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: A lot of people asked why Mugen left. I hadn't planned on a huge explanation because I thought it was inherently obvious. It is TOTALLY inappropriate for a Georgian lady to be trained in physical combat, especially without her parents' consent. Brian found out Mugen and Nady were training her and pulled the plug on it. Sorry for the confusion.

My policy: Update twice a week or when a chapter reaches 5-10 comments, whichever comes first. Please note that I don't update on Friday nights or Saturday because of religious observance.

Warning: Accents ahead.

Chapter 35 - English Gentlefolk

It was after Grégoire was gone that Caitlin's anxiety began to set in. She considered herself a rather stable, tough person in general, but since the beginning of her pregnancy, things just hadn't been the same. Grégoire, who seemed to know more than anyone she knew, said it was completely normal. She assumed, of course, that it would disappear as she healed from having her child cut out of her. She had made out well, she was safe, and she had more money than she knew what to do with. If Grégoire was good to his word (and he was always good to his word), he would return to her. Everything was fine.

So why wasn't she happy? It wasn't physical pain that spontaneously made her break into tears. She was accustomed to pain. In fact, the fancy laudanum they gave her helped her soar through the first week. It was only when she emerged from the haze that doubts began to creep in. What if Grégoire didn't come back? What if he didn't want her? What if his brother talked him out of it? She knew she was damaged beyond the scars on her stomach. She didn't bleed anymore, or courses or whatever they called them in proper, dandy England. She never felt clean. Somehow she felt less innocent than she had been as an adulterous woman with a child lying to her lover about it.

She did not know what to do or say to the servants. They made her uncomfortable, doing her errands like she was an invalid. When she was suitably recovered, she tried to dismiss some of them (leaving someone for laundry – she hated laundry), but they cried and begged her to keep their jobs. They wanted to serve her – or at least get paid. She was a good mistress. She was kind to them and treated them very respectfully. They did not want to leave. How could she say no? So she kept them on.

Caitlin went to church every Sunday. Circumstances had prevented it for the last eight years, since she met Neil. She was not in the habit, but the service was familiar. It was soothing for two reasons: it reminded her of her early childhood and it reminded her of Grégoire. He never pestered her about it – he asked her once in a while if she wanted to join him, and the response was always negative, and then he would nod with understanding in that adorable way that said I understand everything. It wasn't rebellion – she knew she didn't belong in the house of G-d, listening to the priest talk about sin. She had sinned enough and been sinned against. She would go home from services and sin. She didn't need to hear about it. If there was one thing Caitlin MacKenna had no tolerance for, it was listening to things she didn't feel comfortable with, or thought were silly or stupid. Sometimes Grégoire had beliefs that seemed silly, or even stupid, but he said them with such earnest that it was hard to dismiss them. He believed they all were following divine destinies; he believed that saints interfered on people's behalves.

He didn't belong to her; he belonged to the church. They would take him back and he would disappear back into a monastery. That was her constant nightmare – that he would devote his life to G-d again. What kind of person did that make her, to want to stand in the way of that?

But she couldn't imagine her life without him. It was too lonely and terrifying.

By the end of the third month, she was trying not to fully panic. She also realized quite suddenly that her whole wardrobe was black. What she had been wearing before her husband's death could not be mended or cleaned. That was when she burst into the laundress' workroom and begged, "I need someting ta wear!"

Rose laughed – not at her, but at the silliness over it. This woman had been ill and depressed after trauma, and now she was worrying about her clothing, when Grégoire would probably show up in the same tunic he always wore. Should she wear makeup? "No, marm, the English gentlefolks don't much care fer such things."

So many things to worry about, and the only dress she could find on such short notice was and earthy brown and had to be tailored on the spot, as it had belonged to a much heavier person and Caitlin was a stick. It was her first day out of jet, and she tossed off her black mourner's veil with no emotion about that except impatience. But Grégoire hadn't wasted any time, and her dress was only half-sewn to fit her when she heard the doorbell. "The pins! Hurry, please!"

It was in that shabby, half-patched gown that she raced down the stairs, still not entirely sure if she was not armored by tiny needles, straight into Grégoire's waiting arms. There were no pretenses of greetings. He had his arms open and she leapt into them. It was like receiving a dear husband of many years that had been gone for years. "Yeh came back." She buried her face in his shoulder so he wouldn't see her tears.

