“Your brother gets a crown,” Caroline Maddox said on the other side of him. “What do I get?”
“To be called Lady Maddox for the rest of your life,” he said with a shrug. “It was the best I could do.”
She gave him a smile that indicated she was more than happy with the situation.
The nonaristocratic Maddox couple bowed at the announcement and entrance of the Lord Chamberlain, the Marquess of Hertford. “Prince and Princess Brian and Nadezhda Agnita of Sibui,” the royal servant said.
“May I present His Royal Highness George Augustus, the Prince of Wales, Earl of Chester, and Prince Regent to His Majesty George III,” the royal servant continued.
The Regent entered upright and actually walking without a wobble, which surprised Dr. Maddox somewhat. In fact, he looked the best he had in weeks, perhaps because much of his girth and ill look was hidden by the royal robes and crown. The Prince Regent, who an hour earlier had been seen sobbing in his bed, was quite capable of assuming the character of a man in control of his life and his country when required. He did so regularly during ceremonies he could not avoid, the number of which would only increase when his father died. Despite his usual casual nature, Brian had the good sense to bow to his future sovereign.
“Your Royal Highness,” the equerry said, “Dr. Daniel Maddox is known for his dutiful service to the Crown in the field of medicine.”
The Prince Regent, who was not known to stand on ceremony despite being required to do so on a regular basis, gestured for Dr. Maddox to kneel before him. Fortunately, between the gin and the laudanum, he still had enough coordination to wield the sword. “I knight thee Sir Daniel Maddox, Order of the Garter.” He touched each shoulder and passed off the sword to his equerry and took from him the chain, putting it around Maddox’s neck. “You may rise, Sir Maddox.”
“Thank you,Your Highness.”
Fortunately, the regent did not stay to see how choked up his doctor was, and left with the servants carrying the ends of his robes. In the haste of it all, there was no reception. Dr. Maddox, an intensely private man, hadn’t wanted one anyway.
“I used to read him stories about knights when he was recovering from eye surgery,” Brian whispered to his wife as Sir Maddox was embraced by his own wife, “and now he gets to be one—without all the fighting. Same amount of gore, though.”
“Papa, if you’re a knight, where’s your sword?” Emily Maddox said as her father sorted through his medical books for the ones that would go to Cambridge. “And your armor! You have to have armor to fight dragons.”
“I don’t fight dragons. I’m not that sort of knight.”
“Uncle Maddox has a sword.”
“Uncle Maddox thinks he lives in Japan,” he replied to his daughter, who was now ten, “where he would need a sword, I suppose.”
A week had passed, and Sir and Lady Maddox had received the congratulations of their friends and relations in Town in person and their Derbyshire relations by post, on account of the winter weather. Grégoire and Caitlin Bellamont probably had not even received the announcement yet. The spring term would start soon, and he was due in Cambridge three days out of the week.
“Mr. Wickham to see you, sir,” the servant announced, and George Wickham entered the study.
“Sir Maddox,” he said and bowed. “Miss Maddox.”
“You can do that nonsense with my wife, but not with me,” he said. “I’ve always preferred ‘Dr.’ anyway. I worked hard enough to earn it.” He turned to his daughter and gestured for her to shoo. “Mr. Wickham. What brings you by? Are you intending to loot my library again?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t have any room for the spoils, Dr. Maddox,” George said with a shy smile. “I’ve come for your advice about university.”
“I told you not to worry about your credentials, Mr. Wickham,” Maddox said. He pulled another volume off the shelf, dusted off the cover to see the title, and replaced it. “Not everyone who enters university went to Eton or Harrow, or even knows half of what you do if they had private tutors. I didn’t go, your Uncle Bingley didn’t go, and my brother attended only his first two years. I honestly think those schools might exist just to get ill-mannered boys out of the house for a few years, before they can go on to university and become ill-mannered men.” He added, “Excepting your cousins, of course, who are always on their best behavior.” But the expression on George’s face was not that of a man soothed. Dr. Maddox sighed; young Wickham was so distant and stubborn—not always to negative ends, but once he had a notion in his head, it was hard for him to shake it.
