The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

Author's Notes: For the record, Rxc nailed it first. Anyway, usually at 50K or so I make a speech, and we've hit the halfway point here, as this is a longer story, so I was just wondering how you all were handling the many plotlines I've introduced. I'm reluctant to spend so much time with non-Austen characters (Dr. Maddox, Grégoire) in fanfic, but they keep having interesting plotlines, so it's hard not to. The whole story is not the journey to find Giovanni Ferretti (who is a real historical character). The Darcys will return to England because obviously, some things need to happen there. Very, very important things.

I'm having an operation tomorrow, so there may be not be an update until early next week. Wish me luck.

Chapter 13 – Proper Discipline

Paris was put aside as the coachmen helped Darcy carry his brother into the coach, but not before Darcy removed his waistcoat and put it over him. Grégoire was only half-conscious and shivering, and all they could seem to do before hurrying to an inn was to make him drink, and he regained some color, but not much.

At some shabby inn, Darcy carried his brother in and placed him on a proper bed, removing his cowl, and called for a doctor using a dictionary he had purchased along the way. He did his best to keep the sight of blood from Elizabeth. He did not want this for her, for so many reasons, and sent her instead to gather proper food and drink for them all. At last a doctor arrived, or someone who seemed like a doctor, and had a nearly unpronounceable name that Darcy didn't bother to catch. He went inside and shut the door, leaving Darcy to pace outside. The wait was very short, and the doctor reemerged, and Darcy demanded an assessment.

"Well," said the doctor in his broken English. "He is a monk. Cistercian, non?"

"He is."

"Then you cannot expect a flagellant of his physical strength to walk the half of Francé. It is asking too much."

"I did not ask him to walk," Darcy replied too quickly, before he had swallowed the accented words. "You said – he did this to himself?"

"Oui, monsieur."

"What – what purpose could this possibly serve? What great sin has he committed?"

The doctor shrugged. "My – limited understanding is that it is to remind oneself of the wounds of Christ our Lord, who was of course – "

"Yes, I know!" he interrupted. "But ..." But he realized, there was no use arguing with the doctor over this. "You have some ointment for his wounds?"

"Oui, but he will not take it. Let him rest, monsieur."

He's as stubborn as ... He was tempted to think, a Darcy. "I will take the ointment. Thank you for your services, doctor."

The doctor nodded and handed over the jar with a contemptuous look at this rich Englishmen who did not seem to understand the most basic concepts. Darcy ignored it entirely and went straight into Grégoire's room without knocking.

The monk was on the shabby cot, back in his soiled robes but without the hood, sitting up in prayer. Perhaps it was too painful to lay down. He looked up and seemed horrified by Darcy's intrusion, a look of shame upon his face, perhaps because he had been discovered.

"The doctor says you should be resting."

"I am resting."

"Perhaps my understanding of your local culture is lax, but usually it refers to lying down and sleeping." But he could not remain to full of indignation for long, looking at the pale, shuddering frame of the poor man he'd driven into exhaustion, however unknowingly. "Look at you. What have you done that deserves such great penance?"

On this, Grégoire was silent.

Darcy took a seat on the cot next to him. "I will not ask you to explain your illness. I know you would not expect me, as an Englishmen or a heretic, to understand."

"I never said you were a heretic."

"But I do go to church on Sundays and listen to a sermon English and perhaps a reading from the bible in the vernacular. Surely that in of itself dooms me to hell?"

"I am not one to presuppose who is destined for hell, Darcy."

"But surely you could yourself among the damned, else you would not engage in such penance."

"I certainly hope not. But I am weak and the Discipline is a means of fortification."

"As we witnessed today, I would say that the two are in fact interconnected, but not in the same way." He leaned over, so he was properly looking Grégoire in the eyes. "Let me be understood, brother. If you intend drive yourself in such a manner on this journey, then I will take you no further. I will send you back to your monastery, where you can injure yourself in peace and not have the stress of the roads to put your very life in danger." He added, "I would be sorry to do it, as I doubt we would see each other again. But nonetheless, do I make myself perfectly, utterly clear?"

"I cannot disobey my abbot."

"And I cannot disobey my conscience. So we are at a standstill."

"So we are."

There was silence once more.

"If you would," Darcy said, "remove your robe."

"What?"

"If you will not take medicine from the doctor, then you must at least take it from your brother, who himself is quite ill at the idea of seeing you in such a condition. There, have that on your conscience. Now, pull up your robe."

Grégoire did what he was told with a grunt of pain, exposing a wounded back of raw, broken flesh. There were scars as well, running down his back, from older wounds ... It made Darcy sick, but nonetheless he poured out some ointment from the jar onto his hand and began to apply it the boy's back. "There. Does that feel better?"

"It is – cooling." Though uncomfortable with the concept, after some time, Grégoire did look relieved, if not totally out of pain. Darcy wished for some of Maddox's miracle drug, if only to help him sleep. "Thank you, Darcy."

