The Plight of the Darcy Brothers (19 page)

“Of course,” Grégoire nodded, and returned to his food.

Bingley found Jane sitting in the drawing room, reading a letter. “Darling,” she said, as he joined her on the couch. With
no relatives in evidence, he sat next to her and kissed her on the cheek. “I've received a letter from Lizzy.”

“Is it private?”

“No. They've not had much time to write, so she wrote it for both of them. It is for you as well, and it just arrived.”

“Give me the summary. I will read it in full later.”

“They are traveling to Paris to speak with the headmistress of Mary's seminary and to make sure they are not missing Mr. Mastai by going all the way down to Italy. They have hired a translator—a monk from Mont Claire. They are utterly exhausted, so the whole of it is quite brief, for Lizzy. They should be in Paris by the week's end, but the roads are very muddy and unpredictable. Beyond that, there is nothing else of major import.” She handed it to him, and he tucked it into his waistcoat. “They will probably have to go all the way to Italy, will they not?”

“It is most likely. But Italy is a lovely country, and if they have good weather, they may have a pleasant trip back, after running themselves ragged getting there.”

“Perhaps.” Jane seemed to take comfort in the idea that the trip was good for her sister, so he said it often. “The other mail has arrived, but it has not been sent to your study yet, as I intercepted it when I saw my sister's handwriting. It is there,” she gestured towards a pile on the table.

Bingley got up and sifted through the mail, retrieving a letter with a return from the Maddox townhouse and in his sister's handwriting. “From Caroline. Probably about the ball, though I don't know what she'd wish to tell me.” He broke the seal and sat back down next to his wife, who leaned on his side as he read it. “My goodness.”

“What is it?”

“It seems the good doctor has received an offer from the Prince of Wales to become part of the staff of royal physicians! Apparently he is better known than he esteems himself to be.”

“How wonderful! But has he accepted?”

“He would be a fool not to,” Bingley said, still reading. “He is still debating it, as it would tie him to Town. Caroline derides him for being foolish about it for a while here. Something about patient lists. But she says she will talk to him and he will eventually accept, which means he undoubtedly will.”

“Your sister seems to have a certain—effect on him.”

“What wife does not?” he said, patting her on the knee. “Though it is true that it would tie him to the Crown, and Caroline probably would have to have her confinement in Town. Which, considering Mary's confinement is but a month off hers, would be ill timed. But in the long run, it would be an exceptionally good position for him.” He set the letter aside. “I will write a congratulations to them. But first, what I came to see you about.”

“Pray?”

“Our proposed guest. Your father has requested it.”

“He has? He has nothing but contempt for Wickham.”

Bingley shrugged. “But Wickham is still his son-in-law and Lydia still his daughter, and Mr. Bennet is concerned for her. He so rarely gets to see her, and this is the only time I can think of that we could easily invite him to Chatton without having to make sure Darcy isn't outside of Derbyshire.”

“What you do with your own estate is your business, Charles.”

“Still, I have not been rushing to have him at my table. But you would agree that this may be an acceptable arrangement?”

Jane hesitated before answering. “If my father has requested to see Wickham, then I see no reason not to honor his request.”

“Then we are agreed. I will write up the invitation in due haste.” He rose to do so. “Though, if things do go ill… well, we don't have Darcy to punch him, and I'm rather terrible at it, so we ought to have a servant picked out ahead of time. One of the burlier ones. Maybe the under-gardener. Wallace is rather large. Seems like he could do the job.”

“Charles!” Jane's voice was half-indignant, half-laughing.

“See? Darcy is not the only one in this family who can think up clever plans,” he said with a smile before leaving his wife to her laughter.

With a relative calm reached and the most disturbing matter set aside, the Darcys were on the road again, and though much was unspoken between them, Grégoire became more at ease with them every day and they with him, odd habits as he had. They decided to push hard for Paris and rest there, because finding all the right people in such a massive city would take some time, and Darcy expressed a great desire for “proper lodgings.” Elizabeth admitted to being a bit sick of the inside of their carriage as well. She had exhausted the collection of books that Darcy had purchased once they were over the Channel, and English books were impossible to come by in such remote areas. Grégoire had only a Book of Hours in Latin, but if she found a French book to her liking, he offered to read it to her, translating as he went.

She had yet to take him up on the noble offer when they found themselves stuck again, not twenty miles from the outskirts
of Paris, by intolerable mud. When they were not stopped entirely, the carriage moved so slowly that Grégoire took to walking alongside the road and had no trouble keeping up with them. Their only consolation was that they were heading into a drier season and region, and this was merely a literal bump in the road.

They had, theoretically, an opening of three months to get to Italy, allowing the same to return before Mary delivered, if she did deliver at all. (This Darcy did not mention to Elizabeth and asked Grégoire not to, but he did explain the circumstances. The look he got from the monk regarding Mary's “condition” was blank enough that Darcy wondered if the poor boy knew the facts of life at all.)

