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. Please note that I don't update on Friday nights or Saturday because of religious observance.
Warning: Accents ahead.
Chapter 37 – The Princess
It was a year and a season since delivering Grégoire from death in Spain that the Maddoxes opened their house to receive him and his bride-to-be.
"I should warn you," Grégoire said to her as they approached the doors of the normal side of the house, "Mr. Maddox dresses as if he is mentally unbalanced. He is not."
"Den why – "
But Caitlin didn't get to finish her question, because the door opened and Brian appeared in his usual garb. "Hello, Grégoire. Mrs. MacKenna, I presume."
She curtseyed. "Mr. Maddox."
"Please come in. You must be freezing," he said. "Excuse my wife – Nady is cooking. She insists on subjecting us all to Transylvanian's finest – "
"Subjecting!" came a heavily accented voice from the other room. Princess Maddox emerged, wearing her Romanian dress and jewelry, looking rather majestic but for the fact that she was wearing sandals and an apron.
Brian smiled apologetically at his wife, "Nadi-chan – "
"Subjecting!"
"Not everything necessarily needs sour cream – "
She rolled her eyes and turned to her guests. "Grégoire. Mrs. MacKenna."
"Your Highness," Grégoire said, bowing, and Caitlin followed in his stead with a curtsey to the princess, a little confused by the couple presented before her – a man in a skirt and bathrobe wearing two swords in his belt and a woman in an embroidered gown and with her hair covered in silk veils and a gold circlet.
"Welcome to our home," she said. "Mrs. MacKenna, would you like to join me in the kitchen while my husband runs away in fear of my wrath?"
"I love you," Brian said, kissing his wife on the cheek before quickly running away to show Grégoire something or another, leaving Caitlin with her royal host.
Caitlin smiled shyly as she followed Princess Nadezhda into the kitchen, where servants were running around. "He says otherwise, but he likes my cooking," Nadezhda explained. "Besides, English food is so plain. In my homeland, at least there is some flavor." She spooned some soup off the top of the pot. "Here. Too much cream?"
Nervously she tried it. "No. 'is quite good, actually."
"Good. It is your party," she said.
"Tank yeh far hostin' it, Yer Highness."
"We are honored," she said, removing her apron and handing it to the cook. "Anything that makes Grégoire happy makes us happy. I do not know what you did to him, but he is not the same man he was when we found him in Spain, or even when he recovered from Spain."
Caitlin looked down at her feet. "Not al' of dose tings were good, Yer Highness."
The princess did not look concerned. "To be together, Brian and I went through a lot and put our family through even more, but now everyone is happy. And now Grégoire will be happy. He has suffered so much." She shook her head. It was a little hard to understand her through her accent, but then again, Caitlin imagined she was sometimes hard to understand. "You know, in Spain, they thought he was a saint."
"I can imagine."
"No, I mean very seriously," the princess said. "They were going to let him die and put his bones in a reliquary. The abbot excommunicated him to save his life. Of course, I'm not Catholic, so I don't understand, but no one does." She shook her head. "The abbot thought it was better to have a living man than a dead saint. He was a good man, I think, this abbot." She was interrupted by the distinct sound of something shattering. "And my husband, who is twice my age, is a child with our things and is always breaking them. That or the Bingleys have arrived. Should we find out?"
Caitlin agreed that they should.
One smashed crystal decanter later (because Brian's carpentry skills were not what he thought they were), order was restored, and just in time to receive the guests from London. Even without their children, the Darcys, the Kincaids, the Bingleys, the Maddoxes (both couples), and of course Grégoire and Caitlin themselves made up a suitable gathering.
Caitlin was introduced to perhaps the oddest couple she had ever met, in terms of sheer mismatch. There was the spectacled Dr. Maddox, tall and thin as an overgrown weed and shy but rather pleasant. Beside him was his wife, Charles Bingley's sister, a head shorter than her husband and with everything about her perfect – her hair, her gown, her matching bonnet, her jewelry. Everything except the smile, the only one that seemed a little false, but as she was only to be distantly related to this woman, Caitlin was not overly concerned and a smile from Grégoire dissolved her unease. The Maddoxes (the hosting ones) had no children, just a large house filled with oddities from their travels abroad, and they seemed quite happy with their situation.
