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: My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments. FFnet is STILL not sending out alerts, so echeck back.

Pemberley Shades has gone in for printing, and the pre-order sale will only continue until it arrives, which should be sometime next week, and then I will shut up about it. 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 15 – The Abbot's Epistle

It was an unspoken agreement that Darcy would stay with his brother at the Maddox house. After he had dinner and a bath, he sat down with Brian and Nadezhda Maddox, who told the story as best they understood it, based on what the abbot had told them.

"So they beat him almost to death for honoring his father's wishes," Darcy said, holding back his emotions, "and then they decided he was a saint instead and made plans to honor him in Rome against his consent?"

"Yes," Brian said. "There were also plans to inter him in Rome, if that was to be the case, but Grégoire had told the abbot when he joined the monastery that he wanted to be buried at Pemberley instead of with the other monks in the abbey graveyard. The abbot wanted to honor his wishes."

"And he stood up to his Archbishop?"

"The politics of Rome are complex. Apparently his brother is Pope or something," Brian said. "This was the only way to save him – physically – without damning his soul, to cast him out of the church. He can be a layman and maybe a priest, but never more than that."

Darcy digested this silently.

"This may be poor consolation," Brian said, "but that abbot did everything he could for your brother. After the fact, yes, but he still did. He was very upset over it."

It was very little consolation, but Darcy nodded nonetheless. He excused himself to check one last time on Grégoire and headed upstairs, passing Caroline Maddox on the way. "Mrs. Maddox."

"Mr. Darcy."

"Thank you for writing," he said. "I wrote my sister, but I do not know if she can come down."

"You would be surprised," she said. "If you haven't been told – Daniel's new assistant for the Prince was called in with a student surgeon. He was terrified that he wouldn't save Grégoire. I'd never seen him so involved in a surgical patient – no offense to you."

"None taken," he said. "Thank you."

They nodded to each other, and Darcy took his leave, retiring immediately. Caroline continued down the hallway, where she heard her husband talking to Brian and Nadezhda.

"I noticed you didn't mention the hairshirt."

"I'm not going to be the one to tell him that," Brian said. "I think it's better if he doesn't know. If you want to tell him, that is another matter."

"I've always believed in patient confidentiality."

Feeling a little guilty for listening in on a conversation (something she rarely felt guilty about), she joined them rather quickly. "What is this about?"

Dr. Maddox looked up at her from the armchair. "He was wearing a hairshirt for years before this. That was why his wounds were so severe."

"What's a hairshirt?"

"It's a device made to mortify the flesh – you wear it as an undershirt and it slowly tears at your skin," Brian said. "Thomas Becket wore one."

"The English saint? The Archbishop?"

"The very one," her husband said. "After he was murdered by the king's knights, the men sent to strip him found he was wearing a hairshirt, presumably as penance for almost giving in to the Henry's demands for more power over the church. For his suffering, he was made a saint within years." He added, "Which was probably the precise thing on their minds after the initial punishment."

"The abbot was right in sending him away," Nadezhda said. "Politically for Grégoire, it was the right thing to do."

"But that doesn't make it easier," Dr. Maddox said.

As he could not expect his wife and children so quickly in their carriages, Darcy rose in the morning after a fitful sleep and ventured to the Bradley household. George and Isabel Wickham immediately offered to visit their uncle, having not been previously informed (the former Mrs. Wickham showed no particular interest, but that was expected).

"Uncle Grégoire!" Isabel Wickham shouted as she ran into his room, totally lacking decorum but making up for it in affection as he did his best to welcome her, but could only manage to shake her hand. They had managed to flip him on his other side, because his arm was getting sore. "Why didn't you tell us you were sick?"

"Some things sneak up on me," he said, his voice barely above a gasp.

George was next. He bowed. "Uncle Grégoire."

"George." He smiled. "You look just like your father."

"I know," he answered.

"It – it isn't a bad thing," Grégoire said, not apologizing. He was just speaking naturally, if in a very weak voice. "Your father gave his life to save me and Darcy. He was a great man for that alone. Whatever ... anyone else says ... is nonsense." He reached out and tried to touch George's face, but he needed help to do it. "I have heard from Darcy about you. You would make him proud."

