Because Mrs. MacKenna could not be moved, her account of the events of both nights in question—and all that had preceded them—was taken down by the clerk for the judge. The twisted tale of the man who had killed his own unborn child to get back at his wife for cheating on him with a monk was the talk of the town, which made their isolation that much more unbearable. Darcy wrote his wife but did not ask her to come; by the time she had arrived, they might be ready to leave. After posting the letter, he came to regret it; what would he give for one night with Elizabeth?
At last, Grégoire was called to testify. He was calm, as if in a trance. Maybe the events had cut some emotional nerve, because he was silent all the way to the crowded courthouse. Darcy escorted him and sat beside his brother in anonymity until Grégoire was called by baillif: “Mr. Grégoire Bellamont.” The English officers of the court spoke French and could pronounce his name.The rabble, who were following the case closely, hollered and hooted as Grégoire silently took his place before the judge.
As he gave his testimony, he looked and sounded numb.Although Darcy was happy that Grégoire did not break down in tears or make emotional pleas in front of the discourteous crowd, it bothered him to see his younger brother so distant. It also bothered him to notice that some of Grégoire’s hair had fallen out, on the top, but he hardly had time to think on that now. The only time Grégoire showed emotion was when Darcy told him of all those who had come to Dublin at their own expense to testify to his good character—the O’Muldoons, the priest from the Tullow church, many people in Tullow, and some people from Drogheda. Darcy turned his head at the sight of James McGowan, a man he had never expected to see again, now out of uniform and with an older couple, who were clearly his parents. They had come to see Grégoire, having already testified to his charitable and pious character.
“Thank you, Mr. Bellamont.You may be seated.”
The judge apparently did not need any time. Mr. MacKenna was called to stand before him as he donned the black cap over his massive wig. “Neil MacKenna, for the most heinous crimes of assaulting three people, one being your own wife, with intent to kill, and for the murder of your own unborn child, I sentence you to be hanged at the gallows at noon tomorrow.”
The gavel striking the wood seemed almost to physically strike Grégoire, who leaned on his brother for support. Although Darcy had no sympathy for Mr. MacKenna, the cuckolded husband would soon burn in hell, and that was no easy pill to swallow. The crowd was cheering and laughing, however, and the judge had to rap his gavel many more times to restore order so that Mr. MacKenna might be escorted back to jail.
“Your Honor,” Grégoire said, and even though his voice was soft, it was heard. “Might I approach the bench?”
The judge eyed him skeptically. “You may, Mr. Bellamont. Be brief.”
This was not anything that Grégoire had discussed with Darcy, but Grégoire was always surprising him. Grégoire passed the shackled MacKenna and whispered to the judge, who whispered back, apparently confused by what he had said. There was hardly an ear in the room that wasn’t tuned in to try to hear them, but no one did. Grégoire stepped away, bowed to Mr. MacKenna in passing, and returned to his place in the rows beside his brother.
“By special request,” the judge said, “Mr. MacKenna is to have a private execution in the prison.This court is adjourned.”
Darcy looked at his brother, but Grégoire offered nothing in public, and they were forced to focus on making a quick escape from the furious crowd, who had been denied their spectacle. It took a long time to restore order; and the masses were still swarming and yelling as the brothers ducked into a carriage and began the ride back to the hotel.
Because Grégoire would not, Darcy broke the silence. “You were under no obligation to request such a thing.”
“I am the guilty party in that I made him more of a spectacle than his crimes alone did. He can hardly be expected to meet God with the sounds of the mob still ringing in his ears.” He looked out the window of the carriage. “Every person deserves at least one moment of peace in their life.”
“Even you,” Darcy said. Grégoire said nothing.
Mrs. MacKenna did not attend her husband’s execution or his burial. She still could not sit up for long, much less leave her room. The news was delivered to her, hours later, by the priest who had administered final rites in the prison. He closed the door behind him when he spoke to her, and then he delivered the news to the rest of them. “His Excellency, the bishop, upon reviewing the matter, feels that three months is an appropriate time of respectful mourning for the man to whom she was joined in matrimony, along with the her unborn child.”
They thanked him and he left. Now there were arrangements for them to make. The widow MacKenna would live—her stitches had come out only the day before. What kind of life she would lead would be up to her, but Grégoire said he would pay for any arrangements she wanted, both for her mourning period and beyond. He did not, however, say this to Mrs. MacKenna. The plans were drawn up without her and presented to her the next day, with his notable absence.
Caitlin MacKenna, wearing a dressing gown dyed black, was sitting up, and nursing her aches with fine whiskey. “Is ’e really goin’ back ta England?” was the first thing out of her mouth. Unlike Grégoire, she did not appear to be emotionless. In fact, the very opposite.
“That is between you and him,” Darcy said, and presented her with an offer to set her up wherever she liked, with a certain number of servants, and an annual income from a large account. She gaped at the money. “I—” she said and broke off. “It’s all him, isn’ it?”
“Do not think he is the only person who cares for your good health,” Lord Kincaid said, carefully dodging the question.
“Fine. Just—take me outta Dublin. I ’ate dis place. I always ’ave.”
