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.

I think cliffhangers are mean. This was a big one. Here's the new chapter anyway. And something to think about: A bunch of people commented no Caitlin feeling guilty in earlier chapters. This one kinda puts it into perspective, doesn't it?

Warning: Accents ahead.

Chapter 31 - The Unmentionable Thing

"It's not possible," Grégoire said. Stunned was a minor understatement in describing his reaction.

Mr. MacKenna grabbed Caitlin by the arm so hard she cried out. "Why don't yeh tell yer rich lover de truth?"

Caitlin waved, but he did not release her arm, and eventually she raised her terrified eyes to face Grégoire, "I – 'tis me husband. He tol' me he didn't want anoder mouth ta feed, but I wouldn' do it."

"An' what did yeh do, Mrs. MacKenna?"

"Ran away," she whispered, but loud enough for them all to hear.

"And?"

"Stole de money ta do it."

Mr. MacKenna was still angry, but he did cast a triumphant glare at Grégoire, still backed against the wall.

"Caitlin," he stuttered, "your family – "

"Died wi' me brah'der, whaenI wus twelve. I didn' have anybody – 'cept Neil."

"Normally I'd be mighty inclined ta quid da man who's been fecking me wife inta the ground," Neil MacKenna said, "but I'll make an exception dis time. Now go runnin' back ta England or wherever dey make cheatin' fecks."

Grégoire wanted to apologize – legitimately, it was needed – but he looked again at the beaten, sobbing form of Caitlin, swallowed, and said, "I will not let you take her."

"What?"

"I said I will not let you take her." He stood up straighter. "I understand now she is your wife and I respect that, and I will never touch her again, but if you treat her and the child this way – "

"'s gonna sell the baby," Caitlin whimpered.

"Shut yer bake" her husband said, and struck her. This, Grégoire would not stand for. Not in the place he had come to think of his house, or any house for that matter. He tried to come between them, which only earned him a smack on his face hard enough to knock him to the ground. MacKenna released his wife long enough to take a knife from the kitchen counter and drive it into Grégoire's arm, pinning him to the wall. Grégoire wasn't sure what bothered him more – his cry or Caitlin's own.

"Yeh don' come afta 'er," MacKenna said. "Yeh leave with yer loife, English."

In what seemed like a blur to Grégoire, the MacKennas left. He remembered only the pleading, apologetic look on Caitlin's bruised face, and the tissue she dropped on the floor as she left.

It was not until they were gone that he was able to pull the knife out, not so much because it was lodged in him but because it was lodged in the wooden wall. He set it on the ground and pulled up his shirt. The wound wasn't bad – just a pierce through the layer of flesh on his upper arm, barely more than a graze compared to what he had experienced. He pulled himself up with his good arm and scrambled for a piece of cloth. Eventually he removed the window dressing and tore off a length, wrapping it tightly around his arm to try and stop the bleeding. The pain in his arm and the sting on his face was not nearly as bad as the ache in his heart, just beginning to set in.

No. He needed to concentrate. That was what Darcy would do. He needed to find a surgeon to sew him up, and then he had to follow them. He looked around at the looted room. All of the good items were gone. As he stepped over it, he remembered the tissue, and picked it up. It was not a tissue – it was a scrap of paper.

dreser

He stumbled to the bedroom, which had also been ransacked. The mattress was even overturned. On the dresser, in a pile of things apparently deemed worthless – his clothing and the like – he found a note scribbled so quickly it was barely readable.

Grégoire (He had taught her to spell his name correctly)

Im so sory. i lovd you. it was to hard to sey.

Dublin east. talbot stret. thre sevin.

He knew if he gave into his emotions, he would lose too much time. Instead he swallowed them best he could, stuffed his bag full of all the things he thought he needed, and left, Caitlin's note clutched to his chest.

"Mr. Gregory!"

Even though the walk had not been far, Grégoire collapsed at the O'Muldoons' door, one hand clutching the bleeding arm. Fortunately Mr. O'Muldoon caught him in time, and helped him to a seat at their table.

"I – I need a surgeon," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. A glass of whiskey was set before him and he did not hesitate to take a good gulp. "It's small but the bleeding won't stop."

"Yer know who attacked yer?"

He didn't want to look at either of their expressions when he said it, so he just looked at the table. "Caitlin's husband." He sighed. Now that he was sitting, and panic was not giving him strength, he was starting to fade – not from blood loss, which by his standards was relatively minor, but from emotional exhaustion. "I didn't know."

"'snot right," Mrs. O'Muldoon said. "We woulda told yeh, if we'd known."

"I know."

They didn't ask him any further questions. Mr. O'Muldoon instead announced he was leaving for another farm, where he knew he could borrow a horse that could get him to Tullow.

"I was – I was robbed," Grégoire said. "I cannot pay right now, but I ... have money. In Dublin."

"'sall right, Gregory. Ya jest rest."

