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.

Warning: Accents ahead.

Chapter 28 – Missives from Ireland

The Darcys received a number of correspondences from Grégoire as he had promised. Sometimes they came in clumps, others not, but he was nothing if not a prolific writer about the places he went and the sites he saw. It was the first and the last that concerned Darcy. Aside from his travelogue meant for the public (meaning, the rest of the household), he included a letter to Darcy.

Dear Brother,

I need to make an inquiry but am unable to do so from my present location. If you employ your steward, I would happily compensate him for his time.

I was hosted by a couple named Hugh and Nora MacGowan. Their son James served in the regiment in His Majesty's armies. They do not know how to read, so he did not write them while abroad, but last they heard, his regiment was sent to Waterloo and took many casualties. However, they have never been informed of his death, and he has not returned or sent message that he is alive. While they are not believing him to be, they would like to know what became of him. They do not have the finances to travel to London and conduct further inquiries. I of course offered them my services best I could. With the information provided below (physical description, etc), it still may be an impossible task, but perhaps something can be dug up in London, or one of the members of his regiment can be spoken to about his death.

I will also include the address at which they can be reached if it can be safely concluded that he is passed on to the next life. If he is alive, some effort could perhaps be made to get him to visit his grieving parents.

When I am at a location where I can be reached, I will let you know. Otherwise, I leave this task to you. If you do not have the time, I open my accounts for someone to be hired to investigate it. Spare no expense.

Thank you.

Grégoire Darcy-Bellamont

That Grégoire had been ready to champion some lost soldier's parents' cause was no surprise at all to his elder brother, who showed it to his wife.

"So kind of him," Elizabeth said. "What will you do?"

"Have a solicitor sent to London," he said.

The next notable letter, beyond traveling tales, was remarkably brief.

Brother,

I have decided to stay in County Carlow for a little while. I find it very pleasant here. I have opened a box so that I can receive posts for you at Tullow, box number 0828.

G-d Bless.

Grégoire Darcy-Bellamont

"His lack of explanation is stunning," Darcy said. It was the sort of letter Darcy would write, but not Grégoire. Or, it was not in the style of letters he had been writing.

"Maybe he met a girl and he doesn't wish to admit it."

Darcy returned Elizabeth's look, and then both broke into laughter at the idea.

Two weeks before, the paper of the final letter was still rolled up in Grégoire's sack, unused. He stirred for Vigils with no desire to get up; it was just his body's natural reaction and he rolled over, trying to ignore it. He did not want to wake from his dream and find himself alone in that little shelter of a ruin, beside the saint. It seemed so wet and miserable, and this was much better, even if the bed wasn't exactly high quality.

He swallowed all of the alarm that it was not a dream and that there was a woman beside him by reminding himself, You are not a monk. If this was the way he had to get used to it, it was not such a terrible thing.

Caitlin did not stir beside him, even when he removed his hand from her belly, where it had roamed in his sleep. It was barely daybreak as he yawned and reached over to open the shutters, bringing the morning sun into their faces.

"Ow!" came a cry beside him. "Why – what time is it?"

"Time for Vigils," he said. "I'm sorry – my body just knows." He made a move to rise, but she grabbed him by the cross around his neck and pulled him back down. "All right, all right."

"I don' want ta be alone," she said. "Is dat so brutal?"

"No," he said. In fact, he didn't think it was terrible at all. There was something to be said for waking up next to a live person and their warm body, no matter what the outside temperature was. He only had one former experience with it, and it had been so guilt-ridden that he barely remembered the specifics.

"Why – why did yeh do al' dis for me?"

He assumed she was referring to his stocking her kitchen for a month. "I would have done it for anyone. I have the money. I can't take it with me."

"Really?"

"Really," he said, facing her. "As for the rest of it – I suppose I'm not much of a monk after all." He smiled and kissed her head. Her hair needed a wash, but it was a lovely color of red and blond, and not curled or tossed up like English gentlewomen.

She giggled and leaned into him. "Yer shirt is so soft."

"It's cotton." It was more than a little worn because he had yet had many chances to wash it, but it was softer on his skin. He wore it as an undershirt at the abbot's orders and Dr. Maddox's strong suggestion.

"I 'ave never felt cotton before."

"Neither had I."

She laced her fingers with his. His were calloused from long hours of various kinds of manual and scriptural labor, hers the same. She was not a soft English rose. She had probably grown up on a farm and done her share of chores.

"Why do yeh 'av cuts on yer arms?"

She was referring to the scars on his forearms that went up nearly the length of them. "Oh, that was from where they had to take skin –" He paused and said, "It's not a pleasant story."

"Neither is me gettin' knocked up an' Neil leavin' me.."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeh always say dat," she said, "and I tink yeh mean it. I 'ave never met anyone loike yeh."

