Upon returning one day from a meeting with a banker, Fitzwilliam found Elizabeth waiting for him with more eagerness than usual, a letter in her hands. She was not, however, in tears, so that was a good sign. “What is it?”
“Jane,” she said, but he had recognized her sister’s handwriting from afar. They moved into the study, and the servant shut the door behind them before Elizabeth started speaking. “She suggests that I visit Longbourn sooner than we had anticipated going, while you finish your business here. Everyone else is fine, but Mama is out of sorts.”
“She is ill?”
“No—not precisely. She just—well, Jane is at a loss to describe it, but her habits have changed. She says odd things.”
“What does your father say?”
“He actually thinks her temperament has improved, or so he said to Jane—but he also called for a doctor.”
“Did he call for Dr. Maddox?”
“Darcy, Dr. Maddox is not our personal doctor, at our beck and call for every minor scrape.You know that he is swamped with his own work.”
“So Mr. Bennet thinks it is serious enough for a doctor, but not serious enough for Dr. Maddox.That is a good sign, I think.” He put his hand around his wife’s shoulder, and she leaned into his embrace. “I’m sure that if it were serious, there would be an urgent letter to everyone. Why don’t you go on ahead with the children? I can be finished in a few days and then I will join you.” He kissed her on her forehead. “Your mother is not as young as she used to be, but she is not obviously ill or suffering. Go see her, and you will feel better.”
She nodded, but stayed in his arms for a long time.
Dr. Maddox appreciated the irony that he sat behind the very same desk at the Royal Society of Medicine where, fifteen years earlier, the man who had just approved his license had told him to stick himself in a dark hole and not come out. Brian had ruined their family fortune, and their reputation had sunk with it; the ink wasn’t dry on the license certificate before young Daniel Maddox was not fit to show his face in decent society and was carrying around more debt than he could pay. But they couldn’t revoke his license, and he had survived, and here he was, interviewing applicants for the royal service.
It had been two long weeks. He was a man of high professional standards, and he knew the Prince Regent expected nothing less of him. He was not willing to take people based on their reputations; he quizzed them on technique and found them lacking. Some of King George III’s former doctors applied, and were furious at being turned down by this young upstart. Anyone who mentioned bleeding as a method of treating fever was immediately dropped; the Prince hated being bled and Dr. Maddox did not believe in it, except in rare cases.Also, he wasn’t going to have the Prince Regent sitting in filthy water at Bath, so those experts were turned away. By the end of the first week, he wondered whether he was being too exacting. The new man, after all, would essentially be in charge of resuscitating the Prince after his nightly overindulgences. But then he reminded himself that eventually the prince was bound to come to more serious harm from his intemperate habits. Also, the new doctor would likely replace Dr. Maddox down the line, when he became incapable of working because of his failing eyesight.
He began looking through the applications of surgeons with licenses, having been one himself and having a healthy respect for a doctor willing to get his hands bloody. Most were too young, or blatantly lied about their age before showing up for the interview.
He had the card of a young doctor who had been a surgeon at Waterloo. Many people had made that claim, but he backed it up in writing. He was young but experienced in fieldwork. His degree was from St. Andrews, a very respectable medical school, and his license was on record.
Dr. Maddox took a fresh cup of tea before sitting down opposite the visibly nervous Dr. Bertrand. The man was young, maybe five and twenty, but not ridiculously so. He seemed even more edgy than he should be. “So Dr. Bertrand,” Maddox said after the formalities, “you treated the wounded at Waterloo. Were you on the battlefield or in the tents?”
“Both, sir.”
“I assume you didn’t keep track of the number of men you treated. What did you do to fight infection among the wounded?”
It wasn’t a normal interview question. Dr. Bertrand was quiet for a moment before answering, “Honey.”
“Honey?”
“Yes, sir.” He went on to explain, “It’s a temporary method, but it keeps dirt from the wound.”
“Old medieval trick, isn’t it?” Dr. Maddox said, trying to contemplate how it would work. It did make sense, however ridiculous. “What were the results?”