Maddox put the book in his hands down, and placed one hand on George’s shoulder. “So—are you still set on Oxford, then? Not that you don’t have time to decide.”
“Yes.”
“It is a fine school. My father went there.” He was never quite able to figure George Wickham out. “Not that you are tied to any choices now.You have some ways to go yet, Mr. Wickham. And if life has taught me anything, it is not to assume too much responsibility unless you absolutely have to. Otherwise, you might end up a gambler and a drunk, and eventually marry a princess and walk around with a set of swords as though you’re some kind of medieval knight.”
George gave one of his rare half grins. “Says the knight himself.”
“I hope it is merely an honorary title, and I will not be called on to don a suit of armor,” Dr. Maddox said.
Because of the speed with which it had been given, Sir and Lady Maddox were not able to celebrate their titles with the family for some time, and put it off until the next family gathering, which was not until early summer. Dr. Maddox was back and forth between Cambridge and Town, and as predicted, was offered a full professorship in medicine for the fall term. Lady Maddox spent much of her time with her sister, surveying properties outside Cambridge before selecting a manor, which would undergo renovations to her tastes.
The families gathered in Derbyshire for various celebrations, one of them to mark Geoffrey Darcy’s completion of his first year at Eton, which he did not want celebrated, at least not in the form of all the adults telling him how much older he looked and what a wonderful young man he was turning into. He was more interested in relaxing with his cousins—fishing in the pond with Charles and Georgiana, with his loyal hound by his side. And that was what he did.
“So how is it?” Charlie Bingley asked eagerly, as he would be attending the following year.
“Fine,” Geoffrey said. “A lot of work, and some of the boys are snobs, but it’s all right.”
When Charles was reassured, he left to collect more bait, leaving Geoffrey and Georgiana to themselves. Georgiana Bingley, who had no real interest in fishing, always sat against the tree and played with the flowers, tearing off the petals and tossing them into the water to make them float. “Nice sandals,” he said of her wooden geta shoes.
“Thanks,” she said.
“They were a gift?”
She nodded.
Geoffrey sighed. He hadn’t been able to really talk to her over Christmas break, either. Then, he hadn’t understood why. Now, having been gone for almost a year, he understood a little better. “I need you to teach me how to fight.”
That got her attention, and some of that old amusement. “You know how to fight.”
“I know how to fence. That is different.”
“Since when have you taken an interest in pugilism?”
“This isn’t pugilism. I just want to be able to…get out of a fight.”
“The aristocracy of Eton knocking Geoffrey Darcy around? Your father wouldn’t stand for it! Think of the family honor!”
He grinned. “I’m not saying I can’t throw a punch. I’m not Uncle Bingley.”
“Papa fought a master pugilist in China!”
“I heard he lost.”
Georgiana smiled. “So what you mean to say, in your dignified and roundabout way, is that you want to be good at it, in case some older boy decides to thrash you for fun?”
“Yes. That is what I am saying, in my dignified and roundabout way.”
“Pity I can’t be there to protect you.”
“I wish you were there,” he said, and then uncomfortably changed course. “So will you teach me?”
“I might,”she said. “Violating all the bounds of decorum, of course.”
“I’ve never known that to stop you.”
“Then it’s agreed. Unless you’re to Ireland?” she said. “Why can’t Uncle Grégoire come here?”
“Mrs. Bellamont is completing her confinement in August. Or September. They’re not sure. And I know how it works now. How a baby is conceived.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really. I don’t know what school was like when Father went, but some of those boys have filthy—” He reddened. “I can’t talk about this.”
“Talk about what?”
“Don’t tease me.You know.”
“I really don’t.”
“Well, I can’t really—” He couldn’t look at her. “You should ask your mother, if you want to know.”
