The Passions of Dr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  George sat on the chair across from James, leaning back and feigning nonchalance. “Restless? Why do you say that?”

  “Oh please! You have had one eye on the door since Christmas! I am shocked you are still here, but you don’t need to pretend or apologize, George. I understand that India and your work calls to you. You never were good at idleness. Even while Father was ill, I could tell you were uncomfortable and itching to be busy. I do wonder, though. Is it only India and your work, or do the memories haunt you?”

  “Only the first, amazingly enough.” George told his brother about his feelings regarding Pemberley and Alex, including sifting through the chest.

  “Praise God!” James exclaimed with relief. “I wasn’t convinced that running halfway around the world would do the trick, but apparently it has.”

  “I am not sure what it is, James. Maybe simply time. Maybe other heartaches supplanted my grief over Alex. Maybe I just grew tired of dwelling in the past. Rather idiotic to pine over someone who has been gone for nearly twenty years. Not sure what happened, and I don’t care. Life is too busy and exciting to analyze the whys. You are correct that I am anxious to leave, though it has nothing to do with Pemberley or Alex.” He stretched his long legs onto the low table, nudged the tea tray aside to make room, and swept one hand over his body. “Look at me. I am an English-Indian hybrid! I wear crazy clothes that are unbelievably comfortable, by the way. I speak six dialects moderately well and can read and write most of them. I know so many styles of medical treatments that I no longer recall where I learned them. I am tanned in places that never see the sun on most Englishmen. I have seen panthers mating, handled snakes, climbed a one-hundred-foot banyan tree, eaten creatures that I won’t mention because you would vomit, become an uncle to two delightful Hindu boys, have traversed jungles and deserts, and best of all, there is much, much more yet to uncover! I am never bored, James. Never unchallenged. You know me well enough to comprehend how valuable that is to me.”

  “You almost make me envious.”

  “Doubtful,” George snorted. “You are too much a Darcy and tied to the land to gallivant about. I am the one with wanderlust. And it is very hot there, which you would hate. Do you have any idea how freezing I have been these past two months? I will need a year to thaw out. You would wilt into a puddle of flesh in India.”

  “I can’t argue that. I guess living through your letters will suffice. Just be sure you write frequently so I know you haven’t been eaten by a lion or contracted an exotic disease.”

  “I’ll do my best. Now, let’s save the maudlin sentimentality for later. Tell me about the presents.”

  George’s Memoirs

  October 13, 1800

  Father, I wish I had traveled through the Great Rann of Kutch before I visited so that I could have described the wildlife. I am convinced you would have begged for your whittling knives no matter how weak your hands and undoubtedly managing better than I, despite the fact that I am seeing them in vivid reality. My novice figurines of flamingo, caracal, nilgai, and Indian ass khur are not bad but nothing compared to what you would have created. I am practicing, and the demoiselle crane I finished yesterday was an improvement. I never thought myself all that intrigued by nature, but these past few years have exposed me to wonders of flora and fauna unimaginable. Hours slide by with me transfixed by the scenery and teeming wildlife.

  Since I last wrote, after our visit to Kalo Dungar—I am yet in awe over the panoramic view from atop the Black Hill and the temple of Dattatreya—we have been on small boats, floating with the currents on the Rann and continuing our trek inland—when there are currents, that is. The marshland is at its highest water level now that the monsoons are past, but the mudflats and islets are numerous, impeding the forward momentum. We often move at a snail’s pace with the boatman propelling us along. When that fails, we walk or ride. We are not trying to stray far from the land and stop frequently as we encounter the villages that are our purpose for being here. Always we are welcomed with enthusiasm, our medical skills happily embraced and put to the test. I have not seen so many strange fevers and infected wounds in all my previous travels. The air is a breeding ground for bizarre illnesses! At the same time, it is a breeding ground for unique herbs and flora, many of which have medicinal qualities that the local healers use. It is dubious medicine at best, but as I have learned, gems of amazing treatments can be uncovered in the strangest of places. I won’t bore you with those facts here, since they are in my medical logs, but suffice to say I am endlessly fascinated and learning daily. When I am not miserable and wallowing in periods of gloominess, that is. If it is not raining, it is unbearably hot and humid. I have grown accustomed to the heat of India, but this is taking it to a whole new dimension. I know it would shock you, Father, but wearing anything more than a loincloth is intolerable. Being three-quarters naked does help, but the flip side is that my English skin reacts badly to the sun. And the biting insects adore me. The natives laugh at me as they kindly provide the salves that soothe and protect. Even Anoop is laughing at my grousing, not that he does so in an obvious way. Now that I have a constant tan underneath, the damage is lessening and I am adapting. McIntyre has it far worse than me. His Scottish skin refuses to acclimate in the slightest. Thank goodness it was his idea to accompany us, or I doubt he would ever forgive me! As it is, he has perfected a glower that would slay a lesser man, turning it upon me when I say the slightest word of complaint. Hell, at times I swear he knows I am thinking of complaining, piercing me with that murderous glower before a word passes my lips.

