The Plight of the Darcy Brothers (13 page)

“And now?” Because, considering the surroundings, Darcy had trouble imagining that this monastery swallowed up three thousand pounds a year, unless the monks were hoarding gold-plated relics somewhere.

“I receive my monies, and I donate them to various charities. The Revolution left many widows and also children filling orphanages. If you wish to change the arrangement, you may do so, but that will have no effect on my own living situation.”

Darcy looked out at the empty fields of Mont Claire and said,
after some contemplative silence, “Brother, do you happen to know how to speak Italian?”

Upon sending Grégoire to his abbot to make the appropriate request, Darcy practically broke into a run to the carriage. He pulled open the door to a very expectant Elizabeth, who appeared to have something in her hands. “Well?” she asked.

“It seems the shades of Pemberley were thoroughly polluted long before you came into the picture,” he said.

“You—,” Elizabeth was befuddled by her husband's expression, which was a smile.

“He's not mine,” he said. “He's my brother. Half—my half-brother.”

“So your father—”

“Yes.” He climbed into the carriage with her. “My father was not the man I thought he was.” He wanted to be close to her, now that he could, and now that her anger was dissipating. He wanted the intimacy that he had had to suffer without because of a perceived sin. Only with her securely in his arms did he notice that she was holding the portrait of himself that he did not remember taking from the old d'Arcy estate. At least, they supposed the boy pictured to be him. She flipped it over and held it so he could see the scribbled note on the back.

It read,
Grégoire Bellamont
.

“You knew?”

“I—had suspicions. But still that did not say everything, though the boy in this picture is—well, it was hard to tell.”

“But the portrait does prove—well, it provides considerable proof. And I suppose Grégoire would like to see it.”

“I am to meet him, then?”

“He is to go with us, with your permission. He speaks Italian, French, English, Latin, and some German. He has never seen the world outside of Mont Claire, within what he can remember.”

“They will allow him to leave?”

“He is just a novice. So we will see. Here he comes now.” He took her hand, which she gladly allowed, and she stepped out to greet two monks, an aged one who was obviously the abbot and a young man with an uncanny resemblance to her husband, although younger and with a gigantic, perfectly bald spot on his head. They both bowed deeply to her and Darcy.

“Monsieur Darcy,” said the Abbot through a heavy accent. “Brother Grégoire will accompany you on this journey, with my permission, and see Rome. After that, he will guide you back here, and then you shall part ways again. He has instructions as to the behavior expected of him, and you would do well not to interfere.”

Darcy was not cowed, but he had assessed the situation and recognized the need to appear respectful. “Of course, Father,” he said. “The carriage?” he said, gesturing that Grégoire could enter it.

The Abbot threw a severe look toward Grégoire, who lowered his eyes and replied, “I cannot ride in a carriage.”

“Then how exactly do you intend to travel?”

“I am told I am to walk.”

Fine.
If the Abbot could be severe in his looks, so could Darcy, who spared the old monk nothing in his gaze. “You cannot walk to Rome. Certainly not with our pressing matter there. It is—impractical. Impossible.”

“Can he ride? On a horse?” Darcy asked.

“I… do not know how,” Grégoire said shamefully.

“He shall not ride in the carriage with you and… your wife.”

Darcy did not have to look at her to know that Elizabeth was horrified, and that was enough to incite his considerable ire. He reached forward, took up Grégoire's sizable hood, and put it over his head so that most of his face was blocked. “There. Now his holy robes will protect him. May we go now, Father?”

At last, the Abbot relented. He spoke some words to Grégoire in quiet Latin and handed him a small sack. “Go with God.”

Grégoire finally joined them, as Darcy gave the Abbot one more cold glance. “Papist.”

“Heretic.” The Abbot turned away, not willing to engage him further.

“
Husband
,” Elizabeth chided, pulling him into the carriage.

“You are bound to your master, Brother,” Darcy said. “And I to mine. Fortunately, mine is prettier.”

Formal introductions were made in the carriage. Apparently Grégoire intended to wear his hood and stumble around blindly, so Darcy sighed and reached across to pull it off. “Brother Grégoire, this is my wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy.”

The monk bowed to her, as much as was possible in his seat, exposing his bald top. He was clearly afraid to look at her. While arguing with the Abbot, Darcy had not been oblivious to the fact that poor, young Grégoire had been ogling his wife. Thinking about it now, he could imagine that Elizabeth was probably the only grown woman the boy had seen since puberty, and she was, in Darcy's opinion, the most beautiful woman in the world. So, since he felt the young man's interest was
mainly harmless, Darcy kept his normally possessive instincts in check.