"I always keep my promises," he said. "I wasn't ... quite positive how you would still feel about me, but I prayed to the saints."

"What did de saints say?"

"Nothing. So I just trusted my instincts," he said. "That is, if you would still have me."

"Yer messin' wit' me," she said, "and 'tis not noice."

"So you would?"

"Why do yeh 'ave ter ask?"

He looked away shyly. "Because – well, I never thought I would ask this question to anyone, so I find it somewhat hard to – Will you be my wife?"

"Didn't yeh promise yerself ta de church?"

"The church did not accept my application." He held out his hand. In it was a gold ring. "Which was most fortunate for both of us. But you haven't answered me?"

"Are ye daft? Aye, feckin aye!" She snatched the ring and put it on her finger, kissing him. In a slightly more sedated tone, she whispered. "Aye."

Could he have really doubted it? Either way, the relief on his face was obvious. "Now of course, highborn English couples must be chaperoned during their engagement most highly, so as to not be tempted into anticipating their vows?"

"What?"

"So they don't screw around."

She laughed. It was something he would only say to her, a private world they shared. "I tink we covered dat."

"And neither of us are highborn English gentry. Thank goodness for that."

There were plans to be made – so much planning for something so far away. Unfortunately, at least part of Grégoire was in fact highborn English gentry, because his brother insisted on a three-month engagement, and the last three hadn't counted. "And when he gets in a mood it's best to just put up with him."

She wanted to cook him dinner, but she was too distracted, and he confessed to being exhausted and hungry from his travels, so they shoveled in whatever the cook was serving. "I don' want ta have a cook," she said when they were in private. "I want ta cook for yeh."

They slept together, but not in the optional sense. "I'm not – you know." She, who had been so previously uninhibited on their other first night together, was shaking at the idea. Not because it might have consequences, but because it might not.

He tucked his hand into her robe. "Don't!" she cried.

"I showed you my scars," he said, and there was such a gentleness in it that she could not help but relent, pulling apart the robe for him to see the scar in the lamplight, now almost four months old, from where the doctor had cut her open to get the snuffed out life inside of her out. He traced his thumb along the scar so carefully that it tickled instead of hurt. "I'm sorry."

"Grégoire." She swallowed. "I don't t'ink – I don't know if yer want laddies – "

"I want children. Whether they're of my blood or not makes no difference to me." He kissed her cheek. "And I'd rather test the surgeon's theory myself."

"'e said it would take a miracle."

"Good," he said. "I believe in miracles."

The next morning they tackled the immediate matter of what to do with the house. Caitlin was surprised when he said he rather liked it. "I t'ought – "

"I feel no obligation to live in England," he said. "I am close enough here."

She had not even considered that she would stay in this house – that it might be their house. It was not that the concept appalled her – it was just so foreign and unreal. "'s big."

"You've not seen my brother's house," he said with a smile. After they wandered around the empty rooms, they went outside and sat on a bench by the coast. "If it is too big, I can sell it and get something smaller."

"'snot t'at," she said, leaning on him. "I don't – it feels fierce quare, wit' servants and de loike."

"They could find other work," he said, "but the house is bigger than you're used to. Perhaps we could use one or two."

She interlaced her fingers with his. "I do 'ate washin' clothes."

"So a maid. And a man, to do the heavy work," he said.

"Dere's so many rooms."

"I have a brother and a sister," he said. "They'll visit. And I have books." He kissed her on her neck. "I want to build a chapel."

"G-d forbid yeh need to go too far fer church."

He just laughed. "And a garden. I used to have an herb garden in Spain. I liked it very much."

They circled the grounds. The property itself was not very large, but it was isolated, mainly surrounded by a forest with a single road going in each direction, eventually north to Dublin. In the south there was a little town, but large enough for a poorhouse and an orphanage, and the rest of the land was farmed.

"If you are truly uncomfortable with the house –," he said that night.

"No," she replied. "It just took gettin' used ta."

