The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy

by Marsha Altman

  “He wasn’t sewn correctly in the first place, and whatever happened since, the limb’s dying. It needs to be done properly.”

  Dr. Maddox nodded. “How much would you amputate?”

  “I would try to do it cleanly around the elbow. I’ve done that before—I think it looks better at a natural stopping place.”

  “You’ve done it before? In the precise place?”

  “I almost always went for just under the elbow and sewed it there.”

  Again, Dr. Maddox nodded. “Get your saw ready. If you don’t have one, I do.” He put his glasses back on and turned to Mr. Potter as he opened his bag on the dresser. “Mr. Potter, my apprentice and I must operate on your arm again.”

  “Oh, God in heaven,” Potter said. “I just—I don’ think I can do that again.”

  “It will be different this time, I assure you. I’m going to give you something to make it far less painful, and we’re going to cut it cleanly. If you keep the wound uncontaminated and have the stitches removed properly, it should heal just fine.” He removed several tiny bottles of powder and measured out part of their contents before pouring them into a small bottle of water. He put a lid on the bottle and shook the contents. “Do you have any other amputations?”

  “No, Doctor.”

  “Good, good. Have you been bleeding a lot recently?”

  “No, just this awful mush.”

  “Have you been drinking excessively in the past few hours?”

  “Just a little gin maybe…I don’t know, an hour ago.”

  Dr. Maddox poured his mixture onto a large spoon. “Open your mouth. And yes, I know, it tastes very bad. For that, I apologize.” He gave him two spoonfuls, neither of which Mr. Potter cared for, but he put up little protest. “All right, here’s some sugar to change the taste.” He fed him a spoon of sugar. “Now you may feel a little drowsy—there is no reason to fight it. Tell me, under whom did you serve?”

  As Bertrand readied his equipment, he watched Dr. Maddox make conversation with Mr. Potter, who had been a private at Waterloo and been shot in the hand, which was gangrenous within a week. He had been treated in the tents in France before returning to the mainland. Over the next few minutes, his answers became increasingly slurred to the point where he was incoherent. “It’s time,” Dr. Maddox said.

  Dr. Bertrand was ready. This was different from the battlefield—despite Mr. Potter’s screams, as drugs could have only so much worth. It was rather quiet. There was no one around him shouting orders in French, or people running back and forth. Dr. Maddox sat quietly, watching his work while holding Mr. Potter’s hand, keeping one finger on his wrist for a pulse. “You’re doing well, Mr. Potter,” he would occasionally say, even if Potter gave no answer. His voice was remarkably gentle.

  Bertrand was used to doing quick work, and even at his leisure it didn’t take long to make a clean cut. Stitching it was actually a longer and more complex process, but he managed that in a few minutes.

  “Pour this over it,” Dr. Maddox said, handing him another vial. “It’s not honey, but it will do.”

  Bertrand smiled. Mr. Potter, meanwhile, had actually fallen asleep, and was snoring. Dr. Maddox wiped his face as Bertrand packed up his items. Mrs. Potter entered as they were tying the final bandages. “I will be back or send my assistant in a week to remove the stitches and check on the patient. Don’t give him anything tonight, and be liberal with the alcohol tomorrow, but no more than two glasses an hour.”

  “He’s sleepin’!”

  “He is drugged. Let him sleep as long as possible—he won’t feel very well when he wakes up, but he will live.”

  She paid him the shilling, and they made their exit.They walked back down the street in a casual stroll. “I’m sorry for the demotion,” Dr. Maddox said, “but she wouldn’t have believed two doctors were charging only a shilling.”

  “Why were we charging only a shilling?”

  “Because that’s the going rate for surgeons, and I have no desire to interfere with their market, having been one for many years myself.”

  “What did you give him to make him so peaceful?”

  “A mixture of raw opium and some other ingredients to make it drinkable. With the quality of opium I tend to use, and the amount I gave him, we barely broke even tonight.” He handed the coin to Bertrand. “You did most of the work.”