She put a blanket over him because he was shivering, and he finished the whiskey and had another glass. He was nodding off into a sad, comfortable haze when the surgeon arrived. Being sewn up was enough to properly wake him, but it was quick and clean. As the O'Muldoons paid the surgeon, Grégoire began to remove his paper and writing implements from his satchel.

"Oh, no, Mr. Gregory, yeh should rest – "

"I have to write – write my brother," he said, "to meet me in Dublin. I'm going after her."

"Gregory," Mr. O'Muldoon said, laying a strong hand on his shoulder, "I cannot even imagine what yer goin' through, but she's a married woman."

"I know," he replied calmly as he opened the ink jar. "I know I can't –" He felt the oncoming torrent of tears, but swallowed them back. "Even so, Mr. MacKenna is going to kill or sell the baby and maybe kill her in the process. I will find some way to protect her." He crossed himself. "G-d help me."

It took him over an hour to write the letter. It was rather brief, but his mind wandered, and once the tears began, it was hard to continue. He hoped what he wrote would be at all comprehensible. After many blots from tears and ink stains, he folded the letter, and requested a candle to melt the wax. He barely had the energy to stamp the Darcy symbol into the soft seal. "For tomorrow's post; I may oversleep it."

Mr. O'Muldoon took it with some obvious reservations, but not enough to stop him from holding his tongue as his wife escorted their tired, wounded, and tipsy guest into one of the children's rooms, where he was given their bed for the night. "Compline," he said to no one in particular. "Oh G-d, Compline." But the words didn't come. "In te Domine speravi..." ("In thee, O Lord, I have hoped...")

Beyond that, he had nothing left in him.

Elizabeth Darcy knew something was wrong before anyone else in Pemberley knew outside of the two people in the study. She knew before Mrs. Reynolds, still sharp as a tack at her age, managed to swing by with a concerned look to indicate, Maybe you should go check on your husband. Even though Elizabeth was upstairs, trying to convince Cassandra to settle down for a nap, she knew she had to get to her husband before he was forced to come to her. It was better that way.

She opened the door to the study to find him discussing pounds with his steward, who was still seated as Darcy paced anxiously by the window. Seeing her, he said, "Five thousand, it is. I need it by the end of the day. I do not care how you come to acquire it." That was a nod for the steward to leave. He forced a smile at his wife. "No one in this family is ever permitted to leave Britain proper again. Travel is nothing but trouble."

"Is he – "

"His letter," he said, holding up a torn, ink-stained letter with the Darcy seal still attached to one edge. "He is as well as can be expected." Clearly, nothing would offer explanation but the letter itself, so he handed it to her and returned to the window, staring out at the rolling hills of Pemberley as Elizabeth sat down to read.

Dearest Brother,

I have not the time or strength to spend on a proper explanation for my unforgivable actions. I plead only for your assistance despite what I have done. I have not the wits or experience to complete this mission without you.

As you know, I have been living outside Tullow for three months now, but not in any kind of spiritual retreat. I came in my travels upon a woman who was not only starving, destitute, and with child all alone, but the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. She told me (words crossed out) she said her family had thrown her out and the father of the child had abandoned her when she refused to (word crossed out, ink blot) end it. Her name is Caitlin.

I have never been in love before. I did not know the symptoms, other than the physical ones (tear stain) which I shall not elaborate (crossed out word) here. I Confessed my sins and the priest said to marry her expeditiously. I was more hesitant to enter into the eternal union of marriage if (large blot)

if I was not sure. She was only three months along when I met her. I gave her every attention even when she asked for nothing. When (large crossed out sentence, some reference to kicking) we came to an understanding of our love, I went to buy her a ring.

The day it arrived, I returned home (tear stain). Yes, I do mean home, I considered it my home. There was a man there who identified himself as Mr. Neil MacKenna, her husband. In the time since I left and returned he had already beaten her to the point where she was (crossed out word) bruised beyond recognition. When he pressed her, she told me everything. She had no family. They had (tear stain) died years before. She married Mr. MacKenna but he did not want the child, so she stole his money and ran away. She could not bear to tell me. She left a note saying she loved me too mu – (large blot, lots of crossed out words, water stains)

I cannot say it. To return to the moment, he made to strike her again for some perceived insult and I tried to get between them. He stabbed me in the arm (only a graze, I assure you, now sewn) and left me pinned to the wall, taking his wife (much underlining) with him. He said he would kill me if I followed.

I can have no intentions for her. She is a married woman and I, once a monk, am now just an adulterer. I suppose that I did not know has some relevance, but I have (blot) no time for that now. She said he is going to sell or kill the baby when it is born. He may kill her. The part of me that remains a good Christian cannot let that happen. Perhaps we could pay him to separate from her? I have faith you will think of something.

I will be in Dublin. She left his address behind. I taught her to write. I will be staying at . Please write me at Box or find me there.

No, I will not come home until I have seen her to safety. I am sorry, but in response to your question, I WILL NOT LISTEN TO REASON.

