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 26 - A Sight for Sore Eyes

Grégoire, who had never been so far north, passed the holidays with the Kincaids at their estate in ----shire. Not only could he shower attention on his youngest nephew, but he also found William Kincaid to be a scholar in his two favorite subjects, religion and history. William Kincaid was a staunch Presbyterian, but only in the way that debates with Grégoire amused him. One afternoon in early January they began with predestination, which the Calvinist Kincaid took to the extent that people were selected for heaven before they were even born and there was nothing anyone could do to change their fate.

"Absurd. Then what need is there for redemption at all, if there is no possible salvation?" Grégoire said.

"Do you only seek to correct your ways because you are concerned about getting into heaven, or about being a good person here on earth?"

"This is true. If we all believed John Calvin's message so strictly, there would be no need to have laws at all, and society itself would collapse."

"Who is to say we are not among the elect?" Kincaid countered.

"There are only 144,000 of them, correct?" Grégoire said. "That was what he believed, from the Book of Revelations. That would be only a small percentage of the people who have ever lived. And we must immediately say that all the saints must be among the Elect, and there are hundreds, maybe thousands of them."

"John Knox was not so specific about the actual numbers," Kincaid said, referring to the founder of the Presbyterian Kirk in Scotland. "Assume for a moment that they may be higher."

"But Calvin wrote that it would be obvious from their actions who were among the Elect, meant for heaven, from their actions," Grégoire said. "I do not presume myself to be not a sinner. What hope is there for me?"

"'It is blasphemy to say that Christ Jesus abides in the hearts of such as in whom there is no spirit of sanctification,'" Kincaid said triumphantly.

"This is from the Scottish Confession?"

"Yes, but originally from Romans."

Grégoire nodded. "I thought I recognized it. So not only are we most likely damned, but also it is blasphemous to even say we are not. And if we're discussing it now, we're performing blasphemy, so it is safe to assume we are damned by this system of logic. In fact, the only correct way to assure that we are not damned is to say that we are, so we are not in error by saying the reverse."

Kincaid frowned, and gestured for Grégoire to pass him the copy of Knox's Scottish Confession of Faith. He flipped through the chapter open, and the others with a frown. "You still won't deny that there are some people who are damned and some who are not? Otherwise, why should heaven and hell exist together?"

"Of course."

"Then we must assume that the L-rd knows who is saved and who is damned before they are even born, because he is omnipotent. So our fates are decided."

"Not decided," Grégoire said. "Just known. I still prefer to think that my actions in this life determine my fate in the next life. Otherwise we're wasting our time, and might as well be off fishing or something."

"The lake is frozen."

"Then skating, I don't know!"

"So we have reached a tie," Kincaid said as his wife entered, carrying their son. "Dearest, you must settle this debate for us. We need a deciding vote."

"There is no tie! You just refuse to give in to logic!"

Georgiana cast an amused glance at her brother, and then said, "And what are we debating?"

"If we have any chance at all of salvation by being good people or if we should all just go skating instead," Kincaid said. "Or ice-fishing. Yes. I suppose we could do that."

"Can't we do both?" she said. Go skating and still go to heaven?"

"I like her opinion," Grégoire said.

"I agree," Kincaid said. "Georgiana, you have won the day."

"Then be a dear and take our son off my hands for a few minutes!"

"Let me," Grégoire offered, and took the infant into his arms. Robert was now six months, and could stand with help on Grégoire's knees. "Look at you. Are you bothering your mother?" Robert just giggled as Grégoire tickled his stomach as Georgiana took a seat at their long table and the tea immediately offered to her.

"You're so talented with children," William said. "I suppose your family has already mentioned the idea of having some of your own."

"Quite possibly nearly every day," Grégoire said. "I ... well, I never was in a position to think of such things before. Besides, there are many orphans who need a parent."

William shook his head. "You're so intent to bypass the fun part? There's a worthwhile debate with a logical conclusion."

Grégoire just blushed, and Georgiana put a hand over her husband's own. "Leave my poor brother alone. He gets enough of this from Darcy." She turned to her brother. "Do you have any more mundane ideas for what you might like to do in the spring?"

"Yes," he said. "Go to Ireland."

"Ireland?"

"I have traveled most extensively, but never on my own and without a Rule to guide me. And I have never been to Ireland. Saint Bede wrote extensively about his travels and their merits."

"Saint Bede?"

"Yes, the father of English history. Excuse me, the father of the history of those invading Saxon bastards."

"Grégoire!" Georgiana cried, but her reaction was muted by the sounds of her husband's laughter.

"So," William Kincaid said, "what is it about St. Bede and Ireland?"

Grégoire balanced his nephew on one knee. "He never visited the place, but he knew of it, and the church there that had yet to be fully Latinized. There are many holy sites in Ireland."

"You want to make a pilgrimage, then?"

"I doubt that any of the sites are still there except the actual ground itself," Grégoire said, "but yes, perhaps I do."

