The Passions of Dr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  Dr. Ullas spoke to them rarely. For the most part, this was not out of rudeness but rather due to the workload. Four more patients arrived before one in the morning, when George was finally able to collapse in exhausted sleep. On the positive side, five had been judged well enough to return home, and no one had died. All through the afternoon, evening, and late night, the staff bustled from bed to bed. George and McIntyre joined two other English doctors who had arrived from Gujarat three days prior, two Portuguese physicians from Goa who had also responded to the plea for help, and three vaidya. The latter were especially intriguing to George, the practitioners of Ayurvedic medicine, a uniquely Indian creation with philosophies and practices foreign to Western medicine and, until now, a system he had only read about. His curiosity was piqued, the giddy delight at being able to learn new techniques and discuss theories of medical treatment buried for the present but looming heavy on his mind nevertheless.

  For four days the process continued with scant variation. Two patients died and there were new arrivals each day, yet the gradual trend was one of improvement. None of the physicians had ever seen a disease like this nor could any of them recall reading or hearing of a virulent contagion with the broad spectrum of symptoms seen here.

  Except for Dr. Ullas.

  “I have encountered what I believe is the same disease twice. The first was some fifteen years ago when I was in Burma. We saw a similar outbreak, and I was one of those who became ill, although fortunately only with the milder symptoms.”

  It was evening and the first opportunity George and McIntyre had to sit with Dr. Ullas and carry on a conversation lasting more than five minutes. A lull in the constant drama inside the hospital allowed the doctors and staff to gather on the shaded terrace and dine on a hot meal. The food was fresh and nourishing, and they were eating it off plates rather than with their bare hands while on the run. Listening to Dr. Ullas’s soft voice was mesmerizing and the intelligent discourse pleasant.

  “I was traveling from one village to another when the group of us were forced to take refuge due to a sudden monsoon. The Burmese who sheltered us lived in a small commune not large enough to qualify as a village. We were required to sleep in the barns and saw that several of the animals were sick, mostly the dogs, but we found five dead rats as well. We did not concern ourselves with this, animals not of much interest to doctors, but when we began growing ill and realized that some of the family members were ill, the coincidence was curious.” He paused to take a large bite of spiced chicken wrapped in flat bread. “No one grew terribly ill nor close to death, so we were able to move on within a week. Yet the jaundice, abdominal pains, high fever, rash, and strange mixture of symptoms were notable and I did write of it in my personal journal.”

  An interruption from one of the Hindu women serving as nursing assistants gave the men a chance to refill their plates while Dr. Ullas gave her instructions. Then he resumed his narrative precisely where he left off.

  “It was an odd incident and minor in comparison, so when I encountered the disease a few years ago in Kashmir, my anamnesis wasn’t immediate. Even when I did recall the farm in Burma, many of the finer details were hazy, and since my older journals were at my house in Thana, I could not compare. Yet I did remember the curiosity of the animals.”

  “Were there sick animals in Kashmir as well?”

  “Not obviously, Dr. Darcy, at least not at first.” Dr. Ullas focused his gaze on George. “In truth, the possible connection to animals did not occur to me at all until I overheard one of the patients mention that he worked with the pigs used in the toilets and needed to return to the sty because other workers were ill. The comment piqued my interest, and as I questioned further, the discovery was that a large portion of those who were infected were either workers at the toilets or lived in the vicinity and used the facilities. Upon investigation, a number of the pigs were reported sickly.”

  “Forgive me, Dr. Ullas,” the Portuguese physician broke in, “but there is a big difference between dogs and pigs.”

  “They are both animals,” George answered before Dr. Ullas could reply. “And history has shown that there are many cases of transmission from animals to humans.”

  “Yes, of course, but the differences here are glaring. And there are no commonalities or sick animals reported, are there?”

  “Not that I have heard of, Dr. Simas. Yet. The epidemic was severe before I arrived with my team and I have been preoccupied keeping people alive. However, I immediately recognized the similarities and have asked locals to investigate. No report has reached me yet.”

