The Passions of Dr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  “Ah, I see. Pity. I was hoping you might have felt differently.” She blew a stray strand of hair from her eyes, watching his face closely.

  “No need to be coy, Jharna. I know what you hoped for and regret that our sentiments were not serious. Sorry to disappoint. But feel free to continue burning incense to your goddess while praying I stumble upon my true love. Sacrifice a small animal if you think that will help.”

  “Maybe I will. Small ones only, of course.”

  “Of course,” he replied, lifting one eyebrow. The teasing between them in regards to their religious beliefs was ingrained and enjoyable. Then he chuckled and reached for another plate. “Are these the dining plates you painted for Nimesh? He will be a grandfather before you finish all fifty place settings.”

  “I have finished Nimesh’s set—fourteen place settings—and they are in that crate.” She indicated one by the door that was already nailed shut. “Those,” she pointed to the one he held, “are for Sasi, a completely different pattern”—she rolled her eyes—“and I only have five pieces left to paint. I’ll manage to finish them before he has too many gray hairs.”

  “Does the house in Junnar have as nice a studio as this one does?”

  “Larger with wide windows overlooking the gardens. It may prove to be distracting as the gardens are lush and there is a view of the mountains, but the sunlight will be wonderful. This room never had adequate lighting. I will have space for more than one easel if I wish.”

  “And you are sure there is an extra room for Nimesh to have a small laboratory?”

  “There are several outbuildings, yes, and one has been promised for his use. Best any experiments are conducted away from the main house, don’t you think? He can have a garden to plant the seeds you have given him and safely play with the tubes and instruments belonging to Kshitij. We will encourage him, George, have no fear.”

  George nodded, the creases between his brows deep no matter how hard he tried to present a serene exterior. He methodically wrapped the precious pottery, the task perfect for keeping his mind from dwelling on unpleasantness. Jharna was not fooled, naturally. She always read his thoughts no matter how nonchalant or secretive he tried to be.

  “It is a beautiful area and rich with the history of our people, the Marathas, not the least being Shivaneri Hill, the birthplace of Shivaji Maharaj. Lushly green and dotted with rivers and tiny lakes, Junnar is the perfect playground for energetic boys, especially where my grandmother’s house is located. With the bulk of my mother’s clan there, it will be a wonderful place for them to mature while growing close to family. They will have an abundance of cousins to play with. It is where Kshitij wanted me to relocate when the time came.”

  “No need to sell me on the idea, Jharna,” he interrupted gently. “We have talked of it at length, and you know I approve of your decision to leave Thana, not that my approval is necessary.”

  “Perhaps not strictly so, mitra, but I value your opinion and never wish to cause you unhappiness.”

  “Thank you. I’ll have to remember you said that when, or if, the time comes when I do disagree with one of your decisions.” He flashed her a calculating grin and arched one brow deviously, Jharna chuckling. “Don’t let me whine too much, Mrs. Ullas. You know I am simply being difficult and selfish. I don’t like change—”

  “Ha! You are the king of change! You change your clothes three times a day and would shrivel into a dried husk if forced to reside in one place for longer than six months!”

  “Not true at all. Well, the clothes part maybe I’ll admit to, but I have lived here for nearly a year.”

  “You have been here for eight months, barely, and spent a total of two of those months elsewhere,” she corrected, then waved a hand at the stack of plates he had quit wrapping, using his words to tease him into a happier mood. “Now get back to work and cease whining and being difficult.”

  Jharna resumed her task of packing the breakable items on the wall case, George doing the same after a flippant bow in her direction, which she ignored. Silence fell for several minutes before George again spoke.

  “You are going to make me confess to being a sentimental fool, aren’t you?” He sighed when she looked up encouragingly. “This house is so closely linked to Kshitij. It is odd to think of others dwelling here besides us.”

  “There is nothing wrong with being sentimental, George. Perhaps I could use a dose of your tender nature. For me it is merely a house. Yes, I see Kshitij here, since it was his house and where he first brought me as a new bride. Yet due to all our years of travel, we lived here as a family less than we did elsewhere. Even before those years I was often not here, choosing to be with kin when Kshitij was away. Nimesh was born in Kalyan at my father’s haveli and Sasi in Junnar in my grandmother’s house, the same one that we will be living in and which will be mine when she passes. I never felt truly at home here. Thana is too large and populated with people who are too busy to make lasting friendships.”

  “Large cross-cultural towns with busy people take no interest in a stray white man wandering about or which walls he lives within.”

  “That is what bothers you! Here in Thana, few notice, and if they do are accepting of you as Dr. Darcy, associate of Dr. Ullas. What of Junnar, you are wondering. Oh, George.” She rose to her feet and crossed to where he stood. “You have nothing to fear. My family knows how important you are to us and they adore you. You will be as valuable and delightfully appreciated there, more so in fact, than you are here.”

