The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (36 page)

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Authors: Marsha Altman

BOOK: The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy
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On their third day, Darcy did not find his brother in the bedroom, or any of the others. When he asked a worker, he was told his brother was outside.
Grégoire Bellamont was not immediately found. The bench was empty. Darcy walked along the shore. He had played here as a child. The ocean seemed endless on a misty day. In the distance, he could see ruins.Yes, that was right. There had been a monastery on the island, before the Dissolution of the Monasteries by King Henry VIII. Moss grew over the remaining stone frame. Only a few arches still stood. Grégoire sat on a fallen column.
“He starts his story from the beginning,” Grégoire said, not looking up from the text. “I would warn you before reading this.”
Darcy was startled but said, “I am not afraid. Let me see it.”
17 May 1780
Perhaps I should have begun at the beginning. Hello, Journal. My name is Gregory Darcy. I am the son of Henry Darcy and the grandson of Philip d'Arcy, who came from France to marry the sister of the second Duke of Devonshire, and as part of the dowry, was granted plentiful lands in Derbyshire. I remember little of my grandfather. He was the nephew of the one before him, on the side of the family that remained in France. But are we not all Frenchmen? If civilization began in the Fertile Crescent, then perhaps we all come from there, and the last stop before England could only have been France.
But I am probably going on about the less important things. I was raised at Pemberley, with my younger brother, Geoffrey, as my playmate, and we did manage to get ourselves into a good deal of trouble, for there was no person better at boyish pranks than young Geoffrey was. In this regard, I stood in his shadow. I preferred the shadows. I am told I was lively enough as a boy, but rather shy.
As I stood on the threshold of manhood, being two and ten, I began to have thoughts that disturbed my tutor when I expressed them, so I promptly stopped, as any child does when they sense they are doing something wrong. I do not remember what I first said, but I definitely asked him if he was intending to kill me at some point. I do not know if I really thought that. Often things fly in and out of my head. The tutor was changed, and I said nothing to the next one. I became almost silent and, of course, this itself was odd. I was afraid to say anything, not able to tell what was a good thing to say and what was bad. My answers were often restricted to positive and negative replies in single words or a nod of the head.
My father brought in a man to inspect my ears, and I played along. Of course, he found no irregularity, but he prescribed some concoction that made me monstrously ill. After two days of losing my stomach, in my delirium, I told my nurse everything. It was not so much a confession as it was a series of things I no longer
could hold myself back from saying. I have no recollection of it whatsoever, but she reported it all to my father, who questioned me thoroughly when I recovered my senses and asked me why I had said those things. I could have said I was delirious (it was true), but I have never been good at lying to anyone and I confessed that some of the things he told me I said were true, in that I believed them, or at least thought them. I thought people talked about me behind my back and conspired against me, not just to undermine me but to do me physical harm. I was afraid.
He brought in a doctor, whom I immediately disliked, and my fears this time were not unfounded. He prescribed a diet for me of milk and bread and nothing else. I remember my first bleeding. I was now four and ten and of some stature, so my natural reaction was to strike him to get him away from me, which only tore my skin and he broke his arm in the fall. I was tied to the bed and remained there for three days on nothing but bread and milk, a prisoner in my own house. My father visited me, looking concerned. Then the doctor bled me in a vast quantity, this time with my limbs already tied. In my weakened state, I started talking nonsense, or so I am told. But then the doctor was called away and I recovered without his presence. I said felt better than I did, and for a time, was believed.
I cannot bring myself to write about the first ball I attended. Please do not ask that of me. Suffice it to say, the doctor came back, and again I was deemed ill, and again I suffered, and again I recovered.
Geoffrey was my lone supporter. Not that my father had no care for me, but only my brother believed me when I said that the doctor was an evil man who made me worse. My little brother was blessed with all of the social graces I was not. He emerged in society to attend his first ball at just five and ten, and charmed all of the ladies, and then at great length described to me exactly what charming a lady could result in later in the evening, when he had her alone. He did not understand his own debauchery, the innocent
rake. I myself could not dream of such a personal connection. I would not let my servants see me naked, much less a woman, must less touch her.…How could I have an heir?
At this point in my history, I suggested to my father that I was not fit to be master of Pemberley. He seemed to age right before my eyes in that one meeting, his despair flooding the room. He begged me to go through one more set of treatments. I don't wish to dwell on them, as even the memories are painful. There are scars on my arms where they cut me. By the end of the month, I was thin as a rake (not the kind my brother was) and sometimes my eyes failed to focus. Finally, Father relented, and the whole scheme was cooked up and presented to Geoffrey.
Though in these pages I record my brother's dalliances and adultery, he was truly a brother to me in every way, readily assuming the yoke of Pemberley and our half of Derbyshire, so that I could rest. He did not want the position, but he did not say as much to our father (at least in front of me). He easily could have refused, but this boy of six and ten set his whole life on a sterile course from which there could be no variation. He did this so that I might know peace. There are no words to say how grateful I was and still am. Father eventually agreed, and so quietly we signed all the papers disinheriting me, should I ever choose to show my face in England again and try to reclaim my lost throne. And then I went riding. We covered the horse with pig's blood, and I rode away from the only home I had ever known in a wagon. It was the dead of night and the last time I saw my father alive. I could not write my brother directly—only through a solicitor in London, who did not know my real identity. I was in anguish until Geoffrey wrote me, assuring me that everything had gone well, and that he would always care for me, and he would visit me when he could. I was not, it seemed, to be completely forgotten. He refused to do so. I saw him once before our father's death, and then immediately afterward. I wished him only the best and I still mean it.
