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.
Next chapter is the last one. In the author's notes will be information on the next story.
Chapter 38 – The Knight
"Today I will do it," Dr. Maddox whispered as they entered Charlton Hall. "Today."
"I can hear you," Dr. Bertrand said with an amused tone. "You should perhaps ask him at night, when he's more inclined to any request."
"I will not ask important decisions of a man while in a state of severe inebriation," Dr. Maddox said. "Especially if he has the ability to go back on that decision when he has a bad headache the next morning."
The Prince of Wales, still Regent as long as his dying father remained in that state, was usually in such a condition when one of them visited him. Since the dual death of his daughter and her child (and his heir), he had not been so inclined to his usual schedule of indulgent parties, but that had not curtailed his drinking or his liberal use of opiates for any perceived pain. The fact that he stayed mainly in his bed in fits of panic did not help his weight, to the point where there was real speculation if he would see the throne before the aged King George III passed away. Neither physician added to the gossip filling Town, but the servants of Charlton did the job well enough.
"There is also the matter of my conscience," Maddox admitted to his protégé, "for abandoning a patient I so utterly failed to treat."
"You cannot force the heir of the throne of Britain to exercise unless you manhandle him, it seems."
"They did that to his father," Maddox said, shaking his head, "and look how he turned out. Madder than when they started."
They silenced their conversation upon entering the Prince's chambers. The Prince Regent was, of course, still in bed despite it being two in the afternoon, and with no intensions to do otherwise. It took a lot of coffee, a lot of prying, and some actual manhandling to get him upright, dressed, and sitting in a chair for the doctor's inspection.
"You are actually quite well, aside from the obvious," Dr. Maddox said after completing his inspection. "I am worried about the bump on your knee, but there is nothing to be done for it at the moment. And, of course, you should wean yourself from your laudanum, cut back on your drinking, control your portions, and get regular exercise."
"That is hardly news," the Regent said. "You give me the same advice every week."
"Because you never take it."
The Regent smiled. He had excessive amounts of grey in his hair for someone his age, due to stress and his poor diet, most likely. There was some compassion there – he had just lost his only daughter and grandson to complications in childbirth. Still, he had not been a healthy man when it happened, and there was always talk of his inheriting his father's illness – talk which Dr. Maddox did not believe to be true. The Regent wasn't mad – just under stress and corpulent. "How is my father?"
"I do not know, Your Highness," Dr. Maddox said. "I do not read the gossip papers and I am not in regular contact with his doctors."
"But he is still alive? I am not king?"
"No, Your Highness. You are not."
The Regent put his hands on his temples. "Thank G-d for that." His old humor seemed to briefly return, if only in glimpses. "I suppose someone would bother to inform me if I was made king."
"Sometime before the coronation ceremony, I'm sure."
The Regent smiled. "The only ones who have not forgotten about me are my doctors, and I sense they have a mission today."
Dr. Maddox bowed to the Regent's senses, which were not totally lost. "Your Royal Highness, I have been offered a position as a guest lecturer at Cambridge in place of their old anatomist."
The Regent nodded slowly. "And I suppose this would be a springboard to a full professorship."
"If I found it to my liking, it would. Assuming I was relieved of my duties here, which of course are my first and only real concern."
"You've been trying to be rid of me for a year now, I think," the Regent said, and not with malice. "And of course I've put up a horrible fight. No, Dr. Maddox, I would not be comfortable if you were not in my service – however limited the aspect was," he said. "Dr. Bertrand would assume most of the responsibilities. You have worked this out among yourselves?"
"Yes, Your Highness," Dr. Bertrand responded. "I have taken up a house in town with my wife and son and have no intentions for any other residencies. My patient list is limited and would be even further so with additional responsibilities to your person."
The Regent nodded, mulling it over. "I assume this guest lecturer position would be limited hours, in case I needed you."
"Cambridge is not terribly far from Town, Your Highness."