“I did not have time to do a general study, but I think the rate of infection was lower. Though…a few delirious men licked their wounds.”
“Gives a whole new meaning to the phase, doesn’t it?”
Dr. Bertrand finally smiled. “Yes, sir, it does.”
Dr. Maddox leaned back. “So you did your surgical studies at St. Andrews.” He looked at Bertrand and at his application again. “How is Professor Maurice? Is he still around?”
“He is, sir. I heard him lecture on sutures.”
“Yes, I remember him.” He added, “He’s not a professor at St. Andrews. He’s a professor at the Academy in Paris, where I studied.”
Bertrand sank. He had been caught.
“Your parents were French nobility, I assume?”
“Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir. I’ll go. Please don’t tell—”
Dr. Maddox raised his hand. “Now, now, I’m not going to hold your family’s history against you.You are applying because of your medical skills and little else. Now please sit down and answer my question.”
Dr. Bertrand swallowed, and did so. “My parents had an estate near Toulouse. During the Revolution, they expatriated to England. When I was eighteen, they repatriated because Napoleon had suffered his first defeat, and they felt he was on the way out. So I completed my education in France, but I didn’t feel at home there. I had been born and raised an Englishman. After the war, I came back.”
“We have no prejudices against French doctors here. You are well aware of that. French culture is the most fashionable culture there is. This has been true for centuries. So the conclusion I must draw from the falsehoods on your résumé is that you were a surgeon at Waterloo for the other side.”
Clearly terrified, Bertrand nodded.
“Well, you’d do best not to mention that if the Duke of Wellington is ever in the room.” He closed the folder with the application and took a sip of his tea. “I assume from your soldiering days that you are capable of lifting a grown man and carrying him?”
“Y-Yes, sir.”
“Good. I warn you, the Prince is very fat. Not as bovine as the Courier would have you believe, but not far from it. When he falls, he usually breaks whatever is beneath him, and it takes two men to get him up, so you’ll need someone else to help you. That is assuming you want the position of babysitting the Prince Regent every night while he drinks himself into oblivion.” Before Bertrand could answer, he continued, “There will, of course, be a field test next week. I’ll send my card with instructions.” He rose, and offered his hand. “And no, I won’t say anything. Honey.Why didn’t I think of that? Exemplary thinking.”
The young doctor shook his hand. “Thank you, sir.” He seemed to notice that half a finger was missing, but he said nothing. “Thank you very much.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Dr. Maddox said, and was not lying.
One could never go home again. Every time Elizabeth Darcy came to Longbourn, it had undergone some new renovation. Mary’s inheritance, in Mr. Bennet’s possession, was no small sum, and on the interest alone they could do as they pleased to make the estate comfortable. Although it was true that it now had fewer occupants than ever, it also hosted more guests who needed the space, so another wing had been added. The real question was how Mr. Collins expected to keep it all up when he inherited the estate. He could not sell it,
and Joseph Bennet was not legitimate and had no claim to it. Mr. Bennet dismissed these concerns with his staunch refusal to keel over.
Mr. Bennet was very old, but in good health, and his pattern of living had not altered much in the many years since his daughters (most of them) had married and moved away. He read, he ate, and on occasion he went to church. Joseph Bennet was eight, and between his grandfather and his mother, he had two accomplished tutors.
Mrs. Bennet had been sad to see Lydia go when her favorite daughter remarried, and she spent much time talking with Mrs. Philips and the Lucases, and whoever else was available. With the war over, there were fewer redcoats these days, just men in shabby versions of their old uniforms, drinking and making trouble. Otherwise, life in Hertfordshire continued as normal, only thirty miles from London but far away in its way of life.
“Aunt Darcy!” cried a horde of children, who were the first to greet her carriage. Joseph Bennet, the Bingley twins, and Edmund Bingley came charging out the front doors of Longbourn before the servants could stop them.
“I am glad to be the object of so much attention,” she laughed as they surrounded her before going to greet their cousins. Then she could finally turn her attention to Jane, who was following her children. “I came as soon as I could. Mr. Darcy will be here in a few days.”
