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 30 - Intruder
No part of his brother's request surprised Darcy, but nonetheless he was not eager to visit debtor's prison. He had been there twice for a different half-brother, and under much more frustrating (and expensive) circumstances.
The door was opened and a sandy-haired man still in partial uniform emerged, looking tired and confused as he was told by the officer that he was free to go.
"Your debts were paid," Darcy said, "courtesy of an anonymous donor who happened meet your desperate parents, who've had no word of you since the war, Mr. MacGowan." He did not wait for the man to respond before shoving some bills and a ticket in his hands. "Your ship leaves in the morning for Dublin. This was all done on the good faith that you would return home to them as expediently as possible. You make up whatever lie you like to explain your absence, but that would not be in the spirit of your patron. All I will tell you is that you had better be there for that ship's departure and you had better be in Ireland by the end of the week. Your parents are sick with grief, or so I'm told."
The former soldier looked down at the money and up at him, wide-eyed. "And who be ye?"
"His brother," he said. He had no desire to associate with this man. "I'll be there to make sure you get on that boat, Mr. MacGowan."
"I will." He crossed himself. "I didn' mean ta wind up – "
Darcy raised his hand to stop him, to telegraph, I don't care. I'm just doing this for my overly charitable brother. Something about prisons put him in an especially bad mood. "Tomorrow, Mr. MacGowan. Eight sharp." He left without another word to the soldier he had just freed. He just wanted to be free himself of this task. He would remain only to see him off, and then return to Derbyshire.
It was early yet, and he saw no reason to open the townhouse for a few days, so he was staying at Bingley's. Bingley needed a trip to Town for business, so they took it together, and dined with the Maddoxes. In the old days, Bingley had been trailed by his status-obsessed sisters and perpetually cup-shot brother-in-law. His traveling party was now smaller, but no less annoying to Darcy.
"I have to bring him," Bingley said in the carriage, petting Monkey in his lap. "Otherwise he'll just drive Jane insane. He gets terribly upset when I leave."
"So between me and your wife, you must choose your wife."
"Of course, Darcy."
"A proper choice, I admit. However I must remind you that your wife is less capable of throttling you."
Bingley just shrugged. "Why not? She's done it before."
When Darcy returned to the house after his task at the prison, the first person he was greeted by was not a person at all, though he did try to stand up like one and announce himself with a squeal.
"I don't care for you, either," Darcy said, and poured himself a glass of wine as he waited for Bingley to emerge from the study.
Bingley finally did, and Monkey climbed up him and onto his shoulder, which he took no real notice of. "I take it that it went well?"
"Well as expected," Darcy said, closing his book as Bingley sat down next to him. "I'll know for sure tomorrow morning if he's good to his word. Though I didn't ask for it. Still, he can't cash in the ticket."
"And then you'll write Grégoire? Assuming he's still in Tullow?"
"Yes. Wherever that is," Darcy said. "I suspect he is wandering around the area or has holed himself up somewhere nearby. He's not been terribly descriptive."
Bingley nodded. "How does he sound?"
"Happy. There is a slight undertone to it, or so Elizabeth assesses – she's always been better at this than me. But he's not going on and on about Irish monastic history anymore."
"So you don't know what he's doing."
Darcy was happy to have a friend who said the obvious, so he didn't have to say it.
"I take it he has not set a date for his return."
"No."
Bingley took a biscuit from the offered tray, which Monkey immediately grabbed. "Monkey! Give that back!" But the monkey just squawked at him. "I suppose I don't want something that's been in your filthy paws anyway." He took another biscuit for himself and dismissed the servant. "Well, if he continues to write regularly and he sounds well, then that is a great improvement and I would not be one to worry."
"You would worry if one of your children was in Ireland and acting beyond his normal habits."
"Grégoire is not your child. He is your brother, and is a grown man." Bingley frowned. "Not in the way we normally assume, but he nonetheless is capable of making his own decisions. Has he wasted away his entire inheritance gambling?"
"No."
"Has he attempted to rejoin the Church, perhaps under a different name?"
"No."
"Then you have no reason to worry."
"I'm not worried."
"Darcy," he said, "I've known you half my life now. I can read your indifferent stares better than your own sister. The only one who can best me is Mrs. Darcy."
Darcy said nothing, confirming Bingley's initial assertion, but not willing to admit that, either. Instead, he changed the topic. "Speaking of one's children ..."
