The Passions of Dr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  “About bloody damned time, Brother! God, look at you. Browned like a heathen! And where in the world did you get that suit?”

  George stepped back, opened his jacket, and struck a debonair pose. “What? Am I not the height of fashion?”

  “Sure. About five years ago.”

  “It is difficult to find a decent tailor in an Indian village. I do have a trunk full of fine native garments, but I thought it best not to shock the family too greatly at the outset.”

  James clapped George on the shoulder then turned to Henry Vernor. “Vernor, thanks for bringing the wayward traveler home.”

  “My pleasure, Darcy. I will leave you to your reunion. Please extend my respects to Mr. Darcy. We are praying for his health.”

  James nodded, the lump in his throat interfering with speech. George chimed in with his thanks, and after assuring his trunk was safely unloaded, followed James into the manor.

  “You still have the trunk, I see.” James waved toward the piece of luggage being carried by two strong footman, another servant following with a smaller case and portmanteau, the trio heading to the suite of rooms preserved untouched for George.

  “Of course. That thing is indestructible and will outlive me. If it could tell tales, they would undoubtedly be better than mine.”

  They crossed the massive, tiled entryway, George sparing a few precious minutes to gaze to the right, at the ceiling-to-floor tapestries chronicling the Darcy lineage and then to the left, where a fireplace tall enough for a man to stand upright inside was flanked by alcoves displaying priceless statues of white marble. The style was reminiscent of a medieval castle, complete with four armored knights, two by the main doorway and two more on either side of the curved, polished oak stair balustrades. The resemblance stopped there, however, the mansion an obvious masterpiece of Baroque architecture. George glanced upward, to the ceiling painted with Baroque art, as they ascended the blue carpet–covered staircase of white marble that was a central showcase of the two-story foyer.

  George was dusty from the road, but thoughts of washing and changing into clean clothes never entered his or James’s mind. They veered left at the top of the grand staircase, walked down a long corridor to a smaller but equally elaborate staircase at the far end that lead to the top floor, where the master’s suite was located. As they walked, James gave a brief update.

  “Father’s illness hit suddenly, George. Or at the least it seemed so to us. In retrospect, there had been signs of his increasing weakness and poor health, but you know how secretive Father has always been. The signs were nothing we could point to as more than normal age-related issues. He is eighty years old, for heaven’s sake! I confess that we had forgotten that to a degree. Father has forever appeared indestructible, so chronological years meant nothing.”

  George nodded in agreement and patted James’s shoulder to reassure him. James glanced up with a wan smile and blinked back the tears. After a deep inhale, he continued, “Last November he fell when dismounting from his horse. He had been riding with William on his new stallion. Pericles was a gift from Father on William’s tenth birthday,” James said as an aside, a trace of humor and pride warming his voice. “Anne was incensed and quite vocal in her displeasure. I know.” He laughed at George’s expression. “It was startling to me as well to hear my wife berate him. Father was his typical implacable self in the face of Anne’s ire, explaining in rational language that William was old enough for a grown horse and more than skilled enough to handle it. That much is true, George. William is half horse, I swear. If not yet, he will be, considering how much time he spends in the stable complex. Anyway, the two had been riding and probably doing so in a manner I never want to know about, when Father fell while dismounting. It might have gone unnoticed if a simple stumble, but his ankle twisted severely and he was flat on his back. A stretcher was needed to carry him into the Manor. Lord, you should have seen him!” James chuckled and shook his head. “He was livid in his humiliation.”

  George could imagine it. The Master of Pemberley never showed weakness. The fact that he had no weaknesses to show may have been part of it, but George knew that pride was a major aspect of his attitude. George almost wished he had been there to see it, for the laugh if nothing else. Of course, there was nothing funny about what Mr. Darcy’s fall revealed.

  “The doctor was called for, a new fellow named Easterman who took over for Doc Meager four years ago. He is young but proficient, although I am thrilled you are here to offer your input. Anyway, he and the surgeon tended to the sprain, but in the process of examining Father and talking with him, the truth came out. I wrote to you immediately.”

