The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (48 page)

“I don't care for you, either,” Darcy said, and poured himself a glass of wine as he waited for Bingley to emerge from the study.

Bingley finally did, and Monkey climbed up him and onto his shoulder, which he took no real notice of.“I take it that it went well?”

“As well as could be expected,” Darcy said, closing his book as Bingley sat down next to him. “I'll know for sure tomorrow morning if he's true to his word. Though I didn't ask for it. Still, he can't cash in the ticket.”

“And then you'll write Grégoire? Assuming he's still in Tullow?”

“Yes. Wherever that is,” Darcy said. “I suspect that he is wandering around the area or has holed himself up somewhere nearby. He's not been terribly forthcoming.”

Bingley nodded. “How does he sound?”

“Happy. Or so Elizabeth assesses—she's better at reading between the lines than I am. But he's not going on and on about Irish monastic history anymore.”

“So you don't know what he's doing.”

Darcy was happy to have a friend who said the obvious, so he didn't have to say it. “Correct.”

“I take it he has not set a date for his return.”

“No.”

A servant offered Bingley a biscuit from a tray, which he took. Monkey immediately grabbed the treat. “Monkey! Give that back!” But the monkey just squawked at him. “I suppose I don't want something that's been in your filthy paws anyway.” He took another biscuit for himself and dismissed the servant. “Well, if he continues to write regularly and he sounds well, then that is a great improvement. I would not worry.”

“You would worry if one of your children were in Ireland and behaving in a way that was out of character .”

“Grégoire is not your child. He is your brother, and is a grown man.” Bingley frowned. “He is not sophisticated, but he is nonetheless capable of making his own decisions. Has he wasted away his entire inheritance gambling?”

“No.”

“Has he attempted to rejoin the church, perhaps under a different name?”

“No.”

“Then you have no reason to worry.”

“I am not worried.”

“Darcy,” he said, “I've known you half my life now. I can read your indifferent stares better than your own sister can. The only one who can best me at that is Mrs. Darcy.”

Darcy said nothing, confirming Bingley's initial assertion, but not willing to admit
that
, either. Instead, he changed the topic. “Speaking of children—”

“Oh, please do not tell my sister.”

“I'm sure she will get the truth of it out of you. Which, by the way, is?”

“That we had an incident in which we had a change of governesses.” He scratched Monkey's tiny head. “As in, we no longer have one. Know of any?”

“Was she dismissed or did she storm out in a rage?”

“A little of both, actually.”

Darcy gave one of his half smiles. “How did Miss Bingley manage it?”

“This will impress you: hunger strike.”

“
What?
”

“She had nothing but well water with lemon in it for three days. And locked herself in her room.
And
left the key in, so I couldn't open the door without removing the hinges.”

Darcy continued smirking. “I admire her fortitude.”

“It was a very…admirable…effort. In a way. And it did work. Mrs. Murrey gave up shouting through the door and was gone on the fourth day. Left a note of where to forward her last week's pay.”

“Do you have any idea what brought it on? The particular incident?”

“Georgie does not like piano. Beyond that, no one is eager to ask her.”

James McGowan was good to his silent vow and boarded the boat bound for Dublin. Darcy witnessed his departure and then returned to the house to write a letter to Grégoire relating this event. Darcy whiled away the rest of the day fencing at the club. He was finally getting good enough on his left side to face his old opponents properly, a source of satisfaction to him. Every year, Geoffrey came
closer to besting him. He knew that one day his son would beat him—but he wanted to at least make him work for it.

The next day, he took George out for his birthday. It was not George Wickham's actual birthday, but it would occur within the month, and Darcy was not often in town. George Wickham would be four and ten, and he was obsessed with entering Oxford as soon as he could. Legally and financially, he could do it—Darcy had promised to front him the tuition while they waited for George's trust to open—but George had not the tutoring to be ready for a university-level education. Nor did Darcy think that a young man not even halfway through the tens should go to university. Geoffrey would not begin Cambridge until he finished at Eton, and he would begin Eton in the fall. Darcy suspected that it was more that George wanted to get out of the house than he desired to further his education. He wanted to say,
Don't rush into adulthood. It has responsibilities beyond your imagination
. But he could not express this, and instead he listened to George as he took him on a tour of the bookshops and purchased for him whatever he liked and did not already have.

“How is Mr. Bradley?” Darcy asked, leaving the broadness of the question open to interpretation.

“All right. Mother's with child again, if you hadn't heard.”

He hadn't.

“Well, they're not sure yet, but they're fairly certain. I guess that is why there's been no general announcement.”

“Your mother is certainly resilient,” he said.

“I know—I mean, I've read, I've asked—it's not something she can control, but I wish…” he trailed off. Darcy let George find his words. “I wish she would slow down. For her health.” He didn't specify physical or mental, if there was any specification to be made.

“What does Mr. Bradley think?”

“I haven't asked Mr. Bradley what he thinks!”

“Of course not,” Darcy said as they walked down the street toward Gracechurch. “What do you think he thinks?”