"Me neither."

That must have been the right answer, because she kissed him. He had largely lost all linear thought when he had to stop her from pulling up his shirt, the only thing he was still wearing besides his religious jewelry. "Don't."

"Why?"

"Because – I don't want you to see it." The mood – at least on his end – was temporarily deflated. "When I said I almost killed myself in my discipline, I am serious."

"So you've never shown anyone?"

"A lot of doctors, my brother, and my entire abbey, but I don't remember it. And even then, I was ashamed." His grip on her hand unintentionally tightened.

"All right," she said, and let go of his shirt. It stayed on.

They were both starving, and dove into all available food. Grégoire went out to feed the chickens and the cow, which for animals seemed to somehow convey surprise at his presence and his actions. He returned to the house with a pail of fresh milk. Caitlin drank to the point of being ill, and he helped her get outside in time, holding back her long hair.

"'s been this way since – yeh know," she said. "But it wus less cos I wasn't eatin'."

"You need to eat. Even if it makes you sick." He practically carried her back to the house and set her in the only chair with a back, providing her with a little mead that he had thrown a shaving of ginger into. "Sip."

"How do yer know so much aboyt afflicted women or whatever yer callin' it in England?"

"I've known many pregnant women. Relatives and townsfolk near my abbey in Spain," he said.

A little worn from her recent experience, she sipped the concoction before setting it on her lap. "Are yer 'eadin'?"

"As in, leaving?"

She nodded.

Did he know what he should do? Certainly not. Did he even know what the right thing to do was? She was a pregnant woman – unmarried, and in need of someone, and no child would result of their union. "Today? Not unless you tell me to."

She did not. Did he know what he was doing? No. Did he care? Not in the least.

The next day, Grégoire was on his way back from the trip to Tullow to set up his post box when he encountered Mrs. O'Muldoon. "Mr. – I'm so sorry – "

"Grégoire. But you can call me Gregory, if it pleases you," he said, bowing to her. It was not something to which she was accustomed, and the plump Irish housewife forced herself into a curtsey. "Mrs. O'Muldoon. How are you?"

"I wasn' 'spectin' ta see yeh here."

"I am planning on staying in the area. For how long, I know not."

"I 'eard a rumor – are yer at – nearby ta us?"

"With Miss MacKenna, yes," he said. So he admitted to living in sin. "This is probably inappropriate of me but – what do you know of her?"

They continued down the path away from the market towards their homes, where she pulled him to the side. "She com here 'bout two months ago. Bought de house for a song – de animals wi' it – 'cuz the owner 'ad jist lost 'is struggle an' strife an' wanted ter move ter de city. She was lookin' for any deal she could make." She took his arm. "She was in a real bad way. 'suppose she told yeh dat."

"She did tell me the circumstances surrounding her condition were bad, yes."

"She's a nice lass – can't say much for her livin' alone, but she wus shuk. We woulda taken 'er in but we have a baby and we couldn't afford it, yeh know – "

He just nodded kindly. "I know, yes. Of course."

"She wus al' banged up; bruises and the loike. She could barely walk straight. She towl us a wee aboyt her paddy not takin' well to her leavin,' but not much. We won't talk about these tings, women. Yeh know."

He nodded again. "Since then?"

"She's been alone. Not seen a soul fer all we know. She used ta go ta market, but den she stopped."

"I understand. I just wanted to know – "

"Terrible ting, to be all alone. But that doesn' mean yer obligated in any way, Mr. Gregory – "

"No, I understand," he said. He was just trying to confirm Caitlin's story – dirty as he felt, doing it. It was something his brother would do. "Thank you, Mrs. O'Muldoon. I'll see you at church."

"Bejasus bless yeh, Mr. Gregory."

"G-d bless."

They parted and he continued down the path, humming as he went.

Was it physical satisfaction he felt, or was it something more? Either way he liked the feeling, even if he could not distinguish it properly. Nothing tied him to Caitlin; he could leave her at any time, and if he felt generous, even leave her enough money to get through her pregnancy without making a dent in his annual income. He didn't tell her that, but he didn't lie about his finances, either – she had enough sense not to ask. Either way, he was content in a way he had never felt before. It must be physical affection. He had known the love of brotherhood, of G-d, and of family. A woman was beyond his experience. His one night in Bavaria did not count; he could see that now.

How am I to go to Confession? It was the thought that truly bothered him. How can I confess to a sin with no intention of reform? He did not want to ignore the orders of a priest, but then again, hadn't he done that before?

He went each morning to Mass in the local church, or High Mass if he was too lazy to get up, but it was several days before he stepped in the box and crossed himself. "Before I begin, I must ask – Father, are you a member of any of the monastic orders?"

