Manner of Devotion

by DJ Clawson

"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, whichever comes first.

Chapter 23 - More Notes from the Underground

Darcy busied himself with the solicitor for the rest of the morning and most of the early afternoon. He was willing to sell, but he needed time to remove some personal items from the property – boxes and boxes of books. He authorized the hiring of men to package them, and wrote a quick letter to his wife saying that they were safely arrived and would be staying for perhaps a few days to finish up some business. Only after seeing everything was in order did he return to his brother, who was still at the desk, papers piled everywhere.

"Our uncle was quite prolific," Grégoire said. "Here." He passed Darcy some yellowed parchment.

1st August 177

Geoffrey sent me a new book today. More, accurately, it arrived, so he must have sent it some time ago. It is an original of Boccaccio's Decameron. How coincidental, to receive a set of stories told by people who have gone into exile to escape illness. I wonder if Geoffrey read it at any point or he merely bought it because he presumed I did not already own it. The library father provided is already impressive, I must say. In that respect, I have not been ill-treated.

12th August 177

My delay in the next passage from the daily life of this madman was not of my own design. Even now my (blot) strength fails me. Dr came to bleed me yesterday, and I was stupid enough to scream, which meant more bleeding, for (blot) only a madman would scream at having a metal poker stabbed into his flesh, no? More tomorrow.

18th August 177

I look back. 'More tomorrow.' A week has passed. I could ask Nurse to transcribe my entries, I suppose, were there truly anything worth saying other than that I hate her, I hate Dr. , I hate them all so much.

19th August 177

Apologies, journal. I spoke out of frustration, not actual hatred. The staff believes they are doing me right. They are only the best. What do they think – they will cure me and I will go home? I am dead anyway in England; I cannot go home. LET ME BE MAD!

"If I was him," Darcy said, "I would not want this public."

"We are hardly public," Grégoire said. "I am not proposing to paste it on the wall at Pemberley." Looking up at Darcy, he reclaimed the papers. "You need not read them, Darcy."

Darcy nodded numbly, and left Grégoire alone, returning to his sorting of the book collection.

Dinner was served after Vespers.

"Darcy," Grégoire said. "You can leave tomorrow."

"What?"

"I'll oversea the removal of his things. You can do the rest from England."

Darcy's reply was simply, "Did you read any more of the journals?"

"Yes."

There was silence again. Grégoire watched his brother fall into it, moving the food around on his plate.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, I did!" Darcy said. "He was my uncle, too."

"Because I can – "

"He was my uncle too!" The sound of the glass slamming on the wooden table was enough to startle both of them. They let the sound fade into an uncomfortable silence as the maid took their plates. "Excuse me," he said in a much smaller voice as he excused himself, leaving Grégoire at the table.

"Is the master all right?" said the maid.

Grégoire eventually found his brother on a bench by the sea, without his hat or overcoat, staring out into the inky ocean of night.

"You can approach," Darcy said. "I don't bite."

Grégoire sat down beside him, a folio in his hands. "I'm sorry. If you want, we'll burn them."

"Do you think it is what he would have wanted?"

"I have no idea. I didn't know him. He did not know himself." Grégoire smoothed his hand over the cover of the folio. "I do suspect that he helped you at one time, and that he might not have been as ill as we all believe. Anyone would go mad under the torment he describes."

"You seem well."

Grégoire managed a half-smile. "Thank you for the compliment, but you know very well my intention." He handed the folio to Darcy. "This is the rest of what I've read so far. There is far more."

27th March 177

Geoffrey visited today. He did not look well and I did not look well, so it was mutual. Father is dead. He died in his sleep. I should be so lucky. I think constantly of death. Did I wish it on father, even by accident? Do my thoughts have power? Will any of this affect anyone? The plan was to remove me from the picture. Were we successful?

29th March 177

I do not understand why I have these thoughts that are so terrible I cannot transcribe them. I am shamed. I did not think this way at Pemberl – I cannot write it. It hurts too much. I was afraid. I was irrational. I had thoughts there that were bad, but not like this. Now I think things in my boredom that any person should think are crazy. I am no longer borderline. I am beyond the Pale, as they say.

