Manner of Devotion

By DJ Clawson

"Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."

- Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

This story continues the series that began with "A Bit of Advice." At this point, you really should go read the others before trying to read this one. New characters abound.

Introduction

...So. We're back! First, there's now a website for a revised version of the old stories, a character guide, and a forum where you can bug me about my inconsistencies:

www (dot) laughingmanpublications (dot) com / myseries.htm

And let's play some catch-up, because even I admit the character list is getting a little long. In our last story, we all learned that if the mail doesn't come, you should just wait a little longer. Dr. Maddox and Mr. Darcy had to be rescued from an Austrian prison. Elizabeth had a third daughter, Cassandra. Caroline Maddox had a son, Daniel Maddox II. Grégoire moved to a monastery in Spain. Brian and Princess Nadezhda Maddox returned from their long way home (with a detour in Japan) to start a silk business with Charles Bingley. Richard and Anne Fitzwilliam had a son, and Lady Catherine died.

It's now 1817, three years after the events of "Left to Follow." The kids are getting older, so I'll just list their ages here. The younger one won't be as important to the story, so don't worry about them. As for the adults, most of them are in their thirties or early forties. Only Brian Maddox is pushing fifty, and Mr. Bennet is just old.

In order of age:

George Wickham 13
Georgiana Bingley and Geoffrey Darcy 12
Charles and Eliza Bingley 10
Isabella Wickham 10
Frederick and Emily Maddox 8
Joseph Bennet 8
Anne Darcy 7
Edmund Bingley 6
Sarah Darcy 5
Cassandra Darcy 4
Daniel Maddox Jr. 3
Henry Fitzwilliam 3


Chapter 1 – The Miracle Worker

"Brother Gregory," said Prior Pullo, "the abbot requests your presence."

Grégoire hadn't even seen Prior Pullo's approach. He had been consumed by his gardening, and his wide straw sun hat blocked most of his vision of the world above the soil. "I am at the abbot's disposal," he said, pushing himself to his feet and setting his tools aside. The patch was coming along nicely despite the heat; the fauna seemed to have more of a resistance to the Spanish summer than he did.

Grégoire Bellamont-Darcy had taken the cowl now eight years as a Benedictine, the last four spent in the ancient monastery on the hilltop in Vila de Bares on the Iberian coast. He thought he would be more adrift in foreign soil, but a born Frenchman who had lived in England and Bavaria knew how to make himself at home. At home was the Rule, and the daily rhythms of the monastic life that had been in place for centuries. Some came to run from the world, but he came to give his life to G-d. That his accent was different, that he was used to colder climates, or even his heritage as the bastard mix of an English gentleman and his French maid could not stand between Grégoire and the familiarities of the contemplative life.

He went happily to the abbot, a kindly old monk whom had been appointed from Rome and would sit on his seat until his death or reassignment. Beneath him was Prior Pullo, who did not have the same smile for Grégoire that the others had, despite what he owed him. Grégoire had been offered the position as brother prior the year before, and turned it down. He was not a political animal, and he had the sense to see that path for what it was and avoid it.

It was a long walk up the steep hill to the abbey gates, where he deposited his laughably wide hat and followed the brother prior, taking on a more serious air. Behind the door he sought was a man of great stature and spiritual insight, and he wanted to look at least like he had not had his robes trailing in the soil. It was not to be. The abbot would take no note of such material concerns, no? How foolish of him to think otherwise.

Grégoire was still chastising himself as he entered. The abbot's office was not particularly grand, but the 12th-century fresco of saints never failed to astound him in their medieval beauty. "Father Abbot."

"Brother Grégoire," he replied, nodding for the brother to take a seat. The abbot had a busy schedule and this was not confessional, so he was politely to the point. "There is a rumor on the wind."

"I am not much for rumors, Father. You must enlighten me."

The abbot smiled in a sad sort of way. "It is concerning your conduct with the Valencia house visit."

"I am at a loss, Father." His mind was truly blank. "Is Pablo all right? Has something happened?"

"No, the child is doing quite well, or so I am told."

"Blessed the L-rd," Grégoire said, and crossed himself. This left him to guess, and he did not like to guess. "If this is about the christening, the father was so very insistent that his son would relapse and be damned – "but the abbot raised his hand. This was not the problem.

"You were authorized to perform that christening, and it was overdue." From the very day he was born, Pablo was too ill to christen. The priest would not go near him. It was only during Grégoire's third visit that the child recovered enough for the ceremony, and Grégoire was honored to perform it that very night, so late it was almost morning, and save the child from the fires of hell. "The question on some people's mind is how the child was restored so quickly to health."

Still helpless in finding an understanding of his situation, Grégoire said, "On the first visit I bathed the child with soap, which had not been done before. He was still very yellow, so I put him in the sun for several hours, as I heard that the sun's rays have restorative effects on a child. On the second visit, he was less so, but he still had the blotches, and I happened to inquire as to where his blanket was made. His mother said it had been made for her previous child, a girl whom had died within a few days of her birth. I thought it best that they discard the blanket, and they agreed. I bathed him again, and the next day, he was restored."

"So I have heard."

"Is ... there something wrong with that, Father?"

"Please close the door, Brother Grégoire."

Increasingly uneasy, Grégoire did so, and returned to his seat.

The abbot sat up. "There are people who are calling the child's recovery a miracle. I am seeking the source of these rumors."

"This is the first I've heard of them," he said. "Yes, it was a wondrous act of G-d to return the infant to health, but on our own earth, I believe it was merely a matter of a diseased blanket that was giving the newborn a rash or two. I would not call it a miracle, Father."

"Neither would I, though the Good L-rd's help is needed in every act, even the most simple." The abbot rubbed his chin. "However, this is not the first case of a quick recover under your care."