  “I’ll give you this back for that recipe, Dr. Maddox.”

  The doctor smiled. “I don’t give it out often. It is highly addictive. You must use it sparingly. But of course, only the best for the Crown.”

  Ahead, they found the carriage waiting, and began the ride back to the decent part of the city.“I should be available to do the return visit next week. If not, I’ll send you a note. This is why I requested a partial retirement, anyway. I wanted to do more charitable work, not pick up drunken lords.” He shook Bertrand’s hand. “Good work, Dr. Bertrand. If you can stand it, you can have the job I just so lovingly described.”

  “Gladly,” Dr. Bertrand replied.

  “Mama!”

  Jane stepped out of Longbourn’s doors to greet her eldest daughter, running toward her. She barely had time to get her arms out before Georgie embraced her mother. She was twelve and growing quickly. Her expression of affection was rare and therefore all the more felt, regardless of how long she had been gone. Georgiana Bingley was not always an easy child to manage, sometimes strangely compliant and other times disobedient to the very end. No one knew quite how she would take to going out—either she would be begging for it or be dragged kicking and screaming into the social sphere. “I missed you, too, dear.”

  As Georgie greeted her Aunt Darcy, Jane turned to Nadezhda Maddox, emerging from the carriage. “Your Highness.”

  “Mrs. Bingley,” Nadezhda said. She was dressed in standard Romanian clothing, which was far less revealing than their gowns. “Thank you for letting me take your daughter. It would have been lonely without her.”

  “I hope that she wasn’t any trouble.”

  “None. She is a treasure.” She curtsied to Elizabeth.“Mrs. Darcy.”

  “Your Highness.”

  “Would you like to stay for a few days?” Jane offered. “All the children will be here tomorrow for Edmund’s birthday anyway.”

  What Nadezhda did with her time when Brian was not with her, they did not know. She was not part of the London social circles. She spent time with her Maddox nephews and niece, but the month-long trip to Ireland was the longest she had spent with any of them. “I would be honored.”

  The Maddoxes arrived in time for Edmund’s birthday, which had somehow turned into a regular social gathering in Hertfordshire. Dr. Maddox was immediately consulted for his expertise, despite Mr. Bennet’s words against it, and he spoke with Mrs. Bennet for some time before reaching the same conclusion that the original doctor had.

  “She probably had a minor stroke,” he said. “She will not get worse. She will probably stay just as she is now.”

  “Is there anything we can do to prevent another one?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Darcy. Cerebral apoplexy is impossible to predict. Though, considering that it is likely her brain was involved, you’d best try not to upset her nerves.”

  Despite their concern, nothing could prevent the former Bennet sisters from bursting into laughter at that statement. Mr. Bennet stood up, putting aside his glass, and said, “Well, I’d better be off to bed, then. Everything I say and do upsets her nerves. But wait! Every time I disappear, it also upsets her because she comes looking for me! So I guess I must sit quietly in her presence and say or do nothing. A precarious position, is it not, Dr. Maddox?”

  “Indeed,” Dr. Maddox said.

  Edmund Bingley celebrated his birthday without his father but surrounded by his siblings, cousins, aunt, and uncles. Georgiana Bingley had done the same in March. Bingley said that a return before late summer was highly unlikely, but he would try. Jane did her best to hide her melancholia, and the
others did their best not to appear to observe it and be supportive all the same.

  As the adults sat down for luncheon, Mr. Bennet announced, “I do hope my far-traveling son will return soon, selfish as it may be for me to say it, because I have decided to hold a celebration next month for all of my daughters and their families, and my brothers and sisters. In other words, an army will march on Hertfordshire. We’d best alert the authorities beforehand, so they don’t become alarmed.”

  “What is the occasion, Papa?” Elizabeth asked.