"Oh, please, do not tell my sister."
"I'm sure she will get the truth of it out of you. Which, by the way, is?"
"That we had an incident in which we had a change of governesses." He scratched Monkey's tiny head. "As in, we no longer have one. Know of any?"
"Was she dismissed or did she storm out in a rage?"
"A little of both, actually."
Darcy gave one of his half-smiles. "How did Miss Bingley manage it?"
"This will impress you: Hunger strike."
"What?"
"She had nothing but well water with lemon in it for three days. And locked herself in her room. And left the key in so I couldn't open the door without removing the hinges."
Darcy just kept smirking. "I admire her fortitude."
"It was a very ... admirable ... effort. In a way. And it did work. Mrs. Murrey gave up shouting through the door and was gone on the fourth day. Left a note of where to forward her last week's pay."
"Do you even have any idea what brought it on? The particular incident?"
"Georgie does not like piano. Beyond that, no one is eager to ask her."
James MacGowan was good to his silent vow and was seen going aboard a boat bound for Dublin. Darcy returned to the house to write a letter to Grégoire relating this events and wiled the day away fencing at the club. He was finally getting good enough on his left side to properly face his old opponents, which was key, because every year, Geoffrey came closer to besting him. He knew one day his son would beat him, and take his place in many respects, but he wanted to at least make him work for it.
The next day he took George out for his birthday. It was not George Wickham's actual birthday, but within the month, and it was when he was in Town, which Darcy rarely was. George Wickham was four and ten and obsessed with entering Oxford as soon as he could. Legally and financially he could do it – Darcy said he would front him the tuition while they waited for George's trust to open – but George had not the tutoring to be ready for a University-level education. Nor did Darcy really think that a man barely halfway through then tens should go to University. Geoffrey would not begin Cambridge until he finished at Eton, and he was only beginning Eton in the fall. Darcy suspected it was more that George wanted to get out from the house than his desire to further his education. He wanted to say, Don't rush so into adulthood. It has responsibilities beyond your imagination. But he found he could not express these words, and instead he listened to George as he took him on a tour of the bookshops and purchased for him whatever he liked and did not already have.
"How is Mr. Bradley?" Darcy asked, leaving the broadness of the question open to interpretation.
"All right. Mother's pregnant again, if you hadn't heard."
He hadn't.
"Well, they're not sure yet, but they're still fairly certain. I guess that is why there's been no general announcement."
"Your mother is certainly quite resilient," he said.
"I know – I mean, I've read, I've asked – it's not something she can control, but I wish ..." he trailed off. Darcy let George find his words. "I wish she would slow down. For her health." He didn't specific between physical or mental, if there was any specification to be made.
"What does Mr. Bradley think?"
"I haven't asked Mr. Bradley what he thinks!"
"Of course not," Darcy said as they walked down the street towards Gracechurch. "What do you think he thinks?"
"He seems ... content. And he's very concerned with Izzy – that she becomes a proper lady. And he hired me a French tutor, so ... he does what he can."
"I am very pleased to hear that," Darcy said. Very pleased indeed. They came up on the apartment, and the first thing to great them was the sound of young Brandon wailing.
Mr. Bradley emerged when Darcy shut the door behind him. "Mr. Darcy."
"Mr. Bradley. I trust all is well."
"As it ever is," Mr. Bradley said with a roll of his eyes. "George, did he happen to buy you any new clothes, or was it all just books?"
"Next year, Mr. Bradley," George said.
"I will buy him a very smart suit," Darcy said, "but not until I do not fear him outgrowing it."
"Uncle Darcy!" Isabella Wickham came barreling down the stairs, bypassing her stepfather to curtsey to her uncle. "Did George keep his promise?"
"You should ask him that, Miss Wickham," he said as George produced the embroidery pattern she'd been begging in for. He insisted it was part of his own birthday present. Darcy did not discourage George from spoiling his sister, as no one else seemed to be doing so, and he did the same with Georgiana. It was not clear yet whether Isabella would turn down the path of her mother or follow more sensible footsteps, but it would definitely be close.
"I don't like to disappoint you, Izzy," George said, and she hugged him and kissed him, which he didn't seem to care for, the big man that he now was, and was wiping it off as Lydia Bradley made her appearance, carrying Brandon Bradley.
"Mr. Darcy," she said, not bothering to curtsey.