Separated by gender from her betrothed, Caitlin sat out on the wooden porch with the other ladies. She was the only one with her hair down (all attempts to figure out how to pin it up so perfectly had failed) but had a bonnet on at least, so she did not feel so out of place beyond where her accent already put her.
"Have you selected a location for the wedding?"
"Somewhere – nearby. Ta de house," she said. "Any church."
"But Catholic," Mrs. Maddox said. "Of course."
"'course," she replied. "Yeh can come, if yeh want, but I know 'tis a long way. Yeh know."
Mrs. Maddox said, "I'm afraid I haven't been, Mrs. MacKenna."
"What're yeh talkin' about? Don't yeh 'ave family dere?"
Mrs. Maddox colored, and Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley quickly put their hands over their mouths. "No," Mrs. Maddox said coolly. "I'm afraid I do not."
"Yeh sure? Yer t'e most Irish-lookin' fancy lady I've ever – "
Mrs. Maddox excused herself so quietly and quickly that it was hard to make out the actual words, but the intent was clear as she stormed off. It was well that she did, because she was barely back in the house with the sliding door closed behind her when everyone around Caitlin burst into laughter. "What'd I say?"
"Only the obvious," Mrs. Darcy said.
"We're being cruel to my sister-in-law," Mrs. Bingley said between giggles. They were laughing so hard they were almost crying.
"Well, I think it was worth it all the same," Princess Maddox said, and that of course brought on a whole new round of laughter.
Sometime after Mrs. Maddox had been calmed down – how that was done, Caitlin did not inquire – they sat down for dinner and toasted to the couple, to be wedded in the coming weeks, after the arrangements were complete. Only in privacy did Caitlin admit to herself and Lady Kincaid that she might like to be married in one of those pretty white dresses (even if she hardly deserved to wear white) like a princess, even if the only princess she knew didn't seem to act much like she imagined princesses would. Grégoire came to the table with red eyes, as his loving relatives had conspired against him to get him a little drunk, and he consented to every toast, and insisted one to be made to Saint Patrick, who had brought them together, and Saint Sebald, who brought him home to England, and to Saint Buddha, whoever that was, and Saint Bede – and he was lucky to make it to dessert before passing out cold on the settee.
"The soul is always in a state of joy for the love of G-d," Brian Maddox said, "and alcohol allows the body to join the soul in that joy. It can be spiritually uplifting in the right circumstances."
"I know many churchmen who would disagree with you," Darcy said, the least drunk of them all, having hardly had anything. "Where in the world did you hear that? The Orient?"
"Russia. From Rabbi Zalman of Liadi," he said, raising his glass. "We spent a winter in his house. His congregation used to drink and dance every Friday night until the sun came up."
"And spend Saturday sleeping it off," his wife added. "The rest of the week, they drank much less. Only for special occasions."
"I think a monk marrying is a special occasion," Mr. Bingley said. "Or at least a very rare one."
The party dispersed to return to their respective homes in Town. It was during this shuffling about (and carrying, in the case of Grégoire) that Darcy paused in the darkness beside the carriage next to Caitlin. "You have made my brother very happy, Mrs. MacKenna."
She curtseyed. "Thank yer." He rarely spoke to her, and so was very intimidating.
"As you seem to be the only one capable of doing so, I will be happy to see the two of you wed," he said, and darted into his own carriage before she could respond.
"There's no reason to be in a snit – "
"She assumed I was Irish!"
Dr. Maddox, who had had more than a few and was still feeling the effects upon retiring to their chambers, said only, "She is certainly not the first and I doubt the last."
Caroline growled and climbed into bed beside him, but before she could flip away from him, he pulled her close. "If you are so upset, dye your hair. But it will not match your fine skin and I would be very annoyed with you, because I would not have you any other way than you are now."
