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 32 – The Business at Hand

For two days Darcy staked out the East district. It was near the docks so most of the people were workers, and accustomed enough to a wealthy Englishman walking through, though he said little with his distinct accent. Grégoire's address was confirmed – there was a Mr. MacKenna living in an apartment complex on Talbot Street, a dockworker and handyman currently a step away from the workhouse (a description which matched most of the men in the area). His wife was in residence, but had not been seen or heard from in days.

Grégoire was sensible enough to understand that he ought not to go on the trips. Darcy did convince him to shave, but they would not risk a chance encounter with the man who had previously assaulted him. Pressing charges would be difficult, especially with MacKenna as the cuckolded husband and Grégoire's history as a wayward man of the cloth. Even with the Union Jack flying over their heads on the pole above the hotel entrance, this was not England. Grégoire went to Mass, and spent most of the day in the cathedral, as if he was returning to his normal self. It was a strange comfort to Darcy. This Grégoire was at least familiar to him.

As he sat in the tavern across from the docks, sipping awful beer and pretending to read the paper, he mused on all of this.

"I thought you were the great reconnaissance expert. Might as well write, 'I'm a wealthy, spying bastard' on your forehead," said the man sliding in next to him. "And don't start with the Lord business."

"Kincaid," he said, not frowning but not smiling as William Kincaid joined him. "Is Georgiana here?"

"Came as soon as we heard. She's with her brother. So, have you seen the woman in question?"

"Not yet. I only have her description. She is not leaving the flat, which considering her condition is no surprise."

"Not everyone cares about propriety, Darcy."

"Did I give my sister away to an earl or not?"

William just smiled at him. "So, landlord?"

"Lives on the first floor. Just the wife. Husband is dead, I think."

He nodded. "Did you talk to her?"

"She said they arrived last week and Mrs. MacKenna has not been out since."

"Not even for groceries?"

Darcy shook his head.

"I don't like it."

"Neither do I."

"You go forward with your plan," Kincaid said. "I will be your back."

"That may prove difficult. They did rob my brother, but I doubt they spent the money on a chandelier."

When Darcy returned to the suite, Georgiana did not rush to him as she used to do. She was in an embrace with her own little sibling, who was sobbing. He said nothing, slipping in silently. Whether they noticed his presence or not mattered nothing to him. That Grégoire had been able to unload his feelings on someone was a relief; that it was not himself sparked something he had not felt in a long time: sibling jealousy. But he was the responsible one, wasn't he? The one that others turned to when they needed help? He mulled it over with a glass of Irish whiskey that he shared with Lord Kincaid.

"We should be done with it," Darcy said. Two days had been painful enough, and now that they had the location confirmed, they had no reason not to move, if they were going to at all. Grégoire was willing to pay anything, but Darcy would do the negotiation so that the numbers did not begin in the thousands. MacKenna had probably never seen a hundred-pound bill in his life.

"Has she ever seen you without whiskers?" Darcy asked as Grégoire emerged from prayer, dressed in a white shirt and vest. He looked almost normal, not the penitent monk who had come home from Spain.

"When I first came to the area, yes."

Darcy nodded.

Georgiana gave both her brothers and her husband a good luck kiss good-bye. "You will be fine," she assured Grégoire. Of course, assuming he did not put himself into harm's way, he would not be in danger.

The Darcy brothers set out just as it was getting dark. Kincaid would meet them later; that was part of the plan that Darcy dearly hoped would not be necessary. He also hoped they would not be robbed on the way there, as that would be exceedingly unfortunate (except for the thief, who then would retire to a private isle in the north). They took a coach down Talbot Street; there was no reason to conceal themselves further as foreigners. They were not stopped at the entrance to the flat, or even on the stairs. The walls were very thin on every floor and on the floors of the building next door, which was no less than a foot away, but the noises were all indistinguishable from each other.

The door that belonged to Mr. and Mrs. MacKenna had no sounds coming forth from it, but light came out from under the door. The stairway was only lit with moonlight through the broken window, and they paused in front of the door. Grégoire crossed himself and nodded as Darcy removed his hat and knocked on the door with his walking stick.

"What'yeh want?"

"To speak to Mrs. MacKenna."

The door opened so hard it slammed against the inside wall, and Darcy had a pistol pointed at his face. A very small one, but a pistol nonetheless. Grégoire remained in the staircase, out of view.

