Patrick, who was almost three and actually far more interested in the toy still in his hands, did manage to say, “Mitter Cowwins!”
“Very good.” Grégoire kissed his son’s cheek and set him back down on the floor. Almost on cue, his wife appeared in the doorway, still wearing an apron. “Caitlin, this is Mr. Collins, a cousin of Mrs. Darcy and a distinguished rector in Kent. Mr. Collins, my wife, Mrs. Bellamont.”
Mr. Collins bowed to the woman before him, who eyed him skeptically before curtseying. “I hope yeh like stew.”
“I do, madam.”
The seating at the table was not conventional and Grégoire knew that, but he never let it bother him. He sat at the head, with his wife on his left and his son on his right, even though Patrick needed to sit on a book to reach the table, or eat standing, and usually made a mess of things. Mr. Collins was placed beside Caitlin, as it was generally the less messy side of the table.
They stood for grace. Grégoire bowed his head and said slowly, so his son could try (and fail) to mimic the words, “Benedic, Domine, nos et haec Tua dona quae de Tua largitate sumus sumpturi per Christum Dominum Nostrum. Bless us, Oh Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive through Thy bounty, through Christ Our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen.”
They sat down to dinner, which consisted of stew and some black bread. They had a much wider variety of spices than the locals had and Caitlin was getting very good at using them. Mr. Collins went on about the stew, and how flavorful it was, and though Grégoire could not contradict him, he did cast a glance at Caitlin, who raised her eyebrow at him. He wanted to answer ‘I know’ but didn’t feel it was appropriate. Whatever was really on Mr. Collins’ mind – what had dragged him out to the middle of nowhere, Ireland, in December – would clearly not come out in casual conversation.
After dinner, Grégoire offered Mr. Collins a glass of whiskey and said, “I will be with you in a bit. However, it is time for Compline. If you wish, we have numerous books I think will be to your liking.”
Mr. Collins retired to the sitting room as Caitlin went to put Patrick to bed. Grégoire tried to put his mind off his guest and retreated to the chapel. He knew the prayers by heart, but he had a book on the stand anyway.
When he returned to the main section of the house, Mr. Collins was still in the sitting room and rose to greet him. “Mr. Bellamont.”
“Mr. Collins. Perhaps now you will tell me why you’ve come so long and so far.”
Mr. Collins nodded, but did not smile. “I’ve been reading your column.”
“Oh? I did not know it was being read in Kent.”
“It so happened that I heard a most intriguing sermon by the from a fellow vicar and I asked him about it, and he immediately told me that he had pilfered it from some Papist work.” He coughed. “Excuse the phrase.”
Grégoire just smiled and refilled Mr. Collins’ glass. “Of course. But the column is anonymous.”
“Yes, but Lady Anne Fitzwilliam of ____shire is my patroness, as you may recall, since the entail on Rosings was broken. When I mentioned it to her, she said she had heard something from Mr. Darcy about how you were writing columns for Irish papers and had even been picked up by a weekly in London.”
“I have.”
“From there, it did not take much investigation. I have been following it ever since. I admit that I do not always understand – but anyway, that is not precisely why I am here.” He paused, holding the drink in his hands as he was seated again. “May I be plain with you?”
“I am a very plain man,” Grégoire said, and stoked the fire one more time before returning to his armchair.
“I have come for your blessing.”
Grégoire had a hard time not breaking into laughter. “I am quite confused – have you changed your affiliation, which I last remember as being with the Church of England?”
“No, sir, I have not.”
“And have you forgotten that I am no longer a man of the cloth, much less a priest, and have no powers of benediction, even if my sort of blessing were not, as you would say, Papist and heretical?”
“No, I have not.” Mr. Collins played with the glass. “I usually pride myself on being a most logical and reasonable man, despite my pursuit of a career of Faith. However, I admit that there are things that I am at a loss to explain—and so is everyone else. For example, you cured Lady Catherine when she had her heart failure.”
Grégoire frowned. “I did not cure her. I may have soothed her pain in some fashion, but she did eventually, when it was her time, die of a failed heart.”
“Nonetheless, it was a miracle.”
Grégoire’s frown deepened. “Please do not begin down this path, Mr. Collins, as I can now see it clearly. I am not a miracle worker, no matter what everyone thinks. There is a logical explanation for every circumstance surrounding me that has been deemed a miracle,” he insisted, though he was perhaps stretching the truth. He did consider his son’s birth to be a miracle, as Caitlin had not expected to bear children, but that was not his doing – it was God’s, and he had no way of convincing people of that. “It has caused me nothing but trouble and several times almost taken my life!” He took a gulp of his whiskey. Realizing his voice was close to anger, not at Mr. Collins but at his own history and how much pain it brought him just at the memory, he forced himself to lower his voice and its intensity. “Please, sir – tell me what it is you desire and I will tell you, plainly, that I am not capable of it and we can be done with this nonsense. I may be a Papist who believes that His Holiness the Pope holds the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven, but I do not believe in or wish to encourage superstitions.”