"So you would intend to take up residency there?"
Dr. Maddox nodded. "While I would retain my house in Town, I feel that I have reached a point where my family would benefit from a manor in the countryside, not far from Cambridge. We would be closer to our relatives in Derbyshire as well."
Again, the Regent was silent for a time, a very nervous time for Dr. Maddox. "I suppose your protégé can manage the task of giving out advice that I never seem to take. With a new salary for his new position, of course. You will, however, retain your own position to the extent that if I call on you, you will come immediately."
Dr. Maddox tried to hide his joy. "Of course, Your Highness. Thank you, Your Highness."
Their examination done, the doctors were dismissed with a wave of the Regent's hand. They were nearly out the door before they heard his voice bellow in the chamber. "Oh, and I suppose I cannot have one of my own physicians presented to the world as anything less than a knight of the realm. Be here tomorrow, the same time. And you can invite your wife and brother, but no big ceremony. I despise ceremonies." He said in passing, "And there is a royal holding of some land in Chesterton. If it is to your liking, there will be a designation for you."
Dr. Maddox bowed, now legitimately awed. "Thank you, Your Highness."
"Enough! I have no patience for ceremony. Go and be overwhelmed somewhere else, Doctor, and I will see you on the morrow."
Brian Maddox's first question was, "Can I wear my crown?"
"Your crown?"
"I do have one, you know. You've seen it. I am a Prince." He frowned. "Or a count now. I was never clear on that. The point is I never get to wear it."
Dr. Maddox was in too good a mood to refuse anyone anything. "I will still never call you 'Your Highness,' you understand."
"Easily understandable." They embraced, and toasted to his good fortune. "And I assume Caroline is – "
" – still recovering from her faint, yes." In actuality, Caroline Maddox was on her feet and busy scribbling letters to everyone she knew, but her excitement had not waned.
"She's really willing to give up Town?"
"For part of the year, yes. It will be good for the children to not be breathing smog all the time, and Emily is years from being out. Thank G-d." He raised his glass to that. "An estate in the country. I never imagined it."
"There is no one more deserving. Hell, I have one, and we all know I am a contemptible rogue and probably a madman. Congratulations, Danny." He was as pleased with his brother as Maddox was happy for himself. "Perhaps we should invite the earl of Maddox around sometime. You know, I do outrank him."
"In a small area of Transylvania, you might, but in England, he would say otherwise," Dr. Maddox said.
"Hey! Unlike him, I earned my title."
"Earned? You married it!"
"Yes, completely free and without complications," Brian said. "Well, cheers to you. If you don't want me to show up in royal garb, uninvite me now."
Dr. Maddox smiled. "I wouldn't dream of it."
"I hope he'll show," Brian said.
"I hope he'll be at least partially sober," Dr. Maddox said, fidgeting nervously in his dress clothing. It was nothing compared to the awkward metal crown Brian was wearing, more of a helmet than a circlet, and studded with ancient jewels and stones that looked more bashed in than carefully placed, with an Orthodox cross at the top. In his Romanian costume and with his very distinguished wife beside him, Dr. Maddox had to admit that his brother did look sort of ... royal.
"Your brother gets a crown," Caroline Maddox said on the other side of him. "What do I get?"
"To be called 'Lady Maddox' for the rest of your life," he said with a hapless smile. "It was the best I could do."
She gave him a smile that indicated she was more than happy with the situation.
The non-aristocratic Maddox couple bowed at the entrance of the Lord Chamberlain, the Marquess of Hertford. "Prince and Princess Agnita of Sibui."
"Marquess Hertford."
"May I present His Royal Highness George Augustus, The Prince of Wales, Earl of Chester, and Prince Regent to His Majesty George III."