“Oh,” Georgiana said. “No, she wouldn’t say a word. This is the sort of thing a woman is supposed to learn only on her wedding night. Though it’s positively mystifying—”
“Well, maybe it should be,” he said defensively. “Wait—how do you know?”
“Because Papa has a locked drawer in his study that isn’t always locked and has some interesting literature in it,” she said. “All kinds of pictures of monsters. I thought it was some kind of Indian fantasy book. Plus, George has all these books—”
He interrupted, “How do you know what dirty books George Wickham has?”
Georgiana straightened. “Because Izzy told me,” she said. “I didn’t ask him about them, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Then why are you asking me if you won’t ask George?”
“Because I like to torture you. Of course, you can keep all your Eton secrets, which are probably all wrong anyway. You didn’t really think I would ask you seriously about that sort of thing?”
He smiled. “No. I mean—I wasn’t sure.”
“Even though you just asked me to help you punch people.”
“That is not precisely what I said, but yes. And it’s still different.”
“I suppose,” she said, and returned to a more restful position as her brother returned.
The Darcys and the Kincaids—minus their children (Geoffrey was a last-minute decision)—arrived in Ireland to find the Bellamont house quite different from the way they had seen it after the wedding. Not only was a stone chapel under construction, but the house had its halls lined with bookcases and pictures—mainly of saints. The furniture was wooden, some of it carved. “Grégoire’s really obsessed wid t’is carpentry business,” said an increasing Caitlin MacKenna, to which her husband smiled. She walked about the house and grounds as she wished, but did not seem eager to do much of it. Their dinners were cooked by a chef, for which she was apologetic, despite the fact that none of them expected it of her. “I would do deh cookin,’” she said, “but ’s hard ta stay on me feet.”
Their rooms were not grand, but they were clean, and they were decorated. Grégoire and Caitlin had dedicated themselves to making the house their own. It was not the grand sort of renovations like the ones that Lady Kincaid planned for her house outside Cambridge. The drapes were not made of the finest materials, the carpets did not necessarily match, and there was less organization to everything, but everywhere, there was a touch of something that was clearly either Grégoire’s or Caitlin’s handiwork.
Darcy looked at the writing desk in the study, which faced the window and a view of the ocean, and picked up one of the wooden figures on the shelf. It was a man with a beard and a halo surrounding his head.
“I’m not very good,” Grégoire said, “but I rather like the process.”
Darcy replaced the figurine. “This desk looks familiar.”
“It is not the one from the Isle of Man,” Grégoire replied, “but it has a similar arrangement. I do like looking out at the ocean when I write.”
“I’ve been reading your columns,” he said. “The paper will protect you?”
“If there is anything to protect. I doubt new ramblings about the saints and modern day religion would upset anyone.” He smiled distantly. “Then again, I have always been naive about what is upsetting to people. Especially the church. Yes, they will protect my anonymity.” Grégoire had published several sermonlike columns in a Catholic paper in Dublin, under the name A Poor Sinner, despite the fact that Darcy would describe him as neither.They were philosophical arguments, generally rather uplifting, and had some popularity with the inspirational crowd, apparently. “I have written nothing controversial and have no intention to do so. Nonetheless, if the church wishes to say something to me, I must only remind them that I have been excommunicated from my order, and that will end the conversation.”
“How convenient.”
“Very,” his brother said. “The local daily in Belfast has also picked up the column.”
“You will be careful?”
“I will not make that promise,” Grégoire said, “as I always seem to break it. But no, Darcy, I am not making trouble.”
“Good,” Darcy said with a tone of finality, “because I’m sick of getting you out of it.”
They were fortunate to have come far enough to laugh about it.
Precisely nine months after her marriage to Grégoire Bellamont, Caitlin’s labor pains began. That she had become with child at all stumped the local doctors. They were all encouragement. Grégoire did not announce the pregnancy until after Christmas, when they were sure.