“He seems…content. And he's concerned about Izzy, wants her to become a dignified lady. And he hired me a French tutor, so… he does what he can.”

“I am pleased to hear that,” Darcy said.
Very pleased indeed
. They arrived at the apartment, and were greeted by the sound of young Brandon wailing.

Mr. Bradley emerged when they entered. “Mr. Darcy.”

“Mr. Bradley. I trust all is well.”

“As it ever is,” Mr. Bradley said with a roll of his eyes. “George, did he happen to buy you any new clothes, or was it just all books?”

“Next year, Mr. Bradley,” George said.

“I will buy him a very smart suit,” Darcy said, “but not until I do not fear him outgrowing it.”

“Uncle Darcy!” Isabella Wickham came barreling down the stairs, bypassing her stepfather to curtsy to her uncle. “Did George keep his promise?”

“You should ask him that, Miss Wickham,” he said as George produced the embroidery pattern she'd been begging him for. He had insisted it was part of his own birthday present. Darcy did not discourage George from spoiling his sister, as no one else seemed to be doing so, and he did the same with Georgiana. It was not clear yet whether Isabella would take the path of her mother or follow in more sensible footsteps, but it would definitely be close.

“I don't like to disappoint you, Izzy,” George said, and she hugged him and kissed him, which he didn't seem to care for, big man that he now was. He was wiping it off as Lydia Bradley made her appearance, holding Brandon Bradley's hand.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said, not bothering to curtsy.

“Mrs. Bradley,” he said and bowed.

“I assume you wouldn't be staying for dinner, even if I offered?”

He did not want to fight with her—not ever, but especially not in front of her children. “Unfortunately, I am engaged elsewhere and am returning to Derbyshire tomorrow. Do you wish any messages delivered to your sisters there?”

“Tell them they have a new nephew or niece on the way to spoil, if they feel inclined to stop by,” she said. “Feels like a niece.”

He did not attempt to smile. It was not something he did. He merely bowed politely. “Congratulations, Mrs. Bradley. Mr. Bradley.”

Mr. Bradley was beaming. Lydia Bradley's expression was harder to interpret, and Darcy had no wish to do so. He excused himself and left.

Darcy's missive made it to Tullow in good time. Grégoire, who had opened the post box in Tullow almost three months earlier, put down payment for another month. He had spent the day in town, but not shopping for groceries. Unfortunately, he had found no jewelers to his taste, and had to send out for information elsewhere. That did not dampen his mood as he returned to the house.

The sun was still up and dinner was on the table, but he did not find her waiting for him. He checked the bedroom, but still nothing. Eventually, he found a note on the nightstand. In scratchy handwriting, Caitlin had written,

Curious more than worried, he headed out on the path to the woods and the church ruins with the mosaic of St. Patrick. There he found her, leaning against the old stone wall, a shawl over her shoulders. “Caitlin,” he said, immediately noting her red eyes. “What is it?”

“I—I don't know.” She did not protest when he sat down beside her. There was just enough room for the two of them in that little shelter—them and St. Patrick. “I'm shuk.”

“What scared you?” He knew what really scared her, but he wanted to know what had set her off.

“It kicked.”

This did not shock or alarm him. “It did?” She nodded.

He put his hand over her belly. She was now in her sixth month. “Did it do it once or—”

“It stopped. But I mean, it did it.”

“Caitlin,” he said, “that's wonderful.” He laughed. “It's wonderful.”

“It's still scary.” Her voice was weak. “I don' know if I can do dis.”

“Of course, you can.”

She shook her head. “Not alone.” Part of him was almost offended. “You're not alone; you know that. I won't leave you.” He kissed her forehead. “Caitlin, I love you. I am not leaving you.”

She put her head down so he couldn't see her face. “I shouldn'a got yeh involved. I'm so sorry.” She was crying again. “So sorry.”

“Shh, you don't have to be—” “I shouldn'a let yeh do all t'ese nice things for me, I shouldn'a let yeh get attached—”

“Caitlin—”

“But I love yeh,” she said, raising her head back up. “I love yeh so much. I can't let yeh go.”

He took her hand, the one she was trying to cover her face with, and kissed it. “You don't have to let me go. I am not trying to leave.”

She shook her head. “Don' say it. I know yeh want ta. Please don'. Don' make it worse.”

He nodded, even if he didn't really understand. He certainly had his suspicions. They had been together for months, she was increasingly due, and they were devout Catholics—even if Caitlin did not attend church—so the word
marriage
didn't really have to be uttered before it was being thought of by both parties. Still, they hadn't said anything, not in words.

“You're shivering,” he announced. “It's not good—for the child or for you.” Without allowing her to stop him, he picked her up, a feat he could still manage—barely, and carried her back to the house. He tucked her into bed and brought her some fresh milk. “Drink.” She obeyed him, but otherwise was silent.

By the evening, as he went about making himself supper, she emerged from the bedroom, looking more composed. “Sorry.”