The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (56 page)

“I'm coming to Japan,” she said, trying not to cry in front of him. That would be the worst thing—to cry in front of Mugin. But if it made him feel bad, it would be worth it. “I am going to come find you.”Tears sprang to her eyes.

“I know,” Mugin said. “I'll be waiting.”

CHAPTER 35

IT WAS AFTER GRÉGOIRE WAS GONE that Caitlin became anxious. She considered herself a 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 any of her acquaintances, said it was completely normal. She assumed that the anxiety 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 true to his word (and he was
always
true to his word), he would return to her. Everything was fine for her now.

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 have courses, or whatever they called them in decorous England. She never felt clean. Somehow, she felt less innocent than she had as an adulterous woman with a child on the way, lying to her lover about her husband.

She did not know what to do or what to say to the servants. They made her uncomfortable, doing her errands as though she
were 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
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 past eight years, since she had met Neil.At the time, she was only twelve. She had been out of the habit, but the service was familiar. It was soothing because it reminded her of her early childhood and because it reminded her of Grégoire. He had never pestered her about church—he had asked her once in a while if she wanted to join him, and her response had always been negative, and then he would nod with understanding in that way that said,
I understand everything
. It wasn't rebellion—she knew she didn't belong in the house of God, listening to the priest talk about sin. She had sinned enough and been sinned against. She would have returned home from services and sinned again. 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 earnestness that it was hard to dismiss them. He believed they all were following divine destinies; he believed that saints could intervene on people's behalf.

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 God 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 a prospect.

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's workroom and begged, “I need somet'in' 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, ma'rm, 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 an earthy brown and had to be tailored on the spot, as it had belonged to a much heavier person who formerly lived in the house, 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. “De 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 leaped into them. It was like receiving a dear husband who had been gone for years. “Yeh came back.” She buried her face against 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 of anyone, but 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. But you haven't answered me?”

“Are yeh daft? Aye, feckin' aye!” She snatched the ring and put it on her finger, kissing him. In a slightly more sedate tone, she whispered, “Aye.”

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

“What?”

“So they don't make love.”

She laughed. It was something only he would say to her, a private world they shared. “I t'ink we covered dat.”

“And neither one of us is 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 past three didn't count. “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. He confessed to being exhausted and hungry from his travels, so they shoveled in whatever the cook was serving. “I don' want ta 'ave 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 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 inside her robe. “Don't!” she cried.

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

“Grégoire.” She swallowed. “I don' t'ink—I don't know if yeh 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. “Here, I am close enough to my family.”

She had not even considered that she would stay in the 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.”

“'S not t'at,” she said, leaning against 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 keep one or two servants.”

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.”

“God forbid yeh need to go too far fer church.”

He 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, surrounded mainly by a forest and a single road going in two directions. One way eventually led north to Dublin. In the south, there was a town that was large enough for a poorhouse and an orphanage.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 make love. Caitlin was not sure she was fully healed. And Grégoire seemed to want to wait until after the wedding, which made Caitlin laugh.

Caitlin MacKenna, whom he considered to be the strongest woman of his acquaintance, timidly brought up her fears of meeting his family. “I don' have anyt'ing really nice to wear.”

“We'll get something in Dublin.”

“And I don't know how ta act.”

“Be 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 extremely disappointed in them.”