Manner of Devotion

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

Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

Author's Note: Here we are as promised. My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments. Man, this is gonna strain my poor beta.

Pemberley Shades has gone in for printing, and the pre-order sale will only continue until it arrives! If you want to order the book at a dollar below the final price, DO IT NOW. Includes a forward by yours truly.

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

Chapter 13 - Broken Floor, Broken Man

Darcy had a pistol with him as he descended the hill, following the trail of smoke from the chimney from the house at the bottom. He didn't always go about Derbyshire armed, but in the days since the war, he decided it was a good precaution. He had heard stories of ex-soldiers without jobs roaming the woods in bands. He was not a man to panic, but he would protect his family, and on this particular mission, his son was with him.

Geoffrey Darcy followed a few steps behind him. He was at an age where he was unsure of his own limbs, which seemed to be growing beyond what he was comfortable with, and his voice would occasionally drop and then squeak, much to the delight of his three younger sisters, who tortured him over it.

Darcy remembered that age as well as any man did – he remembered the competition with Wickham. Wickham had always been the taller one even though he was over six months younger, but that changed in Darcy's thirteenth year, and suddenly he started winning their brawls and Wickham turned to his own devices to best him in other areas. Now he could look back and wonder if their father had watched their unknowingly brotherly rivalry with amusement or concern. It was probably both.

He said little, other than to assure his son that the awkward age would pass. He did not mention growing up with Wickham, not willing to accidentally tamper with the friendship of Geoffrey and George, who had the fortune of knowing full well they were cousins. George was taller and older, but he took no delight in it, and there was no real rivalry there. Geoffrey was easier with other people, and had his mother's good nature.

But then again, people change. Darcy could remember thinking Wickham was his best friend. He remembered fishing with him. He remembered learning to ride from the same instructor. How much of the blame really laid on him that it had all gone sour? He had to remind himself that he would never really know.

"Father."

His attention turned back to his son, who was pointing at a dip that Darcy had been about to stumble into. "Thank you." Perhaps I am getting older. He was not a vain man – he did not dye his hair as the grey came in – but he liked to think he still had his senses about him. "My mind was elsewhere."

"Are we almost there?"

"You can see the house, can't you?"

"That's where they live? The – "

"The Jenkins, Geoffrey. Yes, this is their house."

He had spent the previous morning speaking with Mr. Jenkins, who petitioned against the raise in his rent. It was a fair raise – land was worth more and all of the rents went up according to inflation – but several people complained. Darcy's steward explained all of the cases of complaint, which Darcy listened to with care. Only one seemed legitimate, and the next day he invited Mr. Jenkins, a tenant farmer, for tea at Pemberley. The man pleaded with him – his wife was sick and their heating costs were always going up. They could not afford the new rent. Darcy said he would think on it and return with an answer.

"Why are we going to their house?"

"Because I shouldn't make a man travel all the way up to Pemberley just because I want to talk to him. I already made him do it once; now I will meet him on his ground."

Eventually they made it down to the road, and the little house that overlooked a wheat field. Mr. Jenkins was sitting on the porch, and rose in surprise. "Mr. Darcy."

"Mr. Jenkins." He offered his hand, and Jenkins took it, but also removed his hat. "This is my son, Geoffrey Darcy."

Jenkins bowed. "Hello, Mr. Geoffrey."

"Hello, Mr. Jenkins," Geoffrey said.

"You've come about the rent."

"We will get to that. First, I understand your wife is ill. May we visit?"

"... Of course, Mr. Darcy. We don't have much to offer you – "

"It's not necessary," Darcy said as they entered the house, which only had a few rooms, and Jenkins scurried about to get them something to drink; they were offered two glasses of very watery beer, which they accepted gratefully. Darcy did not impose on Mrs. Jenkins, an old woman in a rocking chair in her bedroom, exchanging greetings with her as she coughed and sniffled and apologized profusely for not being able to better receive them.