They nodded. Darcy sent out a solicitor provided by the hotel, and a house was purchased in a small town on the coast, south of the city. She deemed herself well enough to make the journey, and seemed insulted when they implied that she might not be. Darcy sighed and insisted that they would all have to accompany her there.
It was nearly a day’s ride in two separate carriages. Georgiana, who had developed a friendship with Mrs. MacKenna while attending her, rode in the carriage along with Mrs. MacKenna and Lord Kincaid.The Darcys rode in the second carriage.
As if she were not tired and ill enough from the ordeal and the journey, Mrs. MacKenna nearly passed out at the sight of the house—modest by any of their scales, but what she announced to be a “feckin’ palace.” A seat had to be brought for her to sit on and recover herself before she could even go in.
Darcy and Grégoire did a quick inspection of the house, which the latter had purchased, sight unseen. It was a fine house for its size. “She will consider this a luxury,” Grégoire said. “She deserves this happiness.” It was his longest speech since the trial.
“And you?” Darcy asked, given that Grégoire seemed to be in a talkative mood as they stood in one of the empty bedchambers, looking out at a field. “Or have you contracted the Darcy curse and must be without emotion?”
Grégoire seemed almost to smile as he watched Mrs. MacKenna being attended by her servants on her new front lawn. “I came here to do something and I did it. By all logic, I should return and go on with my life.” He sighed. “I suppose you will oppose this match.”
“Her character is a little…questionable.” He had to say it. “She lied to you, Grégoire. I wouldn’t dare say it was for your money. I don’t doubt she had and still has feelings for you. But she was entirely remiss in not divulging her marital status.”
“Thank God she did not,” Grégoire said, “or I might have missed her on my path.” He turned to his brother, acknowledging his plan for the first time. “Three months. Two, technically, and twenty-seven days.”
“And you must give her a day to take off her mourning dress.”
“I hardly think that takes a day. Maybe half a day
, from what I’ve seen of your guests at Pemberley.”
Darcy found himself laughing—partly out of relief that his brother had made a joke and partly because the joke was amusing. “Before we say our good-byes, I would ask a question.”
“Of course.”
“What is happening to your hair?”
Grégoire reached up to the growing bald spot on the top of his head. Even doing so dislodged hairs, and he took down a few strands. “I’m getting older, I suppose. Perhaps my grandfather Bellamont was bald.” He shrugged. “I have many concerns. This is not one of them.”
“As long as it’s not on my side,” Darcy said, unconsciously running his hands through his own hair, which, despite being partially gray, was still very much attached to his scalp.
“What will I do without yeh?”
Mrs. MacKenna had recovered and was standing not far from the water with Grégoire, alone with him for the first time since the night he had returned from prison. “You could try knitting. Or sewing. Or painting china cups. Some fancy-lady activities.”
She took his hand and he did not resist. “Do I have ta keep sayin’ I’m sorry or can we jest let it go?”
“I know you are,” he said, and raised her hand to kiss it. “We are all following God’s path—I know that now. And as terrible as it is sometimes…there are some moments that make it worth it.” He let her arm go and removed his silver cross from his neck—the one he never removed, not even when bathing. Before she could say anything, he put it over her head, where it got a bit lost in her black lace veils before finding its way to her neck. “I give this away only because I intend to reclaim it.”
“So yeh—”
He kissed her—and not on the hand. That stopped conversation for a moment. “Now I’ve ruined your reputation and must make amends by marrying you as soon as possible.” They laughed together in relief. It was good to feel some happiness after so much death—not just of her husband, but of her baby, as well. “Good-bye, Caitlin.”
“Good-bye, Grégoire,” she said, her voice wavering.
“Will you take me when I do come back?”
She grinned. “Even if yer bald by then.”
CHAPTER 34
Mourners
SADLY, MRS. MACKENNA was not the only one to wear jet that summer.
The Darcys had not been home a week (and were still deciding exactly what details of their trip they would explain to their larger family, and a good time to do so) when Darcy entered his study to read the day’s mail and found Elizabeth there, weeping. She held up the letter, which was in Mr. Bennet’s handwriting. “Mama,” was all she said as she fell into her husband’s arms. Little more than a year after her first stroke, Mrs. Bennet had suffered another. This one had felled her.
The Kincaids, fortunately, had already left, and the Darcys could leave immediately without having to see them off. Darcy inquired of his brother if he wished to go and pay his respects to Mrs. Bennet, whom he had not known well, and Grégoire said he would. Darcy barely had time to order all the arrangements for Elizabeth’s wardrobe when they returned to Pemberley, whenever that would be.
He did have time to confer with Bingley, whose house was also in an uproar when Elizabeth and Jane met to share their sadness. The letters were the same and very brief—Mrs. Bennet had been struck down when trying to get up from a chair and had died only a few hours later. Even Dr. Bertrand’s immediate intervention could do nothing. She would be buried as quickly as her daughters could come home.
“Have you heard anything else?” Darcy asked. He had been caught up in estate matters since their return from Ireland.