Grégoire Bellamont rarely raised his voice; he in fact could not recall a time he was so inclined to yell that did not involve just a desire to be heard over his infant son’s screaming. It seemed to have a powerful affect on the rector, who trembled but did spit out an answer, “You must understand my situation. I am a father with four daughters.” When Grégoire did not respond, Mr. Collin’s continued, “I am due to soon inherit the Longbourn estate, as is my right. For years I have scrupulously saved money – and I am very well paid, I admit, for the little that I do – to provide for my family and provide inheritances for my daughters, but when I come to inherit Longbourn, it will be a financial burden I will not be able to bear. It is a massive house in comparison to my home in Hunsford. If there is to be any security for my daughters, I need a son.”
Grégoire raised his eyebrows. “Has Mr. Bennet died?”
“No, sir, he has not.”
“Then I do not fully understand. I do know of the Longbourn entail, but to my understanding, it is not your concern until his expiration, and last I saw him, he was rather fit for his age.” He took another sip. “Nonetheless, it is important to plan ahead, I suppose. Should I leave my mortal coil tomorrow, Heaven forbid, there are arrangements for a steward to manage the accounts until my son comes of age so that my wife can live comfortably here as long as she wishes.” He paused. “Tell me – what does your wife have to say of this?”
“She – She shares my concerns, of course. I suppose.”
Did she even know he was here? Grégoire didn’t want to ask. “Does she desire a son?”
“For hereditary purposes, it is essential.”
He decided to phrase the question differently. “Is she happy with the daughters she has?”
Mr. Collins now smiled. “Yes. Very much so.”
“And you are as well, I presume? They are well-behaved, obedient children?”
“Yes. Yes, they are. And they take after their mother, who is very beautiful.”
“And have you seen to their education?”
“Yes, of course. In particular, my third daughter is a great scholar of Greek and Latin, but they all have rudimentary knowledge of literature and religion – beyond, of course, all of the standard sewing and pianoforte and all that – ”
“Of course. And they are happy in their enviro
ns?”
Mr. Collins had to consider the question. “Yes, I suppose they are. They are often in town in Kent, of course – the older ones, shopping and the like, or walking around Rosings, which is very beautiful – as you know. And my eldest daughter has a little rose garden beside my vegetables.”
“So no one has expressed any discontent, any desire to move to Hertfordshire?”
He paused again. “No.”
“And you said that you have saved money so fastidiously that you could provide for them decent inheritances, so that they might find good marriages?”
“Yes.”
“Then it seems to me that there is many a man who would be quite envious of your position, Mr. Collins. You have a loving wife, a home you are quite fond of, a profession that suits you, and four daughters who face no great distress and seem to be, from your accounts, happy and growing into respectable ladies, as I have no doubt they will be. You have been diligent in setting aside your earnings to provide for your family, which is a very important fatherly virtue, and are rewarded with a loving family. So, why all this concern?”
Mr. Collins fumbled for an answer. It was not an easy question, which was why Grégoire asked it. He sat there quietly and gave the rector time before he answered, “T-There is the problem of Longbourn –”
“A foolish Papist ex-monk I may be, but I have some understanding of property law in England, and though you will inherit Longbourn, you have no obligation to live in it. Though I know you may not sell it, you may certainly rent it, as my brother did to Lord Richard until Geoffrey turned fifteen and the entail could legally be broken. You could even rent it out for a profit, thereby furthering your own financial interests in terms of providing for your family, who seem so well-settled in Hunsford.” He continued, “When I purchased this house, my wife said it was too large. I assured her that we would need the size to host my relatives, and that I owned quite a number of books and would like the space for them.” He looked to his side, and then the other. All of the walls of the room, but for the sections with windows, were lined with bookshelves. “Now we have filled this house – with books, with furniture, with pictures – but most importantly, with a child. He is perhaps not old enough to express discontent, but I cannot imagine that he would if he could. If this place were to burn in fire it would be God’s will and I would move on, but for now, this house is my home in every meaning of the word and I have no desire to leave it. On the other hand, if my wife came to me and said, ‘I hate this house,’ I would leave it in a heartbeat. So you see, my own actions are dictated not entirely by my own desires but by the wills of those I love. I would recommend that you do the same.”
This idea seemed positively new to Mr. Collins. “But the heritage of the Bennet family and the entail meant to protect it – ”
Grégoire waved it off. “That entail was written by men of a previous generation who wanted to protect their own interests and keep the world the exact same way it had always been and was in their lifetime. But change is essential to the world. The only things that stay the same are God and his Divine Plan, and He has yet to inform us of its particulars, so we must keep guessing. Do not be burdened by the past and future when you have more immediate concerns – the happiness of your family, which so far, you have been so successful in providing.”
Mr. Collins sat for a while. Grégoire was quite content to let him do so. In his mind, he was already composing his next column.
“How do you think of such things so easily, Brother Grégoire?” Mr. Collins said.
Grégoire looked up. “With the logic and intelligence given by God to every man, Mr. Collins.”
Of course, if that was true, Mr. Collins would not be here, asking for his help. Grégoire would not say that, but instead congratulated Mr. Collins on his good decision to stay in Hunsford no matter where the die of fate was cast, and to be relieved of the burden of worrying about a son. The Englishman stayed the night, and left in the morning with many thanks that took far too long.