The Regent entered upright and actually walking without a wobble, which surprised Dr. Maddox somewhat. In fact, he looked the best he had been in weeks, perhaps because much of his girth and ill-look was hidden by the royal robes and crown. The Prince Regent, who previously had been seen sobbing in his bed, was quite capable of assuming the character of a man in control of his life and his country when required – he did so regularly during ceremonies he could not avoid, which would only increase when his father died. Despite his usual casual nature, Brian had the good sense to bow to his future sovereign.
"Your Royal Highness," the equerry said, "Dr. Daniel Maddox is known for his dutiful service to the Crown in the field of medicine."
The Prince Regent, who was not known to stand on ceremony despite being required to do so on a regular basis, gestured for Dr. Maddox to kneel before him. Fortunately between the gin and Laudanum, he still had enough coordination to wield the sword. "I knight thee Sir Daniel Maddox, Order of the Garter." He touched each shoulder and passed off the sword to his equerry and took from him the chain, putting it around Maddox's neck. "You may rise, Sir Maddox."
"Thank you, Your Highness."
Fortunately the Regent did not stay to see how choked up his doctor was, and left with the servants carrying the tail of his long coat. In the haste of it all there was no reception. Dr. Maddox hadn't wanted one anyway, remaining an intensely private man.
"I used to read him stories about knights when he was recovering from eye surgeries," Brian whispered to his wife as Sir Maddox was embraced by his own wife, "and now he gets to be one, without all the fighting. Same amount of gore, though."
"Papa, if you're a knight, where's your sword?" Emily Maddox said as he sorted through his medical books for the ones that would go to Cambridge. "And your armor. You have to have armor to fight dragons."
"I don't fight dragons. I'm not that sort of knight."
"Uncle Maddox has a sword."
"Uncle Maddox thinks he lives in Japan," he replied to his daughter, who was now ten, "where he would need a sword, I suppose."
A week had passed, and Sir and Lady Maddox had received the congratulations of their friends and relations in Town in person and their Derbyshire relations by post, on account of the winter weather. Grégoire and Caitlin Bellamont probably had not even received the letter announcing his honors yet. The spring term would start soon, and he was due in Cambridge three days out of the week.
"Mr. Wickham to see you, sir," the servant announced, and George Wickham entered the study.
"Sir Maddox," he bowed. "Miss Maddox."
"You can do that nonsense with my wife, but not with me," he said. "I've always preferred 'doctor' anyway. I worked hard enough to earn it." He turned to his daughter and gestured for her to shoo. "Mr. Wickham. What brings you by? Are you intending to loot my library again?"
"If I did I wouldn't have any room for the spoils, Dr. Maddox," George said with a shy smile. "I've come for your advice about University."
"I told you not to worry about your credentials, Mr. Wickham," Maddox said, pulling another volume off the shelf, dusting off the cover to see the title, and replacing it. "Not everyone who enters University went to Eton or Harrow, or even knows half of what you do if they had private tutors. I didn't go, your Uncle Bingley didn't go, and my brother attended only his first two years. I honestly think they might just be to get ill-mannered boys out of the house for a few years, before they can go on to University and become ill-mannered men." He added, "Excepting your cousins, of course, who are always on their best behavior." But the expression on George's face was not that of a man soothed. Dr. Maddox frowned; the young Wickham was so distant and stubborn – not always to negative ends, but once he had a notion in his head, it was hard to shake it.
Maddox put the book currently in his hands down, and placed one hand on George's shoulder. "So – are you still set on Oxford, then? Not that you don't have time to decide."
"Yes."
"It is a fine school. My father went there." He was never quite able to figure George Wickham out – not that he didn't try. "Not that you are tied to any choices now. You have some ways to go yet, Mr. Wickham. And if life has taught me anything, it is not to assume too much responsibility unless you absolutely have to. Otherwise you might end up a gambler, a drunk, and eventually marry a princess and walk around with a set of swords like you're some kind of medieval knight."
George gave one of his rare half-grins. "Says the knight himself."
"I hope it is merely an honorary title and I will not be called to don a suit of armor," Dr. Maddox said.