  “I am going to attempt to do something I have never done before, and doubt very much I will ever do again. I am going to turn seventy. And do we not love to celebrate round numbers?”

  This came as some surprise, as Mr. Bennet was not in the habit of mentioning his age or celebrating his birthday, and none present (aside from Mrs. Bennet, it was presumed) even knew it. Mr. Darcy gladly initiated a toast to the idea.

  “Edmund!” Mrs. Bennet said. “That means our anniversary—”

  “It will be almost half a century. Fifty years of me hiding in the study and you talking about ‘our girls.’” He paused. “My goodness, now I do feel old.”

  Their laughter was broken only by the doorbell. Mr. Bennet nodded for a servant to answer it, and that man returned with a package. “For Mrs. Bingley,” he announced.

  The paper wrapping was worn and dusty, and there were stamps all over it—but no return address. She tore it open immediately to reveal a cover letter. “It’s from Mr. Bingley!” she said. After scanning it, she read it aloud:

  Dearest Jane,

  By the time you read this, I will, hopefully, be speeding home. At the time that I am writing this, however, I am sitting on a hill overlooking the Ganges, which is a river in India much larger and longer than the Thames. Across from me is a Hindoo temple, where they worship a god with the head of an elephant. The sun is setting and it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, marred only by the fact that my family is not here with me.

  Enclosed are letters for everyone and gifts for the children. Do apologize for me for missing their birthdays and assure them that their birthdays will come around next year at the same time. Mr. Maddox also is reminding me that we have to move now, because it gets terribly buggy here at night, and we are going to retreat behind a screen. He sends his love to everyone.

  Yours,

  Charles Bingley

  P.S.A man tried to buy our daughters for sixteen goats but I refused. I hope you find this to your approval.

  It was hard to recall when, of late, there had been such a display of joy at the Bennet table. Jane was in tears when she removed the cover letter to reveal an entire sketchbook of drawings, the last being no doubt the scene he had described, complete with tiny figures in the corner that were crudely drawn caricatures of Mr. Bingley and Mr. Maddox, with CB and BM written under them. It was passed around with great care. It would be inked and colored in by a professional when he returned home. The buildings on the pages were something out of a fairy tale, with unimaginable shapes and spirals. There were also letters for everyone, including Nadezhda from her husband, and the luncheon was recessed so that the children could be called in.

  “Just in time for your birthday,” Jane said as she handed Edmund his gift box and kissed him on the cheek. “As your father promised.”

  Edmund Bingley, now seven, opened his box to reveal a small set of wooden toy soldiers. Unlike his cousins’ sets, these soldiers were Indian ones, painted in bright colors and carrying bayonets. He immediately abandoned the adults to start setting them up on the drawing room table. The twins, who had their father home for their birthday, received puzzle boxes made of a strange wood, and spent hours figuring them out.

  Georgiana Bingley opened her box to reveal a locket set on a chain. The locket was a tiny glass box contained in a metal case, which was molded like the temples of India. She quickly discovered the upper spire could be pushed down like a button, but it did nothing but click. She was about to set aside the box when she found a note, which she read.

  “What does it say?” her mother inquired.

  “It says it’s magic,” Georgie said. “He said the man in the shop made it a charm, and it will work only for me, and only when saying one name.”

  “Whose name?” Elizabeth said.

  “Papa says I have to figure it out for myself,” Georgie said as her mother helped her get the locket around her neck and the clasp fastened in the back. It was just the right size for her. “Georgiana Bingley,” she said, and pushed down. Nothing. “Charles Bingley.” Nothing. “Fine. Charlie Bingley the Younger.” Still nothing. “Jane Bingley.” Nothing. “Jane Bennet.” People interrupted with suggestions, which varied from “Grandfather Bennet” to “King George III,” and she cycled through all of them, and the names of her siblings, and the names of her aunts and uncles. “Her Highness Princess Nadezhda.” The box remained unchanged. “Nadi-sama.” Still nothing. She leaned against her mother on the couch, clicking away with increasing annoyance.