They slept in the same bed again, but did not sleep together. Caitlin was not sure she was fully healed, and Grégoire seemed more inhibited now that they were engaged to be married but not married. The fact that he was less concerned when they had no plans to marry at all was something she mocked him for, but he did not relent. But there would be separation in England – separate bedrooms and all that – and they savored this time while they had the chance.

Caitlin MacKenna, whom he considered to be the strongest woman of his acquaintance, hesitantly brought up her fears of meeting his family. "I don' have anyting really nice."

"We'll get something in Dublin."

"And I don't know how ta act."

"Like yourself. I would not expect anything less from you," he said, and kissed her. "Though you should probably keep the swearing to a minimum."

She giggled. "They're not goin' ta loike me, are they?"

"My family is full of good people. If anyone looks down on you, I will be explicitly disappointed in them."

Geoffrey didn't want Nurse to pack his trunk. He didn't officially keep a manservant yet, but he felt like a baby whenever she did something for him that he was perfectly capable of doing himself.

He snapped the locks shut, and jumped back at the sight of the person behind it, sitting on the windowsill. Her red hair made it all the more jarring a visual for the room with dark wooden panels. "Stop doing that!"

Georgie just smiled. It was more of a scoff than a smile. "So. You're to Eton, then?"

"No, I'm to the Orient. What do you think?" he said, not truly annoyed, but wanting to rise to her challenge. "You weren't with your family when they came to say goodbye. They said you had a headache. Isn't that what women say when they just don't want to go to something?"

"Yes, but I was more subtle than that. I said I had my courses."

"Your what?"

"Female thing." She looked at the ground. "So are you looking forward to school?"

"Yes, I love tests and I hate the country." He wasn't in the mood to play the usual game with her. She was so interested in him now, even though she had snubbed him only a few hours ago. "What do you think?" Honestly, he didn't know what she thought. Sometimes it was like he couldn't talk to her anymore. "They have seminaries you know, if you're so jealous."

"Shuttup. You know that isn't what I meant."

"Then stop gloating that you get to stay in Derbyshire and I have to go to school and have exams and face bullies and teachers who won't like me because I lack a title."

Her expression softened. It rarely did so, so it was noticeable. "I wasn't. I'm sorry."

He sighed. All of the fight was gone from him. "Georgie –" But when she raised her eyes, he stopped in his tracks. He couldn't face that stare. "Listen – we've established that I don't want to go, you don't wish me to go – but I'm going. Because that is what my father did and ... well, I don't know if they had Eton then, but if they did, Grandfather Darcy went. There are expectations."

"Do you always do what you're told?"

"I pick my battles. Which is why I remain in good standings with my parents – "

It was the wrong thing to say – in fact it was the worst possible thing he could have said. He knew it and she knew it, and he hoped that she knew he knew it. This time her eyes were lowered and she couldn't stop him with her gaze, and he came forward and embraced her, letting her lean on his chest. "I'm sorry. It was the wrong thing to say." He sighed. "I'll be a terrible master of Pemberley. My father never says anything wrong."

"That's because your father never says anything," she said, some of her good humor returning, even when her voice was cracking. She pulled back, wiping the tears away. "I have to be back. I'm supposed to be resting in my bed."

"You could try occasionally being honest with your family," he said with an encouraging smile. "It might work."

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks for your sage advice."

They embraced again. "I'll see you at Christmas," he said. "I'll try not to be much taller than you, but this I can't promise."

She kissed him on the cheek. "Good luck."

"Try to keep Derbyshire in one piece for me."

"No promises. We own a monkey," she said, and released her grip on his hand before sneaking back out the door. He didn't know why, but the sensation of her touch on his palm stayed with him a long time.

Nothing was as frustrating to Elizabeth about Grégoire's entire engagement (or the events surrounding it) as the fact that Darcy was reluctant to speak of it except in purely factual terms. It occurred to her that she had become accustomed to his opening his heart and mind to her when he would with no one else, and now his refusal to do it was all the more cutting. Georgiana was the one who supplied all of the details of their trip to Ireland – even the gruesome ones – and Darcy did confirm them later, but did not add his own commentary.

