“Have you given up trying to find the secret then?”
“No, not completely. To a physician, death is our enemy, as is permanent maiming and so on. We wish for all humans to be healthy at all times. We strive to discover ways to make that happen, realizing that there isn’t one secret but thousands, perhaps millions, that need to be uncovered along the way to make it possible. Early in my studies, I understood this truth, not that it stopped me from dreaming I would find a way to speed up the process that I know will take centuries, if even possible, to achieve. For now, I do the best I can and although in this case”—he nodded toward the sleeping man—“I am unable to cure, I have had many successes with others.”
“That must be a wonderful feeling, to cure someone who may have died otherwise.”
“Indeed it is, William. Each time I am fortunate to do so it is a marvel I thank God for. That is another family who will not suffer through a loss, at that time anyway. That is the most difficult part, you see. Not the one who dies,” he explained when William furrowed his brow in confusion, “but the people left behind who must deal with that loss. I wish there were a medication to ease grief but there is only time.”
“How long did it take you to not grieve for your brother?”
George comprehended the deeper questions underneath the ones asked and paused for a moment to think how best to respond. William was intelligent, this George had readily ascertained, as well as extremely serious for such a young boy. He was the type of person who examined everything, weighing and measuring with logical deductions reached only after extensive deliberation, and then the conclusion clung to with confidence that would take major counter-evidence to rescind. Order and discipline were important to him. It had taken weeks for George to detect William’s inner soul of sensitivity, the heart of a passionate romantic that was buried inside and which he doubted the boy knew he possessed, and if he did would probably deny. George had spent time wondering whom James and Anne’s son most resembled. His first recognition was that young Fitzwilliam was most like Mr. Darcy, hence how close the two were. On the face of it, this was true, but George sensed that William was tender and emotional where Mr. Darcy had never been. Goodness knows he was not like his parents. Granted James was intelligent, but James and Anne were demonstrative, playful people with ebullience and humor on the surface for all to see. Finally, he decided that William resembled Alex more than just the physical and was a unique melding of Darcy characteristics. George doubted if William would ever overcome his shy, serious nature to be the outwardly joyful man his father was. The question was whether he would bury that inner gentle soul, the poet’s heart that was so like Alex, starving it with pragmatism until it all but disappeared, or eventually allow it to break free. Crushing grief could tip the scale to the former, and George hated to see that happen.
So he answered carefully, “I still grieve for Alex. Grief is a part of life, William. It is the flip side of love and passion. To be truly human, we must embrace both. That is the only way to have a full life. We must express all the aspects of our personality that God granted us, giving of ourselves freely so that our memory will be vividly real to those left behind. My love for Alex is kept alive because of my grief at his absence. Conversely, my grief is strong because of the amazing person he was in life. He remains a part of me, just as your grandfather will remain a part of you for all of your life. And, if like me you believe in an afterlife, as I am sure you do being raised in this family, we shall meet again. I do not know what that will be like to be honest, but I imagine Alex and I as youths swimming naked in a heavenly pond as we did Rowan Lake. I doubt if God will allow us to do some of the mischievous antics from life, but then perhaps heaven will be more fun than we imagine.” He smiled and winked. “Whatever the case in the beyond, I know Alex would want me to remember him with affection and hope, and then keep living. We do not cease when a loved one leaves us, which can almost seem cruel at the time, but is how it should be. Of course, it took me many years to accept that after Alex died. Now I am sharing that wisdom with you.”
William nodded politely but did not look convinced. George hoped his words would be remembered later.
The discussion with young William prompted George to test his words. Later that day, he entered the chamber that had once been his and Alex’s bedchamber. George had never vacated the room for another, but six months after Alex’s death, his parents granted his wish to redecorate and rearrange the room. All new furnishings were placed and George had instructed a servant to pack everything belonging to Alex into a chest that sat untouched in a corner of the room.
“It is time, Alex.” Kneeling before the wooden chest, George ran his palm over the lid and the name carved with fine script. Alexander Darcy. An identical chest sat at the foot of the bed, carved with George Darcy. Both had been made by their father shortly after their birth. All of the Darcy children had chests made by their father, Mr. Darcy utilizing his mastery of woodworking and whittling to fashion storage boxes that were sturdy, beautiful, and priceless heirlooms. What they chose to place in the chests was entirely up to them, but much like Mr. Darcy’s encouragement to keep a journal, each of them had heeded his suggestion to keep mementoes they deemed significant.
It had taken twenty years and living half the globe away for the pain to be replaced with sweet remembrance. George had sensed the minute he stepped over the house’s threshold that the ghost of Alex no longer haunted him. It wasn’t the forgetfulness that George had once sought but rather a deep peace with those memories and joy in the special person he had been blessed to share twelve years with.
So he opened the chest’s lid with a smile. Tears were shed, but they were the result of belly laughter at some of the items Alex had kept. There was the “perfect skipping stone” that had never been tested because then it would be lost in the pond and unable to save, a child’s logic that at the time had seemed sound. The piece of bark Alex swore bore the face of their tutor, Mr. Franks. None of the rest of them could see it, but Alex was adamant the image was there, so they had gone along with his delusion. The play Alex had written and directed when he was nine, the Darcy children performing the awful production for their parents who had been too polite not to applaud and heap praise.