Because of the speed with which it was given, Sir and Lady Maddox were not able to celebrate their title with the family for some time, and put it off until the next family gathering, which was not until the early summer. Dr. Maddox was back and forth between Cambridge and Town, and as predicted, was offered a full professorship in medicine for the fall term. Lady Maddox spent much of her time with her sister surveying the properties outside Cambridge before selecting a manor, which would undergo renovations to her tastes.
The families gathered in Derbyshire for various celebrations, one of them being Geoffrey Darcy's completion of his first year at Eton, which he did want celebrated, at least not in the form of all of the adults telling him how much older he looked and what a wonderful young man he was turning into. He was more interested in relaxing with his cousins, fishing in the pond with Charles and Georgiana, with his loyal hound by his side.
"So how is it?" Charles Bingley the third asked rather eagerly, as he would be attending the following year.
"Fine," Geoffrey said. "A lot of work, and some of the boys are snobs, but it's all right."
When Charles was reassured, he left to collect more bait, leaving Geoffrey and Georgiana to themselves. Georgiana Bingley, who had no real interest in fishing, always sat against the tree and played with the flowers, tearing off the petals and tossing them into the water to make them float. "Nice sandals," he said of her wooden geta shoes.
"Thanks," she said.
"They were a gift?"
She nodded.
Geoffrey sighed. He hadn't been able to really talk to her over Christmas break, either. He didn't understand why then as much as he did now, having been gone for almost a year. "I need you to teach me how to fight."
This got her attention, and some of that old self-amusement. "You know how to fight."
"I know how to fence. That is different."
"Since when did you take such an interest in pugilism?"
"This isn't pugilism. I just want to be able to ... get out of a fight."
"The aristocracy of Eton knocking Geoffrey Darcy around? Your father wouldn't stand for it! Think of the family honor!"
He grinned. "I'm not saying I can't throw a punch. I'm not Uncle Bingley."
"Papa fought a master pugilist in China!"
"I heard he lost."
Georgiana smiled. "So you mean to say, in your very proper and roundabout way, is that you want to be good at it, in case some older boy decides to thrash you for fun?"
"...Yes. That is what I am saying, in my very proper and roundabout way."
"Pity I can't be there to protect you."
"I wish you were there," he said, and then uncomfortably changed course. "So will you teach me?"
"I might," she relented. "Violating all the bounds of decorum, of course."
"I've never known that to stop you."
"Then it's agreed. Unless you're to Ireland?" she said. "Why can't Uncle Grégoire come here?"
"It isn't just a visit. Mrs. Bellamont is completing her confinement in August. Or September. They're not sure. But at least this time I know how it works."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really. I don't know what school was like when Father went, but some of these boys have filthy –" He reddened. "I can't talk about this."
"Talk about what?"
"Don't tease me. You know."
"I really don't."
"Well, I can't really –" He couldn't look at her. "You should ask your mother, if you want to know."
"Oh," Georgiana said. "No, she wouldn't say a word. This is the sort of thing a woman is only supposed to learn on her wedding night. Though it's positively mystifying – "
"Well, maybe it should be," he said defensively. "Wait – how do you know?"
"Because Papa has a locked drawer in his study that isn't well locked and has some interesting literature in it," she said. "All kinds of pictures of monsters. I thought it was some kind of fantasy book. Plus, George has all these books –"
He interrupted, "How do you know what dirty books George Wickham has?"
Georgiana straightened. "Because Izzy told me," she said almost defensively. "Not that I asked him about it. Ew."
"Then why are you asking me if you won't ask George?"
"Because I like to torture you. Of course you can keep all of your Eton secrets, which are probably all wrong anyway. G-d, you didn't really think I would ask you seriously about that sort of thing?"
He smiled. "Thank you, no. I mean – I wasn't sure."
"Even though you just asked me to help you punch people."
"That is not precisely what I said, but yes. And it's still different."