  “You said a ‘wasting disease’ in your letter. Did Easterman call it a cancer?”

  “Yes, that is the term. I know little of medicine, George, but I know that is bad. I never thought he would hold out so long, but you know Father.”

  “Strong as a bull, ox, and ram put together,” George said with a gentle chuckle, using a phrase the Darcy children often used when describing their father, usually when complaining about a discipline they disagreed with.

  “Indeed. And in this instance I am abundantly thankful he is.” They had reached the door leading to the master’s chambers, and James paused with his hand on the knob. “Anne and William are with him. We take turns and never leave him alone. I wrote to all the family, by the way. Our siblings Estella and Philip are here. Unfortunately, Mary is with child so cannot travel. Aunt Beryl was here last month, and we expect her to return any day. The Matlocks are staying in Rivallain, as are Sir Louis and Lady Catherine. Rather disturbing that illness and imminent death is the impetus for a family reunion, isn’t it?” James paused but did not turn the knob. When he spoke, his voice was unsteady and he did not meet George’s eyes. “George, I am sure in your profession you see many ill people, but I have to warn you that Father looks nothing like you remember. He has changed drastically, and though I have witnessed the gradual alterations, it still shocks me each time I enter the room. I felt it important to warn you.”

  He said no more, turning the knob and leading the way into the suite.

  As a physician, George had indeed seen many horrific scenes and human bodies in every state of malady and injury imaginable, so nothing affected him any longer. This was his father, however, and in his mind, the picture of virile competence was fixed. He steeled himself for the worst but knew before entering the bedchamber that it was bad. Different diseases create unique smells that George was able to detect, those often his first clue to rendering a diagnosis. Those that were of a terminal nature produced a distinctive odor, cancers especially. The stench of devastating disease and impending death emanating from the room slammed into George before he crossed the threshold. Awareness of the truth of his father’s infirmity tightened the band of grief about his heart to the point of palpitations, but it also enabled him to prepare.

  Lady Anne Darcy rose from a chair by the fire, smiled at George, but did not approach. He smiled fleetingly and nodded a welcome, then swept his gaze over the room in a rapid survey before focusing on the large four-poster bed where his father lay. His eyes were halted by the boy sitting propped against the headboard, a pillow cushioning Mr. Darcy’s head supported on his right shoulder and a book open in his lap. The soft murmur of a voice that George had unconsciously noted when entering the room stopped as the boy looked up, azure eyes drenched with sadness and a hint of challenge directed at the stranger.

  George sucked in his breath, composure slipping for a second not at the mildly belligerent expression, since George understood that was instigated by love for and a need to protect his grandfather, but rather by the astonishing resemblance the boy—who he knew was James and Anne’s son Fitzwilliam—bore to Alex. And, obviously, to himself at ten. Not only was it uncanny, it was unexpected, and the twist in George’s gut to see a near replica to his beloved twin while trying to steel himself against
emotional assault in regard to his father’s illness was almost too much. He blinked his eyes, reaching for that inner core of professionalism that never failed to serve him, and quickly turned his attention to his father.

  The elder James Darcy lay on the crisp, white linens in a slight recline on a thick down-stuffed pillow. If George had not already recognized the severity of his father’s infirmity by smell alone, his appearance sealed the diagnosis. Mr. Darcy was draped with blankets to midchest, wore a clean nightshirt that covered his body, and had a small, quilted coverlet wrapped over his shoulders, but none of it could conceal the bony figure underneath. The brawny man George had bid adieu to over nine years ago was gone. In his place was a pale, skeletal man with skin thin as tissue paper. Lastly, George looked into his father’s eyes and a jolt pierced through him. Mr. Darcy was staring directly at him with eyes cloudy from unremitting pain but at the same time a stark awareness and clarity. Even amid the agony and weakness of his body being eaten from within, the Master of Pemberley’s intelligence and strength shined through. Additionally, he was misty-eyed as he gazed upon his second son, love and happiness beaming with the power of the sun.