George’s favorite surprise was Alex’s juvenile poetry, or poems he liked written by others. Here Alex had excelled. George was certain that had he lived, Alex would have been a remarkable poet. There was a stack of neatly tied parchment pages with charcoal drawings on them, most inanimate objects but a few attempted portraits of friends and family. Wrapped in paper were all the wooden pieces he had whittled, exactly twenty-four of them, small and crude but with the promise of talent never realized. Underneath and wrapped in a pouch of tattered velvet was a whittler’s set of sharp knives, chisels, rasps, and sanding sticks. Their father had gifted them identical sets, but George had discarded his after Alex died.
He ran his fingertip over the blades, and with a soft smile, he slipped the pouch into his pocket.
It took an entire afternoon, but eventually George examined every last item in the chest. Some he set aside to be packed into his trunk for when he returned to India. Most he returned to Alex’s chest. Then he dragged the heavy box across the room, positioning it at the foot of his bed beside his own chest. Standing back, he gazed at the twin chests with a smile. “That is where you belong, Alex. Right next to me. And, yes, I am a sentimental fool, but if you tell anyone, I will pound you when I see you in heaven!”
A few days later, George sat with James in the sitting room while Mr. Darcy’s valet bathed the ill man. It was a perfect opportunity for James to broach a topic weighing heavily on his mind.
“George, there is a sensitive matter I want your opinion on, as a physician.”
George lifted a brow, then he laughed. “Good lord! Are you seriously blushing? Must be sensitive indeed. I am guessing this involves Mrs. Darcy? Thought so.” George
sat down his teacup when James nodded and steepled his fingers before his face. “Very well. I am now Dr. Darcy. And because I am damned good as such, I can already surmise this has to do with why you two have no further children.”
“How in blazes can you do that?”
“Really, James, it isn’t that difficult an assumption. Truth is, I have been dying of curiosity, so even if the topic is otherwise, I am going to be nosy and force you to tell me anyway. I have waited for the past ten years for you to announce a new addition to the clan. I thought you would have a half-dozen little Darcys by now the way you two are. Stop blushing, for heaven’s sake! I am not an innocent, but even if I were, it would be obvious that you and Anne have a healthy physical relationship.”
James ducked his head, speaking more to his shoes than George—who refrained from teasing his brother about it—and said, “It is as you say, with my wife and I, that is. No problems there.” His eyes flickered upward, and he grinned with an unstoppable hint of manly pride. “Like you, we assumed more children would be the result. Anne had no problems conceiving Alexandria or Fitzwilliam, and as you know, their deliveries were easy enough, as those things go. Since William we have not been so fortunate.”
“What has been the problem? I mean, does Anne not get pregnant or has she miscarried?”
“The first. She simply has not conceived. Or at least not that we know of. There was one time when Anne was later than usual with, well, you know—”
George quirked one brow and stared solemnly at James’s face but said nothing. James rubbed over his mouth and continued after clearing his throat. “Yes, well, we thought maybe she was pregnant, but then she wasn’t, and we did not know if she was merely off cycle or something had gone wrong. Aside from that one time, there have been no signs.”
James leaned forward and placed his elbows onto his knees. His embarrassment disappeared and he intently fixed on George’s face. “Anne struggles with this greatly, George. I do as well, I admit, since I always dreamed of many children. But for Anne it is a tragedy not to have more babies. It breaks my heart for her more than myself. If ever a woman was designed to be a mother it is my wife. What I am wondering is if you have anything that may help, or any ideas why this may be happening?”
They discussed the topic frankly. George asked a number of highly personal questions that James answered without blushing—not too greatly, that is. In the end, George could not say for certain and saw no need to examine Anne, which would have been too uncomfortable for her, but he did know of various herbs that enhanced fertility as well as practical techniques to encourage conception. James was appreciative and hopeful. George saved his ribbing for when giving the supplies and instructions to James and Anne, using blunt language and sly winks that left Anne red as a beet and stammering. He did notice, however, the glances the two exchanged afterward and wasn’t surprised when they retired early that night.
***
Two weeks after William’s birthday, the Master of Pemberley’s precarious health took an abrupt turn for the worse. Within a day, his pain escalated to where drugs no longer worked, and two days later, he slipped into a coma from which he never woke. The bulk of his family was with him as he breathed his last on December 3. Pemberley Estate sank into deepest mourning for the man who had been master for over five decades.
A private service for family and Pemberley staff was held at the small chapel on Pemberley land where the Darcy family had worshipped, had been married, and had been christened for generations uncounted. The following day, the public funeral was held at the church in Lambton. People arrived from all over Derbyshire and many places farther away until even the larger building was overflowing. The Pemberley grand ballroom and formal dining room were opened to accommodate the hordes of people paying their respects. James and Anne, as the official Master and Mistress of Pemberley, did not say their final thank-you until well after dark.