"Says the man who can hardly see."
"I can see well enough still." He kissed her on her forehead, and could feel some of her anger abate. "If you really wish to be a snooty Englishwoman, you should know you married a Welshman with a proud heritage of clan Madoc. So it is a hopeless case." He chuckled. "Do you really have any other reason to dislike her?"
" ... I suppose not. And Grégoire is obviously smitten," she said. "Will she ever have children?" They knew only minor details of her history with her previous husband.
"The doctors in Ireland said it would take a miracle," he replied. "Fortunately, Grégoire is known for them."
As an unspoken peace offering, Mrs. Maddox escorted Mrs. MacKenna to all of the best shops for wedding dresses, and between that and the pre-wedding gifts of jewelry, the women of Grégoire's extended family conspired to make her a very beautiful bride.
"I hope someone is putting some effort into putting Grégoire in suitable attire for his own wedding," Elizabeth said in passing as Caitlin was being pinned up by the dressmaker. "I don't know where he gets his clothing – "
"I make 'is shirts," she said. "But I don' 'ave time before – I mean fer somet'ing fancy – "
"It is a royal tradition in England," Princess Maddox said, to their surprise. "What? The queen is supposed to make the king's shirts. Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn fought over the right to do so for Henry VIII. Don't you English know your history?"
Jane and Elizabeth exchanged giggles. "I suppose we do not, Your Highness."
"I do not think Caroline of Brunswick will be sewing any shirts for the Prince of Wales," Elizabeth ventured.
"If he makes it to the throne," Caroline Maddox said, and returned their looks with her own indignant stare. "What? I am only repeating the gossip columns. You know my husband tells me nothing, only that he is not yet allowed to retire."
"The curse of being too good of a physician," Princess Maddox said. "Has he tried again?"
"He was asked to lecture next term at Cambridge on anatomy," Caroline said. "If he ever gets his nerves together, he might ask the Prince to release him again, but as he has chickened out twice now, I am not to hold my breath."
"Men are so easily spooked," Elizabeth said. "Mention our daughters and the word 'out' in the same sentence and Darcy will flee from the room."
"My husband is afraid of standing up to your husband," Jane said to her sister.
"Taking responsibility," Princess Maddox said.
"Being out-drunk," Georgiana Kincaid said.
"Losing de rest of 'is hair," Caitlin said, and then covered her mouth in horror. "I shouldn'tna said that!"
"We won't say a word," Elizabeth assured her. "We promise."
The weather was much colder in Ireland when Grégoire and Caitlin returned than when they had left, this time joined by his brother and sister and their spouses. Despite all of her history, which made her anything but a naïve virgin, Caitlin MacKenna still managed to be a blushing bride in the church not far from her new home. Aside from the Darcys and the Kincaids there were no other guests because of the weather and the location, but all they wanted was a small crowd, having already suitably celebrated and eager to be on with the matter. Their only local guests were the O'Muldoons, who had to travel some distance (for them) for the ceremony, bringing along their many children.
"From the moment I saw yeh in town, I knew yeh would do right by her," Mrs. O'Muldoon said to Grégoire, who wore a very nice and proper vest over one of Caitlin's tunics, the best of the lot.
Lacking anyone else, Mr. O'Muldoon gave Caitlin away, and the service was of course in Latin. Darcy's only comment to that when he returned from standing up as the best man was that he found it delightfully shorter than English services, where the vicar might have a tendency to go on and on about the sanctity of marriage. If it had been said in Latin (and they both had no idea if it had), it was brief.
On December 1st 1818, Grégoire and Caitlin Bellamont were joined in holy matrimony, with the approving eyes of his family, their friends, and the church. After a celebratory luncheon, the couple was given their space, and the many presents packed in trunks from England dropped at their doorstep by the Darcys before their departure.
"There are some that couldn't get here in time," Darcy said to his brother. "Too many. I would invest in some bookshelves while you wait," he said, slapping him on the shoulder. "If she makes you happy, she deserves you."
"She is my wife," Grégoire said with a smile. "It is no longer conditional."