  “George. Welcome home, Son. I am happy to see you.”

  The simple words uttered in a weak whisper were George’s undoing, control sliding further when Mr. Darcy shakily lifted one thin hand toward him. With a swallowed sob, George hastened forward, clasped onto the cool hand that grabbed his with a firm grip, and sat on the edge of the bed. William curled his long legs to make room but did not move away. George barely noticed. His attention was focused on his father.

  “Hello, Father. I came as quickly as I could. God shined upon me as the vessel made excellent time.”

  “I have missed you, boy. You look older but content. Life in India agrees with you, I can tell. No need for you to say how I look. Awful, yes?”

  “Moderately so.”

  Mr. Darcy chuckled. “I like that. Honesty. No point in pretending, is there?”

  “No, sir. Although now you have the best physician available to tend to you, and I promise to keep my fees cheap. I’ll work for room and board.”

  “Ah, George, I have longed for your wit. Your presence alone cheers me. Your irreverent humor is almost a cure. Almost. We know that is not possible, even for you.”

  “No, Father. I am afraid it isn’t. However, I am serious in that I have medicines that will ease some of your suffering and improve your strength temporarily.”

  “Simply prolonging the inevitable, but I do thank you. I admit that the pain is tough to abide.” He glanced at the stoic lad sitting rigidly beside him. “I am not afraid to die. I have lived an excellent life filled with love and family. Heaven beckons me and in time I will see my children and grandchildren there. My Emily and Alexander are waiting for me now. No,” he sighed, looking back at George, “I am ready. But I needed to see you, George, and will accept any medical assistance you can offer for the interim. Room and board is an easy price to pay.”

  “William,” James interrupted softly. “Come with your mother and me for now while your Uncle George ministers to your grandfather.”

  “Go ahead, lad.” George patted his knee when William did not move. “I promise I will take good care of him.”

  ***

  George’s concoctions, brewed as hot teas and viscous elixirs, performed as promised. Dr. Easterman was open-minded and curious about the unique medicines George used, the two physicians conferring for long hours while Mr. Darcy observed with pride and young William with growing appreciation for the uncle he had no memory of. George employed Ayurvedic healing techniques, especially massage and pressure therapy, that enhanced the medicines. The combined result was that Mr. Darcy slept long, cleansing, pain-free hours at a time, waking refreshed and with an improved appetite. It was only a minor, palliative measure but eased his acute suffering, and the borrowed time was appreciated by each member of the family.

  Especially George.

  He spent hours with his father, sometimes as Dr. Darcy but primarily as George, world traveler with fascinating stories to tell. Nothing of a serious nature was shared. Instead, George used his natural storytelling skills, embellishing flagrantly as he painted pictures with words that had his father laughing and spellbound. Every morning he appeared in a different Indian garment more flamboyant and vibrant until it became a sort of game to guess what color or style he would startle with when sauntering through the bedchamber door. Ethnic gifts hastily purchased prior to leaving India were passed out with lengthy explanations of their use and historical significance, as were the items belonging to George that he deemed would entertain. It became the highlight of each afternoon to see what bizarre piece of jewelry, trinket, woven rug, picture, book, cooking utensil, and so on he would dig out of the apparently bottomless trunk.

  One afternoon he brought in a palm-sized jar of Indian ebony, which he used to hold an unguent that repelled biting insects. The jar was beautifully carved with a precise representation of Anamudi Peak in the Western Ghats. George related his visit to Kerala, using the etching as a reference to what he described in living color, but Mr. Darcy was fascinated by the carved wood.

  “I haven’t been able to whittle this past year.” Mr. Darcy ran a fingertip over the lid of the jar before flipping it over to examine the grooves. “My hands are too unsteady to wield a knife for such precise work.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Father. I know you must miss it.”

  “I do. I have been teaching William how to whittle.” He smiled at his grandson. “He shows some promise, but I know he does not love the activity. No, do not protest, Wills.” He patted the boy on the knee. “A hobby should bring pleasure or it is a waste.”