For the three months that Grégoire spent waiting for Mrs. MacKenna to leave her mourning days behind, he exhibited all of the traits of a man besotted and denied his passion, tempered only by his quiet determination and his reclusiveness to a subject so close to his heart (he was, after all, a Darcy). He was overflowing in his emotions, but he would become lost in a smile whenever she was mentioned. Darcy, again, offered no suggestions, but on the other hand, did not discourage his brother from his affections.

It was not until Grégoire was gone that Elizabeth confronted Darcy in her favorite place to do so – in bed, the sheets twisted around them. "If you truly disapproved, you would have said something to him by now."

The look of defeat on his face meant she had planned the discussion's location correctly. "I suppose. But must I remind you that I have never approved of any of Grégoire's choices?"

"This is perhaps true."

"Of all of the life-altering decisions he has made of his own volition, I find marriage to be the least detestable of them. So I am willing to compromise with an Irish peasant."

The wedding would have to be in Ireland to be Catholic. That would not be in open discussion until Grégoire returned, assuming he found Mrs. MacKenna alive and well and accepting of his offer of marriage. That would limit the guest list considerably, but she imagined Grégoire preferred it that way. And he would not, obviously, be taking his wife on the grand tour of Town. "He might have to wear real clothing for that," was Darcy's reply when she playfully suggested the idea.

Though the Bingleys and the extended family were more or less aware that Grégoire had found a potential wife in Ireland, the specifics were not public knowledge, nor was the date of his return, which was only an estimate. They did not see him again or hear from him when he reappeared, barely two weeks after he had left.

Caitlin MacKenna did appear at first to be the typical Irishwoman. Her hair was long, straight, and reddish-blond. That it was not up made Elizabeth initially think her younger as she approached Pemberley, hiding beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat. While they were still out of what she apparently assumed was earshot she said, "Now t'is is a feckin palace."

Grégoire just laughed. Whether Darcy heard it or not, he said nothing as they approached. "Grégoire. Mrs. MacKenna." He bowed. "This is my wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy."

Mrs. MacKenna curtseyed.

"Please come in, Mrs. MacKenna. Grégoire, welcome home." Darcy had told the servants not to make a fuss, but that did not keep more than a few of them from finding a reason to walk by as they entered Pemberley proper. "The Kincaids have been delayed by the weather in Scotland, which washed out the roads. They should be here in a few days."

One by one Mrs. MacKenna was introduced to the Darcy daughters – Anne, Sarah, and Cassandra. "My son Geoffrey has just left for school," Darcy explained.

"How is he? Has he written?" Grégoire asked.

"Unfortunately," Darcy said, to which Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "He is terribly homesick, of course. That's Eton for you. I will not deny that I was any different."

Mrs. MacKenna said very little, obviously intimidated by Pemberley (who wouldn't be?) and her future family. Propriety was preserved, but she did occasionally grab Grégoire's arm, which he never stopped her from doing.

"And this," Darcy said in the portrait gallery, "is our father, my son's namesake."

It was a picture of Geoffrey Darcy when he was rather young and dashing – heavily but not entirely resembling Darcy, mainly because he was wearing a wig and long coat. Beside it was a portrait of an equally exquisite blond woman. "My mother," Darcy said. "Lady Anne."

Mrs. MacKenna did not inquire about Grégoire's mother. She did not have to, and it would have been awkward if she did.

Elizabeth was eager to get to know Mrs. MacKenna, but Grégoire would not leave her side, and so no opportunity was afforded on the first day of their arrival. It took conspiring with Darcy to get him to drag his brother off somewhere. In a day or two the Kincaids would be arriving, and Georgiana would be around.

She finally cornered Caitlin in, of all places, the chapel. Mrs. MacKenna was not praying so much as sitting in the final row and knitting. "Mrs. MacKenna."

Her guest quickly rose and curtseyed. "Mrs. Darcy."

"We have not had much time to talk," she said, "and we are soon to be sisters. May I sit?"

"'s yer chapel, Mrs. Darcy."

Elizabeth took a seat on the hard wooden pew. "What are you knitting?" It did not appear to be embroidery.

"A shirt fer Grégoire," Mrs. MacKenna said, "since 'e likes ta dress all medieval." Despite the skill with which she handled the needle and thread, her hands were shaking and she pricked herself. "Shite!" She shook her hand and put the thumb in her mouth. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Darcy. Christ, I promised Grégoire I wouldn't curse. I'm not – I'm not normally like t'is."