  “Thank you. The reassurance is appreciated. And you are right that I do not fear change. I welcome new and exciting adventures, which is a good characteristic considering the unrest in the region now. Britain is flexing her muscles and strife is brewing among the Confederacy. I wish I had a crystal ball to predict the future winds, but I can almost guarantee I will be busy with Company affairs. I am selfish, though, and hate that Junnar is farther away from Bombay.”

  “Not that far. A swift horse can cover the seventy miles easily. Once you are done visiting your friends in Bombay and worshipping the virgin mother and straw baby god you will see how near we are.”

  “Only Catholics worship the Virgin Mary, not Anglicans, and Jesus is God as a baby lying in the straw not made of straw.” He shook his head as if exasperated, knowing full well that she knew the Biblical story nearly as well as he. “And your theory is dependent on having a swift horse. Time to purchase a new steed, I suppose.”

  A tumult from the corridor interrupted any further conversation. They turned to the doorway just as Nimesh and Sasi crowded through, vying to be first to reach George and ignoring their mother’s pleas to be calm in her studio teeming with breakable articles.

  “Did you give him his presents yet, mata-jee?”

  “I was waiting for you two,” she answered, not that anyone was listening to her.

  “You will be so surprised, chacha!”

  “Yes, so surprised!”

  Voices tumbling over each other, Sasi and Nimesh grabbed a hand and propelled the baffled man out into the hallway. Jharna trailed behind, a backward glance revealing her exuberant smile and that she had retrieved a brightly wrapped box from some hidden shelf in her studio. George’s curiosity piqued, especially when they bypassed every room in the house and exited a side door, the boys jabbering in rushed Hindi as they dragged him toward a clearing near the barn.

  George saw the horse before his mind registered that they were heading toward the majestic animal who stood proudly off to one side, head lifted and averted in imperious disdain of the groom loosely holding his reins. He was a stallion, easily sixteen hands high, with a deep chest, straight shoulders, and pronounced withers supporting a long, sloping back. He was colored reddish-bay with white patches in a skewbald pattern, tail and mane black, as were his intelligent eyes and tall, pointed ears that curled inward with the tips touching. The combination of t
raits, especially the ears, left no doubt as to the breed.

  “A Marwari! You are giving me a Marwari? He is for me?” The questions were redundant since the boys were leaping about and clapping with sheer delight. George waited for Jharna to nod before he could believe it. “This is too much, Jharna. I know how rare a Marwari is and how expensive. You should not have done this. I can’t accept it.”

  “You will accept it, dear George, because it is not from me. It is a gift from my father. A thanks, he said, for your devotion to our family. You wanted a swift horse and now you have one. Maybe there is something to the magic of your Christmas after all. Straw baby gods perform great miracles, so I am told.” She grinned and thrust the colorful box into his arms. “This is a new sherwani, salwar kameez, and pair of mojari decorated by me and my grandmother with your taste in mind. That means it is gaudily decorated with every color of the rainbow. You will love it. The boys helped with the sewing too. Not as exciting as a Marwari stallion, but I trust it will earn you a fair amount of attention at some glittering British East India Company gala, specifically of the female persuasion. The horse will gain you points with the men, so you win all the way around. Happy Christmas, George.”

  ***

  Five days after the new year, George sat across a table from his longtime friend Dr. Searc McIntyre. They were at Henry’s, the oldest English-style pub in Bombay and the same place where George attacked the former Physician General Dr. White. The pub had been under new ownership for eight years, and although polished up, the furnishings hadn’t changed considerably. The tables and chairs were newer, as was typical in rowdy drinking establishments where brawls were not uncommon, but constructed of the standard wood and arranged exactly the same as they had been for decades. Nevertheless, George didn’t pass a second in remembrance of long ago events. Instead, he smiled at his drinking companion, the two men happy to steal away for a private chat—or at least as private as one could get in a loud public room with a dart game in one corner, a minstrel on the tiny platform in the other, and a game of faro at the table by the door, which was promising to become lively very soon based on the angry expression worn by one of the players. The physicians ignored all of it, including the speculative gazes from several ladies-for-hire milling about the room.

  “Here is to 1802. May it be a year of excitin’ prospects and stoat health!”

  McIntyre lifted his mug of ale, George mimicking the gesture but pausing before clinking together to add, “And to the new Physician General of Bombay Headquarters, Dr. McIntyre!”

  “Thank ye,” McIntyre said after they drank deeply of the frothing liquid, “although I was hoping to make that another toast to drink to.”

  “I am sure we will find much to drink to before we are too inebriated to care any longer.”

  “Such as drinking to yer birthday. Oh, dinna look so shocked. Of course I forgot. But my wife remembered it was this month. She remembered the date too, although I have already forgotten that, so your low opinion of my sentimental nature is correct. All I am sure of is that it hasn’t passed, since Lileas is planning to bake a cake for ye.”