The Darcys and the Bingleys returned before the hard snows set in, but when they did, there was no traffic of any kind, only the occasional postman with a stack of late letters. Grégoire had returned in time as well, and for months they were all prisoners together within the walls of Pemberley, emerging only occasionally to go to Kirkland or Lambton, but no further.

In February, an alarming letter came in the post. Or, it would have been, had it been phrased in a less nonchalant manner, but as the authoress was Caroline Maddox, it could only be expected. It was sent to Charles and Jane, with permission to give the news to the Darcys.

Dear Sister,

Forgive the delay in this information, but we decided not to tell anyone until the procedure was all over, so as to not leave you in unnecessary suspense.

Two weeks ago Dr. Maddox consulted his physician about the loss of some vision in his left eye, which was apparently caused by a cataract. Fortunately the doctor whose specialty is this particular surgery was in Town to treat His Majesty, and did the procedure here instead of making Dr. Maddox go up to Cambridge for it. It was a very brief procedure, but we will not know the results for a few weeks, and Frederick and Emily are taking great delight in calling their father a pirate until that day comes.

If the roads clear and you feel compelled to visit, do not feel so obligated, because Dr. Maddox is intolerably cranky since he refuses to use pain medicine except the day of the procedure. He is staring at me this very second, and in a moment he may inquire what I'm writing about him.

The chances of infection are very low, but please kept him in your prayers. Mr. Maddox and Her Highness (and unfortunately, Mr. Mugen) are keeping us company to help pass the time.

Caroline Maddox

They replied that of course, they would keep him in their hearts and minds and await further news. Many people went blind in their old age, but Dr. Maddox was not old, and said on any number of occasions that he was determined to see his daughter go out, and that was that.

"A sorry lot we are," Brian said to his brother, who was attempting to read the paper. "I'm a cripple and you're missing bits and pieces. We have opium and someone's keeping it locked up like he was the chief guard of the Tower of London – "

"If you have any lingering pains, please tell me," his brother said calmly.

"I did."

"Well, this time, don't be so obviously lying."

Brian laughed. Dr. Maddox did not, whether he found it amusing or not. "Is there anything to do around here that does not involve reading?"

"At your house? Hardly. Though I could give you some suggestions, but you would find them all rather improper," Brian said as he poured Daniel another glass of whiskey. "Why don't you visit your infamous patient?"

"He's just been lying in bed, crying since his daughter died," Dr. Maddox said. "The illness is not physical. In addition, he would laugh at me." He did look sort of ridiculous with a cloth patch over his eye and a bandage tied around his head to keep it in place.

"You'd be comforting a mourner."

"I failed to do so when I was in perfect health. I see no reason why I should do it now."

"Are we just going to argue all day?"

"We're hardly arguing."

"You're contradicting everything I say."

"I always do that. It is your imagination."

"There you go again." He stood up and opened the door, just in time to catch Mrs. Maddox about to enter. "Mrs. Maddox."

"Mr. Maddox. What are you up to?"

"Well, I tried to get him drunk, but he hasn't had the second glass yet. Maybe I'll shut the door and you'll be more persuasive."

"Bugger off," the doctor said. He did, however, take another sip. As Brian left, Caroline kissed her husband on the part of his head that wasn't bandaged and sat down next to him. "It is ten in the morning."

"And this is Town. Plenty of people are cup-shot at ten in the morning."

"Are you going to argue with me, too?"

She put her hand on his forehead. "No fever. What else am I supposed to ask you?"

"Is there any pus leaking from the bandage?"

"That's disgusting."

"I know. And there isn't, for your record." He put his hand over hers. "I feel completely fine in every respect that you should be concerned about."

"Not every respect that I am concerned about."

"You know what I mean."

She sneered. "Finish your whiskey. Perhaps you should get drunk, and you might be pleasant to be around."

He finished the glass and pulled her into him. Even with all of their layers of clothing from the winter weather, she could still feel his heart beating as he whispered, "I'm sorry."

"I know," she replied, her voice much softer. "You're just suffering."

"I'm worried," he said. "This will be the second time on this eye. And I'm older now. Maybe I won't be so lucky."

"You have another eye."

"It's not particularly good."

"You are being argumentative," she said, but without any dismissal in her tone. "You promised you would make it to Emily's presentation before court and I'm not sending my only daughter out when she's fifteen like some country girl."

"I wanted to make it to her wedding, but I like making reasonable goals," he said. "And I also am rather fond of watching my other children grow up."

She smiled. "But you won't see me wrinkle up into a knobby old woman with horribly dyed hair."

"I will not stand for that," he said. "I love the smell of your hair. If you dare dye it, even tomorrow, I will not speak to you for a week."

"You would not manage a week."

"I would try."

She managed to laugh. Daniel was silent, but she sensed some of the tension was gone from him. Every day his pain decreased a little and his anxiety about the results increased some more. It was a horrible balance.