Elizabeth could not curtsey in the carriage, so she nodded her head to Grégoire. “I believe you would want this—”

“Oh no, I should have no possessions—” but he stopped when he saw what she was holding—a portrait that he was, at least, willing to inspect. Darcy recognized it instantly.

“The back, Brother Grégoire,” she explained.

He flipped it over and squinted at the faded lettering. “'Grégoire Bellamont.' This… this is me.” He looked at the child on the other side. “As a boy.”

“You do resemble your,"—she looked to Darcy for some approval—"brother. We thought the portrait was of him when we first saw it. Then I saw the inscription.”

“It was among our father's possessions,” Darcy said to the monk. “You said he held you in some affection. I do not doubt it. It is yours.”

“No,” said Grégoire, passing it back to Elizabeth. “I do not have possessions.”

“None?” said Elizabeth in disbelief.

“What I have with me is borrowed from the monastery collective.” He looked away, as if she was the sun, bunching up his sizable but tattered robes.

Elizabeth gave her husband a look; he just shrugged and put an arm around her. “We are happy to have you along, Brother.”

He did not say which kind of brother he meant.

Having lost time going to Mont Claire, the Darcys did not return to the estate but instead headed south, stopping at an
inn at the foot of the mountain. While the Darcys were offered the best room in the house (which, despite having a quaint charm, was hardly impressive by Darcy's personal standards), his brother took the worst. Darcy happened to look in it, and found only a mat and a candle on the dirt floor. Grégoire, clearly exhausted, stayed up for Vespers, which he recited from heart, and then retired.

“Darcy,” Elizabeth said, watching the sad look on his face as they returned to their cramped chambers. She put her arms around him. She knew she had been hard on him the past few days, perhaps the hardest she had been on him since their wedding day. But the situation had been difficult—almost unbearable— for her, too, not because Darcy might have unknowingly fathered a son before he met her, but because of the physical separation, itself a trial. She wanted, more than ever, for them to be in each other's arms again and not spend another night separated, thin walls of the inn be damned. “He is so hard on himself.”

“He was not raised properly.”

“Not every man is meant to be an English gentleman.”

“Every man with some money—and he has more than
some money
—should have a clean set of clothes, should not be expected to walk the length of his country in sandals, should…” he sighed, leaning into his wife. “I don't know. This is beyond my understanding… why is he such a ready student of that life? Undoubtedly because he has been exposed to nothing else.”

“Or he truly believes it.”

“He is nineteen. He does not know what he believes.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “You don't know that.”

“I know I was a fool at nineteen. And twenty. And eight and twenty, certainly.”

“Perhaps a bit stubborn, at eight and twenty,” she said with a smile. “But you came around.”

“I had someone to inspire me,” he said. “Elizabeth, I've missed you so much.”

“As have I you. It was my fault, not to make the connection and assume it of you and not your father.”

“Because my father was a good man.” He shook his head. “Or, I thought he was.”

“While I would say to my own husband that I find the idea of an extramarital indiscretion—especially with a lady-maid— inexcusable, that is not to say your father was not generous with Grégoire, or tried to be.”

“Grégoire is the richest monk I have ever met. With no entails and no family to support, he would be quite an eligible bachelor if he were not celibate.” He smiled. It felt good to be in his wife's arms and to smile. “I cannot excuse my father. I cannot truly believe it, either.”

“You have quite sound proof.”

“I know.” He leaned on her. “I know. I just… cannot. Yet, perhaps I will grow into the idea that my father was not flawless.”

“All children must, at some point. Not to say you are a child, Darcy.” She kissed his hand. “If you were, I would have to call you Master Fitzwilliam.”

“Oh, God no,” he laughed. “No, never.”

“Except when you are drunk or muddled, and I think I can get away with it.”

“Except for then, yes. But otherwise, no.” He added, “And don't think I didn't hear everything you said to me after I was shot, even if I couldn't process it at the time.
Eliza Bennet.
” A year prior, Darcy had taken a bullet in a fight with Caroline Maddox's
former suitor, and Elizabeth and Bingley had conspired to make some amusement out of his post-operative, opium-induced state, in which he mispronounced people's names, to their obvious delight.

His face, fortunately, was not as severe as his voice. In fact, it was rather playful. Her response was to kiss him, and then all conversation ceased.