Georgiana gave her little brother the tightest hug she could manage. "You'll come in the spring."
"We are not so far away," he reminded her. "And I want to hear about my nephew."
"He is fine!" Darcy shouted from his carriage.
"Both my nephews," he corrected. "And tell George to feel free to write me. Or visit. But perhaps not for a few months."
She nodded in understanding and kissed him and his wife goodbye. The couple watched their guests depart in their carriages for Dublin. "Do you approve of my family, Mrs. Bellamont?"
"Who cares?" she said, and pulled him into the house with a kiss and a very strong tug. "My dress itches. I want outta it."
He grinned. "I would be happy to assist you."
"How many books do yeh need?"
Grégoire just laughed at her comment and his situation, surrounded by trunks and trunks of books. Not only did he have his own collection, and many gifts of a similar sort, but Darcy had also sent him the entire library from the Isle of Man. "These belonged to my Uncle Gregory."
"De mad one?"
"The very same." He closed the book on Greek history, and a dust cloud came forth from the binding before he put it on the shelf. The others would have to wait – the wood had come, but he had yet to finish the bookshelves. He was only a week married and other things consumed his time, but he wanted to build them himself. It was his house and he wanted to make it his.
"Jesus was a carpenter," he said to his wife.
"Really?"
"Really."
"Dey don't mention dat a lot in church."
"I think the other things he did might have been more important."
The construction of the chapel would wait until the spring, when the weather was better. The household staff was reduced to two maids and a doorman/groundskeeper. The unpacking of their wedding gifts the Bellamonts did themselves, which included a significant amount of fine wines for the basement. Grégoire, who was still a Frenchman on some level, appreciated it. There was of course some confusion about what came from whom, to the point where some items were just a mystery.
"Grégoire," Caitlin said, passing him a framed painting. It was Saint Patrick, in the same pose from the ruin, pointing to his left – a common enough picture in Ireland. "It doesn' 'ave a note."
"I like it very much anyway," he said, and hung it in the main hall, so he would pass it every day when he entered.
Their life settled into a happy routine, similar to the one they had had before but far less desperate. By the first snowfall, merely a dusting before Christmas, they were quite settled, even if every last shelf was not put up and every cupboard not filled. Caitlin wanted to attend Midnight Mass, but it was cold and she was not feeling well, so he insisted she stay behind, and walked there and back himself. By the time he returned, it was nearly time for Vigils. Even if he sometimes missed the early morning prayers, being otherwise engaged, he always knew when it was. The moon was bright and he could hear the waves of the sea even from his front steps, so quiet a night as it was. When he entered, the house was quiet, the servants sent home for the holiday and his wife asleep.
Grégoire was restless; he saw Caitlin nestled under the covers but did not yet join her, planting a kiss on her before searching for another room, where he would have a better view of the moon. He had not realized he'd moved the desk in the study to face directly out. It was little more than a writing desk.
When I pass away, he thought, will all of the magic that brought about this time in my life be forgotten? His own life, he could not say, would have meaning to others in the distant future – but how could he be sure? He could not bring himself to write anything too personal – too much love and too much pain, none of it designed for the paper he pulled out before him. Instead he inked his pen and began to write,
This poor sinner,
Comes to think, on this holy night, how I came to be here, and what meaning might be gleaned from all of the things that have occurred – not just the events, but the method in them of bringing me from one place to another. Can I begin to fathom the holy plan, if indeed there is one for me? I used to think so, but now there is only a simple life for me. What is my existence to mean, then? If I am to have no lasting impression, how should I conduct myself in the time that I have, to live it as joyously as it deserves?
He was still writing when the sun rose, but he hardly noticed. The first thing to break his concentration was his wife's hand on his back. "What're yeh doing up so early?"
"I would say the same for you," he replied, looking up at his wife and her pale complexion. "Of course. Would you like me to make you some tea?"
"Just a little," she said. "If yeh don't mind."
He took her hand and kissed it. "I never do."
Next Chapter ... The Knight