The Price of Family

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

By DJ Clawson

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Chapter 17 – Pilgrimage

As France disappeared into the mist, Darcy decided he was happy to see it gone. As beneficial as their long journey had been, it had come with its side of horrors – one brother he wanted and one he did not, but both ill-gotten. And the fact that they were visibly moving forward towards their initial goal put him at ease. He stood on the bow with Elizabeth, who was fascinated by the coloration of the Mediterranean, slightly different than the water channel. That they would have to move into deeper waters and not see the coastline as they passed was a shame. He wished Elizabeth to see Greece, one of the few places on his own trip he had truly enjoyed, with all of its ancient majesty, but it was not to be.

The calm lasted about an hour. Then they made an interesting discovery: monks were apparently not made for the ocean. Grégoire, not a man of great health in the first place, had no sea legs at all. Darcy was quite literally carrying him to the side of the boat to get him there in time before he lost his stomach. After the fifth time, he could no longer stand, and slumped against the side of the railing.

"Now, very much, I wish your brother was here," Darcy said to Brian Maddox. "You don't happen to have perused any of his literature -?"

"I know something about scurvy, but he doesn't have that. We've been on the boat for a quarter of a day."

They looked at each other.

"Maybe if we kept him below ..."

"Maybe if we let him walk, like he wanted to do," Darcy said, watching his brother mutter in Latin as he fingered his rosary. "He would arrive a few months late, but – Oh, there he goes again."

Darcy ran across the bow, which was not excessively long, and hoisted his brother up again so he could over the side. Brian Maddox remained in place, and bowed to Elizabeth approaching him. "Mrs. Darcy."

"Mr. Maddox." She curtseyed a little unsteadily, considering the rocking of the boat. "Whatever are we doing to that poor monk?"

"What is that poor monk doing to Mr. Darcy? He hasn't had a moment's piece for a few hours now," Brian remarked with a smile. "Brotherly affection is unconditional. At least, when one is not in competition with the other. Usually it requires a great age difference."

"You are a prime example of that, if I may say, Mr. Maddox," Elizabeth said.

"My very life hinges on my own stupidity and Danny's intelligence. I won't deny it," he said. "I'm very happy to hear that he's doing so well. At least now he can support Caroline on his own, which must be a great load off his mind. Me, I could hardly have the courage to bring myself to such a high class woman. No offense meant to a sister, of course."

"It is hard to deviate from the truth," she said. "Though I cannot say I have seen much of them since they were married, as I am so rarely in Town. But, to be honest, there was some ... surprise in the family when we discovered she was considering the courting of a man without a great inheritance."

"Or a title. And as long as he doesn't ruin it, he'll have knighthood eventually. But Danny is very good at being diplomatic to his patients."

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"So that's it?" Caroline said. "You would have your own head on a spike and me a widow because of some prostitute?"

"No! Of course not! I mean, if it comes to that -," but honestly, Daniel Maddox didn't know what it would come to. He didn't know what he would say to the Prince, that could possibly persuade him, or not get himself fired. "But – she's a woman in need. What am I supposed to do?"

"She's a whore, Daniel."

"That doesn't change her physical composition. Or the fact that she's carrying a royal child."

"So she says. Do you believe her?"

He scratched his head. "I don't know. Mostly. Look, I have a moral obligation – "

"You have no such obligation. She is exploiting you – "

"So she is! What is she to do? She's desperate! Do you think women become prostitutes because they like letting men use them? Do you think they don't get horrible diseases that they eventually die of, or get knocked up and then killed off when they go to the married man who impregnated them? Do you think most of them have any choice?"

"Don't sermonize to me!"

"I'm not sermonizing! I'm not making something up from a passage I read in the bible! I'm saying this because I've seen it and I have a chance to help this poor, mixed-up girl with a future child, and for some reason, I am very receptive to the pleas of pregnant women at the moment." He softened his tone, kneeling before his wife and taking her hands. "I am serious, Caroline. If you wish me to turn her away, I will. But I don't wish to. You will never have to see her again, but I want to go to the Prince and tell him what damage he has wrecked, though put it much more politely than that. But not without your consent." He touched her cheek. "I will do as you command."

Caroline seemed to be softening. Or, she seemed to be beginning to cry, either one. "I will not be a widow over this. It isn't fair."

"I would not make you a widow. Or, I try my best, despite my profession." He embraced her, which was getting to be a more difficult prospect at this point. "Say the word and it is forgotten."

"Will you forget it?"

He sighed. "No. But it will not be spoken of again."

"You're just like Darcy," she said. "Always the white knight. Why can't you just be stupidly naïve like Charles? Or passed out like Mr. Hurst when someone rings at the door?"

"Charles is not naïve. He just appears to be. In – some respects."

"I know that!" she shouted, pounding him limply on the chest. "I would ask you why you care about this woman so much, but I know you're only going to give me the most noble of answers and meant it and then I must consent or be a horrible woman for not doing so."