"I suppose," she said, and returned to a more restful position as her brother returned.
The Darcys and the Kincaids - minus their children (Geoffrey was a last minute decision) – arrived in Ireland to find the Bellamont house quite different from the way they had last seen it after the wedding. Not only was a stone chapel addition still under construction, but the house had its halls lined with bookcases and pictures – mainly of saints. The furniture was wooden, some of it half-carved. "Grégoire's really in ta this carpentry business," said a very pregnant Caitlin MacKenna, to which her husband just smiled. She went about the house and grounds as she pleased, but did not seem to be eager to do much of it, and their dinners were cooked by a chef and not her, for which she was quite apologetic despite the fact that none of them expected it of her. "I do deh cookin,'" she said, "but 's hard ta stay on me feet."
Their rooms were not grand, but they were clean, and they were decorated. Grégoire and Caitlin had dedicated themselves to making the house their own. It was not the grand sort of renovations like the ones that Lady Maddox planned for her house outside Cambridge. The drapes were not made of the finest materials, the carpets did not necessarily match, and there was less organization to everything, but everywhere, there was a touch of something that was clearly either Grégoire's or Caitlin's handiwork.
Darcy looked at the writing desk in the study, which faced directly out the window to the ocean, and picked up one of the wooden figures on the shelf. It was a man with a beard and a halo surrounding his head.
"I'm not very good," Grégoire said, "but I rather like the process."
Darcy replaced the figurine. "This desk looks familiar."
"It is not the one from the Isle of Man," Grégoire replied, "but it has a similar arrangement. I do like looking out at the ocean when I write."
"I've been reading your columns," he said. "The paper will protect you?"
"If there is anything to protect. I doubt new ramblings about the saints and modern day religion would upset anyone." He smiled distantly. "Then again, I have always been very naive about what is upsetting to people. Especially the church. Yes, they will protect my anonymity." Grégoire had published several sermon-like columns in a Catholic paper in Dublin, under the name 'A Poor Sinner' despite the fact that Darcy would describe him as neither. They were wandering philosophical arguments, generally rather uplifting, and had some popularity for the inspirational crowd, apparently. "I have written nothing controversial and have no intentions to do so. Nonetheless, if the church wishes to say something to me, I must only remind them that I am an excommunicate and that will end the conversation."
"How convenient."
"Very," his brother said. "The local daily in Belfast has also picked up the column."
"You will be careful?"
"I will not make that promise," Grégoire said, "as I always seem to break it. But no, Darcy, I am not making trouble."
"Good," Darcy said with a tone of finality, "because I'm sick of getting you out of it."
They were fortunate to have come so far to laugh about it.
Precisely nine months after her marriage to Grégoire Bellamont, Caitlin's labor pains began. That she had become pregnant at all stumped the local doctors, but not in the bad way, and as there seemed to be nothing the matter, they were all encouragement. Grégoire did not announce it until after Christmas, when they were sure.
What he was less thrilled about was the prospect of staying downstairs with his brother and brother-in-law throughout his wife's travails. Darcy finally agreed to go upstairs and ask his wife how things were proceeding, and only got within twenty feet of the door before he heard such a steady stream of sailor-like curses in the form of one long shriek that his ears were still burning when he returned to the study. "She is fine," he said, pouring himself a drink.
"That feckin gobshite! I should've na'even 'ad kids – s'what the doc said," a distressed Caitlin said to Elizabeth, her brogue getting heavier as she became generally less lucid, to the point where not even Georgiana or the mid-wife's soothing voice could begin to calm her. "I 'ad ta marry a stupid feckin saint and 'is stupid feckin miracles and 'ave a stupid feckin miracle kid! I'd like ta stab 'im in the stomach – "
Elizabeth pressed a cloth to Caitlin's brow. "You would hardly be the first wife to curse her husband in this condition." Despite her distress and her reddened face, Caitlin still looked too young for all of this – one and twenty. The same age Elizabeth had been when she had Geoffrey. Had she really been that young?