14th April 177

Excuse my absence. I was detained for some time after bashing Dr. in the head when he attempted to bleed my brain. My brain! I need my brain! It is all I have left, even in its tarnished form. So they tied me to the bed and left me like a naughty child to be punished. They took away everything sharp. They would not let me go outside. I decided not to be the master of Pemberley's fate – can I not be the master of my own?

3rd June 1773

Geoffrey visited. He is engaged to be married to an earl's daughter. The family he does not care for too much, but he is in love. I could see it on his face; it lit up when he talked of her. I hope it lasts. I hope he for once restrains all of his impulses; that all of his wild oats were sown and there are none left.

He agreed to stop the treatments. I am all joy! Though some of me remains flesh, my spirit is happiness, and my blood is on fire – and it will stay in me! I take a tonic for sleep, or if I am agitated, but it is of my own choosing. He also changed my nurse. I like her better, though she does treat me like a child; anything is preferable to the previous assignment. I can rest now.

"Does it go on like this?" As usual, Darcy's calm voice masked a wellspring of emotions.

"I imagine so."

Darcy handed back the folio. "Then let us keep reading."

The well-paid solicitor returned the next day on a boat laden with trunks and another filled with men for the Isle of Man to do the packing. There was quite literally a library to rival Pemberley in this strangely-constructed ranch house, and it would not be an easy task. Darcy looked at each title as he passed them on to be packed with great care. The doubles would either go to Grégoire's private collection – if he ever desired to have one – or a poorhouse school. His uncle had been quite well read.

Grégoire sat at the desk, reading through the letters his namesake set to ink for some reason or another. At lunch he shared some with Darcy.

5th July 1773

Interesting to note that there is general improvement in my health since the end of my treatment. This is of course coming from a man whose word cannot be trusted, after all I am insane, but I have more energy, and feel calmer. I go outside more. There are wonderful ruins on this island. Like me, they are slowly turning to dust, but at least the moss on them is quite beautiful. Yesterday I saw a bird. I wrote the executor in London to inform Geoffrey that if they have a book on birds native to the Isle of Man, then he should send it on.

December 3rd 177

My brother did send me a large shipment of books that arrived just today in a great trunk, and I must assume they were selected at random, because there is no lack of variety here. For some reason beyond my already-flawed comprehension of this world, a large stack of them were women's novels, the sort that make me think the printing press a contemptible invention. There was a book on the birds of Scotland, for which I am (relatively) grateful. Perhaps most interesting was a copy of Bede's The Ecclesiastical History of the English People, a rather old translation but one I can read well enough. It came in two volumes, one which seems to be just a collection of his letters about his travels to other churches.

January 14th 177

I am fascinated by this Saint Bede, the father of English history, not for his tales but his experiences in the dark ages, wandering around the isle and the people he met along the way. He records a lost culture, which at his own time was dying; I wonder if he knew that or considered it. He must have. I will write the solicitor for more books if they are available.

October 29th 177

Large shipment of books of every sort. I am to be a truly enlightened madman if I manage to read them all, and I think I shall. There is little else to do with my time besides this journal itself, and what do I have to record? The time of the tides? The servants are not much for conversation. I feel well. Did I make a mistake? Did my isolation cure me? I sought escape and have found it, and found it most unsettling.

4th June 178

The truth is confirmed: I am not fit for human contact. It is a relief in a way, confirming the rightness of the path I chose, though looking back; Father was most persuasive about it.

Geoffrey came just yesterday and brought his wife, Lady Anne Fitzwilliam, and his son, Fitzwilliam Darcy (poor soul, such a name!). I do not think Geoffrey was mistaken in his choice of bride in the brief moments we spoke, though she was terrified of me and I of her, though I made more of an effort to hide it. She was wearing mother's jewels. This is Mrs. Darcy now. Geoffrey is Mr. Darcy of Pemberley and Derbyshire. He has assumed the role meant for me, and he has made a presentable depiction of a happy family.

His son, not six, looks much like him, but with wily hair as permitted in youth. Either no one told him my condition (why would they?) or he did not understand it, because he had no hesitation in talking with me. I spent nearly an hour talking to him in the sitting room. I held him in my arms and I kissed him. Would my son have been so precious?

I cannot spend much time on contemplation of this sort, as it makes me ache. Geoffrey is himself in turmoil. I pray this is not new information to the reader, but he confessed to me that he was not three years into his marriage before he had a bastard son. With his steward's wife, of all people! Poor Isabella Wickham. Poor George Wickham, unknowing in all of this. He thinks it's his. The ruse has worked perfectly. George is too good for this world; he does not deserve the deception. Neither does Lady Anne, but I do not know her, but I have many fond memories of George, who was trained to be my steward under my father's consent.