"Thank you, Uncle," George said, not sure what to make of that. People either sad bad things about George Wickham senior or nothing at all. It was usually the latter when he was around. "When you recover – will you help me with some Greek? Since I'm not going to Eton or Harrow – "

"I would be honored," Grégoire said with a smile.

George was observant enough to notice his uncle was drifting off, no matter how eager he was to see his nephew. "I'll be back tomorrow, or the next day. Rest, Uncle Grégoire."

"Bless you, George."

George nodded and stepped out of the room, making the way for Dr. Maddox to enter. Outside, his sister was waiting.

"He's going to be all right, isn't he?" Isabel said.

"I think so," he answered.

"He doesn't look good."

"I know. He has been sick for a long time, but he's better now."

"I have so many uncles and he's the nicest." She was instantly aware of shuffling in the background. "Oh, Uncle Darcy, I did not mean –"

He smiled. "It is all right. Grégoire is gifted with the most generous disposition of us all. I won't deny it." He gave her a reassuring pat. "He will be fine."

"Can I bring my cat? Do you think he'll like that?"

"Perhaps. Ask Mrs. Maddox first."

She curtseyed and ran off to do so, leaving Darcy with George. "How is your mother?"

"Fine. Brandon started sleeping through the night."

"Good for all of you, I imagine."

George nodded. "Is everyone else coming?"

"Yes; I just rode on ahead in a panic. Aunt Darcy should be here tonight or tomorrow morning with your cousins."

He said in a lower voice, "Is he going to be all right?"

"Physically, I'm told, yes. But he needs support that no one knows how to give him. Beyond that, everyone has to find their own way." That wasn't true, entirely; from his first breath Fitzwilliam Darcy had been destined to be master of Pemberley and had time for no other occupation. Younger sons, sons without estates but with money – they had freedom, but little occupation for them. George might be happy in the church; Grégoire would not. Or maybe he would surprise them all. He was certainly quite capable of doing so.

Their reverie was interrupted by Emily Maddox. "Mr. Darcy! George!"

"Hello, Miss Maddox," Darcy said. "What do you have there?"

She had in her hands a sheet of paper. "It's a gift – for Grégoire." Before either of them could protest, she ran straight to the door and opened it on her father, who was just exiting. "Papa, can I see him?"

"He's just had his medicine so you can try, but he might not stay awake."

"She seems rather eager to try," Darcy said.

Dr. Maddox could deny his daughter nothing, and they reentered the room, where Grégoire looked at Emily with glassy eyes. "Oh. Hello."

"I made you a picture. Mama says I have to learn drawing and I was tired of making pictures of flowers and buildings."

"Oh."

Dr. Maddox picked the picture out of her hands, which was fairly well-drawn for an eight-year-old. "It seems to be you and – a man I don't recognize. He has a halo."

"Papa! He's Jesus. Don't you know what Jesus looks like?"

Grégoire, who had not gone to sleep quite yet, smiled. "Let me see." He opened his eyes as Dr. Maddox held the picture up. "I seem to be – yes, I am holding hands with Jesus." It was a drawing of him in his brown robe and Jesus in a blue one with a beard and a halo. "Why are we holding boxes?"

"I asked Father LeBlanc what a monk was, and he said a monk was a man who devoted his life to the Holy Father. So I thought you must be friends with His son."

"Yes," Dr. Maddox said in self-amusement, "but why are they holding boxes?"

Emily grinned. "Because they're going shopping! Don't you know anything, Papa?"

Grégoire laughed into the pillow. "Why ... why am I going shopping with Our L-rd and Savior?"

"Well, it's what Mama does with her friends."

Dr. Maddox had a hard time containing his own laughter. "Would you like me to put it up, Grégoire?"

"Please ... after you show Mrs. Maddox."