"For fecks sake, let dat langer up 'ere and I'll feckin do it meself!"
The mid-wife encouraged otherwise, and by the end of the day, the wailing of another person, who had never wailed before, filled the Bellamont house. A slightly inebriated (maybe more than slightly) Grégoire bounded up the stairs before either of his brothers could follow him and charged into the room. Fortunately there was enough time for the baby to be properly cleaned and bundled before the appearance of his father. Grégoire stumbled at the sight, and was quickly grabbed by Kincaid, who helped him into the chair to receive the baby that he was informed was a son.
"Drink dis, marm," the mid-wife said as the others offered their congratulations and excused themselves from the immediate presence of a very exhausted Caitlin Bellamont, who could only crane her head at the sight of her husband and the child wrapped in a blanket in his arms.
Grégoire's first response was a laugh, as he very carefully released one hand to stroke the few strands of brown hair atop his child's pink head. "If I had known that such a wondrous thing could exist on earth, I would have said my prayers of thanksgiving so much harder through my life. I certainly shall now." He looked to his wife, who smiled weakly back at him, her voice for now silenced.
The very next day, the local priest baptized Patrick Bellamont in the newly-consecrated, still half-constructed chapel. Lord and Lady Kincaid stood as godparents. The service was basically the same as an Anglican one, and little Patrick was as oblivious to it as any newborn. Caitlin, who leaned on her husband, had knitted the white outfit herself the month before.
Despite the expected exhaustion, Mrs. Bellamont recovered her health relatively quickly, and was judged to be out of danger with great relief. The largest of the gifts, which had been packed most carefully and remained hidden in the carriage for days, was a wooden cradle with the Darcy seal on it, a little aged but otherwise in perfect condition. "It might have held my husband, for all we know," Elizabeth said to Grégoire. "Or Mr. Wickham. There are only a few cradles in Pemberley that we could find."
The Darcys were lodged in the next room, and overheard an argument – not a mean one, but with loud enough voices to be heard – between husband and wife over the hiring of a nurse.
"I can raise me own laddie!"
"I'm not saying you cannot – "
"I'm not sick!"
"I was not implying that you were – "
Elizabeth had to glance at her husband and share a laugh at the experience of the younger brother and his wife, because it was only after two nights that Mrs. Bellamont quickly relented and agreed that maybe another pair of female hands was "a good idea."
On the final night of their stay, Darcy woke very early, long before the daylight and cockcrow. Looking at the grandfather clock he had sent from Pemberley as a wedding gift, he saw it was half past four, later than the earliest monastic office of the day, Vigils. Grégoire was up, of course – he found his younger brother sitting in the study, facing the window. In one hand was the pen, scribbling on the paper, and the other balanced his sleeping son in his lap. Darcy approached cautiously.
"He is quite soundly asleep," Grégoire said in a lowered voice. "After all the racket he made a while ago. I hope he did not wake you."
"No," Darcy replied, and raised his candlestick to get a better look at his newest nephew. While the sight of a baby never left him unaffected after four of his own, the fatherly glow on Grégoire's face was even more moving to him. "I suppose he is named after the saint?"
"It was Saint Patrick who brought me to Caitlin," Grégoire said, discarding his pen for the moment to wrap his other arm around his son. "Now things come full circle." He rocked the baby, who shifted in his arms but did not wake. "I am truly a blessed man. I could not have imagined being a husband and father would bring me such joy." He looked up at Darcy. "Everything I could possibly ask for, I have received. What am I to do now?"
"If you are lacking occupation, I would remind you that you will be quite busy until the day he leaves for University," Darcy replied, "though it may happen sooner than you think."
The two brothers sat together in the study, facing the ocean and the morning light that rose on the horizon, and Darcy had his turn holding his nephew Patrick, the newest grandson of Geoffrey Darcy.
Next Chapter ... Epilogue