"You would never be a horrible woman."

"Despite rumors otherwise. There was a reason I was unmarried until I was thirty."

"Well, by the same logic, since I was unmarried until thirty-one, I must be one horrible woman as well. Though in my case, it makes sense."

This was enough to bring laughter out of Caroline, which stopped abruptly and she put her hand over her stomach.

"Are you all right?"

"The baby just kicked," she said, and Maddox pressed his hand against her sizable belly. "You can't tell it, of course."

"What, the gender? No. That must be a surprise saved for the end." He kissed her. "I love you."

"What good are you as a doctor if you can't even tell the gender of your own child?" she said, her mood noticeably altered from just a few moments before. "Just don't you dare make me a widow."

"Never."

"And try not to lose your commission as well."

"Then it is agreed?"

Caroline had no response but to hug him tighter. He took this as a positive.

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The Darcys rested a day at the small port town after a week that could have been quite pleasant if Grégoire's health hadn't become a serious risk. When they got him on shore, he was barely hydrated, but recovered quickly with food and drink and soil beneath him. Maddox, who knew Italian as well, hired for them a carriage and a horse for himself, and guided them some of the way, until they were nearly in view of the ancient city itself. "Here we must part ways for my own safety. If you need me, send for me at an inn named Bella Notte to the east. I would like to point out that I am considered an excellent courier – must be all those years of running away from people that put me into such shape."

And with that, he took his horse in another direction, going north.

To Grégoire's great delight, he did get to make his proper walk to Rome, if not all the way. The path they had taken was so bumpy that the carriage had to proceed at a slow enough pace and he was enough recovered to walk the last remaining miles as the Holy City came up in the distance, beyond the hills of Italy. At the site of it, he dropped to his knees and bowed.

"His ardor may be decreased when he sees in front of him the reason we travel here," Darcy said.

"You are just grumpy because you know you'll never talk him out of monasticism."

He decided he was willing to give her that. "Perhaps."

And so the Darcys went down the hill and into Rome in the early summer of 1808.

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Rome was unlike any other city. It had been built on mystic origins instead of the trading port that was London, had seated the Roman Republic and then the Roman Empire for a thousand years, and had become the seat of the church that ruled all of Christendom before Martin Luther and John Calvin, and England's own John Knox. It was full of hills overlooking the Tiber, and abandoned ruins and ones reused to build newer houses, so that even in all his studies on Roman history, Darcy could not point out precisely the origins of every place they found on the road. Nothing looked new, but not precisely old, and they saw as many barons and wealthy merchants as tonsured priests and nuns. When the carriage became rather useless, they emerged into the streets themselves, which were hot and buggy, but not unbearable, and Darcy could not seem to ignore his brother's pleas to see St. Peter's. Darcy would have excused himself from this business, but Elizabeth expressed a more pedestrian interest in the seat of Papery, and he wished to see it with her if she was to go.

Hands together – something clearly appropriate here, and a luxury they enjoyed – the Darcys watched Grégoire ascend and kiss each step leading to the courtyard of St. Peter, with its marble statues of the church fathers and Roman architectural façade.

"You've given him a great gift, bringing him here," Elizabeth whispered to Darcy.

"Or a favor. In which case, he would be perhaps kind enough to repay me by visiting Pemberley before returning to Mon-Claire."

"Scheming, as usual."

"For everyone's good, of course," he said.

There were no words, at first, to fully describe the cathedral they entered. It was massive, and between masses, it was still rather crowded with visitors, even with the Pope not on his throne. And what a throne it was! With four golden pillars surrounding it, all of the literature the Darcys had read on the wealth of the Papacy were clearly not unfounded. Grégoire bowed to the floor, and was received by an attending bishop, and it was some amount of groveling and blessing before Darcy could approach his brother. "We must find suitable lodgings for tonight, eventually, and your skills are needed in this. After the task is done, you can return, but I would ask this small favor of you."

"Of course. In fact, let us go now, so that I can return for Matins. He bowed to the priest and they hurried out the cathedral.

Between Darcy's natural abilities to assess where the wealthy situated themselves and Grégoire's translation, they were able to rent a cramped but suitable apartment that would do for the moment, and Darcy kept his brother long enough only that he should eat something and translate Darcy's letter of inquiry as to the location of Mr. Mastai-Ferretti, if he was still in the city at all. With that sent, they separated, as Grégoire rushed to Matins, his exuberance carrying him all the way there. It must have, because the Darcys themselves found themselves hot and exhausted, and were happy to retire. The building was centuries old, and a bit drafty, and that was its saving grace. "Better accommodations will be found," Darcy assured her, though it was mainly him that needed assuring. "When our business is done here, perhaps we will retire to one of those famous villas while we wait for an answer."

"And do you have a plan for asking the question?"

"Oh, yes," he said.

"Does it involve you just walking in, speaking your mind, and maybe throttling a boy younger than your brother until he agrees to a settlement?"

He smiled. "Perhaps it was not the most cunning of plans."

