“Perhaps that is how you made it through medical school, and it does answer the mystery of how you ever obtained a license or the title of Physician General. Yet believe it or not, I earned my degree the old-fashioned way: by being an apt pupil and having true skill. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to organize my instruments and medicines. You know, those necessary implements that real physicians use.”
George bowed and turned away, long-legged steps echoing across the wooden walls as he headed for the far stairwell. Dr. McIntyre fell into his colleague’s wake, leaving the sputtering and fuming Dr. White where he stood in the middle of the hall. It was at the door, George’s hand on the knob and twisting, when White shouted his final volley.
“Mark my words, Darcy. One of these days, your arrogance and blunt tongue will bring you grief. I sincerely hope to be there when it happens and, better yet, to cause it.”
George did not respond or break his stride. They stepped onto the outside landing and unhesitatingly descended the stairs to the first floor landing. Only then did George slow his pace. He inhaled deeply of the fresh, clean air smelling of camphire flowers and the sea, the sunlight and cool breeze drying the perspiration off his brow and calming his anger.
“Yer self-control surprised me, Darcy. I expected ye to clobber him. I would have if he insulted me like that.”
George shrugged, the gesture at odds with the thunderous expression on his face. “Only because I do not want to miss our departure. Besides, he is a bellicose fool and not worth the time or effort. Certainly not worth the risk of damaging my hands on his ugly face.” He shrugged again, this time convincingly, and stopped walking. “Truth is, McIntyre, men like White anger me because of their incompetence and how that affects those who are infirm and foolishly relying on them. At times I have wanted to physically beat some quack for maltreatment, but I never have. What would that accomplish? I would get clapped in chains and they would go on hurting innocent people. The problem is bigger than individuals such as White.” He shook his head, and they resumed their course along the wide veranda leading toward the front of the building. “Ultimately, I am not sure if my skills will change anything, even as excellent as they are, but I intend to do everything in my power. Losing my temper is counterproductive, no matter how good it might feel to bash Dr. White’s teeth loose or knock him onto his fat, useless ass—”
The double S morphed into a sound resembling a hissing snake as they rounded the corner to be drawn to a halt in words and momentum.
Standing not two feet away from George was Miss Chambers. She was leaning against the flat railing at the corner of the veranda, one hand wrapped around a curved post and the other toying with a diamond pendant hanging from the velvet ribbon encircling her slender throat. She was staring straight into his eyes, a small smile dancing on her lips, and instantly George knew that she had not only heard his diatribe, but also agreed with his vision of Dr. White sprawled onto his backside.
Later Dr. McIntyre would compliment George on his lack of embarrassment and swift recovery. In all honesty, George was not one to easily embarrass, and rapid reflexes—mental and physical—were a gift he possessed. Therefore, he did not flush, nor did he bow as would be proper, the latter sure to break the eye contact he had craved from the moment he had noticed her in the hallway above. Instead, he flashed her a cocky grin and winked, the combination widening her smile and adding a shine to her eyes. Beautiful eyes a grayish-green with flecks of amber around the iris.
“My lady,” he drawled, “I do apologize for the crude language and ungentlemanly references. I am a physician honor bound to heal, not inflict, so I assure you the scenario was pure fantasy.”
“I believe your oath never to harm another binds you only in regard to one who is already a patient, so none shall convict you if your fantasy is acted upon.” She spoke softly, almost as if talking were a foreign occupation, but blurted the sentence with conviction.
George’s left brow rose. “My, and I thought I disliked the man! It seems you and I have something in common, my lady. I am intrigued.”
Sarah’s cheeks flamed, her smile faded, and she stepped back a pace while diverting her eyes. Unconsciously, George leaned closer, the widened gap between their bodies unwelcome.
“What I should say,” he whispered, “is that I am fascinated. I was intrigued when I saw you outside Commander Doyle’s office before.”