5th June 178

I grapple with all of this deception. My death was a deception. My brother's affairs (for I do not know truly how many he is off having, but I will venture a guess that he will have more than one child outside of wedlock) are a deception. He said he would not tell Anne because he needed her to love him, for at least their son's sake. "A son should have two parents who love each other," I believe he said. And Geoffrey does love Anne, but has never been a master of his baser instincts.

It is with deception that Our L-rd and Savior was arrested and crucified – but then again, he knew all along and did not alter the course of events one bit, though well he could have. I have never considered myself a religious man, but I do not know any religious men except those who appear in books, so I have no real scale on which to judge. I know the bible well enough, and I have my selections of ecclesiastical books. What was Jesus thinking, on the cross? Did He not think, "For a fool I was, not to just be rid of Judas?" But of course not; He died for a higher cause. He allowed it all to unfold because He knew the path of fate, but He was alone in that. I do not know the path of fate; it unfolds before me after I have already made my choices and cannot retract them. But that is true of everyone. Do we truly make mistakes, or has G-d already decided all of our paths and we merely follow them, unwittingly?

What were his designs for me then? Or, the more appropriate pondering is why He chose to give me this illness that boils my brain. There is a key somewhere; I do not see it. I will ask Him when I die. It will be the first question out of my mouth.

"You remember it?"

"It is not something you forget," Darcy said. "They did not tell me he was mad. They just said I was not to speak of him to anyone else, even Nurse."

"What did Lady Anne think of him?"

He shrugged. "That memory my mind did not store. She was my mother. I was five. She was not yet a person, just a mother." He continued, "I've seen the book he discusses – the one by St. Bede. It's been packed to be sent to Pemberley. I imagine you'll have some interest in it when we return."

Grégoire nodded.

On their third day, Darcy did not find his brother in the bedroom, or any of the others. When questioned, he was told his brother was outside.

Grégoire Bellamont was not immediately found. The bench was empty. Darcy walked along the shore. He had played here as a child. The ocean seemed endless on a misty day. In the distance he could see ruins. Yes, that was right. There used to be a monastery on the island, before the Dissolution. Moss grew over the remaining stone frame. Only a few arches still stood. Grégoire sat on a fallen column.

"He starts his story from the beginning," Grégoire said, not looking up from the text. "I would warn you before reading this."

He paused, but he did say, "I am not afraid. Let me see it."

17th May 178

Perhaps I should have begun at the beginning. Hello, journal. My name is Geoffrey Darcy. I am the son of Henry Darcy and the grandson of Philip d'Arcy, who came from France to marry the sister of the second Duke of Devonshire, and as part of the dowry, granted our family plentiful lands in Derbyshire. I remember little of my grandfather; suffice to say, he was not the first Darcy of Pemberley, but I believe the fourth. He was the nephew of the one before him, on the side of the family that remained in France. But are we not all Frenchmen? If life began in the Fertile Crescent, then we must have all come from there, and the last stop before England could only have been France

But I am probably going on and on about meaningless things. I was raised at Pemberley, with my younger brother Geoffrey as my playmate, and we did manage to get ourselves into a good deal of trouble, for there is such person better at boyish pranks than the young Geoffrey had been. In this regard I stood in his shadow. I preferred the shadows. I am told I was lively enough as a boy, but rather shy.

As I stood on the threshold of manhood, being two and ten, I began to have thoughts which disturbed my tutor when I expressed them, so I promptly stopped, as any boy does when they sense they are doing something wrong. I do not remember what I first said, but I definitely asked him if he was intending to kill me at some point. I do not know if I really thought that. Often things fly in and out of my head. The tutor was changed, and I said nothing to the next one. I became almost silent, and of course, this itself was odd. I was afraid to say anything, not able to tell what was a good thing to say and what was bad. My answers were often restricted to positive and negative replies in single words or a nod of the head.