"I would offer my services again, but I never wish to do this again," Darcy said, rising. "Now get some real rest. For all of us." He waited, with arms crossed, for Grégoire to lie down before leaving and seating himself on the bench outside the room. Now he felt exhausted, if only from the stress of facing the unfathomable. What century was his brother living in?

"Darcy," came his wife's voice, obviously concerned about his awkward position of tension on the bench. "How is he?"

"Recovering," he said as she sat down next to him, finally taking his head out his hands.

"Does the doctor have an explanation, or was he merely over-exhausted? He has not been eating much."

"No." He did not clarify what part he answering. "Lizzy, he is a monk. From a very strict order."

"This I know."

Whatever annoying she had at his reluctance to reveal the details was obviously tempered by his unease, as she put her hand over his, even though it was so much smaller, and leaned on him. He usually went through great measures to hide his unease, and she always saw through them anyway, which at times could be very convenient, because her touch did something to settle him. "He is ... a flagellant." He hoped he would have to explain that. Elizabeth was well-read. She was so good at surprising him with knowing of the existence of improper things.

Whatever memories she did have of the meaning of this word, it took some time to dredge up, because it was a moment before she answered, "They are still around?"

"It seems, we are very far from England. And the Reformation."

"So that would explain – "

" – his exhaustion and collapse, yes. Apparently from pain."

"And the blood on his robes."

"I did not mean for you to see that."

"Which is probably precisely why I saw it."

He somehow managed to crack a smile.

There was another contemplative silence before she continued, "And what are we to do?"

"I have already spoken to him about it. Perhaps in not the most – understanding of fashions, but still. We are not medieval. I told him, quite honestly, that if this was to continue, obviously to the point where he would permanently injure or kill himself on some kind of religious obligation, than I would take him no further, and find another translator with less masochistic tendencies," he said. "I also added that I would be regretful to do so, as it meant I would probably never see him again, if he returns to Mon-Claire."

"So you do not wish him gone."

"Hardly."

With the way she was leaning on his elbow, her expression was hard to see and read. "So you accept him, then?"

"As a backwards local with barbarous customs?"

"As a brother."

This, he could not answer. At least, not immediately. But it seemed, Elizabeth was willing to wait. She stroked his back, which was stiff from all of the riding, and from the tension.

When he was soothed, he said, "Yes, I suppose. This does mean I will willingly extend this courtesy to every child my father may have sired." Of course, there was only one known other, but his name would remain unspoken until Darcy spoke it. "But he was perfectly amiable, and highly intelligent, and a kind, generous man who is too hard on himself – somewhat literally. Extremely literally. But that is his upbringing, so I suppose it cannot be unexpected."

"Darcy," she said, "we cannot let him go back."

He had been thinking the same thing, but he was too tired to express it. He took her offered hand. "Our trip will be delayed."

"A few days will hardly make my sister any more or less with child," she said. "Or even a week. However long it takes."

He was not eager to disagree with her.

"Geoffrey! Geoffrey Darcy, you get back here this instant!"

Nurse had already given up. She had chased Geoffrey around enough times that she was huffing and puffing, but Bingley shooed away the other servants. "He's my responsibility," he said. "Geoffrey! I meant what I said!"

But he giggled and disappeared behind a corner. Georgie was standing there, and he leaned over to his daughter. "Which way did he go?"

She pointed.

"Thank you," he said, and broke into a full run, nearly crashing into half a dozen servants before he found Geoffrey struggling with a closet door that was locked, obviously intending to hide in there. Bingley picked him right up. "There you are. Do you have any idea what you're doing to us?"

The boy, who was slowly returning to his normal coloration, merely giggled.

"Come now. It's time for your bath."

"But I'm not even dirty!"

"Still, you must – and I feel suddenly as though I'm a terrible hypocrite when I say this – you must bathe."

"I hate bathing."

Bingley supposed it broke his supposed authority a bit to laugh, but he did, and Geoffrey was still stuck in his arms anyway, as he carried him back to the Nursery. "Ah, karma. Listen, I promised to take care of you, and that means seeing to your general cleanliness, and if that means I must bathe you myself, I will!"

His announcement did not go unnoticed. Jane was standing beside Georgie at the door to the nursery, holding a hand over her face at the sight of it.

"Auntie!"

"Auntie will not aid you in this one," she said firmly.

"Georgie!"

Georgiana Bingley shook her head, mainly because her mother was giving her a stern look.

"Don't exasperate yourself too much on this one, husband," Jane said, and Bingley shrugged and carried Geoffrey off.

He was not far enough along before he heard it. Two things, one in response to each other.

First, Georgie turned to her mother and said, quiet clearly and with no failure of pronunciation, "What's he going to do to him now?"

Second, at the sound of her daughter's long-delayed first words, Jane passed right out.

It was three days until Grégoire was fit to travel again. His diet kept him barely more than skin and bones and his health was not at peak upon his injuries, whenever they were incurred, so Darcy took matters into his own hands, practically force-feeding him bread and meat and everything that was available and making him stay in bed.