"It's no trouble, I assure you," Mr. Darcy said.

"And this is the young master?" Mrs. Jenkins said with a smile at Geoffrey. Not only was the heir to Pemberley always a subject of speculation among the locals, but the Jenkins had only one son, who had died at Waterloo. "Hello, Mr. Geoffrey."

"Mrs. Jenkins," he said, bowing.

That duty finished, Darcy looked around the building as he talked with the husband. "So is it just a cough, or a cold?"

"It comes and goes. She can never seem to be fully rid of it."

"There's an apothecary by the name of Ashworth in Lambton. He sells mainly tonics, but he has a particular brew for the cough that contains lemon. Ask him for it and tell him I sent you. It's barely more than a bottle of gin and it does wonders. I use it myself sometimes."

"Thank you, Mr. Darcy. About the rent – "

Darcy held up his hand. "I have a question for you, if you would."

"Of course, sir."

Darcy walked to the end of the hallway, which led to the kitchen with its little stove. The logs of wood that were the walls were held together with plaster, and the floor was beaten wood, probably hollow beneath above the stone foundation. "How long has it been since there was any work done on this house?"

"I – I don't know, sir. We bought it after we were married and I used to have a man come by to fix up the plaster when there were holes, but he left to find work in London."

Darcy glanced at his son, then crouched down and pushed down on the floorboard. The other end went up a little. "Your house must be freezing in the winter."

"There's always a draft, even in the summer. In the winter it's terrible, but who doesn't freeze in the winter? This isn't the south."

Darcy nodded, pacing for a moment before halting over a floorboard that rattled when he stepped on it. "Well, I can explain your increased coal use, and probably your wife's continual cold. The cold air comes up through the floorboards from underneath the house. You need to have your floors done."

Jenkins laughed quietly. "I can't afford something like that."

"I happen to have a very good carpenter who owes me a favor. If I sent him over to redo your floors and tighten the plaster, will you agree to the new rent?"

"I don't – yes." He nodded as if assuring himself. "But if it's still cold – "

"Then we'll discuss it again, but I don't think it will be. He's a very good carpenter. He redid all the shooting boxes at Pemberley and you could sleep in them." He offered his hand, this time for business purposes.

Jenkins shook on it. "I agree. May I have an extra week to gather the new rent?"

"You may. My solicitor will be around." He nodded for his son. "And remember – Mr. Ashworth. If he charges you more than five farthings, tell him I sent you."

"Thank you, Mr. Darcy."

They said their good-byes and walked out into the sunlight. They took the long path on the way back, on the road that sloped up slowly instead of the steep incline of the grassy hill.

"Do you really have a carpenter who owes you a favor?"

"Of course I don't," he said to his son. "And it'll be at least twenty pounds to fix that house. Far more than Jenkins could dream of affording."

Geoffrey knew what he was being asked, and counted on his fingers. "You'll lose money! The increase won't cover it for years."

"You're discounting that the rent will rise again eventually, most likely, but yes, I have just lost money. Why do you think I did it?"

His son grabbled with the idea. "Was it charity?"

"It was, in a sense, but not the same as giving money to a beggar. Besides, if I had just offered up money because he was poor and his wife was suffering, why didn't I just give him free lodgings? Or hand him coin to pay for his own repairs?" He answered for Geoffrey. "Because it would have insulted him. He's a working man, son. He doesn't want to be treated like a beggar. Besides, I had another reason."

Geoffrey was given ample time to think as they strolled up the path at their leisure. Finally he said, "I give up."

"There were two reasons to do it, beyond basic charity for his sick wife. First, the rents are going up everywhere, equally, in accordance with the rising price of land. If I made an exception for someone because I felt bad for him, word would get around and I would have everyone at our door, telling me their sad stories, true or not. People talk – they compare notes, especially about the rich and what they do. So the rent had to go up, but I brought down his cost of living – he was buying his wife those expensive miracle cures. You noticed there were a few of them in the bin in the kitchen? And of course there is the matter of the cost of coal to heat the house."