My father brought in a man to inspect my ears, and I played along. Of course he found no irregularity, but he prescribed some concoction that made me monstrously ill. After two days of losing my stomach, in my delirium, I told my nurse everything. It was not so much a confession as it was a series of things I no longer could hold myself back from saying. I have no recollection of it whatsoever, but she reported it all to my father, who questioned me thoroughly when I recovered my senses and asked me why I said those things. I could have said I was delirious (it was true), but I have never been good at lying to anyone and I confessed that some of the things he told me I said were true, in that I believed them, or at least thought them. I thought people talked about me behind my back and conspired against me, not just to undermine me but to do me physical harm. I was afraid.

He brought in a doctor whom I immediately disliked, and my fears were this time not unfounded. He prescribed a diet for me of milk and bread and nothing else. I remember my first bleeding. I was now four and ten and of some stature, so my natural reaction was to strike him to get him away from me, which only tore my skin and he broke his arm in the fall. I was tied to the bed and remained there for three days on nothing but bread and milk, a prisoner in my own house. My father visited me with his primary occupation of looking concerned. Then the doctor bled me again, this time with my limbs already tied, and in a vast quantity. In my weakened state I started talking nonsense, or so I am told. But then the doctor was called away and I recovered without his presence, and said I felt better than I did, and for a time, was believed.

I cannot bring myself to write about the first ball I attended. Please do not ask that of me. Suffice to say, the doctor came back, and again I was deemed ill, and again I suffered, and again I recovered.

Geoffrey was my lone supporter. Not that my father had no care for me, but only my brother believed me when I said that the doctor was an evil man who made me worse. My little brother was blessed with all of the social graces I was not; he emerged in society to attend his first ball at not five and ten, and charmed all of the ladies, and then at great length described exactly what charming a lady could result in later in the evening, when he had her alone. He did not understand his own debauchery, the innocent rake. I, myself, could not dream of such a personal connection. I would not let my servants see me naked, much less a woman, must less touch her ... How could I have an heir?

At this point in my history I suggested to my father that I was not fit to be master of Pemberley. He seemed to age right before my eyes in that one meeting, his despair flooding the room, and he begged for me to go through one more set of treatments. I don't wish to dwell on them, as even the memories are painful. There are scars on my arms where they cut me. By the end of the month I was thin as a rake (not the kind my brother was) and sometimes my eyes failed to focus. Finally Father relented, and the whole scheme was cooked up and presented to Geoffrey.

Though in these pages I record my brother's dalliances and adultery, he was truly a brother to me in every way, readily assuming the yoke of Pemberley and our half of Derbyshire so that I could rest. He did not want the position, but he did not say as much to our father (at least in front of me). He could have easily refused, and this boy of six and ten set his whole life on a sterile course from which there could be no variation so that I might know peace. There are no words to say how grateful I was and still am. Father eventually agreed, and so quietly we signed all the papers disinheriting me, should I ever choose to show my face in England again and try to reclaim my lost throne, and then I went riding. We covered the horse with pig's blood and I rode away from the only home I had ever known in a wagon. It was the dead of night and the last time I saw my father alive. I could not write my brother directly – only through a solicitor in London who did not know my real identity. I was in anguish until Geoffrey wrote me, assuring me that everything had gone well, and that he would always care for me, and he would visit me when he could. I was not, it seemed, to be completely forgotten. He refused to do so. I saw him once before our father's death, and then immediately afterwards. I wished him only the best and I still mean it.

Darcy handed back the papers. "That is enough for today." Without explanation, he walked off. Grégoire did not follow. No explanation was needed.

That night, Darcy could not find sleep. He did not have his sleeping draught with him. He wandered the long hallway of sitting room after sitting room. Most of the books had been packed and taken away, or were lying in open trunks. At the end, only moonlight illuminated the bedroom. Neither of them wanted to sleep in it.

Grégoire was asleep, but if he was still adhering to his wild schedule, he would be up for prayer in a few hours, even in the dead of night. For the time being, Darcy was alone. He carried his candlestick in and used the flame to light the old candle at the desk, not quite melted all the way down. He set his own stick down by the dresser and opened the drawer. He had not been thoroughly through it, and the objects were foreign to him, especially in the dim light. There were many small miniatures, carved out of wood – clearly his uncle had whittled as a hobby. There were numerous birds, horses, and a few human figures, not distinct enough to recognize. Perhaps they were not meant to be a specific person.