“It is not urgent,” her sister said. “Though it is good to see you.” She threw her arms around Elizabeth and the two hugged.
As the children were rounded up, the two sisters walked inside, where Mrs. Bennet was in the sitting room, working on some new embroidery. “Oh, my dear Lizzy! How are you?”
“Very well, Mama,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Darcy will arrive in a few days.”
“Mr. Darcy! That insufferable man!” Mrs. Bennet said, and then smiled pleasantly. “Jane, where are the children?”
“Outside, Mama.”
“And the grandchildren?”
At a loss, Jane said, “Also outside. They will be in soon.”
“They shouldn’t stay out—the sun will ruin their complexions. You know how Georgiana freckles!” she said. Georgiana was in Ireland, but that didn’t matter to her. “I must find Edmund. Edmund!” she shouted, and walked slowly down the hallway, in the direction of Mr. Bennet’s study.
“Edmund?” Elizabeth said, picking up the dropped embroidery circle. The stitches seem to be randomly placed, a spider’s web of confusion.
“I know! She’s been doing that since I arrived.” Jane frowned and then dismissed the servants. “The doctor said she may have had a stroke.”
“A stroke! When?”
“We don’t know. Sometime after Mary left. It hasn’t inhibited her speech or movement, so it was minor, and Papa said he did not notice it for a few days.”
“Can anything be done?”
“No, but it won’t get worse, unless she has another one. Oh, Lizzy, these things are so unpredictable!” Jane leaned on her shoulder.
“Now, what’s this? Unexpected guests?” said Mr. Bennet, announcing his presence in the doorway with a heavy tap of his cane.
“Papa!” Elizabeth said and hugged her father. He was perhaps a little older (and shorter, it seemed) and more wrinkled, but very much alive. “I came as soon as I heard.”
“Thank you, my dear,” he said, taking a seat in the armchair. “I admit I did not notice anything amiss until your mother started calling me by my Christian name. The last time she did that must have been around the time that Kitty was born!” He chuckled. “Well, there’s nothing to be done about it. The doctor said it could have been much worse. She has no significant loss of memory, although she gets confused about names and dates. And you will find her nerves in good working order, perhaps the best they’ve been in years! So, my daughters, the news is not all bad.”
“Has anyone told her?”
“She might suspect. But we haven’t told her. It would just embarrass her,” Jane answered. “Or so the doctor said. We may apply for a second opinion, but there really is nothing to be done for a stroke.”
“A very minor one, he said,” Mr. Bennet added, “Though if I have to hear about Netherfield being let one more time, I may have one myself!”
“Papa!” they said together.
He sighed. “It seems the only one who is allowed to joke around here since this happened is Mrs. Bennet herself! I know it gave us all a good scare—and still does. But, my dears, watch carefully. Mrs. Bennet!” he called.
“There you are!” she said, re-entering with the children tugging at her dress. “Where have you been?”
“I’ve been looking for you, my dear. I assumed you would be in your own sitting room.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you. Please forgive me, my darling husband.” She leaned over and kissed him on his head more tenderly than they had ever seen Mrs. Bennet act around Mr. Bennet.
“You are forgiven, my dear wife,” he said. “I believe you will be besieged by grandchildren if something is not found for them to eat before long.”
“Of course.” She kissed him again, which he returned, and left. The children who were old enough to bow or curtsy did in passing to their mothers and grandfather.
“You see?” Mr. Bennet said with a sly grin. “It’s not all bad. If she’d lost her wits entirely, she might be wondering why her betrothed was an old man!”
CHAPTER 7
The Protégé
WHEN DR. ANDREW BERTRAND received the card, the instructions were confounding: 11 p.m., outside the Royal Society of Medicine house. Wear your worst clothing and bring best equipment.