  “Alex loved to whittle,” George whispered.

  “Indeed he did, and was skilled for a young boy. So were you, George, my only children who were. Have you taken up the habit again?”

  Mr. Darcy spoke gently, his eyes soft as they rested upon his son. Whittling was a skill Alex had excelled at, he and their father passing hours on the terrace with sharp knives and hunks of wood. George had enjoyed the art and shared his twin’s talent, but he had always been more active than Alex, so sitting and focusing on a sedentary task had not been a preferred activity. After Alex died, George had been unable to do it at all, a fact his father knew. George shook his head slowly.

  “Perhaps someday.” Mr. Darcy left it at that, but sent William to retrieve several of the pieces he had created recently, so he could show them to George—tiny animals, flowers, trees, several horses naturally, faces of the family, and a few odd shapes purely from his imagination. It was one of several special memories forged during their time together before his father’s death that impacted George.

  Another was on November 10. It was Fitzwilliam Darcy’s eleventh birthday, and they planned an intimate celebration to take place in the master suite’s sitting room. With assistance Mr. Darcy walked from his bed to a cushioned chaise near the fireplace, his presence at the party as essential as William’s. Trays of hors d’oeuvres, sweet cakes, and punch were served as the gifts were handed out. The only guests were the immediate family. James and George’s siblings Estella and Phillip were there as well as Mr. Darcy’s sister Beryl, the Marchioness of Warrow, and two of his three brothers, all of whom had traveled great distances to be near. George donned a simple tunic of white edged with gold and maroon threads woven into an intricate geometric pattern and, to further the fun, a matching dhoti—long so that only his bare ankles and lower shins were visible. The outfit was an added conversation piece to a party that was surprisingly festive under the circumstances.

  Strangely enough, most days and nights were festive. Sadness could not rule at all times, especially with children running about and relatives who had not seen each other in years. Mr. Darcy did not wish it otherwise. He refused to speak of his impending death or of his illness except as n
ecessary or to discuss estate business with his heir. James had managed Pemberley affairs jointly with his father for over ten years and did so perfectly well, but old habits are difficult to halt, and Mr. Darcy wanted to ensure the final transition would be easy.

  Despite the efforts of Dr. Darcy that granted Mr. Darcy periods of lucidity and strength, his decline was unstoppable. The vast majority of the time he was asleep, too weak to talk, or confused from pain or the medicines given to dull the pain. There was little to do but visit with each other while waiting for him to either wake with a need or the desire to converse—or the inevitable of not waking ever again.

  “There isn’t anything you can do to cure him, Uncle? Nothing learned in your travels?”

  George looked up from the book in his lap, fixing sympathetic eyes on his nephew. William sat on the edge of the bed, holding his sleeping grandfather’s hand. He was crying silently, enormous tears sliding down his cheeks, vivid blue eyes agonized and pleading.

  “If only there were, lad. Believe me when I say I would do anything if it were possible to cure him.” George put the book aside with a sigh. “I have learned much in my studies but not how to stop this disease. I’m sorry.”

  William nodded as he closed his eyes and bowed his head. George’s heart broke as he watched the boy’s shoulders slump.

  “I once thought that if I could learn enough of medicine, travel far enough in the world seeking answers, that maybe, just maybe I could discover the secret to stopping the worst of disease and injury. I was young then, a year older than you are now, and even in my despair, I was confident that I could do what no other had been able to do. Innocence and arrogance gave me that confidence. Of course, it isn’t possible to stop death. The best we can hope is to delay it for a while.”

  “Father says you are the best physician he has ever known.”

  “Did he?” George laughed, it a mere rumble in his throat. “James is a devoted brother but hasn’t met many physicians. Of course, I am excellent”—he grinned, earning a returned wan smile—“but even with my prodigious skills, I am not divine. Only God can perform miracles, William. All I and other skilled doctors can do is heal to the best of our ability and, in some cases, such as with your grandfather, ease their suffering.”