Darcy betrayed nothing but utter calm and confidence. "If you shoot me, you'll hang. If you do not, you will be a very rich man."

The man facing him – red-haired and red-eyed, slouching in an intimidating manner in his soiled workman's clothing – was not quite twice his size, but it was apparent who would win in a brawl. Still, Darcy didn't move for his own pistol, plainly tucked into his belt, or anything else. He stayed perfectly still and let the logic sink in.

Neil MacKenna finally lowered his pistol, but did not put it away. "Who're you?"

"Mr. Darcy," he said, "of Pemberley and Derbyshire."

"Never 'eard av either o' dem places."

"Fortunately, I am not here to discuss them. I am here to discuss your wife."

"I'm not runnin' a brothel," MacKenna said, backing up just enough to let Darcy a step or two into the room. There was no evidence of the wife in the immediate room, but he saw there was a side room with light beneath its door as well. MacKenna was not as slow as he looked, at least mentally. "I'll bite. Where'sa bugger whose been feckin me wife?"

"Wary of being stabbed again," Darcy said.

MacKenna put the pistol down on the parlor table, or what was supposed to be a parlor table but was dented and worn and probably a century old. "Fine. On me honor."

"On your honor," Darcy repeated, as he heard Grégoire emerge behind him, not standing nearly as tall or as proudly as his brother. MacKenna watched him, but did not move against him. "Now. Quite obviously, we are here to make you a deal."

"I towl yeh, she is not for sale."

"But you would agree to a separation from your wife, perhaps. She would live somewhere else – in the west, maybe. Wherever she likes. And you would stay here. And I would make it worth your while, and we will all be happy."

"An' 'er fella 'appy too, aye?"

"Sir," Grégoire said, "I swear under G-d in Heaven that I did not know that Mrs. MacKenna was your wife, or anyone's wife. The sacrament of marriage is sacred. I would not willingly violate it again." He swallowed. "I would never see her again. She would live separately from both of us. You could even employ a guard to make sure I do not violate my oath."

"And I would employ a guard to make sure you do not violate yours," Darcy said to Mr. MacKenna.

"Sounds dear," MacKenna said. The fish was considering the bait.

"Quite. And for the sake of Christian charity – what, with you giving up seeing your adored wife and future child – I would not have you in poverty." Darcy carefully reached into his coat, and removed the first packet of bills, laying them carefully on the parlor table beside them. "Five hundred pounds."

MacKenna did the math in his head – or gave the appearance of doing so. "For 'er, maybe, a wee house. But dat wud leave me here, in dis shitehole."

Darcy had no hesitation. "Of course." He removed another packet. "A thousand. For each."

"But yeh're forgettin' the kid. Kids're expensive little buggers until dey're old enough fer da chimneys. And that's a few years. And if I decide to have some of me own? Sacrament of marriage an' all, we're all men 'ere."

Darcy nodded as if everything this man said was reasonable, and removed another, larger packet. "Two thousand for good Christian piety."

"Whattaya know about Christian piety, English? Yer kings get divorced. Yeh gotta lot of makin' up ta do."

He rolled his eyes and looked at Grégoire, who did not even have to nod. "Five thousand pounds." He held up three more packets of a thousand in hundred-pound notes. "More money than you will ever see in your life, not if you worked the best job in the city from dawn 'til dusk, Mr. MacKenna." This time, he did not put it on the table. He held it up for MacKenna to drool at. "I want to see Mrs. MacKenna."

"What?"

"Well, I have to know she's in good health before I put down money for her long life in solitude."

MacKenna looked at both of them, and crossed his arms. "Six thousand."

"Perhaps you do not know the definition of 'see' – "

"Six thousand. Yeah, so, a thousand to see me wife." He nodded in the direction of Grégoire. "I know he'll pay it. Yer lucky I'm not chargin' fer both eyes."

Even this was no small sum – except to Grégoire, who just nodded.

"Six thousand sounds," Darcy said, putting the money on the table and offering his hand.

MacKenna looked at the gloved hand, spit in his own, and shook it. "Done." He immediately picked up the bills and began stuffing them into his shirt.

"Not quite," Darcy reminded him. "Your more immediate part of the bargain."

"Caitlin!"