They still were beyond any sight of Paris when, after a long silence during which Darcy could easily have fallen asleep if not for all of the bumping up and down, he was wrestled into full consciousness by his wife. “Darcy!” She pointed to the window.

On the grass beside the road, Grégoire was staggering, and right before their eyes, he fainted. The carriage came to an immediate stop before Darcy could attempt to give the order, and he climbed out and ran to his brother, who was lying on his side, his color gone and his breathing unsteady.

“Grégoire?” Darcy said, and then yelled at the coachman. “Get a doctor. Doctor! Uhm,
le docteur
!” He turned to his wife. “Elizabeth, please. If he's sick, let you not catch it.” This seemed to stay her some distance away, and he turned his attentions back to Grégoire, whose eyes were half-opened. “Can you speak? What is wrong?”

But the monk was in too much pain to speak. That much, Darcy was able to discern when he saw the blood on the monk's back, soaking through those his grey robes.

PARIS WAS PUT ASIDE as the coachman helped Darcy carry his brother into the coach, but not before Darcy removed his waistcoat and put it over him. Grégoire was only half-conscious and shivering, and all they could do before hurrying to an inn was to make him drink. He regained some color, but not much.

Darcy carried his brother into the shabby inn and placed him on a proper bed, removing his cowl and calling for a doctor using a dictionary he had purchased along the way. He did his best to keep the sight of blood from Elizabeth. He did not want this for her, for so many reasons, and sent her instead to gather proper food and drink for them all. At last a doctor arrived, or someone who seemed like a doctor and had a nearly unpronounceable name that Darcy didn't bother to catch. The doctor went inside and shut the door, leaving Darcy to pace outside. The wait was very short, and the doctor reemerged, Darcy demanded an assessment.

“Well,” said the doctor in his broken English. “He is a monk.”

“He is.”

“Then you cannot expect a flagellant of his physical strength to walk the half of France. It is asking too much.”

“I did not ask him to walk,” Darcy replied too quickly, before he had swallowed the accented words. “You said—he did this to himself?”

“
Oui
, Monsieur.”

“What—what purpose could this possibly serve? What great sin has he committed?”

The doctor shrugged. “My—limited understanding is that it is to remind oneself of the wounds of Christ our Lord, who was, of course—”

“Yes, I know!” he interrupted. “But…” He realized there was no use arguing with the doctor over this. “You have some ointment for his wounds?”

“
Oui
, but he will not take it. Let him rest, Monsieur.”

He's as stubborn as
… he was tempted to think,
a Darcy
. “I will take the ointment. Thank you for your services, Doctor.”

The doctor nodded and handed over the jar with a contemptuous look at this rich Englishman who did not seem to understand the most basic concepts. Darcy ignored the look entirely and went straight into Grégoire's room without knocking.

The monk was on the shabby cot, back in his soiled robes but without the hood, sitting up in prayer. Perhaps lying down was too painful. Grégoire looked up and seemed horrified by Darcy's intrusion, a look of shame upon his face, perhaps because he had been discovered.

“The doctor says you should be resting.”

“I am resting.”

“Perhaps my understanding of your local culture is lax, but usually resting refers to lying down and sleeping.” But Darcy
could not remain full of indignation for long as he looked at the pale, shuddering frame of the poor man he'd driven into exhaustion, however unknowingly. “Look at you. What have you done that deserves such great penance?”

On this, Grégoire was silent.

Darcy took a seat on the cot next to him. “I will not ask you to explain your illness. I know you would not expect me, as an Englishman or a heretic, to understand.”

“I never said you were a heretic.”

“But I do go to church on Sundays and listen to a sermon in English and perhaps a reading from the Bible in the vernacular. Surely that in of itself dooms me to hell?”

“I am not one to presuppose who is destined for hell, Darcy.”

“But surely you consider yourself among the damned, else you would not engage in such penance.”

“I certainly hope not. But I am weak, and the Discipline is a means of fortification.”

“As we witnessed today, I would say that the two are in fact interconnected, but not in the same way.” Darcy leaned over, so he was properly looking Grégoire in the eyes. “Let me be understood, Brother. If you intend drive yourself in such a manner on this journey, then I will take you no further. I will send you back to your monastery, where you can injure yourself in peace and not have the stress of the roads to put your very life in danger.” He added, “I would be sorry to do it, as I doubt we would see each other again. But nonetheless, do I make myself perfectly, utterly clear?”

“I cannot disobey my abbot.”

“And I cannot disobey my conscience. So we are at a standstill.”

“So we are.”

There was silence once more.

“If you would,” Darcy said, “remove your robe.”

“What?”

“If you will not take medicine from the doctor, then you must at least take it from your brother, who himself is quite ill at the idea of seeing you in such a condition. There, have
that
on your conscience. Now, pull up your robe.”