What he was less thrilled about was the prospect of staying downstairs with his brother and brother-in-law throughout his wife’s travails. Darcy finally agreed to go upstairs and ask his wife how things were proceeding. He was within twenty feet of the door when he heard a steady stream of sailor’s curses in the form of one long shriek. His ears were still burning when he returned to the study. “She is fine,” he said, pouring himself a drink.
“That feckin’ gobshite! I should’ve na’even ’ad kids—’s what the doc said,” a distressed Caitlin said to Elizabeth, her brogue getting heavier as she became generally less lucid, to the point where not even Georgiana or the midwife’s soothing voice could begin to calm her. “I ’ad ta marry a stupid feckin’ saint with ’is stupid feckin’ miracles and ’ave a stupid feckin’ miracle kid! I’d like ta stab ’im in the stomach—”
Elizabeth pressed a cloth to Caitlin’s brow.“You would hardly be the first wife in this condition to curse her husband.” Despite her distress and her reddened face, Caitlin still looked too young for all of this—one and twenty. The same age Elizabeth had been when she had given birth to Geoffrey. Had she really been that young?
“For feck’s sake, let dat idiot up ’ere and I’ll feckin’ do it meself!”
The midwife encouraged her otherwise, and by the end of the day, the wailing of another person, who had never wailed before, filled the Bellamont house. A slightly inebriated (maybe more than slightly) Grégoire bounded up the stairs before either of his brothers could follow him and charged into the room. Fortunately, there had been enough time for the baby to be properly cleaned and bundled before the appearance of his father. Grégoire stumbled at the sight, and was quickly grabbed by Kincaid, who helped him into the chair to receive the baby, which he was informed was a son.
“Drink dis, ma’rm,” the midwife said as the others offered their congratulations and excused themselves from the immediate presence of a very exhausted Caitlin Bellamont, who could only crane her head at the sight of her husband and the child wrapped in a blanket in his arms.
Grégoire’s first response was a laugh, as he very carefully released one hand to stroke the few strands of brown hair atop his child’s pink head. “If I had known that such a wondrous thing could exist on earth, I would have sa
id my prayers of thanksgiving so much harder throughout my life. I certainly shall now.” He looked to his wife, who smiled weakly back at him, her voice, for now, silenced.
The very next day, the local priest baptized Patrick Bellamont in the newly consecrated, still half-constructed chapel. Lord and Lady Kincaid stood as godparents. The service was basically the same as an Anglican one, and little Patrick was as oblivious to it as any newborn. Caitlin, who leaned on her husband, had knitted the white outfit herself the month before.
Despite the expected exhaustion, Mrs. Bellamont recovered her health relatively quickly. The largest of the gifts, which had been packed most carefully and remained hidden in the carriage for days, was a wooden cradle with the Darcy seal on it, a little aged but otherwise in perfect condition. “It might have held my husband, for all we know,” Elizabeth said to Grégoire. “Or Mr. Wickham. There were only a few cradles at Pemberley that we could find.”
The Darcys were lodged in the room next to the new parents, and overheard an argument—not a mean one, but with loud voices—between husband and wife over the hiring of a nurse.
“I can raise me own laddie!”
“I’m not saying you cannot—”
“I’m not sick!”
“I was not implying that you were—”
Elizabeth had to glance at her husband and share a laugh at the experience of his younger brother and his wife. After two nights, Mrs. Bellamont relented and agreed that maybe another pair of female hands was “a good idea.”
On the final night of their stay, Darcy woke very early, long before daylight. Looking at the grandfather clock he had sent from Pemberley as a wedding gift, he saw it was half past four, later than the earliest monastic office of the day, Vigils. Grégoire was up, of course. Darcy found his younger brother sitting in the study, facing the window. In one hand was a pen, scribbling on paper, and the other balanced his sleeping son in his lap. Darcy approached cautiously.
The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Page 39