The woman who emerged was much as Grégoire described her, good and bad. Wearing a filthy blue dress that did not even attempt to disguise her condition, she emerged barefoot from what was likely the bedroom. Her hair, a reddish-blond, was long and straight and completely down in a way that probably made her look younger than she was. Grégoire said that she had told him she was twenty. Her face was swollen on one side, and she crossed her arms as if she was shivering, trying to make it to her husband's side. It was no small feat, with so much tension in the room. She had not looked at Darcy except in passing; Grégoire was her only concern and his with her.

"Mrs. MacKenna," Darcy said, bowing to her. She was, after all, a lady.

"Mrs. MacKenna." Grégoire's voice cracked as he bowed.

MacKenna grabbed her by her very thin and frail arm. "If yer excuse me, I'd loike a moment ter make sure me struggle an' strife understands everythin'..." She whimpered as he pulled her along to the bedroom. Darcy could almost feel Grégoire tensing beside him.

When Caitlin MacKenna was gone from sight, her husband turned back to Darcy and tossed him one of the five hundred packets of notes. "Ta be fair – fer de child."

Darcy barely had time to piece together what he meant by that before he heard the scream. Where was Kincaid?

Grégoire, of course, rushed heedlessly forward to the doorway before Darcy could stop him, only to face MacKenna turning to him with his pistol drawn. "You can buy me woife, but not me child!"

The crash of the window was what startled MacKenna, and his shot at Grégoire went totally astray, hitting the wall instead as William Kincaid leapt into the room in a swathe of tartan. "In feckin hell – "

"Feckin hell is where you're going," Kincaid said, but did not run him through with his claymore. Instead he bashed him on the head, hard enough to knock him out. Grégoire was just fast enough to avoid the gigantic Irishman crashing down in front of him, and he leapt right over the body and into the room.

"Handle him!" Darcy told Kincaid, and entered the bedroom to find Grégoire over Caitlin, who was still screaming.

"Shhh," he told her as he slowly drew the knife that had been stuck into her stomach. "It will be all right – "

"Feck no Grégoire, it will not be fecking all right!" she screamed. Darcy was impressed that she actually pronounced his name correctly.

He turned to Kincaid. "I'll get a surgeon. MacKenna?"

"If he rises, I will make him regret it."

Darcy nodded and bolted out the door.

This had not been the plan.

When he returned with the surgeon and a constable, both the MacKennas were unconscious. Grégoire sat on the bed beside Caitlin MacKenna, pressing down on the wound in a desperate attempt to make it stop spouting blood. He was pushed aside by the surgeon and collapsed on the ground in exhaustion. "She is still breathing – "

"What in the hell is this all about?" said the constable, who was far too calm for Darcy's liking. At least he was English. He turned to Kincaid, who only raised his sword.

"Lord Kincaid of Clan Kincaid, earl of -----shire," he said. "This man stabbed his wife and tried to shoot that man over there, Mr. Bellamont."

It was yet another bad stroke of luck that Mr. MacKenna chose that moment to return to consciousness, and this time Kincaid could not beat him back. He quickly backed down from whatever he was planning when he saw that only he was on the floor and disarmed, but he was also facing Kincaid, Darcy, and a man in uniform.

"What's all this?" the constable asked, rightfully, of the man who owned the apartment.

"These men – they came to take me wife!"

"That's not true!" Darcy said. "He agreed to a monetary transaction and separation from his wife – "

"Because your feckin friend seduced her! My wife!"

"Sir," Kincaid said, "this man has stabbed his wife and shot at my brother-in-laws for no more than a conversation."

"Is this true?" the constable asked MacKenna.

"I – I did try to shoot him," MacKenna said, pointing to Grégoire in the doorframe, "after he stabbed me wife! She's carryin' 'is child!"

"That's a lie!" Grégoire shouted. "You wanted to kill it!"

The constable's whistle brought them all to silence as his men stamped up the steps. By now most of the other houses had heard all the screaming and quieted down, quite obviously listening through the window, especially the family across from the apartment that had allowed Kincaid to jump through their own window to get to MacKenna's. "Men," the constable said, "take these two into custody." He gestured to MacKenna and Grégoire.

"What!" Darcy resisted the urge to shake this little man – this man that he had brought to arrest MacKenna – "That man is a liar! My brother has done nothing! You cannot lock him up for trying to save a woman's life!"