"But you still lost money."

"But I bought something far more important – respect. Landlords are always despised because people have to pay them money to live in their homes. A landlord who is liked is a hard thing to find. When Mr. Jenkins figures out the real price of the renovations, he'll know I did him right, and if someone raises objections to the way I treat my tenants in some tavern in Lambton, he might say something against it." He put his hand on his son's back. "It is very important to be liked by the people who owe you money. I would not do this for every tenant or I would not be very responsible with my money, but not every tenant has such an easy problem to solve. So the larger picture is more important in this case. The master of Pemberley must be regarded as a respectable man and even-handed landlord and employer, sometimes even at his own expense."

"Did Grandfather Darcy tell you that?"

"He did. He was a good master. One of the few things I remember about his funeral was how many of his own tenants came out to pay their respects." He looked at his son's expression. "Do not worry yourself – I've no intention of giving up the ghost anytime soon." He gave him a playful shake. "That's enough for today."

"May I go to Kirkland?"

"Yes. But be home before supper!"

"I will!" He bowed quickly to his father before running off ahead of him.

When Darcy had become a father to Georgiana Darcy, it was in desperation and despair. When he became a father of his children with his wife by his side, it was perhaps his greatest delight. It soothed his mind, which was tired from many nights of uneasy rest that he could not properly explain.

"Dr. Maddox!"

So happily was he asleep that he would have preferred to ignore the call, but it was annoyingly persistent.

"I thought you retired," Caroline mumbled next to him as he sat up and reached for his glasses.

"I thought I did," he said, and shambled to the door, throwing on a robe as he did and opening the door just a slit. "Yes?"

"Your brother is here with a patient. He said to get you up immediately, sir."

"My brother?" His instincts kicked in; he was instantly awake. "Who is the patient? Her Highness?"

"Grégoire Darcy."

He did not question what Grégoire Darcy was doing in his house, much less England. He closed his robe and followed the servant with the lantern down the steps, where he found his brother and sister-in-law bearing a stretcher themselves. "Put him in a room over there, on the extra cot," he said instantly. "Is he hurt or sick?"

"Both."

He turned to his manservant, who was also in his bedclothes. "Get all my equipment together and my surgical clothes. I'll change in my room in a few minutes." He grabbed a candlestick and followed Brian and Nadezhda into a spare room he used for minor surgery (scrapes and the like) because the bed was not ornate, only for one person, and in the middle of the room. "More light," he ordered to the servant closest. "And get a maid up to start boiling water. And we'll need ice, too."

"He's pretty badly hurt," Brian said. "He can only lie on his side."

"Align the stretcher with the bed, and we'll transfer him." He set down the candlestick and stood on the other side of the bed. "Here, Grégoire. Let's see you." Grégoire did not respond other than to shake, curled tightly up as he was. Fortunately he was not very heavy, and Dr. Maddox was strong enough to safely lift him from the stretcher to the bed. He felt his head. "How long has he had a fever?"

"It's been up and down, but over a week now. We found him like this in Spain. He's barely holding on."

Nadezhda stroked Grégoire's hair. He was a mess, and had about two week's worth of a shaggy beard. "You're home, Grégoire."

"Before I cut off his clothes – where are his wounds?"

"On his back," Brian said. "They beat him for some minor infraction; nearly killed him. Then the doctor sewed him up badly and it became infected, so they cut him open again to try to treat it, and that didn't help." He looked up and Dr. Maddox saw fear in his eyes. "It's bad."

"He's alive," Dr. Maddox said. "After all this time."

"He was wearing a hairshirt."

He stuttered, "A hairshirt? Like Thomas Becket?"

"Apparently."