  Kshitij has been here before, so between him and our guides, we are accepted in this harsh land. The natives are a hardy stock and as diverse as the wildlife. They speak dialects I cannot master since each tribe is subtly different after eons of relative isolation. Indeed, this excursion is rougher than our years of travel through the east and south of India. That, I now realize, was princely in comparison! But, again, I am not complaining. Well, not too much. Yes, I am physically miserable a good portion of the time but also exhilarated by the experiences. In fact, McIntyre and I have decided to tarry in Rapar for the winter. After traversing the Rann at the height of its wet season, we want to see it when dry. Hearing the descriptions of the vast salt flats has piqued our interest. Kshitij wishes to return to Jharna and the boys. Frankly, I was surprised he agreed to take this trip. We have been gone for nearly five months and it will take another month for him to reach Thana. It was a sacrifice on his part, but I am selfishly thankful he made it. Dr. McIntyre is a great companion, and after years apart it has been a delight to reaffirm our friendship. Yet no one can take the place of Kshitij. I will sorely miss him.

  The good news is that he has promised to forward any correspondence from home that has accumulated while we have been in the wilds. It is tortuous not to know what is transpiring with those I love so far away! Hearing that my advice had proven positive with Anne conceiving was wonderful. I still choke up with emotion when I think of my newest niece, named in honor of me. How remarkable is that? Georgiana Darcy. Beautiful! James says she is perfect with golden hair like her mother and the clear blue eyes that appear from time to time, as in me and Alex and young William. I was thrilled to hear of her safe birth and vitality, whooping aloud with joy in fact, which scared Jharna’s saintly grandmother, bless her ancient heart. I was not at all happy to read how difficult Anne’s pregnancy had been though. James’s vivid recounting of her symptoms and continuing weakness is troublesome. I cling to his assurance that she was recovering, albeit slowly, and hope that my letter of further medical advice and package of herbs reached him safely and was beneficial. So I look forward to news and will be sure to jot it down here, Father, not that you probably don’t already know what is happening. Unless you are too busy debating with the saints to pay attention to us mere mortals! Selfishly I hope you are, since I would rather you not see me right now since I am “dressed” in a short dhoti and
nothing else.

  Chapter Seven

  Thana

  June 1801

  The pounding on the door jerked George out of a dead sleep. He bolted upward, belatedly realizing that he had fallen into his exhausted slumber in a chair tipped back against the wall and with his legs resting on a table at an odd angle. It was not a good position to waken from, his numbed lower extremities not cooperating with the upper portions of his body at all. Combined with a fogged brain, George crashed to the floor in a painful tangle. Instead of jarring sense into him, it only served to confuse him further.

  The pounding increased in volume, adding to the throbbing in his head and limbs, someone shouting his name in frantic tones. Clarity was restored only when he distinguished the name “Kshitij” amid the spat of rapid-fire Hindi his muddled mind had momentarily forgotten how to translate.