The rest of the day brought something they did not expect – rain. It descended on London from the north, so they could only assume the carriages from Derbyshire would be further delayed by weather. A well-muddied rider arrived to say just that – that Mrs. Darcy and children were stuck at an inn until it relented; more waiting, and another restless night for Darcy. He had slept without Elizabeth before, but not in Town when he was so disturbed and needed her. More importantly, Grégoire needed her. He needed to see the children – he loved the children. Maybe he could run an orphanage, he thought. Or run a school. He would enjoy a life of charity and he loves children. But Darcy could not bring himself to start discussing possibilities. Grégoire slept most of the time, waking mostly when his medicine wore off and in what was obviously terrible pain. He would grapple with things later; Darcy bothered him no further. Darcy spent the afternoon watching him sleep, wondering what else he could have done. Maybe now I can convince him to have some children of his own. But no, that would have to be subtle.

Brian and Nadezhda had not returned to their home outside Town yet. Brian had business in Town, and they wanted to hover over their former charge as much as anyone else. It was Brian who produced a letter during one of the hours when Grégoire was both awake and aware. It was still sealed. "This is from the abbot. He said it would bring you some comfort. Do you wish me to open it?"

Grégoire nodded.

Brian broke the seal, revealing several pages of Latin. "This may have to wait. We have your spectacles – we were allowed to take your spectacles and portraits of your family."

"Can someone read it to me?" Grégoire asked. "If it is not too much trouble."

"I haven't used my Latin since Cambridge," Darcy said.

"I didn't go to Cambridge," Brian added. "I'll get Daniel."

They summoned Dr. Maddox, who was of course completely obliging. "My pronunciation will probably be terrible, but I think I can read it aloud."

Grégoire begged for him to do so. Darcy and Brian excused themselves, shutting the door behind them. Whatever was between the abbot and the monk whose life he had destroyed was certainly private, even if it was in a foreign tongue.

Dr. Maddox cleared his throat. "My apologies for any horrible mispronunciations."

"That is fine," Grégoire said. "Please, I am a most willing listener."

The doctor nodded and began, not entirely understanding the lines he was saying, but getting the general sense of it as he went along. If Grégoire did not understand anything, he gave no indication.

Dear Grégoire Bellamont-Darcy,

I can but begin to imagine what you are going through, though I am old and I may be entirely incorrect in my wild assumptions, and you may find yourself already well and happily-settled in England. If this is true, then you will find no comfort in these words, but they may not be upsetting either. If my instincts are right, my meaning in this dictation is twofold: to explain fully my actions so that you would know how and why you came to be where you are now, and to confess to you my sins, for I cannot be forgiven otherwise. You have no obligation to feel any tenderness towards me, for I deserve none, but I cannot find any solace until I have at least begun my confession. If you do not wish to hear it, toss it in the fire. I just wished to write it.

I must begin in Cesena, where I was born and raised with my younger brother, Barnaba Niccolò Maria Luigi Chiaramonti, now the Vicar of Christ, Pius VII. To the subject at hand, my brother went into the church, as was our family's tradition for younger sons, or even older sons if they aspired to power, but he instead became a Benedictine and wrote home about his life in the monastery of Saint Maria del Monte of Cesena. I was never much one for politics, which are the bread and butter of an Italian family of wealth and power, and the quiet life was an attraction to me for the same reason it is to many people – an escape from the requirements of a normal life. My father did not oppose me becoming a novice even at a very young age, as he already had one secular son and two daughters, and the church could be a secular occupation as well as a religious one, should I ever incline in that direction. It was decided, however, that I would not join the same monastery as my brother, lest it be thought that I was merely following in his footsteps. I went instead to San Gregorio (where, coincidentally, was the name my brother took for himself upon taking his vows – your name, Gregorio) and I took the cowl at fifteen. I confess that though I enjoyed the community to which I had vowed my life, I longed for other experiences – I confess to you now, not all were good, especially when I was a man of eighteen. My abbot did see to send me abroad, thinking I would either abandon my order quietly and respectfully outside of the Roman sphere, or I would work out my feelings there and return satiated. I traveled first to the Holy Land, and was blessed to see the sight of our L-rd's crucifixion. There was no doubt in my mind that I would never leave the church, though I might have thoughts to stray from it or feel frustrations, as does any human being.