"A woman he made with child? Who wasn't his wife?" the constable said skeptically.

"That's not the story – please, just listen to me, and I will tell you everything, and Lord Kincaid will confirm – "

"'course you will," the constable said, apparently thinking himself a rather brilliant detective, "because he's your brother. Now I just want to talk to both of them and all of this will be sorted out – "

The only thing that kept Darcy from actually taking a swing at this man before him was Grégoire's voice. "Darcy! Don't!" He was not resisting as the officers shackled him. "Let it all come out. Just take care of her now."

"I will not see you in a cell!"

"I lived in a cell," Grégoire said. "The truth will be sorted out. Just save her!" That was his last plea before they pulled him away.

"Come on, Darcy," Kincaid said, putting away his blade and tugging him on the shoulder. "The walls are thin as paper here. Everyone in the neighborhood heard us. We can gather enough witnesses to have Grégoire out by first light."

Only the distraction of Caitlin's scream as she woke was enough to shake him from his horrified stupor, and he did not care for the world it brought him into.

Grégoire's interrogation began immediately. A rather skilled confessor, he recalled everything in neat order, showing his wound from the earlier knife fight in the house near Tullow. Yes, he knew she was with child. No, he did not know she was married and had not touched her since he found out she was. He named all the people who had seen her abused by her husband and knew her story, and all those he had spoken to since he met her – names and locations, one after another.

"You never told her what you were worth?" the constable said, appropriately astounded by the number. With interest from years he did not spend his fortune, Grégoire was worth about 220,000 pounds.

"Money is truly the root of all evil," he said, "if this is all it brings." Mercifully, they had allowed him to keep his rosary, and he ran his fingers through the beads the entire time he spoke. "I tried to buy her health when she was starving. I tried to buy her happiness when she was upset. I tried to buy her freedom when I found her enslaved to a man who said he wanted her child – his child – dead. And now I am in jail and she is, for all I know, dying. What has money brought me but misery?"

Everything that happened in Dublin, he explained. Their plan was as they said to MacKenna – they wanted him to agree to a separation, the only thing that would keep his hands off her and her future child, and they would pay anything for it to happen. In fact, had Mr. MacKenna not been so vengeful, he would have simply walked out the door a very wealthy man.

"And the Scot?"

"My brother-in-law was protection – in case something terrible happened." He tried to cross himself, but his shackles prevented him from doing it properly. "If she dies, you may as well lock me away, because my life is nothing."

When they were satisfied, they dropped him in a cell, different from his monastic cell only that it had bars, and he was chained to one of the walls. There he collapsed. There was a tiny window, and could see only the sunlight of morning, but there was no food for him.

"Forgive me, L-rd, for I have sinned," he said. "Most recently, I missed Vigils because I was being interrogated. But before that, I did terrible things, for which there is no accounting." That was how he began Lauds, the prayer for the sixth hour of the day, which he recited from heart on his knees before collapsing on the wooden board that served as a cot and slept. His body was relentless – he woke again for Terce and yet again for Sext. He thought maybe he would go through the entire monastic cycle before, as he was finishing his psalms, he heard boots against stone and the constable came around the bend, followed closely by Darcy, who lost his color upon seeing his brother. Grégoire absentmindedly realized he was still largely covered in Caitlin's blood.

"Mr. Bellamont," the constable said, "you are free to go, but are requested by the department not to leave Dublin proper until Mr. MacKenna's trial, as you will be called to witness."

"Of course, officer," he said. He couldn't believe how weak his voice sounded as the constable unlocked the heavy padlock, then the locks that held him to the wall. "I swear it."

Darcy helped him up. "She's alive," he whispered. Darcy was cleaner, but did not look much better beyond that. He looked profoundly tired. "She's lost the child."

It sunk in Grégoire's chest harder than any of his shackles. "Was it a boy or girl?"

"Does it matter?"

"Was it a boy or a girl?" He was surprised by the insistence of his own voice.

"Boy," Darcy said grimly. "She will likely live, but she will not have children again." He was now carrying his brother out, for the most part, as Grégoire had lost most of his strength just over those words.

"L-rd, what have I done?"

Without hesitation, Darcy answered, "You have saved her life."

Next Chapter ... The Promise