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,
In te roen
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.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“I got rattled—I don’ know.” She looked at him with a weak smile as he ran his hand through her hair. “I don’ deserve yeh.”
“I would say the same,” he answered, sitting down across from her. “If you really want me to leave, then say so. It will hurt, but I’ll do what is right. But I won’t leave unless you push me. I love you too much for that.”
She said nothing, but squeezed his hand.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.” Grégoire crossed himself and immediately began, not looking through the screen, even though he knew very well who the priest was. They rarely talked person to person; it was too awkward. “I have decided to ask Caitlin to marry me.”
“Dis is a pure, gran’ step, me sun.”
He sighed. “I don’t like the circumstances. It should be a happy time, but she’s increasingly ill from her condition. Her emotions are everywhere.We haven’t spoken the words, and yet she begs me not to ask for her hand—and I know exactly what she means. Then she tells me she loves me, and I know she means it.”
The priest did not hold back. “Why do yeh t’ink she is confused? Yeh ’av toyed wi’ ’er emoshuns for months nigh.”
“Father, I would never—”
“Yeh tell ’er yeh love ’er?”
He turned to the lattice that kept the priest from him, his voice near anger. “Yes. Every day.”
“An’ do yeh continue ter nu ’er carnally, even in ’er condishun?”
“Yes.”
“An’ yeh continue ter provide for ’er. In every way, yeh are ’er’usban’ except under Jasus. Dat step, yeh seem reluctant ter take.”
“I just said I would take it!” he shouted and then stopped in horror, crossing himself. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I just yelled at a man of the cloth.” It lightened the air just enough for the conversation to continue. “Is this what love is? This torrent of emotions?”
“Many people ’av said so, me sun.”
“I wanted this to be happy. I didn’t plan it, but I suppose in the back of my mind, I wished that the time that I chose to take a wife would be the happiest moment of my life—and yet I am also so confused.”
“Den yeh must truly be in love,” said the priest. It was one of the most clever things he had said in their short but complex association. “Yeh will recall the story of Jacob and the angel.”
“Yes, of course. He fought with him and won, and earned the name Israel.”
“Yes.’N’ yer man wept, as well. ’Is life ter dat point wus av doubt, for stealin’ ’is brother’s birthright by trickin’ ’is owl lad an’ den runnin’ away. But he wept not whaen he wus on de road ter redempshun, but he did not weep until de final moment whaen he physically wrestled wi’ ’is emoshuns through de aingayle, an’ prevailed. So God blessed ’im an’ from ’is seed came de twelve tribes av Israel, an’ from de tribe av Judah, de ma av our Lord Jasus Chroist,” he said. “Doubt an’ de despair dat follows it whaen yeh dwell on it too long withoyt actin’ are failures, but dey can be reversed an’ overcum, an’ den yeh truly becum de paddy God intends yeh ter be.”
Grégoire swallowed this information, and was silent for a few moments as he did so. It did not dismiss all of his emotions—or any of them—but it made his path clear. “I think I understand.” He leaned forward. “If I ask and she says no, what will I do then?”
“’Av feth in Christ an’ hill show yeh de way,” the priest said. “Say ten Hail Marys fer de sin of fornication. Jasus bless yeh, me sun.”
“Thank you, Father. Go with God.”
He did not linger. He said his prayers and left the church. When he returned home, he had no more questions. He had only a beautiful woman with dinner waiting.
Caitlin’s emotions evened out again when she became accustomed to the baby’s kicking, even when it disturbed her sleep. Grégoire laughed as he put his hand over her and felt it. “I think this child will be doing a lot of dancing.”
The next Sunday, he went to church and prayed. On Monday, after early Mass, he went to Tullow to pick up the ring he had ordered. It was a gold band with emeralds set in it so that they looked sewn in, like the knots he had seen on the old crosses of Monasterboice. “I’ll take it,” he said, and put the box in his pocket.
It was a long way back from Tullow. He stopped on the road for none prayers, and hoped to be home in time for Vespers, which were followed by their supper. It was summer and the days were long, so he did not worry about light. T
he fields thinned out and the forest became thicker, until at last he came upon the house.
He did not smell dinner cooking. The fire was not even going. The place was a mess, as if it had been torn apart, and he stepped inside and set down the bag in shock. He barely had a moment to react to being grabbed by a strong set of hands and hurled against the wall, which was enough to knock him to his knees, but not onto the floor entirely. A hulk of a man backed away.