  It would take another three days before word reached the hospital that a group of hunters from a village over ten miles away had stumbled upon a herd of wild boar huddled around a watering hole that were in various stages of disease. The muddy water was reeking and stagnant with a dead carcass damming the stream of fresh water feeding the pond and thus slowing the exiting rivulet to a trickle. That trickle led directly into the larger river where the citizens of the northeasterly areas of Assaye drew their water. A rapid scan of the patient information revealed that the majority resided in that part of town.

  “I have never seen a water sample teeming with this amount of particles. There are easily a dozen distinct shapes, all moving as if fighting for space.” George did not remove his eyes from the microscope’s ocular lens as he turned the knob to enhance the magnification. “Increasing makes it worse. Fascinating.”

  “And frightening. This microscope is nearly ten years old. I imagine advancements have been made. Describe to me the one that resembles coiled strings.”

  George dutifully complied with Dr. Ullas’s request while the older doctor drew the shape on the page of his journal. After another examination of that slide and then three more prepared with droplets of the dirty water sample taken from the suspected source of the contaminant, Dr. Ullas added more detail to his etchings before straightening and turning his attention to George.

  “There are five unique shapes of organisms, or seminaria as Fracastoro named them, that I have never seen before. No possible way to determine which one may have been the source of this infection, if the causative agent at all, but it is intriguing.”

  “You add the disclaimer, Dr. Ullas, yet I can tell you believe these invisible organisms cause disease.”

  “I do. Some infections, that is. The term ‘disease’ is general and encompasses a vast array of causes, perhaps a mere handful the result of these creatures. I have drawings of organisms viewed from the samples I examined in Kashmir, and I will compare out of curiosity once I am home. There will be similarities, even as you see here.”

  George watched as Dr. Ullas flipped back through pages of his book until reaching a series of pages with oddly shaped drawings, at which point he gestured for George to lean closer. Some of the drawings were spherical while others resembled clusters or connected rods and spirals. None were exactly the same, but there were congruous attributes.

  “I have never seen most of these,” George said, “not in any of the books at the Royal Society. Van Leeuwenhoek’s writings are comprehensive, more than any in the field, yet I am sure he never encountered some of these.”

  “Proves his theory that God’s design is wondrous.” Dr. Ullas laughed at the surprise on George’s face. “Yes, I know of Van Leeuwenhoek and have read his papers, those I can obtain copies of. You English are stingy. Our religious views of creation and divinity differ, but I agree that these organisms are not generated spontaneously. Nor do I believe they are bad or good, but simply a part of our world.”

  “Is this a deep interest of yours, Dr. Ullas? I could acquire letters and texts on the subject for you.”

  Dr. Ullas shook his head. “It is not a prime area of interest, Dr. Darcy, although I appreciate the offer.” He shut the book and tucked it into the pocket of his flowing robe. “Divining the entity that causes a disease is important, a
nd perhaps someday there shall be names for all of these organisms, and scientists shall know their functions. When they do, I hope to hear of it. But I personally do not care to stare into a microscope all day long. My old back cannot handle that.”

  “My young back likes it no better. I have a fascination for chemistry and have a laboratory in Bombay. Primarily it is to relieve my boredom, and I do enjoy it to a degree, but after too long, I want to throw the tubes against a wall.” George smiled sourly and the edge of bitterness was audible.

  “It is a matter of only so much time in one’s life, I suppose. I treat illness and search for modalities to aid in the course of healing. After thirty years, I have accepted that this is a worthy endeavor to absorb my mind.”

  George removed the dirty slides and wiped the microscope with a soft cloth. “Let others perform the research. Like you I prefer to be at the bedside with the patient. Of course, discerning the causes of all disease would make our job much easier.” George winked as he handed the microscope to Dr. Ullas, who laughed as he took the instrument and began carefully wrapping it with a thick wool cloth.