"He would do the same with Georgiana," Elizabeth assured Grégoire. "He is most protective of her."

One thing Darcy did do was also hire the local priest so his brother could hear Mass without rising. This he did without being asked, and when inquired, merely shrugged and said to Elizabeth, "I do not think he would appreciate me reading from the Book of Common Prayer."

What he did not share with Elizabeth as they prepared for their journey once again was that he thoroughly searched the small sack of Grégoire's things and removed the knotted cord whip with several steel bits in it from its contents. It was stained with blood and made him sick to look at as he tossed it in the garbage pile outside.

"It belongs to the abbey," his brother protested. "Not to me."

"I will personally pay for the abbey to acquire a new one if they press me on it," Darcy said. "You will have to find a new way to torture yourself. Try falling in love with a woman who despises you."

Grégoire was confused enough by this comment that he did not request an explanation as they joined Elizabeth in the carriage and made their way back to the main road.

It was merely a day before they reached their long-awaited initial destination of Paris. With Grégoire's help and Darcy's obvious bag of coin, they were able to situate themselves quite easily in a fine hotel, meant for ambassadors and people of rank. Grégoire was given an adjoining room and ordered to at least sleep on the mattress, even if he insisted on moving it to the floor. Tired from their travels, Darcy had their dinner sent up, and found a British manager who would begin making the proper arrangements to locate their mail, if the Bingleys or Bennets had written to Paris, and to directions to Mary's seminary. The man, Mr. Arnold, was a former courier for the army and did extremely good work, and by nightfall, they had a small pile of letters from Kirkland and several from Town.

"Look, Darcy," Elizabeth said, passing a letter to him as he devoured his own half of the pile alongside his food. "From Geoffrey."

"From Geoffrey?" He took it and squinted at what, at the bottom of Jane's letter, was a scrawled "GD" and what was quite possibly a stick figure of a person, with blue ink scribbled all over the black limbs. "Huh," he said with laughter. "Well, at least his education is coming along. Grégoire, here. From your nephew."

Grégoire reached into his robes and pulled out his cord glasses, and tied them around his ears so the lenses were situated so he could see the drawing proper. "He is – how old?"

"Two. And a half," Darcy said. "I suppose you'll put up a huge fuss if I offer to buy you proper glasses. But, ah, I'm already a step ahead of you. Would your monkish pride be insulted if I bought a pair of glasses for myself and you happened to borrow them because they matched your own eyes so well?"

His brother answered with a red face, "It is not pride. Pride is a sin."

"And so is having possessions, of course. I suppose the glasses belong to the abbey."

"They do."

"Can you read without them?"

"If I try very hard, but I hear it is bad for my eyes."

"Well, I suppose Darcy, who I never to this day knew was farsighted and required reading glasses, will have to buy himself a pair," Elizabeth said with a sly smile.

"You are attempting to undermine me," Grégoire said, but his tone was not entirely accusatory.

"And doing a thorough job of it," Darcy said without embarrassment, and returned to his letters. "Hmm. Mrs. Maddox. Elizabeth, do summarize this one for me."

"Darcy! Since when did you not like Caroline Maddox?"

"Since I didn't marry her," he said. "And she's prattling on about some ball. I have no idea." He turned to the next letter. "Ah, a later one. It seems our son is slowly returning to his original color, despite his best attempts to avoid bathing. And everyone is in good health, and such and such. From Bingley." This he also placed on her pile. "Bingley is my brother-in-law," he explained to Grégoire. "Elizabeth's sister married him. He is taking care of Geoffrey for us, as well as Mary."

"Oh," Grégoire said. "Mary is – "

"The woman with child, yes," Elizabeth said. "My younger sister. It is confusing, because I have four, and two are married."

"Yes," Grégoire said. "The one with a child."

Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged glances before he turned to his brother, "Do you know what I mean when I say, 'with child'?"

"Yes, of course."

"Because I don't mean, a child. I mean one in the future. She is pregnant."

At this, Grégoire stared in blank confusion. This stare was met with roars of barely-contained laughter between husband and wife.

"Perhaps before we go about our inquiries, dear husband, you should properly explain to your brother what that means."

"What? I assumed you would do it!"

"How could I? It would be most improper for a woman to explain it to a man, especially a monk!"

She had him, and he knew it. "This is true," he grumbled. "Brother Grégoire, I will have to explain to you where ... babies come from."

This, the monk could answer. "They come from marriage."

Holding himself up by his elbows was all Darcy could do from going face-first into the table with laughter. Of the two of them, Elizabeth recovered more quickly. "My sister is not married. Therefore, we may conjecture that they do not come only from marriage."

"Oh," said Grégoire. And then he added, even more confused, "Oh."

Elizabeth got up from the table, taking her letters with her, and patting her husband on the shoulder. "This one is yours, darling. Enjoy."

"Lizzy! Lizzy, don't leave me here with this – horrible duty!"

But apparently, she did.

...Next Chapter – Going to the Chapel