  “Kshitij,” he groaned, fear causing his heart to accelerate faster than the fall had. He struggled to speak and move, neither happening easily or as hastily as he desired, but finally he managed to shakily stand and lurch to the door that he had no memory of locking. Fumbling with the bolt, George heaved it open and instantly wished he had not.

  Nimesh stood in the corridor, his face ashen and streaked with tears. “Chacha, come quickly! Pita is convulsing!”

  George was already moving past him, rushing as quickly as his legs could while burning with restored circulation, down the hall to the room at the end. The sight greeting him would be forever burned upon his brain.

  Kshitij Ullas, jaundiced beneath the pallor, thrashed rhythmically on the sweat-soaked linens of the bed. Spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth, and drool oozed in a viscous rivulet down one cheek. His dry lips stretched tightly across the thick, wooden stick clenched between his teeth, the gap minimal but enough to emit a moist whine. Sasi and Jharna knelt at either side of his body, gently preventing the man they loved from inflicting additional damage by flailing limbs bashing against something or launching off the bed onto the floor, either a distinct possibility considering the violence of his seizure. Like Nimesh, they were white-faced and distraught, but somehow able to retain enough composure to assist the vaidya who was also at Kshitij’s side administering firm pressure to certain points on the body. Another Indian vaidya of Ayurveda was busily mixing a liquid concoction at a small table while a Hindu sadhu chanted in the corner. It was a scene reminiscent of the first time George had laid eyes on Dr. Ullas over ten years ago. Then, he had been the physician treating a woman who was convulsing from an unknown pestilence that she had overcome. This time George knew precisely what illness his dear friend suffered from. He also suspected, despite his refusal to admit it, that the outcome for Kshitij would not be as fortunate.

  “The fever came on suddenly, chacha,” Nimesh was explaining as George crossed to the bed. “We dosed with the sudarshana churna tonic and the guduchi, bathed with the lemon water, but nothing worked. The convulsions started within a half hour of his fever rising.”

  “Tincture of cinchona?”

  “I am making a stronger batch now, Vaidya Darcy,” the vaidya at the table answered without turning. “Vaidya Ullas received the dose you instructed an hour ago, then we gave another when he began to shiver. Unfortunately, most of it he coughed out when the seizure began.”

  George nodded shortly as he situated himself near Kshitij’s head. He peeled back one eyelid, keeping his face impassive as he examined the patient’s yellowed, blood-streaked eyes. The fingers of one hand assessed Kshitij’s carotid pulse while the other hand’s fingertips dug deep into a notch near the armpit, sensitive hands detecting the faint waning of stiffened muscles.

  “It is ebbing,” he murmured.

  “Yes, but they are growing closer and stronger.”

  George met Jharna’s gaze. He pursed his lips and refused to acknowledge the truth with a visible gesture but his eyes could not hide what they knew to be true.

  Kshitij Ullas was dying. Swiftly and soon.

  How or where he had contracted malaria was a mystery. The irony of succumbing to a disease common to the jungles of India not during their extensive travels but once surrounded by the modern luxuries of his mansion in Thana was notable. Since the previous December, Kshitij had gone no farther from home than a short family holiday to his father-in-law’s haveli in Kalyan. And that had been in February. George had returned from his mission to Gujarat in April, after accompanying Dr. McIntyre back to Bombay and passing a month with friends there. Since then he had embraced being homebound with the Ullas family. He had joined a supremely healthy Dr. Ullas as a staff physician at the hospital, the two of them keeping regular hours and performing minimal duties outside of that. Laziness became a sort of joke between them, Kshitij particularly enjoying teasing his energetic colleague for not going out of his way to look for trouble. Neither suspected it to last, and their ears remained unconsciously tuned to the rumbles in the news that might mean an interesting challenge.