"The last time I did this," he said, "I didn't have a wife or a brother to comfort me. I barely had heat in my apartment. Despite my current temperament, I much prefer my conditions this time around."

One crabby week later, and after many conspiracies to drug Dr. Maddox's tea (all of which he discovered before they could come to fruition), it was time to visit Dr. Hunt at the Royal Society office. Daniel Maddox was very methodical that morning in his usual preparations. Dr. Hunt, like most doctors, did not believe in washing around the eye, but he did, as close as he could get. By the end of it, his hands were shaking.

"You will be fine," his wife said. They had not removed the bandage, so he had no idea if the eye worked.

"And if it's not?"

"Your eye? It's not as if you don't have another one."

He smiled and kissed her. "I will try to remember that."

It was Brian who took him to the doctor. It was as if he was four and ten again and Brian was his guardian. He was there to stand by him (but this time, not hold his hand) when the doctor removed the patch and inspected his eye – all of which, he could see.

"You sir may hold a record," Dr. Hunt said to his patient, "for most successful cataract removals. Two on each eye?"

"Three on the right, two on the left," Dr. Maddox said, still laughing with joy as he put his glasses back on and the world came into focus again. There was a quick exam of his distance vision with cards, and he was declared, aside from his severe myopia, to be in good visual health.

But his real joy and relief came when he arrived home and his children came running down the stairs. This time it was little Danny who outpaced the other two in his excitement. "Father!" He was small enough to still be picked up.

"Look at you," he said.

"A sight for sore eyes," Brian said.

The servants, who held their master in some esteem, were all relieved and quickly set him down with something to drink for all of his tribulations. He toasted with his brother, wife, and sister-in-law.

"You know," he said to his sons, "one of the reasons I became interested in medicine was because I went to so many doctors when I was a child. Do either of you want to be doctors?"

"I want to be a samurai!" Danny said, to which Brian laughed, earning himself a cold glare from everyone else in the room.

"I want to be a fencing champion!" Frederick said.

"I think I liked the samurai idea better," Caroline replied. "At least it involves some bizarre honor system."

"At least it involves regular exercise," said Dr. Maddox.

"At least he didn't say, 'king,'" whispered Brian, and his brother was in too good of a mood to do anything but laugh.

Winter eventually became spring, and the snow and ice melted, and once again the roads were cleared for travel. The early spring was a time for a lot of birthdays, the most significant being Georgiana's and Geoffrey's, who both turned three and ten. The following fall, Geoffrey would be attending Eton. Georgie now hovered in the precarious stage where she was no longer a child and not yet a woman, when she had to wear a wide-rimmed hat and not talk to men in the streets or even be introduced. Whether she resented any of this or not, she said nothing.

George came up to Derbyshire for their birthdays. When asked what he was doing alone, he replied that his mother didn't care where he went and then quickly changed the subject. At the end of Geoffrey Darcy's first day as a someone three and ten, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham stayed up much later than the rest of the household and helped themselves to the good whiskey Geoffrey's father kept in his study, having learned the lesson about port well enough. By sunrise they were still awake and utterly in the cups. Whatever rift caused by the fight at Christmas had been mended. When Master Darcy rose, Mrs. Reynolds quietly informed him that his son had been found passed out cold on the terrace, and would probably sleep through the whole day. The master's reaction to this was uncharacteristically mild. He did speak to Nurse and told her that when Geoffrey was to be woken (preferably by dinner), it should be done very loudly, with some kind of drum if at all possible. Otherwise, he had no comment.

At the end of March, when all of the significant dates had passed, Grégoire Bellamont was seen off. Darcy went with him all the way to the coast, where he would take a boat to Ireland. He had spent months reading literature on the land and the history of its church. On more than one occasion, Elizabeth had to quietly remind her husband, "He is a grown man and he can do as he pleases," as he tried to broker opposition.

This time, Grégoire took something besides his prayer book, his spectacles, and his cloak. He took a bag of money – his own money, from his own account. Some had already been sent to Dublin, where it would sit in an account if he needed access to it. His route was established and he would write if he varied from it, so it would be not so hard to find him. Nonetheless Darcy would only let him go with Dr. Maddox's permission, but unfortunately the doctor would not be in on the conspiracy and said Grégoire was well enough to travel. It had been over eight months since his injuries and though his back was mainly scar tissue, it did not cause him pain or impede his movement.

"When can we expect you back?" Darcy said as they walked the docks to the waiting ship.

"When I find what I'm looking for," he replied.

"And what are you looking for?"

"That, I also must find." He shook hands with Darcy. "Good-bye, brother."

"Write me if you get into trouble. Or if you need anything. Or if you get sick. Or if – "

"I will write."

Darcy nodded, composing himself. "Good-bye. And good luck." He added, nervously, "Go with ... G-d."

Grégoire smiled from the plank. "I will do my best."

... Next Chapter - Saint in a Box