Not one to question orders, he did precisely that, putting together his oldest, most threadbare outfit aside from his field uniform (which would hardly have been appropriate). Fortunately, his parents were not around. They had left long ago for their usual tour of evening entertainment. Aging ex-nobility, they lived the life expected of them in town—that is, well beyond their means. The most fashionable pastime of the rich was the avocation of incurring debt.This meant that he was unlikely to inherit anything other than his name, so the young ex-viscount had decided to make his own way. This post would legitimatize his profession in his parents’ eyes—although the way that he was dressed at the moment would not have impressed them.
He had been surprised to discover when he applied for the sought-after position that the man making the decisions was no older than forty-five or perhaps fifty. Bertrand had expected an old man in a wig who had served the king. When he asked around, he found Dr. Maddox had a good reputation although he had never published any papers or spent much time at the clubs the other doctors frequented. Also, he never gossiped about his patients. So they knew little about him and didn’t care much for him.
Either way, Maddox seemed a reasonable man to be employed under and the position was no doubt a comfortable one, so Dr. Bertrand had no objections and made it to the society house right on time. The doors were shut, and the doctor was sitting on a bench, hatless and dressed in black. “Ready, Dr. Bertrand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you armed?”
“Yes, sir. A small pistol.” It would have been foolish to go about London without one.
Dr. Maddox stood up. “I have always believed in the benevolence of humanity. From that axiom, I have earned most of my scars. Nonetheless, I can’t bring myself to actually use a weapon, so I am glad you brought one,” he said, and called for their carriage.
They rode in silence for some time before stopping at the edge of East London, where one wouldn’t want to be seen in such a nice carriage. “Wait here,” Dr. Maddox told his driver. “Now, Dr. Bertrand, I assume you’ve had all of your vaccinations.”
“I have, sir.”
Dr. Maddox had left his walking stick inside the carriage, and he carried only his satchel. He reached into his coat and removed a piece of paper. “I know the street at least. Perhaps not the exact address, but we shall find it. And take off your hat—you look like a man of wealth.”
B
lushing, Bertrand did so, and left it with the driver as they proceeded up the foul-smelling streets of some of the worst sections of London, well outside of the Town proper. “Now, whatever I say, you just follow my lead,” Dr. Maddox said as they came to a wooden door that was nearly off its hinges. “Here we are.” There was no doorknob, so he knocked with his fist. “Hello? Mrs. Potter?”
There was some noise before a fat woman in an apron opened the door, holding up a candlestick. “Who is it?”
“You requested a surgeon for a Mr. Potter,” he said. “I am Dr. Maddox and this is Mr. Bertrand.”
She looked at them both skeptically. “I can’ afford two doctors.”
“The fee is the same, I assure you. Mr. Bertrand is my apprentice.”
“A shilling.”
“Yes.”
She hesitated and then stepped back to let them in. The apartment had maybe three rooms—a kitchen, some kind of sitting room, and a bedroom.The sitting room was outfitted with cots and there were children sleeping on them. When some of them stirred, they were hushed by a stream of curses from their mother as she led the doctors into the bedroom.
Sitting up was a man in a bloodied white shirt, with an old soldier’s jacket from the Continental War over his shoulders. His beard was brown, his hair filthy. One of his arms was cut off about halfway up the forearm. “I can’ afford two.”
“There’s no extra charge, Mr. Potter,” Dr. Maddox said, bowing to him. “I am Dr. Maddox and this is Mr. Bertrand. Do you mind if we look at your wound?”
“Just make it stop with the gunk, wouldja?”
Dr. Maddox pulled a chair close to the bed. “Light, please, Mr. Bertrand.” Bertrand held up the light as close as possible as Dr. Maddox removed his glasses and looked very closely at the wound. It was an old amputation, probably done hastily on the battlefield. The sewing job was only adequate, and it showed. Parts of the arm were dead or dying slowly. Dr. Maddox covered his mouth with a cloth and probed the wound with a metal tong, and though there was no clear opening, pus seeped out as Mr. Potter cried out. Without flinching, Dr. Maddox let the pus drip into a small tin, and held it up to the light for them both to inspect. “A moment, please, Mr. Potter.” He stood up and they walked to the corner of the room. “Your assessment?”
The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Page 6