  Geoffrey Darcy, whose birthday had also been missed, received a wooden dog that looked just like his, painted to resemble it exactly. He turned his attention back to his cousin. “Does it have to be a person’s name? Or is it supposed to be the name of a place?”

  She looked at him and then back at the locket.“Geoffrey Darcy.” It lit up in a brief array of circling lights of all colors—red, and then orange, and then pink, and then purple and blue—until shutting off after about ten seconds. “Yay! Thank you!” She hugged her cousin, who had no idea what he had done precisely, before running off to show the rest of her family.

  Geoffrey turned to his Aunt Bingley, who only said, “I have no idea, either.Your uncle has a rather strange sense of humor.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Primate Concern

  JULY WAS PLEASANTLY QUIET for Dr. Maddox. The Prince Regent was in Brighton, and for once, he was not. There were no emergencies to call him there, and Dr. Bertrand’s letters indicated that their patient was still in his fine, fat form.

  The summer was not particularly hot, but bad enough that most of society had departed with the season to their summer homes and coastal resorts. Daniel and Caroline had the names of a couple of places but had no time to look at any of them, and were due to be in the area for Mr. Bennet’s birthday in a few weeks. Nadezhda stayed with them, and on especially hot days they went up to her house just outside London, where at least the air was breathable.

  “Why is it that Aunt Maddox can shoot a gun and you can’t?” Frederick asked his father, who was sitting in a lawn chair, watching Nadezhda pick off fowl with stunning accuracy.

  “I never learned. I don’t care much for the sport.” He didn’t want to add that he also couldn’t see that far. “I mend things, not kill them. Most of the time, anyway.”

  “Then who’s going to teach me?”

  “Your Uncle Bingley, I suppose. Brian’s a terrible shot.” He looked over Frederick’s shoulder and called out, “Daniel! Stay where I can see you!”

  Danny Maddox waved his stick around and came back up the hill. “There are toads by the water. Can I keep one?”

  “That wouldn’t be very nice to the toad. I don’t think it would care for London.”

  “It’s really hot in London. Is that why your plants always die?”

  He sighed. “I think so, my boy.”

  In the evenings, it was cooler, and Town was strangely quiet. Frederick didn’t want to be read to anymore, or that was what he said, but sometimes he would sneak into Emily’s room and listen to his father reading to her.

  Upon his unofficial retirement, the servants fully expected the master would spend most of his day at a club. But even though Dr. Maddox belonged to a few, he went out only to lectures and to see patients, mainly charity cases. During the day, he spent much of his time in the laboratory, where the heat and foul air had not succeeded in killing every plant he was growing. The laboratory was of endless interest to his
children, mainly because they weren’t allowed inside except to look. When he heard a low knock on the door one afternoon, he called out, “What is it?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Not right now.” He was mashing up a raw stem of poppy, and his mouth was covered with a scarf so that he would not accidentally blow on it. “Later.”

  “Mama says it’s important!”

  “One moment and I’ll be out.”

  “She said it’s really important.”

  He spilled the contents into ajar and put the jar and the rest of the root in the bottom drawer, which he locked. He opened the door. “What—?”

  Brian Maddox was holding Emily in his arms. “Your child for your opium.”

  “That’s a tough one. Opium is very expensive these days.”

  “Papa!”

  “I told you your father was capable of joking,” Brian said. He set her down so that he could embrace his brother. “Hello, Danny.”

  “Welcome back,” he said. “I hope you brought Bingley with you.”

  “He’s downstairs.”

  “I hope he’s in one piece.”

  “One overly excited piece, yes.”

  Dr. Maddox stepped into the hallway, locking the door behind him. “You look good. What kind of trouble have you been in?”

  “Mostly, I was busy keeping my business partner out of trouble. Ask him about the tiger sometime.”

  “You know that your wife is here?”