"Mary is my sister, and I have some questions for Mr. Ferretti myself, if you don't mind. In fact, it may aid us, for if Miss Talbot is correct, there is the possibility that he has some affection for her, or even loves her. Misplaced in his actions, but still."

"A powerful bargaining chip."

"It is not all about bargaining chips. Emotions are involved, Darcy. You remember, emotions? Ones you feel about people you haven't even met or don't even like but are afraid to express?"

"I am not afraid."

"Then you are just exceedingly shy."

"I am not shy."

"And now you are just been stubborn."

"Have you ever known me to be anything else?"

Elizabeth could not reply that she could not.

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They set out after Grégoire returned from morning Mass. It was hot but not unbearable, and even with her brimmed hat, Darcy bought a parasol for his wife and a wooden cross necklace for his brother, to which, surprisingly, the monk did not object. The seller said that it had been blessed by His Holiness, and as much as Darcy doubted it, he said nothing.

Rome was the Holy City, but it was still a modern city as well, if a bit confused in its orientation, having never been planned out properly to be the size that it was, and they soon found the residential streets quite winding and disorienting. Grégoire was invaluable, even when he was horrified as Darcy was willing to put ducats in the hand of any man who seemed, through translation, to be reluctant to give directions. They were misled and probably lied to, but eventually they found someone, a woman hanging up her clothing who said she had once rented an apartment to a young Ferretti, but now the family had a bigger one down a ways, and she knew little else. Perhaps the fact that this British couple was traveling with a young monk of only the most nobly humble appearances endeared her to them enough to tell them that without outright bribery.

"Grazie," Darcy said, which was basically the extent of his Italian. "I did pronounce that right?"

"Yes," Grégoire said, in his own bizarrely accented English. "Down here, she said. All the way to the end."

Fortunately it was downhill. Downwards they descended, until at last they reached an old apartment house with a new false Roman façade in front of it. Darcy rapped harshly on the door with his walking stick, making no pretense of ringing the bell.

A dark woman opened the door, obviously some kind of maid, and Grégoire bowed to her, keeping his eyes low. "Scusilo. È questa il Ferretti residenza?" (Excuse me. Is this the Ferretti Residence?)

"Sì." She gave an obvious look of suspicion at the well dressed foreigners behind the monk.

"We are looking for Giovanni Ferretti," Darcy broke in, figuring the name was enough. It seemed to be. Despite his English, her head snapped up at the name. "Tell her it's urgent."

"Scusili. È un aspetto urgente." (Excuse us. It is an urgent matter)

"Il padrone non è domestico."

"She said the master isn't at home," Grégoire translated.

"Give her this and ask if he will see us," Elizabeth said, pulling from her pocket a rosary with red beads. "Please."

Grégoire took the beads from her and held them up to the maid. She nearly grabbed them from his hand. "Scusilo." And then she slammed the door shut.

"Very clever," Darcy said to his wife. "I knew I brought you along for a reason."

"Brought me along? She's my sister!"

He was unwilling to put up an argument, however pleasing, in the heat. Since the maid did not instantaneously reappear, they seated themselves in the little garden across the street, where a fallen imperial column made for an excellent bench and a gnarled free created some shade. Aside from the buzzing of insects, the area was remarkably quiet, away from the bustle of the town's center. Or perhaps the Romans had the sensibility to retire in the midday heat. Unfortunately for Darcy, he insisted on all of his usual attire, though his cravat was not as complex when he tied it himself. Elizabeth had chastised him, but to no avail. Mr. Darcy was a proper English gentleman and would only be seen as one, especially on a mission of such monumental gentlemanly importance. That did not, however, mean he wasn't running his wool clothing with sweat. "Dear, you're going to be ill."

"I suppose it's my turn," he said. "You've both had a go at it."

At last, the door opened, and the maid gestured for them to enter. They were ushered into a cramped but beautiful two-story apartment. It was full of artifacts, practically crammed with them like an unsorted collection. Every wall was lined with books. Where there weren't proper bookcases, there were piles of them stacked properly and neatly against the wall. The maid, still the only person they had seen or saw about, gestured for them to be seated on a couch in what was apparently a sitting room, if a sitting room more resembling a library, but then again, so did the hallways. On their left was an entrance to the balcony overlooking the hills of Rome, and it provided some breeze. They were not given refreshments. In fact, they were left quite alone, and somewhat wondering after a time if they were ever to be introduced to anybody, much less the right person, when their long pilgrimage was brought to an abrupt end. A man – no, a boy, who couldn't have been more than sixteen – entered, his arms folded behind his back, looking terrified. Around his neck was his rosary, the one Elizabeth had handed over. He was dressed simply, in some kind of seminary uniform, but without the priestly collar.

"Excuse my delay. I believe you are seeking me." He bowed, and they did the same. His English was fluent, but highly accented with the traditional Italian leanings. "I am Giovanni Ferretti."

...Next Chapter – The Would-Be Priest