Dr. Maddox knew he did not have time to pass judgment. The manservant returned with his tools and he cut away the robe and the bloodied undershirt beneath it, revealing lines of bad lacing, green with infection. The smell was bad enough; he removed them both from the room. "I need help to do this." He turned to his manservant, who handed him his surgical case. "Take one of my cards to Dr. Andrew Bertrand's house. The address is on my desk. If he's not there, track him down; he's probably at Charlton House. And unless the Prince Regent is actively dying, get the doctor. I also need a surgeon from the clinic with the Royal Society, so tell Andrew that and he'll know how to procure one at this hour. Time is of the absolute essence."

His manservant, who was accustomed to serving a surgeon, simply nodded. "Yes, sir."

Dr. Maddox turned to his guests, bowing. "Sorry for not properly receiving you, but thank you for coming."

"Thank G-d you're here and not in Brighton or Derbyshire," Brian Maddox said. "Is there anything else we can do?"

He thought it over. "A priest, a Catholic one. I honestly have no idea where you would find one, but there's certainly any number of them in London."

"He was kicked out of the church. You should know that. It's a mess that I'll be happy to explain when we have time, but don't call him Brother Grégoire, because he isn't."

"But he's not – he can talk to a priest?"

"So I've been told."

He nodded, and embraced his brother. "It's good to see you, by the way."

"You too, Danny."

Maddox bowed to Nadezhda. "Your Highness. Could you watch him while I prepare myself?"

"Of course."

He had no time for further discussion. He hurried into his bedroom, which he had not used in weeks, and quickly dressed himself in his worst clothes and black apron. He stepped out of the door to be greeted by his wife in her nightgown, leaning on the doorframe of her chambers. "What is it?"

"Grégoire is badly wounded and needs surgery."

She was clearly not awake enough to fully comprehend, but she nodded anyway. "Does Darcy know?"

"I have no idea. They've just arrived and Darcy is in Derbyshire, so I imagine not."

"You're nervous."

He was usually so good at hiding it. "No, I'm not."

"He's going to die, isn't he?"

He sighed. "I don't know. It will be close."

She embraced him, kissing him softly. "You're the best surgeon in England. He'll be fine."

"How do you always know what to say to me?"

She gave him a little smile. "I'm not your wife for nothing."

When Dr. Maddox returned to the bottom floor, he could hear the servants in the kitchen, getting water heated for him to wash his instruments and his patient. His manservant was gone and probably would be for at least an hour. He washed his hands in a bowl in the kitchen and entered the room, where Nadezhda sat next to the bed, holding Grégoire's hand.

"Is he conscious?"

"He comes in and out."

He took a seat on the other side, removing the cover and looking at the wounds again, trying to construct the procedure in his mind. The wounds were not deep, but they were so extensive that they were dangerous. He probably lost blood when they reopened the wounds, however long ago that were. The lacing they used in Spain was inferior; no wonder it had caused infection. He took a sponge and slowly began to wash some of the areas of skin that were uninjured but were caked in dried blood. Grégoire cried out all the same. "I'm sorry, Grégoire, but I have to do this." He noticed the rosary clutched in the monk's – well, former monk's – hand was itself filthy with grime and blood. "I will give it right back," he said as he unwound it from Grégoire's hand.

"Don't – "

"I promise, you'll have it right back." He dunked the rosary in the water bowl, scraping off the dirt with his hands until it shined again. "There." He took the opportunity to open Grégoire's hand and wipe it clean before returning the rosary, cross in palm. "Just like new."

Grégoire nodded into his pillow in affirmation. He was not strong enough to speak further.

"When was the last time he drank something?"

"A few hours now; we were giving him broth on the ship."

"Then you're a better nursemaid than most of the doctors I know," he said, and left the room only to call for some soup to be heated and brought to them.

Only with Nadezhda's pleading did Grégoire swallow a few spoonfuls. "You need your strength."

What is left of it, Dr. Maddox thought.

Next Chapter - "...To Forgive, Divine"