Elizabeth had a feeling that she was, but she was under enormous pressure to present herself as otherwise, though probably not from her betrothed. It was just an unavoidable circumstance. "I apologize for making you nervous, Mrs. MacKenna, if I am doing so."

"Yer not," she said in lie. "Besides, everyt'ing's makin' me nervous. I don' know why."

"I was at my wit's end by the end of my engagement," Elizabeth said. "Everyone was telling me what to do and what to say and of course Darcy's family didn't approve – "

"Why? Yer a perfect lady."

"Maybe in your eyes," Elizabeth said, "in which case, I am honored. And Georgiana did like me, but barely knew me. Darcy's aunt, Lady Catherine, expressed her disapproval before he even made the second offer, on account of our lack of connections to society. He was her sister's son and she wanted him to marry someone of a higher station."

"Wait – de second - ?"

"Yes." Elizabeth blushed. "Our long courtship was full of misunderstandings. The first being that he thought I would be obligated to accept whatever offer he made by my family's circumstances, and the second being that I thought he was a stubborn, arrogant man whom I could never come to love. His first proposal, I rejected." She added, "The circumstances were bad for both of us and we both said things we could not take back, but it led to a greater understanding of our characters. That and I thought I might have an opinion of my own. Apparently his aunt thought this was too high-spirited of me."

Mrs. MacKenna smiled at that. "But it did – I mean, it al' worked oyt."

"Yes. But it had to come a long way before it could do that. Also, Darcys are not known to give up on love."

After a moment, Mrs. MacKenna said, "An' afterward?"

"And after what? Mr. Darcy is an adoring husband and most prodigious father to his children – "

And that was when it broke. There was a tension lurking beneath the surface greater than societal expectations for this woman from Ireland. The shirt abandoned, Mrs. MacKenna broke into sobbing that was so hard she was unable to speak for some time. It was only with Elizabeth's embrace – which Mrs. MacKenna did not have the wherewithal to resist – that she was able to gain some control over herself. "Sorry. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Darcy – "

"Mrs. MacKenna, you do not have to be sorry, but you must tell me what is bothering you."

"I hate that name," she said, trying unsuccessfully to wipe her tears away. "I 'ate him. I 'ate me dead husband. 'sthat so terrible?"

"No, not at all," Elizabeth replied. "Caitlin, tell me what is bothering you, besides that."

"I – he says it's not a problem. I know 'e means it because 'e's just so good, but –" She faced Elizabeth for the first time, her eyes red. "Why would 'e want a banjacked doll? Is he gonna say, down de road, I want laddies? He loved de other one and it wasn' even his. He loved ta feel it kick."

"I was informed that the doctor said it was not a sure thing – "

"I 'aven't been bleedin' since it al' happened," Caitlin MacKenna said at last. Elizabeth held her tongue and her physical response to hearing courses referred to in such a way (for it seemed there was a difference between them that was not so easily bridged). "I just want ta make him happy. I don' want him ta regret anyt'ing."

Elizabeth pondered her response before giving it. "Caitlin, Grégoire has made many tough choices in his life, and no matter what their outcome, he has never regretted any of them."

Caitlin could only nod, but it was clear some understanding had been reach and some nerve had been soothed. "If you are worried about it still," Elizabeth said, "you should know that you have already done your task, because we have never seen him happier than since he met you."

"Even if I made 'is 'air fall oyt?"

They shared a chuckle. "That mystery remains unsolved," Elizabeth said." Grégoire had returned to England with a bald spot that had not been there before, but it did not seem to be spreading. The loss of hair abruptly stopped. "I once heard Grégoire describe the tonsure as the crown of the church. He was very upset when he was told he was no longer allowed to wear it. As much as we all secretly or openly laughed at his monastic hairstyle, we all saw how devastated he was as it grew back. That it has mysteriously reappeared is not something I am wont to question." She added, "Though, I have had to reassure Darcy almost daily that it is unlikely to happen to him. He is terrified."

Their laughter filled the little chapel of Pemberley for some time before they rejoined the men.

Next Chapter ... The Dress