She kept her head bowed but stole a glance at his face. It wasn’t much, George able to catch the minutest hint of emotion from the corner of her gray eyes, but it verified what he had sensed in the corridor above. With no wish to frighten her, George straightened and pulled away. McIntyre chose that moment to subtly clear his throat. George had momentarily forgotten they were on a tight time schedule. He did not remove his eyes from Miss Chambers, but nodded for McIntyre’s benefit.
“Perhaps we shall encounter each other at upcoming social events. If my good fortune continues, we may discover other opinions we have in common. I shall pray for the opportunity, my lady. By the way, my name is Dr. George Darcy. This uncharacteristically silent gentlemen is a colleague, Dr. McIntyre.” George paused and indicated the Scotsman, McIntyre tipping his hat toward Miss Chambers, who acknowledged with the faintest of nods. “May I be so bold as to request the honor of your name?”
He watched the rosiness on her cheeks increase. She swallowed, her lips parting a second later as if to speak. George did not move; time suspended as he waited for her response. Another swallow and quick glance upward into his warm eyes and relaxed grin was followed by a barely audible, “Sarah. Sarah Chambers.”
“Sarah Chambers,” he repeated, speaking gently and caressing each syllable. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to again engage his eyes. “It is a pleasure. I can imagine nothing more delightful than passing the afternoon in your company, Sarah Chambers, but alas we are ordered to leave within the hour so I must hasten away. I shall return and will seek you out. After all, I must unveil the mystery of a woman with such exceptional judgment in character.” He was thrilled when she chuckled and nodded her head.
Finally he bowed deeply, wished her a good day, and turned away, McIntyre falling into step. George did not look back until off the terrace and several yards across the open courtyard. The distance was not too great for him to see the serious cast to her face and to note the bewildered expression in the eyes that followed him. He flashed another wide grin and waved his hand, expecting her to flush anew and turn away. To his surprise, her lips curved in a tentative smile and her hand lifted to return his wave.
***
In the hours and days that followed, George had scant time to dwell on the impact of his encounter with Sarah Chambers. The excitement of new sights and people every step of the way occupied the bulk of his attention.
The boat trip across the narrow eastern inlet of the Arabian Sea was short enough not to elicit George’s tendency toward seasickness, thank goodness. The trek across the rugged Konkan coastline and the western spur of the Western Ghats, where Poona was located on the fringe of the Deccan Plateau, was rough in places but beautiful. The deeper into the interior of India they traveled, even if no more than sixty miles from the sea, added to George’s sense of liberation. At every turn, there was something fascinating and new to avidly examine, even if merely a strange bird or unknown bush, and he felt a pang of regret when they arrived at Assaye.
Unlike the tiny villages consisting of thatched mud huts erected in erratic clusters near streams that they had passed on their journey from Bombay, Assaye was a thriving town.
Or rather, it had been a thriving town. For all the appearances of a town that boasted a rich community of several thousand souls, it might have been inhabited by ghosts.
The wide streets, many paved with river stones, were laid in a grid formation. The buildings were primarily of wood or stone, a few constructed with bricks formed from the hard clay in the riverbeds,
and although far from being grand or architecturally stylish, they were well built and spacious. For the most part, the native trees and shrubs were allowed to grow in their natural state with the walkways, roads, and houses built to accommodate their presence. However, to George’s surprise, there were a number of designed and tended gardens attached to the larger houses as well as a park in the town square.
George dismounted along with the others, but his eyes were not on the two-story brick building their escort was already entering. Instead, he scanned the area that was devoid of people except for a handful of brave merchants with their carts spaced far apart, the dozen shoppers walking singly and in wide circles around each other. Even when conducting the important business of haggling over the items for sale, the seller and customer stood five feet apart, yelling back and forth to be heard.
“’Tis serious.”
George nodded, McIntyre’s muttered sentence not needing a reply.
The silence was deafening. Even the horses seemed to sense the strangeness and stood still with only an occasional swish of a tail. It wasn’t but ten minutes before Captain Connelly returned, his face grave as he approached the physicians.