“Who are you and what have you done with Caitlin?” Grégoire demanded.
“Yeh must be the one keepin’ ’er ’appy wit’ yer fancy gifts. I’m not the best ’a men, but yer scum!”
Grégoire grabbed the table to help stabilize himself. He was nearly a head shorter than this man, and had never struck a man in his life. He would not win in a fight—not a physical one, anyway. “You have not answered my question. Who are you?”
“Caitlin? Yeh want ta tell ’im who I am?”
Caitlin emerged from the bedroom. To Grégoire’s horror, her clothes were torn, with some pieces bloodied, and her face was red and swollen. “Please jus’ let ’im go.”
The man had red hair like fire and his personality was similar—easily brought to the peak of destruction. “Yeh tell ’im who I am!” Grégoire looked at her as she came forward, shaking, to take the man’s side, but not to touch him. Her voice was a whisper. “E’s me ’usband.”
CHAPTER 31
The Unmentionable Thing
“IT’S NOT POSSIBLE,” GRÉGOIRE SAID.
Mr. MacKenna grabbed Caitlin by the arm so hard she cried out. “Why don’t yeh tell yer rich lover de trut’h?”
Grégoire could see that Caitlin was wavering. The man did not release her arm, and eventually she raised her terrified eyes to face Grégoire, “I—’tis me husband. He tol’ me he didn’t want anoder mout’h ta feed, but I wouldn’ do it.”
“An’ what did yeh do, Mrs. MacKenna?”
“Ran away,” she whispered, but loud enough for them all to hear.
“And?”
“Stole de money ta do it.”
Mr. MacKenna was still angry, but he did cast a triumphant glare at Grégoire, still backed against the wall.
“Cait-Caitlin,” he stuttered, “your family—”
“Died wi’ me brah’der, whaen I wus twelve. I didn’ have anybody—’cept Neil.”
“Normally, I’d be mighty inclined ta quid da man who’s been feckin’ me wife,” Neil MacKenna said, “but I’ll make an exception dis time. Now, go runnin’ back ta England or wherever dey make cheatin’ fecks.”
Grégoire wanted to apologize—legitimately, as it was called for—but he looked again at the beaten, sobbing form of Caitlin, swallowed, and said, “I will not let you take her.”
“What?”
“I said I will not let you take her.” He stood up straighter. “I understand now she is your wife and I respect that, and I will never touch her again, but if you treat her and the child this way—”
“’S gonna sell da baby. Or kill it,”Caitlin wimpered.
“Shut yer bake!” her husband said, and struck her.
This, Grégoire would not stand for. Not in the place he had come to think of as his home—not anywhere, for that matter. He tried to come between them, which only earned him a smack on his face hard enough to knock him to the ground. MacKenna released his wife long enough to take a knife from the kitchen counter and drive it into Grégoire’s arm, pinning him to the wall. Grégoire wasn’t sure what bothered him more—his cry or Caitlin’s own.
“Yeh don’ come afta ’er,” MacKenna said. “Yeh leave with yer loife, English.”
In what seemed like a blur to Grégoire, the MacKennas left. He remembered only the pleading, apologetic look on Caitlin’s bruised face, and the scrap of rag she dropped on the floor as she left.
It was not until they were gone that he was able to pull the knife out, not so much because it was lodged in him but because it was lodged in the wooden wall. He set it on the ground and pulled up his shirt. The wound wasn’t bad—just a pierce through the top layers of flesh on his upper arm, barely more than a graze compared with earlier wounds. He pulled himself up with his good arm and scrambled for a piece of cloth. Eventually, he removed the window dressing and tore off a length, wrapping it tightly around his arm to stop the bleeding. The pain in his arm and the sting on his face were not nearly as bad as the ache in his heart, just beginning to set in.
No. He needed to concentrate.That was what Darcy would do. He needed to find a surgeon to sew him up, and then he had to follow them. He looked around at the looted room. All the good items appeared to be gone. As he stepped over it, he remembered the piece of cloth and picked it up. It was not cloth—it was paper with the word dreser.
He stumbled to the bedroom, which had also been ransacked. The mattress had even been overturned. On the dresser, in a pile of things apparently deemed worthless—his clothing and the like—he found a note scribbled so quickly it was barely readable. But his name was spelled correctly, as he had taught her.
Grégoire
Im sory. i lovd you. it was to hard to sey.
Dublin east. talbot stret. 37.
