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. Thank Brandy, my beta, for the strain. FFnet seems to not be sending out alerts so that's stretching it out a bit for now.

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 14 - "...To Forgive, Divine"

Dr. Bertrand arrived just before the first rooster crow. He was quickly introduced to Mrs. Maddox and the doctor's brother and sister-in-law, and then joined Dr. Maddox alone with the patient.

"The surgeon will be here by six," he said. "Mr. Stevens."

"I know him. Short, blond hair?" he said as he removed the covering over Grégoire, giving Bertrand time to make his own visual assessment.

"Who is this?"

"My cousin through marriage and a monk. Or he was, until last week. And no, this is not his fault." He frowned. "The problem as I see it is if we cut away all the infected flesh, there won't be much to sew back together."

"Skin from his leg?"

"Too risky. Too many veins."

Dr. Bertrand nodded. "His arms."

"I'm not happy about doing it. Have you ever done a skin graft?"

"I've seen it done," Bertrand said. "But I don't have battlefield experience with it. They die faster than I can save them at that point. Do we know how deep the wounds are?"

"No, but they're fairly superficial, I think we can assume. We have to do this very fast. He's already lost blood twice over this. I don't know how much he has left to lose."

"Who did this? This is a mess."

"Some incompetent physician in Spain," Dr. Maddox said with disgust. "Twice, too. When the surgeon gets here, we'll begin. You take from the arm; I'll handle the back. Mr. Stevens will monitor his pulse and his breathing." He started opening his medical case and selecting equipment. "Did you sleep or are you just coming off the job?"

"I went home early. I haven't slept yet, but I will be fine for another few hours," he said. "Have you operated on relatives before?"

"Unfortunately," Dr. Maddox replied.

By the time Brian returned with the priest, the house was up, aside from the children. Caroline Maddox was writing a letter for the Darcys to leave immediately, knowing full well that Grégoire could be dead in a few hours. Father LeBlanc, who had been apprised of the complex situation on the way, was ushered into the room. "May I have time alone with him, Doctor?"

"Sadly, no," said Dr. Maddox. "Andrew, you stay. You're not his relative. Wake him up with the salts. Father, this is Dr. Bertrand, who just has to monitor the patient." He bowed to the priest and exited as Dr. Bertrand went back to shaving Grégoire's arm.

In the living room, Dr. Maddox collapsed on the couch and called for tea. His brother sat beside him, with Nadezhda leaning on her husband's shoulder, asleep. "It was a long ride home," Brian explained, not looking particularly rosy himself. "What do you think?"

"It's close," he replied. "I am surprised he made it this long."

"He is a Darcy. They're fighters."

"You realize if Darcy comes here to find his brother dead, we may have to restrain him from killing us both."

Brian managed a chuckle. "Of that I am well aware, Danny."

Dr. Bertrand did succeed in rousing Grégoire with salts, and the ex-monk seemed to be at least semi-coherent. "Mr. Darcy, this is Father LeBlanc."

"Hello, my son," the priest said. He was an older man, without ornament aside from his black dress and his collar. He put a hand over Grégoire's, which was feverishly tightened around his rosary. "You don't have to say anything, but if you have something you would like to confess – "

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," Grégoire said. He was on his stomach, so he had no way to cross himself, and just waved his hand in a futile attempt. "I – I don't know how long it has been ... since my last confession." He blinked, his eyes bloodshot. "I don't know anything."

"When was your last confession? Do you know the date?" the priest said softly.

"I – it was after the end of the month, but there was also the confession to Father Abbot; I don't know if that counted." His voice was weak, his eyes weaker. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned – I don't know anything anymore. I am lost."

"I was told about the incident in Spain. You were not at fault. The abbot said so to your cousin."

"I – it doesn't -," he trailed off. "I don't know what I did. I don't know what I'll do. I don't know anything. How can I confess?" He was upset. "How can I confess? I don't understand if I did anything wrong or what I did that was wrong – I don't know my own sins – "

"You do know that G-d's mercy is boundless," the priest said. "And that if you have sinned, you are forgiven. You believe you are lost, and you may well feel so, but you have a family that will help you find yourself again. They went through great lengths to bring you here."

"– I – am I – where am I?"

" England. You're in London, my son."

Grégoire paused, not totally understanding him. "Where is my brother?"

"I've been told he's in Derbyshire. He'll no doubt rush to your side, but that will take time. You have to go that far."

"And what if I can't?" he said. "What if I don't want to?"

Father LeBlanc paused. "'For this is thankworthy: if a man for conscience toward G-d endure grief, suffering wrongfully.'"(1)

"Saint Peter."

"Yes, my son."

"First book, I think."

"Yes. You are very knowledgeable. You are not suffering for nothing. G-d has a greater plan for you."

Grégoire opened his eyes again. "People keep saying that. I don't want it to be true. I just want to lead the life I was leading. Why can't I go in peace?"

"That is not for you to decide. That is the L-rd's domain." Seeing Grégoire's discomfort with the answer, he said, "You have this moment to decide to live or die. You have to choose to go on before you can even begin to choose a life for yourself."

