks familiar.”

“It is not the one from the Isle of Man,” Grégoire replied, “but it has a similar arrangement. I do like looking out at the ocean when I write.”

“I've been reading your columns,” he said. “The paper will protect you?”

“If there is anything to protect. I doubt new ramblings about the saints and modern day religion would upset anyone.” He smiled distantly. “Then again, I have always been naive about what is upsetting to people. Especially the church. Yes, they will protect my anonymity.” Grégoire had published several sermonlike columns in a Catholic paper in Dublin, under the name A Poor Sinner, despite the fact that Darcy would describe him as neither.They were philosophical arguments, generally rather uplifting, and had some popularity with the inspirational crowd, apparently. “I have written nothing controversial and have no intention to do so. Nonetheless, if the church wishes to say something to me, I must only remind them that I have been excommunicated from my order, and that will end the conversation.”

“How convenient.”

“Very,” his brother said. “The local daily in Belfast has also picked up the column.”

“You will be careful?”

“I will not make that promise,” Grégoire said, “as I always seem to break it. But no, Darcy, I am not making trouble.”

“Good,” Darcy said with a tone of finality, “because I'm sick of getting you out of it.”

They were fortunate to have come far enough to laugh about it.

Precisely nine months after her marriage to Grégoire Bellamont, Caitlin's labor pains began. That she had become with child at all stumped the local doctors. They were all encouragement. Grégoire did not announce the pregnancy until after Christmas, when they were sure.

What he was less thrilled about was the prospect of staying downstairs with his brother and brother-in-law throughout his wife's travails. Darcy finally agreed to go upstairs and ask his wife how things were proceeding. He was within twenty feet of the door when he heard a steady stream of sailor's curses in the form of one long shriek. His ears were still burning when he returned to the study. “She is fine,” he said, pouring himself a drink.

“That feckin' gobshite! I should've na'even 'ad kids—'s what the doc said,” a distressed Caitlin said to Elizabeth, her brogue getting heavier as she became generally less lucid, to the point where not even Georgiana or the midwife's soothing voice could begin to calm her. “I 'ad ta marry a stupid feckin' saint with 'is stupid feckin' miracles and 'ave a stupid feckin' miracle kid! I'd like ta stab
'im
in the stomach—”

Elizabeth pressed a cloth to Caitlin's brow.“You would hardly be the first wife in this condition to curse her husband.” Despite her distress and her reddened face, Caitlin still looked too young for all of this—one and twenty. The same age Elizabeth had been when she had given birth to Geoffrey. Had she really been that young?

“For feck's sake, let dat idiot up 'ere and I'll feckin' do it meself!”

The midwife encouraged her otherwise, and by the end of the day, the wailing of another person, who had never wailed before, filled the Bellamont house. A slightly inebriated (maybe more than
slightly
) Grégoire bounded up the stairs before either of his brothers could follow him and charged into the room. Fortunately, there had been enough time for the baby to be properly cleaned and bundled before the appearance of his father. Grégoire stumbled at the sight, and was quickly grabbed by Kincaid, who helped him into the chair to receive the baby, which he was informed was a son.

“Drink dis, ma'rm,” the midwife said as the others offered their congratulations and excused themselves from the immediate presence of a very exhausted Caitlin Bellamont, who could only crane her head at the sight of her husband and the child wrapped in a blanket in his arms.

Grégoire's first response was a laugh, as he very carefully released one hand to stroke the few strands of brown hair atop his child's pink head. “If I had known that such a wondrous thing could exist on earth, I would have said my prayers of thanksgiving so much harder throughout my life. I certainly shall now.” He looked to his wife, who smiled weakly back at him, her voice, for now, silenced.

The very next day, the local priest baptized Patrick Bellamont in the newly consecrated, still half-constructed chapel. Lord and Lady Kincaid stood as godparents. The service was basically the same as an Anglican one, and little Patrick was as oblivious to it as any newborn. Caitlin, who leaned on her husband, had knitted the white outfit herself the month before.

Despite the expected exhaustion, Mrs. Bellamont recovered her health relatively quickly. The largest of the gifts, which had been packed most carefully and remained hidden in the carriage for days, was a wooden cradle with the Darcy seal on it, a little aged but otherwise in perfect condition. “It might have held my husband, for all we know,” Elizabeth said to Grégoire. “Or Mr. Wickham. There were only a few cradles at Pemberley that we could find.”

The Darcys were lodged in the room next to the new parents, and overheard an argument—not a mean one, but with loud voices—between husband and wife over the hiring of a nurse.

“I can raise me own laddie!”

“I'm not saying you cannot—”

“I'm not sick!”

“I was not implying that you were—”

Elizabeth had to glance at her husband and share a laugh at the experience of his younger brother and his wife. After two nights, Mrs. Bellamont relented and agreed that maybe another pair of female hands was “a good idea.”

On the final night of their stay, Darcy woke very early, long before daylight. Looking at the grandfather clock he had sent from Pemberley as a wedding gift, he saw it was half past four, later than the earliest monastic office of the day, Vigils. Grégoire was up, of course. Darcy found his younger brother sitting in the study, facing the window. In one hand was a pen, scribbling on paper, and the other balanced his sleeping son in his lap. Darcy approached cautiously.

“He is quite soundly asleep,” Grégoire said in a lowered voice. “After all the racket he made a while ago. I hope he did not wake you.”

“No,” Darcy replied, and raised his candlestick to get a better look at his newest nephew. Although, after four of his own, the sight of a baby never left him unaffected, the fatherly glow on Grégoire's face was even more moving to him. “I suppose he is named after the saint?”

“It was St. Patrick who brought me to Caitlin,” Grégoire said, discarding his pen for the moment to wrap his other arm around his son. “Now things come full circle.” He rocked the baby, who shifted in his arms but did not wake. “I am truly a blessed man. I could not have imagined being a husband and father would bring me such joy.” He looked up at Darcy. “Everything I could possibly ask for, I have received. What am I to do now?”

“If you are lacking occupation, I would remind you that you will be quite busy until the day he leaves for university,” Darcy replied, “though it may happen sooner than you think.”

The two brothers sat together in the study, facing the ocean and the morning light that rose on the horizon, and Darcy had his turn holding his nephew Patrick, the newest grandson of Geoffrey Darcy.

CHAPTER 39

ABBOT FRANCESCO had been composing a reply to the Roman bishop, but he was lost in thought again, as often happened of late. A product of getting old, he supposed. His wandering mind was focused again as Prior Pullo entered. “Father, there is a priest here to see you. Father O'Banon.”

“Father O'Banon?”

“He says he has come a long way. From Ireland.”

He nodded, although not in understanding. “Thank you, Brother Prior. Send him in.”

The man who entered was all in black, except for his collar. His red hair and his clothes looked a bit disheveled from his journey, but otherwise he was quite composed. “You are Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti?” he asked in Latin.