"Mrs. Bradley," he bowed.
"I assume you won't be staying for dinner, even if I offered?"
He did not want to pick a fight with her – not ever, but especially not in front of her children. "Unfortunately I am engaged elsewhere and am returning to Derbyshire tomorrow. Do you wish any messages delivered to your sisters there?"
"Tell them they'll have a new nephew or niece on the way to spoil, if they feel so inclined as to stop by," she said. "Feels like a niece."
He did not attempt to smile. It was not something he did. He merely bowed politely. "Congratulations, Mrs. Bradley. Mr. Bradley."
Mr. Bradley was beaming. Lydia Bradley's expression was harder to interpret, but Darcy had no wish to take the time to do so. He excused himself and left.
Darcy's missive made it to Tullow in good time. Grégoire looked at the date in the post office and noted that he had opened the box almost three months ago, and put down payment for another month without hesitation. He had spent the day in town, but not shopping for groceries. Unfortunately he found no jewelers to his taste, and had to send out for information from elsewhere. That did not dampen his mood as he turned to the house.
The sun was still up and dinner was on the table, but he did not find her waiting for him. He checked the bedroom, but still nothing. Eventually he found a note on the nightstand. It passed by his first look because he was unaccustomed to him. In very scratchy handwriting, Caitlin had written,
In te roen
Curious more than worried, he headed out through the path in the woods, the shortcut to the church ruins with the mosaic of St. Patrick. There he found her, leaning against the old stone, a shawl over her shoulders. "Caitlin," he said, immediately noting her red eyes. "What is it?"
"I – I don't know." She did not protest when he sat down beside her. There was just enough room for the two of them in that little shelter – them and St. Patrick. "I'm shuk."
"What scared you?" He knew what really scared her, but he wanted to know what set her off.
"It kicked."
This did not shock or alarm him. "It did?"
She nodded.
He put his hand over her belly. She was now in her sixth month. "Did it do it once or – "
"It stopped. But I mean, it did it."
"Caitlin," he said, "that's wonderful." He laughed. "It's wonderful."
"It's still scary." Her voice was weak. "I don' know if I can do dis."
"Of course you can."
She shook her head. "Not alone."
Part of him was almost offended. "You're not alone; you know that. I won't leave you." He kissed her forehead. "Caitlin, I love you. I am not leaving you."
She put her head down so he couldn't see her face. "I shouldn'a got yeh involved. I'm so sorry." She was crying again. "So sorry."
"Shh, you don't have to be – "
"I shouldn'a let yeh do all t'ese nice things for me, I shouldn'a let yeh get attached – "
"Caitlin – "
"But I love yeh," she said, picking her head back up. "I love yeh so much. I can't let yeh go."
He took her hand, the one she was trying to cover her face with, and kissed it. "You don't have to let me go. I am not trying to leave."
She shook her head. "Don' say it. I know yeh want ta. Please don't. Don't make it worse."
He nodded, even if he didn't really understand. He certainly had his suspicions. They had been together for months, she was increasingly due, and they were devout Catholics, so the word marriage didn't really have to be uttered before it was being thought of by both parties. Still, they hadn't said anything, not in words.
"You're shivering," he announced. "It's not good – for the child or for you." Without allowing her to stop him, he picked her up, a feat he could still manage to some degree, and carried her back to the house by sheer force of will. He tucked her into bed and brought her some fresh milk. "Drink." She obeyed him, but otherwise was silent.
By the evening, as he went about making himself supper, she emerged from the bedroom, looking more composed. "Sorry."
"You don't have to be."
"I got rattled – I don't know." She looked at him with a weak smile as he ran his hand through her hair. "I don' deserve yeh."
"I would say the same," he answered, sitting down across from her. "If you really want me to leave, then say so. It will hurt, but I'll do what is right. But I won't leave unless you push me. I love you too much for that."
She said nothing, but squeezed his hand.
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession." Grégoire crossed himself and immediately began, not looking through the screen, even though he knew very well who the priest was. They rarely talked person-to-person; it was too awkward. "I have decided to ask Caitlin to marry me."
"Dis is a pure gran' step, me sun."
He sighed. "I don't like the circumstances. It should be a happy time, but she's increasingly ill from her condition. Her emotions are everywhere. We haven't spoken the words and yet she begs me not to ask and I know exactly what she means. Then she tells me she loves me, and I know she means it."