Grégoire swallowed. "Father, I cannot apologize for something that I was sent to do. Nor do I understand why I must."

"You are wiser in the ways of G-d than in the ways of the world. While this is generally beneficial, I do not think it aids you here," the abbot said. "Grégoire, the people are willing to believe in miracles – but the word is a precarious one when constantly mentioned concerning one person."

"Father, I did not mean – "

"I know very well what you meant and what you didn't. However, the people may not see it with the same eyes. I wish to protect you from what you will bring upon yourself – or at least make you aware of it. The choice is before you then – to continue your visits with the potential of gaining a reputation, for good or ill."

He had no hesitation. "With all due respect, Father, if I am the most qualified to work with the ill and infirmed, then it would be most beneficial for everyone for me to do so."

"And you are willing to face the consequences?"

"There cannot be bad consequences for doing good work."

The abbot smiled. "You are forgetting, then, the story of our L-rd and Savior."

Grégoire colored, humbly lowering his head. "Forgive me. I do not presume to imagine myself in such a position – "

"Of course not. I will give you time to contemplate your decision. Do not presume lions to be lambs before you throw yourself to them."


Walking always settled Grégoire's mind, and unsettled it was. As simply-spoken as the abbot had been, the subtlety had not been missed. To be a good monk was one thing. To be a miracle worker was another. "L-rd in Heaven," he said, "let me not stray the people towards blasphemy."

After Vespers, the air began to cool, but it was not dark yet, and would not be so for a few hours. He set out immediately after supper. He liked the abbey grounds very much, some sown fields and some untouched wilderness. There was a point, not far away, that one could see the coast, and smell the salt in the air.

Little houses populated the area near the cliffs. They had lived there for generations, perhaps believing the air to be beneficial, and they worked the abbey lands beyond what the monks themselves could manage for a good wage, often in kind. He knew almost every home, or at least the families living within them. It was quite impossible not to.

"Brother Gregory!" someone called out and he turned to see the approach of Señor Diaz, a carpenter responsible for most of the new wooden construction in the abbey. He spoke nothing but Spanish, like most of the people in the area. "What are you doing, out so late?"

"There is light yet," he said, bowing. "Señor Diaz. How are you?"

"I am well, thank G-d."

"And your wife? Your daughters?" For Diaz had three.

"They are all well." He slapped him on the shoulder, and Grégoire was very good at hiding the wince in pain. "Brother, will you carry a message to the abbot? I will tell you first that it is not good news."

"The abbot is an understanding man," he said. "What is the matter?"

"I am supposed to build the new seats for the chapel, the ones that were eaten by mites last winter, but I do not know how I can do it. The price of the kind of wood that the abbey requires is so high – "

"I am sure the abbey will reimburse you for the expense, Señor."

"It is not just that. I will have to travel all the way to Oviedo for the wood, and I do not have the time or the money. You know the storm we had at the beginning of the spring? The very beginning? Right before the days of rain?"

"Yes."

He seemed to be pleading with him. "They destroyed so many houses – I am so busy rebuilding them."

"Business is good for you, then. I am sure the pews can wait. It is only a few that were damaged. Helping the people is more important."

"Yes, but the people have no money to pay me, and I cannot work for free. I am the only carpenter here – I am exhausted. I do not know what I am going to do."

"Oh," Grégoire said. "You say the families are in financial distress?"

"Yes – not for food but for stable roofs. Just yesterday, Señora Alvarado's kitchen roof caved in. She was fortunate to be in the other room, or she might have been killed."

"Why did you not inform the abbot? It is not fair for good people to sit without shelter while we live in a castle."

Diaz looked relieved. "I am glad you see it that way, but the abbey already feeds us – we cannot ask for more. I am sorry, but we have our pride."

Grégoire nodded. "I see." He put a hand gently on Diaz's shoulder. "Perhaps good luck will blow your way with the winds from the sea. Trust in G-d, Señor. I assure you that you need not worry about the pews or acquiring the wood."

"Thank you, Brother Grégoire."

He bowed. "I have done little to earn your thanks. But, now, I must return for Compline. Go with G-d, Señor Diaz."

"Go with G-d, Brother Gregory."

He smiled and was on his way. Already the plan was forming in his mind, distracting him from the earlier conversation with the abbot. The families on the coast were in financial distress but if the abbey gave them the money to rebuild, their pride would be injured. (And Grégoire knew enough about pride from his brother)

But then there was his ten thousand pounds, most of which lay at his disposal for the year. The English pound was strong, and only a tiny fraction would cover all of their expenses in rebuilding their homes. The abbey did not know about it; Darcy had advised him to do so in Bavaria and again before he left for Spain and he had seen the wisdom in that. Besides, Benedictines, unlike his previous order, were not averse to dealing with wealth. The only matter was to contact his banker in Madrid and figure out a way to distribute the money anonymously, but by the time he returned to the abbey, he already had some ideas of how to go about that.

Considerably more settled, he sung along with his brothers at Compline and was dismissed. It was eight, and in seven hours he would be woken for morning prayers and another day. He was hot and tired from the day's work and the walk, and in the privacy of his cell, he removed his cowl and robe, and then painfully removed the vest beneath it. He cleaned away the blood, caked in some areas and wet in others, and gave himself the treat of rubbing a lotion over his chest, where the damage from the cilicium was most severe, his back too scarred from previous injuries to be much affected. After the soothing balm set in, he found an easy sleep, at peace with the world around him.

...Next Chapter - Bride and Prejudice


The cilicium is a hairshirt, worn by religious Catholics as an act of penance. The most famous wearer of the hairshirt is perhaps the English saint, Thomas Becket.