I was sent north to the Turkish Empire's capitol, and clearly failed in my mission to convert them to Christianity, for as I understand, they remain Mohammedians to this day. Ah, the follies of youth.

That summer I continued my journey to Bucharest, where some real goals might be accomplished in delivering messages to the brothers and bishops there, who were in conflict with the Orthodox Church. I lodged in an apartment, and every morning, a young woman of Slavic origins whose name I shall leave to privacy brought me fresh milk. Needless to say, I was as weak to temptation as any man my age, and proved that summer that I was no saint in my first and only violation of my lifelong celibacy. At the time I regretted it but put no stop to it; that was brought on by the order for my return to my monastery, which brought on a great depression. This seemed to surprise my lover, who said she knew many a priest (though, she would always add, none so handsome as myself) who unmade himself as easily as any married man who promised never to stray from his wife, but then of course returned to his home for supper, so-to-speak. At this I dropped on my knees and began to pray for G-d's forgiveness, and she said something to me which would carry me through the rest of my life. "You think you are so pious – the apostles all sinned and you cannot?"

Our parting was tender, and I learned a good deal more humility from her than I ever learned from the Discipline. When I returned, much to my surprise, the abbot did ask me to perform penance for my sins (which I most dutifully did) but was not impressed by my tale of sinful woe. "I do not know anyone in the church who I would not think to say the same thing at one point, except those who have never left the doors of the monastery since their entrance – and they are often guilty of much greater crimes of the flesh." He was as forgiving as was permitted within the Rule, for which I am forever grateful.

I had now been ten years in the Brotherhood of Saint Benedict and my brother fifteen, and our father was growing impatient. My esteemed brother seemed interested in nothing but his daily labors of copying manuscripts, and my father desired that at least one of us aspire to a cardinalship. I was feeling particularly eager to please someone, and so against my instincts I accepted a small bishopric near the Papal Lands that required me to often be in Rome, and there I lingered for the most miserable years of my life. His Holiness Pius VI was a good man, but very political, and concerned with Jesuit policies and agricultural reforms, and throwing off the yoke of France. None of this interested me, and all of the other things the city offered me were not to my taste, besides the usual pilgrimage sites and prayer. Rome, as you no doubt saw while you were there, is a city like any other city; it only proposes to be something different, but there was sin there. It was nothing like the horrible tales from the days before the Reformation, of which there remained daily reminders, but it was still not what I sought. I do hear that His Holiness appeared rather unfavorably in some fiction by the Marquis de Sade, which is unfortunate. I would never read such literature, but I would assume based on the barest of things I have heard that he was not given credit as a Vicar of Christ.

It was upon my father's death that I, when finished grieving, was free to request a transfer. I accepted a bishopric near Oviedo, and as you know, eventually became Archbishop of the region. At the very same time, my brother emerged from monastic hiding and wrote II Trionfo della Santa Sede, and began to speak on it, establishing a name for himself that would be the foundation of his career. As he rose through the ranks of Rome, apparently without being tainted by anything there, I wrote to him of my own despair even at the politics of Spain, and he encouraged me to do as I pleased with my life. Eventually I gathered the courage to request the position of abbot at what is now my abbey. I had dined there many times and spent time with the monks, and knew the former abbot, and was there at his death. It was an easy transition, and I was happy again, and marveled at how I had ever fully served G-d while in a state of misery, for is this world not created to be loved as a work of the L-rd?

My life from then was as you know it, until your arrival, though that did not at first bring a great change. Over the years many monasteries had been dissolved for one reason or another, and I had seen many monks come looking for lodgings, Benedictine and non. You I saw as another child of the world, of mixed parentage, heritage, and culture. How naïve I was, to think there was not something greater in you, though you were in the first year a delight in the earnestness to which you took to your chores.

You will perhaps recall the conversation we had some months ago concerning your work with the people. As to the rumors being spread about you working miracles on the sick populace, I had my doubts for the same reason that you denied them being miracles – people are easier to take to superstition than scientific fact. How strange, for a man of faith to say that, but it was nonetheless true and we both know that some of the miracles you worked were mere coincidences of science and matter, and your wonderful herb garden, which I fear will whither away in your absence. I was not surprised when you turned down the Priory, but I was saddened in the guilty way that I would see less of you, as you were so often out with the people, doing your work there and not within the monastery walls.