“No,” Bingley said. “The letter arrived just this morning. I did write to Louisa and Caroline, though I imagine that Caroline received a letter from her father also.”
“They’re at their country house?” Darcy said, referring to the Hursts. The Maddoxes still lived in town full time.
“Yes. I doubt that Louisa and Mr. Hurst could arrive in time even if they received a letter.”
“The Kincaids will just send their condolences.They’ve been away from home for quite a while, and it’s a very long journey for them.”
“And Grégoire?”
“He wishes to pay his respects.”
Bingley nodded. “So when is it going to be an appropriate time to ask about Ireland?”
“He met a girl.”
“I would think that you would say that with a bit more excitement.”
“He’s waiting for the end of her mourning period,” Darcy said. “Whether he wants anything else to be public is his business.”
Grégoire had largely returned to his good humor, but kept to himself, and his thoughts seemed elsewhere—and with good reason. Only Elizabeth knew the whole story.
The next morning, many carriages set out from Derbyshire for Longbourn. The weather was good (if a little hot), so there were no delays, and they were the last ones to arrive, completing the set of former Bennet daughters. There would be no Mrs. Bennet again until Joseph married. He looked the saddest of all the grandchildren, having had his grandmother as a constant presence since he was born. Mary and Kitty had mourned together before their other sisters even arrived.
As for Mr. Bennet, he had retired to his study and said he would receive their condolences after the burial. That he was beside himself was apparent, and they had no choice but to respect his wishes.
The Collinses arrived just in time, with their four daughters in tow. If Mr. Collins had been disappointed about hearing which Bennet had expired, he showed none of his emotions in that regard. There was only a moment of awkwardness when he assumed that he would be giving the sermon, only to discover that Mr. Bennet had already asked the local rector.
The next morning, a somber, large crowd gathered to pay their respects to the husband and five daughters of Mrs. Bennet. In age order and all in black gowns sat Mrs. Jane Bingley, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy, Mrs. Mary Bertrand, Mrs. Catherine Townsend, and Mrs. Lydia Bradley. Mrs. Bennet’s life work was complete. Her five daughters were all married (happily, even!) and all provided for by their husbands (to varying degrees, all acceptably).
“She outpaced me in everything we did together,” Mr. Bennet said after the rector had finished his sermon. “She was always the more active one.” He paused before continuing. “By circumstance, the happiest years of my life were our first year of marriage and our last year of marriage.”
He seemed to have more to say, but he could no longer stay standing, even with the help of a cane, and several of his sonsin-law helped him back to his seat, where he collapsed in tears. Mercifully, the remainder of the service was short and the sobs of the various Bennet sisters (with the exception of Lydia and Kitty) were muted as all five sons filled in the grave.
The reception was almost as brutal as the funeral. Mr. Bennet, never a fan of public gatherings, was uncomfortable as much of Hertfordshire came to pay tribute to Mrs. Bennet. All of Hertfordshire knew her and her daughters, and of course her newly wealthy husband, who had come into a great fortune only a few years earlier.
“I just had a thought,” Bingley said to Darcy as they stood at the back of the reception while their wives received condolences. “Of all of us, Dr. Bertrand is the only one with both living parents, and he’s much younger than us. When Mr. Bennet dies, we’ll be… the old people.”
“I prefer distinguished,” Darcy replied. “You can call yourself ‘old.’”
At last, the reception came to a close, and those who were not family said their good-byes. Everyone who was not necessary made themselves scarce—except Mr. Collins, who barged in on Mr. Bennet in his study when he was sitting with his favorite daughter, pouring himself a glass of wine, his first real peace of the day. “Mr. Bennet. Mrs. Darcy. I hope I am not interrupting anything.”
“No,” Mr. Bennet said. “However, it is very late and I am very tired, Mr. Collins. If you would be brief.”
“I thought perhaps now, while I am in Hertfordshi
re, we might discuss matters of the estate—”
If Mr. Bennet did not have the will to intervene, Elizabeth would. “Mr. Collins, this is not the best time—”
“Indeed,” her father said, capping the bottle of wine. “Come back when the correct Bennet has died, Mr. Collins, to discuss matters of the estate.” More lightly, he added, “And you cannot inherit Longbourn just yet, sir.You are one daughter short.”
Taking a glare from Elizabeth as his cue (she was, after all, his patroness), Mr. Collins most politely excused himself. Then he rattled on about how sorry he was to lose such a wonderful woman as Mrs. Bennet until he finally did shut up and actually take his leave.
“With all of my daughters settled and Mrs. Bennet now… settled, he has no concerns except waiting for me to die, which he has been doing for years,” he said, and then immediately changed topics. “Your mother did talk of having a place in Meryton. Or Brighton, perhaps. Or she would stay with Kitty—she has always admired Netherfield. It’s nothing compared with Pemberley, but it has its charms.”
“She was being brave about the prospect of being tossed from her own home, Papa,” she said. “Now she does not have to suffer that.”
He nodded. They sat in silence for some time before he spoke again. “Did you see Lady Lucas?”
“Yes, I received her.”
“I mean, did you see her with me?” He shook his head. “She could have been a bit more subtle.”
The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Page 34