  “Indeed. Although there would still be injuries from accidents, so somehow I doubt physicians shall ever be useless.”

  Dr. Ullas slipped the fragile bundle into a sturdy box, concentrating on the task of securing it for safe travel, as George leaned against the table and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I envy you, Dr. Ullas. You have traveled widely and amassed a wealth of knowledge. In my short time here, I have seen how you apply skills that are amazing yet foreign to me. It must give you great happiness to have accomplished what you have.”

  The Indian doctor turned his gaze to George, his brown eyes intense but unreadable. He said nothing for a full minute and George began to squirm under the scrutiny. Finally the silence was broken with a question.

  “What would you say is your greatest fault, Dr. Darcy?”

  George’s left brow rose at the unexpected query, and he hesitated half a second before answering truthfully, “Arrogance.”

  But Dr. Ullas shook his head, his eyes locked on George’s face. “No. That is not your fault. Arrogance in your case is earned and a strength. Annoying to some, I am sure, but a strength. You are skilled, Dr. Darcy. More than you realize, I think, which having been told this, will increase your arrogance.” He did not smile, the words not meant as a jest. “No, your fault is impatience. And unbelief, I think.”

  When George did not respond, Dr. Ullas again broke the silence with a question. “Are you a religious man, Dr. Darcy?”

  “I was raised in the Church and my father is extremely devout—”

  “No,” Dr. Ullas interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You English are all raised in the Church. Usually it means nothing to you.”

  He stepped closer, his eyes intimate in an odd way that was both disturbing and exhilarating.

  “Your reasons for coming to India are your own, Dr. Darcy, and I am not invalidating them. Call it fate, God—yours or mine—or some other happenstance. It makes no difference to me. Just believe that you are meant to be here and that it may not be for the reasons you think brought you here. Believe that you are on the path of your destiny, including meeting me. Believe that fully, open your soul to the truth, and then you shall learn patience. Only then will you discover what happiness is.”

  ***

  George was in no rush to leave the company of Dr. Ullas, but once settled back into the compound, he began his quest to discover everything about Sarah Chambers. He started by seeking out Reed.

  Ensign Dawson’s father was a field marshal and rarely at the compound because his duties sent him all over the western portions of India, but Reed had been born in Bombay and his post as a courier for Commander Doyle meant he was the best resource. It took George over a week before he had enough free time to go on a serious hunt for the busy ensign, and then it took him two hours to ascertain that Reed was on a mission to the far side of the island. In the end, George planted himself at the main gate, right next to a merchant selling carpets and another selling herbs for cooking. Before Reed rode through the crowds entering and leaving the military compound, George learned several dozen new Hindi phrases and purchased two small rugs and a basket of herbs that he knew to have medicinal qualities, so it wasn’t a total waste of his time.

  Finally sitting at a table with ale in each of their hands, George broached the subject. “I need you to tell me everything you know about Miss Sarah Chambers.”

  Reed blinked in surprise and then narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  George shrugged and leaned back, suddenly feeling that he needed to act nonchalant. “Professional curiosity,” he answered semitruthfully. “I am a skilled diagnostician, Reed, and I sensed something about the lady that intrigued me. From a medical standpoint.”

  “What! Are you saying she is ill?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that, so don’t panic.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “Remember how you referred to her as an ice princess who speaks to no one?”

  “I have never called her that,” Reed countered hastily. “Others have, but I do not like the term.”

  “But you did say she never speaks to anyone and appears aloof and unkind. I don’t think that is it at all. I think she is merely shy.”

  “And you figured this out from one glance down a long corridor?”

  George chuckled at Reed’s condescending tone. He was used to people mocking him or using sarcasm when he gave a quick diagnosis. “As it happens the ‘one glance’ in the corridor led to a hunch. It was when I spoke to her after leaving Doyle’s office that I knew I was correct.”

  “You spoke with her? When? Did she talk to you?”

  “She did, haltingly. It was long enough to see all the signs of one who is stricken with a case of paralyzing shyness.”