Darcy handed back the papers. “That is enough for today.” Without explanation, he walked off. Grégoire did not follow. No explanation was needed.
That night, Darcy could not find sleep. He did not have his sleeping draught with him. He wandered the long hallway of sitting room after sitting room. Most of the books had been packed and taken away, or were lying in open trunks. At the end, only moonlight illuminated the bedroom. Neither of them wanted to sleep in it.
Grégoire was asleep, but if he was still adhering to his wild schedule; he would be up for prayer in a few hours, even in the dead of night. For the time being, Darcy was alone. He carried his candlestick in and used the flame to light the old candle at the desk, not quite melted all the way down. He set his own stick down by the dresser and opened the drawer. He had not been thoroughly through it, and the objects were foreign to him, especially in the dim light. There were many small miniatures, carved out of wood—clearly his uncle had whittled as a hobby. There were numerous birds, horses, and a few human figures, not distinct enough to recognize. Perhaps they were not meant to be a specific person.
He would have all of the items put in his own luggage and taken back to Pemberley. He had already decided it; there was no need to dwell on it now. He turned to the desk and opened it. Only one folio remained, still covered in dust. He wiped it away and saw the date. Darcy must have been four and ten, maybe five and ten—this was the last journal, unless Grégoire had removed another one. He sat down and brought the light up closer as he began to read it. It was mainly theological or philosophical arguments Gregory seemed to be having with himself (Gregory himself commented that he was not sure whether he was mad or just bored).
Why am I doing this to myself?
He could see that only a few pages were left. There was no need to guess at why that was.
Perhaps I am
as torturous to myself as Grégoire is to his body
. He sighed and turned the sheets over with great care until he found the last two entries.
16 July 1790
Lady Anne Darcy, formerly Lady Anne Fitzwilliam, is dead. If that were the least of the news, I would be satisfied. She left behind a daughter, Georgiana. She died cursing her husband—she had discovered his infidelities (there were now two bastards as living records of it), one with her own maid. Geoffrey visited me, not in anguish over it, for this actually happened two years ago. Between then and now, there was no contact between us, except for him to send me books.
I saw him yesterday and he looked older than me. Still distraught over his wife's death, he cursed himself as easily as she had cursed him, but that was not even his main concern. His daughter, whom I have never met, is apparently well, but Fitzwilliam is not. Or so Geoffrey says. There are hints of the same affliction that seems to curse our bloodline. He said he had not taken Fitzwilliam to a doctor, as his memories were as tainted as mine. Geoffrey could not imagine inflicting that horror on his own son. Instead, he wished me just to talk with Fitzwilliam, who was having trouble in school, not because of an academic failing but because he did not move easily among people he did not know, and had trouble getting to know them.
I did not relate to my nephew the extent of my sufferings, or the nature of my illness, though he did know why I lived here and that I was mad. In fact, he seemed surprised that we had a somewhat normal conversation, where I did most of the listening and he told me about school and his sister and his friend George, the steward's son (I held my tongue! I bit it until it bled, almost). Slowly, I prised from him some of his innermost thoughts, and was not shocked to find they mirrored some of my own. I told him to dismiss them. He had no younger brother; he had no options. He did not believe himself to be sick. Perhaps without a doctor's pronouncement, he never would be. He would just be a shy boy
who would turn into a shy man without many social graces but with a strong sense of responsibility, as he already seemed to have. Hopefully, he would marry well, produce an heir, and run Pemberley quietly and happily.
Or is that how it was supposed to happen for me?
I cannot wait any longer to find out. It is decided.
23 July 1790
How little I have to say to the world as I pack for my exit. Should I curse people? Bless people? Should I leave my servants and nurses a tip? Especially considering that they will be the ones who must deal with my corpse.
I have had enough. There is nothing more left for me, except to take up space in this room that I cannot bear to leave. In fact, I have more business with God, though I will be doomed to hell for this. Or perhaps we are wrong, and I will not. Either way, I have some questions for him, and some requests of him—that Geoffrey should find some peace within himself for his crimes, that all three of his sons and his daughter should live well, that Fitzwilliam should have a normal life, and that Lady Anne is in heaven after all of her sufferings as a wronged wife.
There is one last flash of insight. Most men do not get to finish their own stories according to the schedule that they choose. I do.
FINIS
“Darcy?”
It was like coming out of a dream. Perhaps he had fallen asleep. But no, there they were, the final letters large on the page. “Grégoire.” He looked at his watch. “Oh yes, of course. Which one is this?”
“Vigils.”
Darcy slumped back into the chair. “I won't keep you.”
Grégoire looked down at the open folio, and then at Darcy. “I have some time. Is it so terrible?”
“It depends. He was a suicide. He is doomed to hell, is he not?”
Grégoire swallowed but did not answer. He read the pages in silence and put the folio down. “Have you been to his grave?”
“I confess not.”
“I found it today. Do you want to see it?”
At half-past three in the morning? Why not?
“Yes.”
The grave was near the abbey walls, so close that it might have been on consecrated ground. The stone had only his name and birth and death dates. The day of death was a day later than the journal entry—they must have discovered him the next morning. The hour he had died was a mystery that would never be solved.

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