He would have all of the items put in his own luggage and taken back to Pemberley. He had already decided it; there was no need to dwell on it now. He turned to the desk and opened it. Only one folio remained, still covered in dust. He wiped it away and saw the date. He must have been four and ten, maybe five and ten – this was the last journal, unless Grégoire had removed another one. He sat down and brought the light up closer as he began to read it, mouthing some of the words to himself. It was mainly theological or philosophical arguments Gregory seemed to be having with himself (Gregory himself commented that he was not sure whether he was mad or just bored).

Why am I doing this to myself? He could see there were only a few pages left. There was no need to guess at why that was. Perhaps I am as torturous to myself as Grégoire is to his body. He sighed and turned the sheets over with great care to the last two entries.

16th July 179

Lady Anne Darcy, formerly Lady Anne Fitzwilliam, is dead. If that were the least of the news, I would be satisfied. She left behind a daughter, Georgiana. She died cursing her husband – she had discovered his infidelities (there were now two bastards as living records of it), one with her own maid. Geoffrey visited me not in anguish over it, as he could have done, for this actually happened two years ago, between which there was no contact between us except for him to send me books.

I saw him yesterday and he looked older than I did. Still distraught over his wife's death, he cursed himself as easily as she had cursed him, but that was not even his main concern. His daughter, whom I have never met, is apparently well, but Fitzwilliam is not. Or, so he says. There are hints of the same affliction that seems to curse our bloodline now. He said he had not taken Fitzwilliam to a doctor, as his memories were as tainted as mine and he could not imagine inflicting that horror on his own son. Instead he just wished me to talk with Fitzwilliam, who was having trouble in school, not because of an academic failing but because he did not move easily among people he did not know, and had trouble getting to know them.

I did not relate to my nephew the extent of my sufferings, or the nature of my illness, though by now he did know why I live here and that I am mad. In fact, he seemed surprised that we had a somewhat normal conversation, where I did most of the listening and he told me about school and his sister and his friend George, the steward's son (I held my tongue! I bit it until it bled, almost). Slowly I pried from him some of his innermost thoughts, and was not shocked to find they mirrored some of my own, but I told him to dismiss them. He had no younger brother; he had no options. He did not believe himself to be sick. Perhaps without a doctor's pronouncement, he never would be. He would just be a shy boy who would turn into a shy man without many social graces but a strong sense of responsibility, as he already seemed to have. Hopefully he would marry well, and produce an heir, and run Pemberley quietly and have a happy life.

Or is that how it was supposed to happen for me?

I cannot wait any longer to find out. It is decided.

23rd July 179

How little I have to say to the world as I pack for my exit. Should I curse people? Bless people? Should I leave my servants a tip?

I have had enough. There is nothing more left for me, except to take up space in this room that I cannot bear to leave. In fact, I have more business with G-d, though I will be doomed to hell for this. Or perhaps we are wrong, and I will not. Either way, I have some question for Him, and some requests from Him – that Geoffrey should find some peace within himself for his crimes, that all three of his sons and his daughter should live well, that Fitzwilliam should have a normal life, that Lady Anne is in heaven for all of her sufferings as the wronged wife.

There is one last flash of insight. Most men do not get to finish their own stories. I do.

FINIS.

"Darcy?"

It was like coming out of a dream. Perhaps he had fallen asleep. But no, there they were, the final letters large on the page. "Grégoire." He looked at his watch. "Oh, yes, of course. Which one is this?"

"Vigils."

Darcy held back whatever comments he normally felt compelled to make, slumping back into the chair. "I won't keep you."

Grégoire looked down at the open folio, then at Darcy. "I have some time. Is it so terrible?"

"It depends. He was a suicide. He is doomed to Hell, is he not?"

Grégoire swallowed but did not answer. He read the pages in silence and put the folio down. "Have you been to his grave?"

"I confess not."

"I found it today. Do you want to see it?"

At half-past three in the morning? Why not? "Yes, very much so."

The grave was not far from the abbey walls, so much so that it was hard to tell whether it was not on consecrated ground. The stone had only his name and birth and death dates. The day of death was a day later than the journal entry – they must have discovered him the next morning. When precisely he died was a mystery that would never be solved. They had lost that piece of information.

Grégoire said his Latin prayers, whatever they were. When he was finished, Darcy spoke.

"Hello, Uncle. We've come to bring you home."

... Next Chapter - Joseph Bennet's Proposal