  “I don’t know, Dr. Darcy. That sounds odd to me.”

  This time, his bitter tone was not lost on George. “Most people who are moderately shy learn to overcome their timidity, Reed. A person who suffers from severe phobic shyness cannot control their reaction. I am sure Miss Chambers never meant to be rude to you.”

  “She talked to you though, didn’t she?”

  “Only because I surprised her and have an innate talent for soothing people. That comes with being an excellent physician, which brings me back to the point. I think I can help Miss Chambers to conquer some of her fear. Or at least I want to try.”

  Reed was staring at him with suspicious eyes. George smoothed his features into as innocent an expression as possible, but it was still hard to maintain the look when Reed asked the next question.

  “So your interest in Miss Chambers is entirely professional? You don’t want more? You don’t think of her in that way?”

  “I am far too busy to think of any woman in that way, Reed. At least not seriously.” And it wasn’t until he spoke the words that a few weeks ago would have been one hundred percent true that he realized they were a lie. Dimly, he heard his father launching into a lecture on the sin of lying, but before the guilt set in, Reed’s voice drowned that of his father, the ensign buying the fib and seeing a personal advantage.

  “All right then. I am not sure I swallow the ‘shy’ bit, but if you think there is a way to make it easier to talk to the lady, I am all for that. The Powis estate is in Mazagaon on the north face just past the…”

  ***

  “Ye look like a cat who has eaten a whole family of mice so no need to ask if ye were successful.”

  George took the tray of instruments and strips of cloth from the orderly and waited until the man had walked away before responding to Dr. McIntyre. “Even better than I anticipated. Is Dr. White around?”

  “Nay. What would he be doing here? Helping me stitch Mr. Morgan? Dinna be ridiculous.”

 
“Just wanted to be sure. How much laudanum did you give him?” George jerked his chin at the man snoring on the narrow cot.

  “None. He was brought to me this way, or almost this way, I should say. He did rally when I cleaned the wound. Hooper gave him a swallow of tharra to top off his buzz and out he went. Makes my job a lot easier. ’Course I wouldn’t be doing this at all if he weren’t a stinking drunk.”

  “How did he get that gash? It is quite ragged.”

  “Apparently, he thought it was a fine idea to cozy up to a Brahma. Not sure if he thought ’twas a fuzzy kitten or if he was feeling invincible. Hand me those scissors, will ye? Thanks. So when did ye finally find Reed?”

  “Yesterday I hunted him down and we had a nice long chat.”

  “So why are ye here? Why aren’t ye engagin’ the fair damsel?”

  “I planned to ride out to the Powis estate on Mazagaon this morning.”

  “Bold move, Dr. Darcy. At this rate ’twill be married by the end of the month.”

  “I seriously doubt it. Want me to hold him before you do that?”

  “He has enough liquor inside him, I wager, so won’t feel me pouring it over the wound this time. Just grab those towels over there to sop up the blood and tharra. Pathetic waste of good Indian moonshine, but its the strongest around.”

  “I don’t know how you can drink this stuff. One sip sets my stomach on fire.”

  “I’m a Scotsman, remember? So what stopped ye from riding to Mazagaon?”

  “Initially it was a medical call that I wanted to strangle White for, but as it turned out, fate was on my side. Let me get some fresh bandages.” George crossed to a wall cabinet where white linens were stacked in neat piles, selected three large, folded cloths and one roll of narrow stripped cloth, and resumed the topic while holding up the patient’s lacerated arm for Dr. McIntyre to dress. “Lady Burgley requested my presence immediately—the woman is a valetudinarian but her persistent cough is troubling—so naturally I went. Besides, I do like Lady Burgley. She amuses me with her stories and brash character. Like always, she calls for tea and we end up chatting for a good hour or more after I examine her and deliver a fresh bottle of elixir for her ‘ailments.’ I have to tell you, McIntyre, the cook she has makes these cookies out of persimmons that are surely sinful.”