  All had been well until three weeks ago when Kshitij complained of headache and a fever. George had rarely seen his friend ill and never poorly enough to take to his bed midday. It was concerning, but Kshitij assured it was nothing serious. In truth, it did not seem so in those first few days. The subsequent fever and mild joint pain were relieved with the standard herbal teas and rest, Jharna caring for her husband and shooing George back to the hospital where, “the seriously ill people need your genius and consummate skills.” Five days later, George was woken in the middle of the night, called by Jharna at the behest of Kshitij, who was shaking violently with rigorous chills when George arrived. In between noisy clatters of his teeth, wracking coughs, and explosive vomiting, Kshitij barked prescriptions for medicines necessary to treat malaria, as if George had not diagnosed the disease the second he looked at him. Indeed, he had devoted every ounce of his prodigious skill to curing his dearest friend, Kshitij contributing his greater knowledge to the task when lucid enough to speak. Nothing worked beyond short respites, when the worst of the symptoms would recede marginally, granting the weakening man precious hours of sleep. Sadly those brief respites were growing less and less.

  The convulsion ended after what seemed an eternity. An exhausted Sasi slipped from the bed and stumbled to his brother, Nimesh gathering the eleven-year-old into his arms for whatever comfort he could provide. Jharna closed her eyes and murmured a series of prayers, her chants mingling with the sadhu in the corner. The vaidya gestured to two manservants standing near the door who hastened forward with towels and fragrant water in their arms. The routine was standard now, Kshitij needing to be cleansed on a frequent basis but especially after a seizure.

  George examined Kshitij comprehensively, one part the detached physician and one part the heartbroken friend. The physician’s clinical findings of multisystem failure did not coincide with the frantic yearning for signs of improvement that the friend searched for. Finally, he looked at Kshitij’s face, seeing the whole picture rather than the individual parts. It was all he could do not to weep.

  “He woke up earlier,” Jharna whispered, answering the question she knew George was mentally asking. “Only for a few moments. I could see the pain in his eyes, but for a few seconds he was present. He tried to speak, but nothing passed his lips. Love shone from his eyes, a message to me as clear as his spoken sentiments and farewell last week. Then he slipped away.”

  George suppressed the wince her tenderly spoken words triggered, instead taking the fresh tincture of cinchona from the vaidya’s hands and bending to trickle drops into Kshitij’s slack mouth. He was the physician, damn it all, and she the distraught wife! He was supposed to offer comfort, not the other way around. The problem was that he denied what everyone in the room knew, including Kshitij. The stricken man had accepted the inevitable several days ago, even in his extremity aware as any doctor would be that the infection was of a lethal variety resistant to cinchona, the only know curative for mal
aria.

  On that day, he had grasped George’s hand weakly, pushed the bitter liquid away from his lips, and in a series of mumbled phrases mixed with raspy breaths, revealed his heart as he never had before. Kshitij told George how proud he was to have worked with him, that he was the finest physician he had ever met, and that he had nothing else to teach him. As if that had not been enough to wrench George’s heart out of his chest, Kshitij then went on to encourage him to “let go of your heart… do not fear love… find a woman who brings you joy” and other sentimental rot that he wanted to laugh at but wept over instead. The final straw was when Kshitij said the three words that sent most folks into puddles of emotion, especially women, and although he never gave the idea much thought, George recognized how desperately he had longed to hear them from the man who meant far more to him than he had imagined.

  “I love you, George.”

  Thankful for the remaining shreds of manly pride that dictated one was not supposed to blubber like a baby when thirty-four years of age, especially when a medical expert who encountered death often, George was alone and able to succumb to the sobs he had been holding in. It took a while before he was able to verbalize his love in return and by then Kshitij had fallen into a coma that he would fleetingly rally from in the days leading to his death, but never long enough or with enough coherence for even the scantest conversation.

  “Do not doubt that he knows how deeply you love him, mitra. We all do, but Kshitij especially.” Jharna pressed her fingertips onto the back of his hand, the affectionate caress reassuring as it was meant to be but also to stop him from dribbling the useless tonic into her husband’s mouth. “He was prouder of his association with you than any other accomplishment. He told me so many times, in private of course. He never wanted you to stop striving for greater excellence so hid his thoughts on purpose. I saw the light that shone in his eyes when talking of you. I witnessed his renewed vigor and delight since you joined him. These have been happy years for him, George, but now it is time to grant him the necessary rituals for the great departure so that his journey will continue.”