“I had no idea he knew so many people and that they thought highly enough of him to travel to Derbyshire in winter,” James murmured from his place by the window as the last carriage disappeared from sight. “I should have, I suppose, but I confess it humbles me.”
Messages of sadness from those who lived farther away arrived at a steady pace during the subsequent weeks as the news of Mr. Darcy’s demise spread. The constant reminder of their loss was overwhelming, thus it was deemed fortunate that the Christmas season was upon them. The tone of mourning could not be eradicated but having a joyous holiday swiftly approaching prevented grief from taking too firm a hold. As much as possible under the circumstances, they warmed to the idea of gifts and feasting. In an odd twist, it was a special Christmas celebration not seen at Pemberley for several years. The vacant gap left by Mr. Darcy was undeniable, yet having the family together naturally created a festive atmosphere that the adults agreed was a positive ending to an extremely sad period.
By January, everyone but George had returned home and Pemberley was quiet, fitting the mood of winter and continual lamentation. James and Anne struggled to reassert normalcy into day-to-day life and establish new routines after a year of upset. Long hours were spent with Pemberley’s steward, Mr. Wickham, as James acquainted himself with those aspects of estate business that his father had handled. Anne and Mrs. Reynolds, Pemberley’s housekeeper for the past six years when Mrs. Sutherland retired, methodically sifted through Mr. Darcy’s belongings, setting aside those items designated for certain relatives or friends compared to those to be stored or placed elsewhere in the manor. Neither James nor Anne rushed to relocate into the master’s suite, but it was the expected tradition, so tentative discussions began as to how they wished to redecorate for their tastes.
On January 6, James entered the library and saw George standing at a window and staring fixedly toward the west meadow. “What has captured your attention, Brother?”
“Your son.” George gestured with his teacup. “I have never in my life seen a boy his age ride a horse with such reckless abandon and skill while at it. He truly is remarkable.”
James joined him at the tall window. “He is a natural. Father was very proud of him.”
George heard the sadness in James’s voice, as well as a current of anxiety. “Why are you frowning, James? Does it disturb you that William has a greater affinity for the equestrian portions of Pemberley Estate over the agriculture and… whatever else you do?”
James laughed, shaking his head and flashing a sidelong glance at George. “You never did have any interest in where our wealth came from, did you?”
“Not in the least. But don’t take it personally. I am still not interested in business matters.”
“As long as you have money for food, right?”
“Well, yes, there is that. I enlisted a bookkeeper in Bombay to keep track of my finances, including the stipend Father would regularly send, which I always told him I did not need and hope you will cease doing, but aside from perusing the quarterly report he compiles, so I know I have enough for food and clothes, since I really do like clothes, I pay scant attention.”
“He could be robbing you blind.”
George shrugged. “I would think less of him if he did not skim a bit of the excess off the top, but I was raised as a Darcy, so some of the business lectures penetrated my skull. Don’t worry, James. He is a legitimate financial wizard. I trust him. My investments are intact, and I have safeguards in place to ensure a stable financial future. Now, what has you bothered about William?”
“Not that he loves horses, I assure you. The truth is, I think Fitzwilliam will eventually be far smarter than me and a better manager for Pemberley when the time comes. I only worry that he finds a balance. He is so damned serious, George, and humorless except for rare occasions or with certain people, such as his cousin Richard or Mr. Wickham’s son George. I fear for how Father’s death will affect him.”
“I was thinking along the same lines, to be h
onest.” He recounted the conversation between he and William prior to Mr. Darcy’s death. “Naturally you know your son better than me, but I know what you mean of his tendency toward moroseness. Still, I don’t think I would worry overly. He is young and the young are astoundingly resilient. In another year or two, he will discover girls and then you will be wishing he were hiding in the stables.”
“I’ll lock him in the stables if he is anything like you.”
“Hey! I wasn’t that bad! And it isn’t my fault if the pretty maids thought I was irresistible. But just in case, I wouldn’t suggest banishment to the stable complex. All that soft hay and dark corners, you know.”
James shook his head in mock disgust and turned away from George’s grinning face. “Thanks for the advice,” he said drily as he poured a cup of tea. “Now, I was looking for you at the behest of my wife. Anne wants me to exact a promise that you will stay until after your birthday. A major party is not appropriate, but we would like to celebrate with you before you dash away.”
“I am touched, James. I hadn’t given it any thought, to be honest. Birthdays lose significance after a while. Still, it would be nice to commemorate the day with my family.”
“Anne will be pleased. She is fond of you, you know, and has missed you. You liven up the place, even during sad times such as this.”
“My, aren’t we growing sentimental in our old age!”
“You aren’t that far behind me, Brother.”
“Thirty-two is vastly different than, what are you now? Fifty? Fifty-five?”
“That will get you beaten! Fifty-five indeed. Keep talking like that and you can forget about any presents. I’ll toss you out the door onto your ass with your belongings heaped upon your head! Of course, considering how restless you are, your belongings are probably already packed.”
The Passions of Dr. Darcy Page 21