Grégoire did not respond, visually or audibly. He did however remain awake, staring into the space in front of him for some time.

Father LeBlanc removed a piece of paper from his pocket, "I was asked to read this to you. It was written by your cousin, Mr. Maddox." He cleared his throat. "'Dear Grégoire. Please do not die, because if you do, Darcy will come down here and shoot me and Danny in the head. And then Georgiana will come down and stamp on your grave for never meeting your new nephew.' Oh, dear. I should have read that first." But he looked up, and Grégoire was smiling. "You have a new nephew?"

"I had just received the letter – before this all began. His name is Robert Kincaid. My sister's first child."

"I see. You seem to have quite a loving family, there."

"Yes," Grégoire said, and unclenched his fist to take the priest's hand. "I – am not totally at full wit – would you please, Father, say the Hail Mary, so I don't fail to remember it."

"Of course, my son." He made the cross over Grégoire. "Ave María, grátia plena Dóminus tecum; Benedícta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus fructus ventris tui, Jesus – "

Grégoire joined him. By the end of it, his voice had faded, and shortly after the 'Amen' he had lost consciousness.

Father LeBlanc blessed him again, and stepped out. "He's ready."

(1)1 Peter 2:19

Darcy had ridden for nearly two days, stopping only when his horse was about to collapse and to sleep a few restless hours at an inn. It was the same old road to Town, and most of the innkeepers along the way knew the travelers, and the barkeep's wife said something to him about never having seen him in such a state of distress, which he characteristically ignored and collapsed on the bed, waking only a few hours later.

By mid-afternoon on the second day he had passed all of the major centers before London itself. It was amazing to think that just the morning before, he had been casually breakfasting with his wife and about to go shooting with Bingley when the express courier arrived and Pemberley was thrown into an uproar. Darcy insisted Elizabeth take a carriage; Elizabeth insisted he not ride so fast as to have an injury along the way, as his brother was unlikely to appreciate that. The letter from Mrs. Maddox said she had written Georgiana as well, but they sent on a letter anyway, just in case the first was lost. It was a simple matter to tell the Bingleys, who lived but three miles from them, and they pledged their support and said they would join them as soon as possible. Mugen, who had been staying with them, asked directions and took off on foot.

"He will be all right," Elizabeth said as she kissed her husband goodbye, knowing full well that Grégoire was probably already dead and had been for at least a day. The condition Mrs. Maddox described was not particularly encouraging (but then again the former Miss Caroline Bingley was not very good at false encouragement, so she made no attempt).

Why hadn't he gone to Spain? He went through all the logical reasons: The situation did not seem dire, he had sent someone in his stead that was probably wandering around Madrid; he had written Grégoire and expected a response. He also didn't much care to leave England, but that was beside the point – he would have done it in a heartbeat if he knew Grégoire was in trouble. Again. But he had had the foresight to send Mr. Maddox, thank G-d. That was his only consolation on the desperate journey.

He arrived in Town barely able to stand, and with his horse in a similar condition. Not bothering with anything else, he went immediately to the Maddox townhouse and would have kicked the door open if the doorman had not been standing there. "Mister – "

He ignored him. Dr. Maddox had the poor fortune to be stepping out of his study, in chief view and ready to be assaulted by a dirt-covered, exasperated Darcy. But before he could say anything, in all of his rush to do so, it was Maddox who said most calmly, "He's alive."

"Where – "

He pointed to a side room. "His fever broke this morning. He has defeated one infection; as long as he does not develop another, he should be all right." When Darcy tried to move towards the door, Maddox grabbed him by the arm hard enough to hold him back. "Take a moment for yourself. He's not well. It would be better if he saw you in a better state."

"What do you mean, he's not well?"

"He had a fever for over two weeks, and though he's not senseless, his memories of what happened before and since it are not entirely intact. Also, he's been tossed from the church."

Darcy did allow the doorman to remove his soiled overcoat and hat, and provide him with a wet cloth to wash off his face. Dr. Maddox waited patiently with him, guiding him into the sitting room and calling for tea. It was dusk now, and with the light went Darcy's energy, but it was still hard for him to break from the state of heightened alarm he had been in for so long. "What?"

"I don't fully understand it, but yes. They were very cruel to him about holding back his money from them and the abbot thought he would be better protected if he left the church entirely. Or so I have been told. The story Brian told is a convoluted one, and not because of a mistranslation."

"But he's safe."

"He's lost everything," he said. "You know the church was his life. Imagine Pemberley and your family being taken from you for some outrageous reason."

Darcy, who gladly accepted the tea to sake his thirst – he would have accepted anything wet – nodded but did not understand. So many emotions ran through his head that he could not pick one. "Does he know? Does he remember?"

"Unfortunately yes, he does remember that. When you talk to him, don't speak ill of the church. I know there is that temptation, but it will do him no good to hear it."

"I understand." He truly didn't, but he understood the message. "I assume there was – work done on him?"

"Yes. I will discuss them after you've seen him. He can't be moved, and the stitches can't come out for at least another few days, but aside from his skin, he is not permanently injured."

"I don't know what you did," Darcy said, "but thank you."