This Poor Sinner

Grégoire

She looked up from the letter, her own eyes not particularly dry. "When are you leaving?"

"As soon as I have what I think will be enough money freed from his account. Tonight should be long enough. If not, then tomorrow morning."

"Should I write Georgiana? He doesn't mention her."

"I don't particularly care to guess his frame of mind when he wrote this," he said, hesitating. "What do you think?"

Even Elizabeth, after many years of marital felicity with her husband, could not believe the words that had just come from his mouth. But this was a woman's realm – he could not divine how his sister would think of this, though no doubt she would be sympathetic. There was no way not to be. Grégoire had been wronged by the woman he loved, and she had been wronged by the man who controlled and owned her, for all legal purposes. She could only begin to imagine his heartbreak. "I think she should be told as soon as possible."

He just nodded. He was trying to focus on the task at hand – getting to Dublin as quickly as possible. He fell into methodical planning when he could not bear the emotional consequences of doing otherwise. Grégoire was right – Darcy was good at getting things done, even things that seemed impossible. "In all likelihood, the husband is sufficiently poor that he can be tempted to send his wife away to raise the child elsewhere for the right amount of money. We would have to hire a protector to make sure it happened – it could not be Grégoire. Even he must know that."

"There is absolutely no way that the marriage could end?"

"My understanding of Catholic law is that we would have to find sufficient evidence that the marriage was falsely done or incestuous. Of course, I suspect it was neither, or Grégoire would have said so. No, they are married until one of them dies." He paused. "I must get to my brother."

"Darcy, you know he wouldn't – "

"I know. But he would put himself in harm's way for her – he's already done so."

"Do you wish me to go?"

He stopped in his pacing. He seemed to be considering it. "Dublin is not far by boat. In all likelihood, it will be a financial exchange and we will leave. If I need you, I will write for you."

They exchanged looks.

"I will take a pistol this time," he said. "I'll take two."

"So why is he going to Ireland?"

"I don't know," Geoffrey sat, plucking up the grass in front of them as they sat on the hill. From there, he could see his father riding away on his horse, westbound. "Something about Uncle Grégoire."

"Of course it's Uncle Grégoire," Georgie said. "Who else do we know in Ireland?" She repositioned her shawl, which protected her dress from the morning dew. "Is that what it means to be master of Pemberley? You have to always be abroad, rescuing relations?"

"Apparently."

Grégoire was staying at one of the best hotels in Dublin, apparently aware that his brother would prefer nothing less. Grégoire was staying under the Darcy name, perhaps for his own safety. Hopefully he had said the name to the jealous husband, but that was unlikely.

To Darcy's surprise, as he entered the hotel suite, Grégoire was neither in intense prayer or openly sobbing. He sat in the armchair, the bottle of fine whiskey untouched beside him. Darcy had never seen him with a real beard, the kind a man grew out and trimmed properly, but apparently he had been growing one during his stay on the Emerald Isle. It made him look older, but what made him truly aged was the look around his eyes, as if he had cried until he had nothing left in him and was now just a shell of a man, clutching his rosary. His clothing was clean but unchanged. He was worn out in other ways. "Brother –,"

"Grégoire," he said as they embraced. "I came as soon as I could."

"Thank you." There was something strangely calm about Grégoire. Perhaps he was just out of other emotions. "My arm is healing. The stitches can come out early next week. He only grazed me."

"Thank G-d."

Grégoire crossed himself. So he had some faith left.

Darcy had only a few bags but they were brought up and dinner was ordered. The stew that arrived was inedible but Grégoire didn't seem to mind. Neither of them spoke, Darcy not sure which topic to breach first and Grégoire lost in his own thoughts.

It was the younger brother who broke the silence. "I bought her a ring." He put it down on the table, like it was hot to the touch. Darcy picked it up.

"It's beautiful," he said, at a loss for anything otherwise. It seemed very fitting for an Irish lass. "What do you want me to say? That it will go well on someone else's finger?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything." He looked down. "I went to Confession. The priest – a priest here – he said I should say prayers and give to the poor in penance for my sins. But I've always done that. And I refuse -," He paused, choking up a bit. It seemed he hadn't exhausted his tears after all. "I know it was a great sin, but that doesn't make what it was at the time any less wonderful. I cannot feel sorry for something I do not feel sorry about."

"You didn't know," Darcy said. "She did not tell you."

But Grégoire did not seem to want to be comforted. Darcy reflected: had he wanted someone around while he fell into the bottle after Elizabeth's rejection of his initial proposal? The only reason he sobered up at all was to keep a good face in front of his sister and not let Pemberley go to ruin while his heart quietly lay broken. No, he had come here for a purpose, to help Grégoire do his real penance – to save this woman he loved from her perceived doom (or at least determine if it was real).

Darcy fell back on his habit of being brutally honest. "I can find no words to comfort you. There are none for a man with a broken heart," he said. "But on this mission, I can help you."

"That," Grégoire said, "is all I need."

Next Chapter ... The Business at Hand