"Naw, me current sun, scon are in me weck."

"I am excommunicated from my order and would be unable to speak to you if you were. That was why I asked," he said, and crossed himself. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession." He did not go through his entire history with this priest – he had confessed all those sins long ago and did not wish to go over them again. "I am living with an unmarried woman who is carrying another man's child."

"Who is dis oither lad?"

"I do not know him. All I know is that he told her to get rid of the child, and she ran away from him, and was living on her own before I found her."

"Where is 'er family?"

"She said they would not speak to her after they discovered her condition."

The priest paused. "Ye 'av relashuns wi' yer won?"

"Yes. Forgive me Father, but I would be lying if I did not say that I have every intention to keep doing it."

"Yeh intend ter marry 'er?"

He leaned back in the box. For some reason, he had not anticipated this question. "I do not at this stage know. Marriage is a sacrament. There is more to it than physical pleasure or financial necessity."

"Yeh are supporting 'er?"

"Yes?"

"In exchange for deese favors?"

He colored. "No. She was starving and I bought her food with no intention of things proceeding as they did. I was just returning from a pilgrimage to Jerpoint Abbey when I encountered her. I had no intention of staying in the region."

"If yeh intend ter continue dees carnal relashuns, yeh must make an honest doll out av 'er."

Grégoire swallowed. "I need time to consider it. I take sacraments very seriously."

"But sexual prohibishuns, less so."

He bowed his head. "Forgive me, Father. I was a celibate monk most of my life. This is the first time I have ever been in a ... relationship with a woman aside from one other time, and I repented, and was forgiven. And that was when I was under oath. Now I have no such restrictions."

"Yeh 'av de restricshun av actin' loike a gran' Christian lad."

To this, he did not have an immediate answer. He had not looked forward to this, and he would not look forward to future sessions. But he could not marry Caitlin – he barely knew her. "If we are meant for marriage, then I will happily make her my wife and raise the child as my own. But now, I cannot answer you."

It was the turn of the priest to pause and consider. "Yer are rational and considerate, and obviously doin' yer won a deadly generosity. 'owever, yer are still livin' in sin an' must examine yer motives for doin' so. we are meant ter learn from sin – it leads us astray, but in doin' so, lets us clap wha de roi patt wus so we can reclaim it," he said. "Say ten Hail Marys and attend Mass at least once a week."

"Thank you, Father."

"Go wi' Bejesus, lad."

He had never felt like that box was such a prison, and never so relieved to be free of it. It was not the pronounced punishment – nothing in comparison to anything he had experienced in his past – so much as what the priest said. If this went on, he would have to marry Caitlin. On the other hand, if this went on, maybe he would want to.

After a brief refresher course with Mr. O'Muldoon and acquiring all the right materials, Grégoire set to work at repairing the floorboards of the kitchen, especially the ones that had a tendency to pop up when one stepped right on the other end. Work is prayer. So said Saint Benedict, even though he was still required to set aside time for prayer itself, and to attend Mass, and of course services on Sundays.

"Are yeh sure yer not a monk?" Caitlin said as he finished Sext and joined her at the table for lunch. With the right spices and some failed attempts, she finally managed to get some good dishes together.

"Why? Do you want me to act like one?" he said, kissing her.

"T'be sure not," she said, and began putting out the food. "It's just – all the people I know who are runnin' to church are either priests or so – "

" – self-righteous?"

"Aye." She stopped her conversation and bowed her head as he said grace in Latin, and then they ate. "I jist mind dis lady hittin' me wi' a rod for runnin' up an' down de aisles whaen oi wus wee."

"I don't think Christ would have hit you for being a child," he said. "I don't think he would hit you at all."

"Yeh shoulda told 'er that," she said. "'slike, yer just all good, nothing bad in yeh at'tall –" She covered her eyes. "Excuse me."

He was used to her running outside after eating – she was pregnant and not used to such good food – but he sensed something was the matter. When she was done being ill, she sat down on the front steps, weeping.

"Caitlin? What is it?"

She just shook her head, trying to shoo him away. Of course he would not be shooed, and sat down beside her, wrapping an arm around her. "What is it?"

"'s nothing."

"It is not."

She tried to meet his eyes, but failed, collapsing into his tunic. "I'm so sorry, so sorry – I shouldn't be doin' dis ta yeh. Yer so good – "

"You're not doing anything to me," he said, "except making me happy."

But she just kept sobbing, until she was so exhausted that he picked her up and carried her to her bed, where she remained for the rest of the day. Grégoire looked at the abandoned floor project and shook his head, spending the day in prayer, even if he did not know precisely what he was praying for.

... Next Chapter - Sacred Sacraments