“I didn’t receive a great deal of information. The administrator, a Mr. Phineas, looked healthy but tired and harried. He said it would be best to hunt down Dr. Ullas, who is in the hospital, that being the long building we glimpsed three streets back.”
It was a short jaunt to the narrower street running alongside a small park with an eroded stone statue of an unknown holy man. The hospital was a one-story building with square, unglazed windows cut into the clay walls at regular intervals. Three smaller doors and a double entrance door interrupted the symmetry of the windows. Crossing the threshold, George and McIntyre were confronted with a familiar but impressive tableau. Nearly a hundred occupied beds lined the walls and filled the spaces in the middle. At least three-dozen medical personnel dressed in clean robes moved from crisp linen-draped bed to bed with a purpose. The murmur of voices, moans of the sick, and clank of equipment drifted to their ears, yet the overall scene was calm and orderly. The smell of putrid flesh, blood, and diseased bodily fluids hung on the air but was overshadowed by floral scents and soap. One could close their eyes and almost imagine they were in nothing more than a busy office.
Neither George nor McIntyre closed their eyes. Rather, they were alert, trained diagnostic scrutiny assessing the men and women lying in the beds as they walked toward an adjacent room where an attendant indicated Dr. Ullas was working with other patients.
“I see a number with respiratory symptoms,” George whispered to his colleague, “yet others seem to be suffering abdominal discomfort. Very odd.”
“Those three are clearly photophobic and stiff in the neck, indicative of a meningitis, while others have faint jaundice or rashes. I’ve ne’er seen such a mixture of symptoms.”
“Is it possible there is more than one disease entity happening here?”
McIntyre shook his head at George’s question, not knowing the answer. They had reached the room where Dr. Ullas supposedly was and discovered the chaos not seen in the larger ward of the hospital.
This room was a third the size of the previous, and there were no more than twenty patients George guessed after a rapid visual survey. However, these patients were undeniably extremely ill. Several were gasping for air, their wasted chests heaving with each breath. Most of them were jaundiced, the yellow tinge of their skin ranging from golden to pumpkin orange to the deeper bronze indicative of end-stage liver failure. Three were tied to the metal bed frames, an action George disliked but saw was clearly necessary when seconds later one of the restrained men suddenly awoke. His eyes were clouded, drops of blood pooled at the corners, and he yanked against the straps securing his limbs while he screeched a torrent of Hindi. George’s understanding of the language was far from fluent, but he knew enough to interpret the man’s raving as not coming from a sound mind.
Two Hindu women dashed to his bedside, their dulcet voices and gentle hands attempting to calm, but the majority of the room’s staff paid the delirious man no heed. They were gathered around the bed of a woman suffering a seizure. Three men were holding on to her jerking limbs, preventing her from rolling off the narrow cot. A sadhu, with his face painted brilliant orange and red and his hair tied into coiled knots, stood at the foot of the bed, his chants in Hindi a rhythmic undercurrent to the woman’s strangled cries and the commanding orders that came from the man kneeling by the woman’s head.
Darcy and McIntyre watched in fascination as the kneeling man rubbed a strange, mud-colored ointment over the thrashing woman’s forehead and bared chest. Then he pressed his fingertips deeply into her wrists and upper lip, his soothing voice almost a singsong chant similar to the holy man, but as the Englishmen drew closer, they realized he was talking to the woman at the same time as instructing his assistants where to apply pressure to her feet and inner knees. Seconds later the woman’s seizure stopped and her eyes fluttered open, briefly connecting with the kneeling man before closing as she fell into a relieved sleep. For several minutes more the kneeling man continued to give hushed instructions and administer a series of prods with his thumb into places on her body. After a last check of her pulse, he rose, stepped away from the bed, and turned toward Darcy and McIntyre.