He knew if he gave into his emotions, he would lose too much time. Instead, he swallowed them as best he could, stuffed his bag full of the things he thought he needed, and left, Caitlin’s note tucked in his satchel.
“Mr. Gregory!”
Even though the walk had not been far, Grégoire collapsed at the O’Muldoons’ door, one hand clutching the bleeding arm. Fortunately, Mr. O’Muldoon caught him in time, and helped him to a seat at their table.
“I—I need a surgeon,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. A glass of whiskey was set before him and he took a good gulp. “It’s small but the bleeding won’t stop.”
“Yeh know who attacked yeh?”
He didn’t want to look at either of their expressions when he said it, so he just looked at the table. “Caitlin’s husband.” He sighed. Now that he was sitting, and panic was not giving him strength, he was starting to fade—not from blood loss, which by his standards was relatively minor, but from emotional exhaustion. “I didn’t know.”
“’S not right,” Mrs. O’Muldoon said. “We woulda told yeh, if we’d known.”
“I know.”
They didn’t ask him any further questions. Mr. O’Muldoon instead announced he was leaving for another farm, where he knew he could borrow a horse that could get him to Tullow.
“I was—I was robbed,” Grégoire said. “I cannot pay right now, but I…have money. In Dublin.”
“’S all right, Gregory. Ya jest rest.”
She put a blanket over him because he was shivering, and he finished the whiskey and had another glass. He was nodding off into a sad, comfortable haze when the surgeon arrived. Being sewn up was enough to properly wake him, but it was quick and clean. As the O’Muldoons paid the surgeon, Grégoire began to remove his paper and writing implements from his satchel.
“Oh no, Mr. Gregory, yeh should rest—”
“I have to write … my brother,” he said, “to meet me in Dublin. I’m going after her.”
“Gregory,” Mr. O’Muldoon said, laying a strong hand on his shoulder, “I can’t even imagine what yer goin’ t’hrough, but she’s a married woman.”
“I know,” he replied calmly as he opened the ink jar. “I know I can’t…He felt the oncoming torrent of tears, but swallowed them back. “Even so, Mr. MacKenna is going to kill or sell the baby and maybe kill her in the process. I will find some way to protect her.” He crossed himself. “God help me.”
It took him more than an hour to write the letter. It was brief, but his mind wandered, and once the tears began, it was hard to continue. He hoped what he wrote would be comprehensible. After many blots from tears, he folded the letter and requested a candle to melt the wax. He barely had the energy to stamp the Darcy symbol into the soft seal. “For tomorrow’s post; I may oversleep.”
Mr. O’Muldoon took it with some evident reservations, but not enough to stop him from holding his tongue as his wife escorted their tired, wounded, and tipsy guest into one of the children’s rooms, where he was given their bed for the night. “Compline,” he said to no one in particular. “Oh, goodness, Compline.” But the words didn’t come. “In te Domine speravi...”—“In thee, O Lord, have I put my trust…”
Beyond that, he had nothing left in him.
Elizabeth Darcy knew something was wrong before anyone else in Pemberley, outside the two people in the study. She knew even before elderly Mrs. Reynolds, still sharp as a tack, managed to swing by with a concerned look to indicate, Maybe you should go check on your husband. Even though Elizabeth was upstairs, trying to convince Cassandra to settle down for a nap, she knew she had to get to her husband before he was forced to come to her. It was better that way.
She opened the door to the study to find him discussing pounds with his steward, who was still seated as Darcy paced anxiously by the window. Seeing her, he said, “Five thousand, it is. I need it by the end of the day. I do not care how you acquire it.” That was a nod for the steward to leave. He forced a smile for his wife. “No one in this family is ever permitted to leave Britain again. Travel is nothing but trouble.”
“Is he—”
“His letter,” he said, holding up a tear-stained letter with the Darcy seal still attached to one edge. “He is as well as can be expected.” Clearly, nothing would offer explanation but the letter itself, so he handed it to her and returned to the window, pacing and staring out at the rolling hills of Pemberley as Elizabeth sat down to read.
Dearest Brother,
I have not the time or strength to spend on an adequate explanation for my unforgivable actions. I plead only for your assistance, despite what I have done. I have not the wit or experience to complete this mission without you.
As you know, I have been living outside Tullow for three months now, but not in any kind of spiritual retreat. In my travels, I came upon a woman who was not only starving, destitute, and with child all alone, but the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. She said her family had thrown her out, and the father of the child had abandoned her when she refused to end her pregnancy. Her name is Caitlin.
The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Page 31