I do not know how the talk of miracles reached the abbey gates, but it does not take much of a guess that it could have been any brother passing on information they heard. There were those you should know that spoke against you, but I will withhold their names, saying that you were proclaiming yourself a miracle worker. These claims were so easily dismissed without even your notice; the townspeople denied you made such claims, assigning it all to G-d and medicine, and no fault could be found. I thought then, "L-rd, if you would see fit to continue Brother Grégoire on this path, he would do much good for the poor of the coast." It was as if I already saw ahead, but looking back, it was the old cynicism of my years in Rome that prepared me for it.

It was in innocence that the matter of your yearly inheritance and its use as charity was uncovered. A certain person along the chain of people in the banker's employ (whose name, again, I will leave out for the sake of their soul) happened to mention it in confession to their priest, and that priest told the bishop, and the bishop wrote to me.

I confess I understood your motives completely. Your brother's advice was sound; handle your own money and give it as you see fit rather than put it in the pockets of the church, where it might disappear. (Your brother and I see with the same eyes here) However that is not the Rule, and I must and do take the Rule seriously, so I knew you could not escape punishment, but I hoped that it would simply be a matter of confession, punishment, repentance, and absolution, and some rearranging of the financials with your brother in England. I told the bishop that he would never see your entire fortune, which he did seek, for I knew enough of the world to know that your brother would simply freeze the funds, and be right to do so. I thought that would temper his thirst. I shall never know if it would; the events that followed took us on another path entirely.

The revelation of the cilicium was devastating to me. It was very noble and pious of you, and meant only for the best intentions, and to some extent brought out the best in us, but the worst of us as well. I have no doubt that had you died from your injuries, you would have been taken to Rome and canonized as quickly as possible, but G-d forgive me, I could not see a life so young snuffed out by a simple misunderstanding. My excommunication was the only way to protect you from Rome, be you alive or dead, without damning your soul.

You are not damned. There is no stain on your soul, and you should go forth and live a pious life without fear because of what I wrote on a document. I did not mean half the words on them; it was a protective measure. I bless you in thoughts and prayers every day and will continue to do so, and I doubt anyone touched by your presence here at the abbey would do otherwise.

I will tell you one final thing, which I cannot properly account for. On the day the infection was discovered, a week after the punishment, the doctor reopened his own stitches and you bled terribly, so much that we had to collect it in a basin beneath your bed. Feeling ill myself, and knowing you were close to death, I wandered to the herbarium, even though I could make nearly as much sense of the plants as you could, but I was looking for a little ginger for my beer. There was a monk there I did not recognize, and oddly, I did not become as alarmed as I should have been at seeing an unfamiliar person in the abbey, though I did question him. He said he was a friend of yours, a fellow Englishman. He had a beard and spoke Latin in a strange accent, if that is any significance to you. I asked him if he would pray with us, as the bell had just rung for Vespers, and he said he would pray for you, but that he was sure that by G-d's Grace you would live. We walked to the chapel together, but somehow I lost him along the way, and never saw him again. I am not overly inclined to question this event, for I was so overjoyed with the news that I felt I had good reason to believe, and lo, even now I do not entirely question whether you survived the journey.

Go and do as you will. If you ever see fit to forgive me for my sins to you, I would be most honored. Go with G-d, Brother Grégoire, who will always be my brother in Christ.

Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti

When the doctor was finished, he saw that to his surprise, Grégoire's eyes were still opened and aware. "That is it."

Grégoire nodded. "My mind ... is not fully aware."

"You've been ill for a long time, Grégoire. You need to rest and recover."

"I have a request, but I feel it is an imposition on your time, Dr. Maddox."

Maddox smiled. "I'm partially retired, Grégoire. Go ahead."

"Will you come tomorrow, and read it again?"

Dr. Maddox smiled. "Of course."

...Next Chapter - Demons in the Night