“What did t’at silly man want?” Caitlin asked at his side, as they waved good-bye to the rector.
“He wanted a miracle. Instead he got some cheap advice. I think I might have cheated him, my darling.”
She kissed him. “Yeh sure cheat people in the nicest ways, den.”
Chapter 4 – Dark Conversation
Darcy had just dismissed his steward the next day when the Bingleys arrived for supper. Frowning at the clock, he chastised himself for not realizing the time earlier, called for Mr. Reed to come and brush him up quickly, and went to greet his guests.
“Uncle Darcy,” Georgiana Bingley curtseyed when it came her turn.
“Miss Bingley,” he said, and not another word. When he had his very discreet chance, he glared at Bingley, who just shrugged. Georgie had a very pretty bonnet covering her head, but of course that was little help. The only one who spoke of Georgie’s hair was Mr. Bennet, of course, who had always said whatever he liked and would not stop at his age.
“My dear granddaughter,” he said, “a man of my age can only take so many shocks in his life. Next time you decide to change sexes, please do send a note in advance.”
Georgie wasn’t the least bit put off, though she did color a bit. “Of course, Grandpapa.”
Dinner conversation largely concerned the weather (terrible weather, even for this time of year) and Mr. Wickham’s health (not quite so terrible, but certainly as concerning). They could not yet say if Isabella Wickham would be joining the party for Christmas, but discussed the possibility.
Mr. Bennet retired early, and Darcy and Bingley escaped to the study for port. Darcy did not want to gossip about Lydia Bradley and whatever trouble she had or would cause over George’s sanctuary at Pemberley, and Bingley knew it, so gladly joined in a different conversation.
“The Duke of Devonshire has made an offer on one my properties,” Darcy announced. William Cavendish, 7th Duke of Devonshire, owned the other half of Derbyshire, along with many other holdings throughout the kingdom, and was probably the richest man in England. He rarely traveled up north, and the Darcys of Pemberley had always been on friendly terms with Cavendish family.
“Seeking to expand his empire?”
“On the contrary. In return, he has offered not only financial compensation, but a much larger section of land that borders mine to the east.”
“What’s the incentive?” Bingley asked. “I could never have imagined you discussing selling land in Derbyshire.”
“The acres under discussion apparently contain, based on recent expeditions, a very rich vein of coal. So, I would say it is a fairly equal trade, from a purely financial level.”
Bingley nodded. “You would pass up on a coal mine that you already own?”
Darcy, set aside his drink. “Did you hear about the mining disaster in Durham? The cave-in where twenty workers were killed?”
“I did.”
“Not only was that a tragedy unto itself, but afterward, some of the other workers refused to reenter the mines without costly improvements for their safety, and were consequently fired. They looted the house of the overseer. He barely made it out alive by hiding in the forest until the constable arrived.”
Bingley nodded. “I assume this is not one of His Grace’s concerns.”
“It was a rare occurrence. Nonetheless, it is a very high risk, albeit for a very high profit.” And Darcy’s good name, of course, was essential to his status as a landlord in Derbyshire.
“Then it seems as if it is a very good trade.” Bingley raised his glass. “Congratulations.”
“It may be the only time you ever see me contemplate selling a piece of Derbyshire that’s been in my family for centuries, even for –” but he was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come.”
Geoffrey Darcy entered. “Uncle Bingley,” he acknowledged, and went to whisper to his father that George was ill.
Not entirely sure why his son was trying to keep this from Bingley for the moment
, but almost interested in questioning it, Darcy replied, “He has a fever?”
“Yes. And he’s – talking nonsense.”
Darcy nodded. “Where is the doctor?” he said in a louder voice.
“I called for him. He’d just arrived when I came to find you.”
“Good,” he said, rising. “Tell your mother.” Geoffrey nodded and excused himself.
“George has – ”
“ – taken a turn for the worse, yes,” Darcy said. “Unfortunately, the two best doctors I know are in Chesterton and I would be disturbing their Christmas if I called them here now, so I’d prefer not to do that unless I have to. If you would excuse me - ”
Bingley nodded. “Of course.”
George was Bingley’s nephew as well, if only on one side, but the boy was under Darcy’s care, and it was best not to crowd a sick room. Darcy bounded up the stairs past the group of children, nieces and nephews, and entered George’s chambers. Only the doctor and the servants were currently there. George was propped up by pillows, a wet cloth over his forehead and his eyes hazy. “Hello, Uncle.”
Darcy pulled up a seat next to him. So the boy wasn’t so feverish he was speaking in tongues. “Hello, George.” He tried to take his hand, but George pulled away.
“Don’t touch me!” George said. “Please. Don’t let him cut me.” His eyes gestured to the doctor.
Darcy looked at the doctor, and then back at George. “I won’t.” He pulled the doctor aside, almost into the side corridor that led to the washroom. “What is it?”
“He has a high fever. There’s no sign of infection, so it may just be from the cold and it should burn off. But he has been talking strangely in the past hour – ”
The Knights of Derbyshire Page 4