George sucked in his breath. Never had he beheld a man who oozed utter exhaustion while also piercing him with eyes one hundred percent alert and hard. Short, moderately fleshy, plain of face, and with thinning hair, Dr. Kshitij Ullas was unremarkable in every way—except for his eyes. Though a common brown, the depth of intelligence, compassion, and awareness discernible within was powerful. Later, George would wonder if what he felt in those moments was a true epiphany or merely hindsight making more of an initial meeting than there truly was, but he vividly recalled that his instant reaction was one of awe and that this was a man, a doctor, he would walk over hot coals to spend time with.
“Who are you two?” Dr. Ullas growled in English, brushing by them and walking to the next bed where he leaned to peel back one eyelid of the sleeping man lying there. “Why are you in my hospital and doing nothing?”
“I am Dr. McIntyre and this is Dr. Darcy. We arrived just now but are here to assist as per yer summons.”
“I can use the help.” The hint of relief in his voice was genuine, but the look cast over George was dubious. “Aren’t you too young to be a doctor? Last thing I need now is a novice who doesn’t know the difference between a pustule and a vesicle. Where are you from? Who sent you?”
“Bombay. Commander Doyle—”
“Bombay?” Dr. Ullas interrupted, staring at them angrily. “I told that imbecile not to send a dispatch to Bombay. I suppose White picked you, yes?”
“Yes, but—”
This time McIntyre was halted by the string of Hindi bursting from Dr. Ullas’s lips. After a heartbeat of shocked silence, George began to chuckle. McIntyre looked at him as if he were insane, but Dr. Ullas ended his tirade, his eyes narrowing as he looked at George.
“You understand Hindi?”
“Enough to know we share a similar opinion of Dr. White. Trust me, Dr. Ullas, we are nothing like that hack. He chose us for this mission of mercy to get us out from under his feet and in hopes we would succumb to this illness and spare him the job of strangling us.”
Dr. Ullas grunted, his expression not placated despite George’s assurances. “Further proof how stupid the man is. If he had read the missive I sent—specifying it not go to Bombay so I would not be burdened with one of his incompetents or on the off chance he came himself—he would have noticed I said the disease is not contagious. It is undoubtedly a contaminant that is affecting so many, but none are acquiring it from contact with each other. Not that I can ascertain, that is.”
“If you threw those big words at him, I am sure he skimmed over them.”
; “Perhaps.” He speared Darcy and then McIntyre with his intense gaze before responding with another grunt. “Well, you are here now, and if you are doctors, as you claim to be, you will know your way around a hospital. Go to it.” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and moved to the next patient without another word.
Lesser physicians might have floundered at the abrupt order. Darcy and McIntyre were not lesser physicians, so they grabbed on to the first person they found and, after a brief orientation to their surroundings, set to work. George was at a significant advantage over McIntyre in that his understanding of Hindi was good. Unfortunately, within minutes he discovered a glaring omission in his education. A natural ear for languages had helped him learn the foreign tongue, adding it to his repertoire of French, Latin, Italian, German, and a smattering of other tongues. What he had not diligently studied was how to read or write Hindi. The odd script was unlike English or any of the Romance-based languages and aside from a rudimentary familiarity with the alphabet and a handful of words, he was lost.
“Probably should have spent time reading the copy of Gilchrist’s A Grammar, of the Hindoostanee Language that Lord Burgley gave me rather than with my chemistry experiments,” he mumbled, eyes scanning the sheet with neat lines of what he presumed were Dr. Ullas’s notes on the patient in the bed he stood by. The patient, an old man with a rash covering his chest and an intermittent dry cough, was smiling and nodding encouragingly. George was not sure whether to be bolstered by the man’s faith or crushed by the possibility of not being able to live up to the grandfatherly gentleman’s expectation. Luckily, the hospital personnel were sympathetic. One young woman voluntarily served as George’s guide. She spoke not a single word of English and her Hindi was of a different dialect than what George had learned, but between pantomime and common verbiage, he discovered that her name was Ajastha and managed to fumble through.
The Passions of Dr. Darcy Page 5