The priest did not hold back. "Why yer tink she is confused? yer 'av toyed wi' 'er emoshuns for months nigh."
"Father, I would never – "
"Yer tell 'er yeh love 'er?"
He turned to the lattice that kept the priest from him, his voice near anger. "Yes. Every day."
"An' ter yeh continue ter nu 'er carnally, even in 'er condishun?"
"Yes."
"An' yeh continue ter provide for 'er. In every way yer are 'er 'usban' except under Jaysus. Dat step yer seem reluctant ter take."
"I just said I would take it!" he shouted, then stopped in horror, and crossed himself. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I just yelled at a man of the cloth." It lightened the air just enough for the conversation to continue. "Is this what love is? This torrent of emotions?"
"So many people 'av said, me sun."
"I wanted this to be happy. I didn't plan it, but I suppose in the back of my mind, I wished that the time that I choose to take a wife to be the happiest moment of my life – and yet I am also so confused."
"Den ye must truly be in love," said the priest. It was one of the most clever things he had said in their relatively short but complex association. "Yeh will recall the story of Jacob and the angel."
"Yes, of course. He fought with him and won, and earned the name Israel."
"Yes. n' yer man wept, as well. 'is life ter dat point wus av doubt, for stealin' 'is brother's birthright by trickin' 'is owl lad an' den runnin' away. But he wept not whaen he wus on de road ter redempshun, but at de final moment, whaen he physically wrested wi' 'is emoshuns through de aingayle, an' prevailed. So G-d blessed 'imself an' from 'is seed came de twelve tribes av israel, an' from de tribe av Judah, de ma av our Lord Jaysus bleedin Chroist," he said. "Doubt an' de despair dat follows it whaen yer dwell on it too long withoyt actin' is a failure, but it can be reversed an' overcum, an' den yer truly becum yer paddy G-d intends yer ter be."
Grégoire swallowed this information, silent for a few moments as he did so. It did not dismiss all of his emotions, or any of them, but it made his path clear. "I think I understand." He leaned forward. "If I ask, and she says no, what will I do then?"
"'av feth in christ an' hill show yer de way," the priest said. "Say ten Hail Mary's fer de sin of fornication. Bejasus bless yeh, me sun."
"Thank you, Father. Go with G-d."
He did not linger. He said his prayers and left the church. When he returned home, he had no more questions. He only had a beautiful woman with dinner waiting.
Caitlin's emotions evened out again when she became accustomed to the baby's kicking, even when it disturbed her sleep. Grégoire laughed as he put his hand over her and felt it. "I think this child will be doing a lot of walking. Or dancing."
The next Sunday he went to church and prayed. On Monday, after early Mass, he went to Tullow to pick up the ring he had ordered. It was a gold band with emeralds set in it so they looked sewn in like the knots he had seen on the old crosses of Monasterboice. "I'll take it," he said, and put the box in his pocket.
It was a long way back from Tullow. He stopped on the road for None prayers, and hoped to be home in time for Vespers, which were followed by their supper. It was summer and the days were long, so he did not worry about light. The fields thinned out and the forest became thicker, until at last he came upon the house.
He did not smell the smells of dinner cooking. The fire was not even going. The place was a mess, as if it had been torn apart, and he stepped inside and set down it bag in shock. He barely had a moment to react to being grabbed by a strong set of hands and hurled against the wall, which was enough to knock him down to his knees, but not onto the floor entirely. The hulk of a man backed away.
"Who are you and what have you done with Caitlin?" Grégoire demanded.
"Yeh must be the one keepin' 'er all happy wit' yer fancy gifts. I'm not the best'a men, but yer scum!"
Grégoire grabbed the table to help stabilize himself. He was nearly a head shorter than this man, and had never struck a man in his life. He would not win in a fight – not a physical one, anyway. "You have not answered my question. Who are you?"
"Caitlin? Yeh want ta tell 'im who I am?"
Caitlin emerged from the bedroom. To Grégoire's horror, her clothes were torn, some pieces bloodied, and her face was red and swollen. "Please jus' let 'im go."
The man had red hair like fire and his personality was similar – easily brought to the peak of destruction. "Yeh tell 'im who I am!"
Grégoire looked at her as she came forward, visibly taking, to take the man's side, but not to touch him. Her voice was barely a whimper as she said, "He's me 'usband."
... Next Chapter - The Unmentionable Thing