"Thank my brother for getting him here in time," Dr. Maddox said, and left him to his own devices.

Darcy wasted no time charging into his brother's room, albeit still more calmly than he was inclined. Grégoire was on his side, wearing a white shirt over layers of bandages wrapped around his torso. He had a small beard, and fuzz on his head from where his tonsure used to be, and seemed only half-aware of his surroundings as Darcy pulled up a seat beside him and took his hand. "Brother – "

"Grégoire," Darcy said. "I'm here."

Grégoire just nodded. He was not capable of much other movement. He was pale and sickly, but only as could be expected.

"I'm here," Darcy repeated, to reassure himself that it was true. He stroked Grégoire's hair. It was so much like Geoffrey's. "Elizabeth and the children are on the way, but I rode ahead. They should be here maybe tomorrow night. And Georgiana – I don't know if she can come, but I'm sure she will if she can."

"How is she?"

"Radiant. She thoroughly enjoys being a mother. And Robert is ... well, the second most beautiful boy in the entire world. The top prize belongs to my son, but do not dare tell her I said that."

Grégoire smiled. "I promise. How is Geoffrey?"

"You won't recognize him. He must be nearly a head taller than when you saw him last. Anne is forever demanding rides on his back. And then Sarah does it and then Cassandra does it – he hardly gets a moment alone with three sisters who adore him." Since Grégoire seemed to be enjoying listening, he continued, "Bingley's children are all well. Georgiana – well, I suppose she'll be out in a few years. G-d, I can hardly imagine it. She went to Ireland with Her Highness while Mr. Maddox and Bingley were gone."

"Bingley's returned from India?"

"Yes, he came with Brian. Didn't –"

"My mind," Grégoire said, "is a blur. I did not connect the two events at all. How is he?"

"His usual, overexcited self. He is coming to see you – they all are," he said. "And I'll bring George and Isabel around. George is – well, you will be very impressed. He looks just like his father, but is growing into a responsible and respectable man; quite a scholar. Who knows, he may end up in the church –" He cut himself off, as if some alarm had rung in his mind.

"You can say it," Grégoire said weakly, "but I have no advice for him there."

He swallowed. "I was advised not to discuss this topic with you. I know you are hurt and ... well, I have never had good things to say about your church, but I realize now -" He bit his lip. "I realize it's not my place to say it, one way or the other. To be honest, I don't know what to make of it."

"I don't know what to make of it either," Grégoire said. His voice was slowly declining into a hoarse whisper, but he gave no indication of wanting the conversation to end. "I am lost."

"You were wronged."

"It doesn't matter," he said. "I have not the strength to be angry. I just look ahead and see nothing."

"You are a man with a great fortune, a loving family, and no obligations of any kind. Many people would trade anything to be in your position." He added, "Metaphorically."

"I pledged myself to G-d, Darcy," Grégoire rasped. "How am I to fulfill that now?"

Darcy knew enough not to contradict him about what Grégoire felt were his obligations. Grégoire Darcy would never be an English gentleman. He would never settle for a position in the church here. Darcy felt his own despair – his brother was so helpless, and he could not advise him. "I have no wisdom for you," he said, his voice wavering. "What kind of answer is that? I can comfort my wife when she is in crisis or counsel my son in his anxieties about his responsibilities, or shelter my sister when she needs it, but I can think of nothing for you." He pinched his eyes, mainly from exhaustion but also because he did not want to show his tears. "I am a terrible brother. I could not lead Wickham to the right path and I don't even know what yours is. How can I guide you? How can I help you?"

Grégoire didn't answer for some time. Darcy, ashamed to look at him, wondered if he had gone back to sleep until Grégoire spoke, "You can get the doctor for me. That you can do."

"Are you ill?"

"I am in need of my pain medicine to sit up, and I am eager to do so."

Darcy nodded. He did not have to go far to find Dr. Maddox in his study. "My brother asked me – "

Dr. Maddox looked at his watch. "Yes, it's time for his medicine." He took Darcy back to the room, where he shook the green bottle and fed Grégoire a spoonful of his opium tonic. "He'll probably go back to sleep now."

"I'll stay with him."

The doctor nodded and excused himself. Darcy turned back to his brother, who was attempting to get up and failing horribly. "What happened to your arms?"

"Those?" Grégoire said, meaning the bandages on both his forearms. "I think – Dr. Maddox may have said he needed more skin for my back. Or I may have misheard him. Either way, they're new." Slowly, and obviously quite painfully, he came to a sitting position, using the pillows and Darcy's arms to hold him up. "Is it half past seven, isn't it?"

Darcy looked at his pocket watch. "It is. Precisely. How did you know?"

"Compline. It's time for Compline," he said, referring to the monastic hour of prayer. "Will you hold me up so I can say psalms?"

Darcy did not offer any argument. Grégoire leaned on him, whispering to himself in Latin and holding his rosary, and lasted a good ten minutes until he dropped off right in Darcy's arms. Darcy laid his brother back down on the bed, and kissed him on the head.

That was all he could think of to do.

Next Chapter - The Abbot's Epistle