  George’s eyes gleamed. “A cake? With very sweet icing? Ah! Delicious! I shall be there on the twelfth, you can count on it. Supper too, dare I hope?”

  “God, ye are a greedy bugger, aren’t ye? All right. Dinner too. Just don bring any sweets for me wee lasses. Cake is enough.”

  “That I cannot promise,” George declared firmly. “Your daughters are too adorable not to treat with candies and ribbons. And how ridiculous is it to say that cake is enough? Absurd! To cake never being enough!”

  George lifted his mug, and after a moment, McIntyre knocked his mug against the side, joining in the nonsensical toast and laughing as he drank.

  “Repeat this and I will kill ye, Darcy, but I have missed ye company. It is good to have ye here and I am sorry it’s taken so long to share a drink wi’ ye.”

  “That isn’t your fault. I expected the Christmas celebrations to be enjoyable but not the grand affair we have had. Lord and Lady Burgley’s invitation mentioned that Governor Duncan was attending the soiree, but not that General Wellesley was a guest of honor. I’ve never seen such pomp in Bombay.”

  “And ye loved every second of it.”

  “Well, of course! Gave me a reason to wear my newest clothes. I was quite the spectacle.”

  McIntyre lifted his mug. “Here’s to Dr. Darcy being a spectacle. Again.”

  “Cheers!” George grinned unrepentantly as he met McIntyre’s mug with a spirited thunk. “Somebody had to liven up the party. Thank goodness I was there and unafraid to make a bloody fool of myself, or it may have ended before the stroke of midnight Christmas morn. I still think you should have danced a Scottish reel and answered the age-old question of what a man does, or doesn’t, wear under his kilt.”

  “Someone needed to maintain their dignity,” McIntyre grunted. Then his eyes narrowed and he pointed a finger at George. “Is that why we are here? So ye can get a start on intoxicating me so I’ll dance at the ball tonight?”

  George leaned forward, his expression and tone deadly serious. “It is Twelfth Night and the Lord of Misrule calls for folly. It is the law.”

  McIntyre shoved him back, both men laughing. “God help Bombay if ye had accepted the position of Physician General from Governor Duncan.”

  “What?” George’s mug slapped onto the tabletop, the sound taken as a hint to the barmaid to refill their mugs. She hastened over but neither man noticed.

  “Ach, no need to be in a dither, Darcy. I know they asked ye first and I dinna mind. With yer experience it makes sense, aside from the fact that ye have no wish to stay on the island. I ken that and am glad ye said no ’cause ye would be no good at the job.”

  “That’s exactly what I told them! Searc, they never would have thought of me if I hadn’t shown up when I did. You were their first choice.”

  “I said dinna fash yerself. The best man got the job—me!” He grinned and winked. “But they thought of ye first, no mistake. Yer fame has spread, my friend, and well earned to boot. The name of Darcy is whispered with the same hallowed awe as Ullas once was, more so on account of ye being English. ’Course I make sure they know ye don’t walk on water and piss like the rest of us mere mortals.”

  George heard the tease in McIntyre’s voice and knew that any jealousy felt was minimal. Aside from a handful of close-to-home missions, like to Kutch, Dr. McIntyre was content to practice his craft in Bombay. Not only were his wife and children there, but he also did not possess the same drive that George always had. No, George knew nothing had changed in their relationship as a result of Dr. Darcy being asked first.

  What caused him to stare into his mug with contemplative amazement were the claims of his fame. He had no idea that anyone outside of those he knew intimately ever talked about him at all! Sure, he was recognized and welcomed in every English enclave he traveled to, but he chalked that up to either his family’s fame in England, the letters of introduction he carried, or to people simply being thrilled to see a physician. Humbleness was not a trait George counted among his positive attributes and proudly listed arrogance right on top, yet for some bizarre reason he had never extended that arrogance into the broader scope of far-reaching fame. It was disconcerting because fame was never something he craved. Some accused him of being ostentatious and a seeker of attention with his flamboyant ways, but the better term was audacious, because while bold and uninhibited, George cared not a whit what anyone thought of him. His only desire was to please his patients, and himself, in a ceaseless quest for healing knowledge. That truth was why McIntyre’s words were also exhilarating. George was a firm believer in one’s education ending only when laid in the ground, but it was nice to know that his skills had reached a level where others noticed because it was a sign he was doing something right!

  “So what other positions did
they offer ye?”

  George started out of his reverie, it taking a couple of seconds to register what McIntyre had asked. Attempting to be casual, he blew on the fresh froth of his refilled mug of ale before answering. “What makes you think they offered me anything? I am the rebel who refused their shackling request as PG.”

  McIntyre released a rude noise. “I’m no an idiot, Darcy! And I have ears to the ground and eyes everywhere. Yes,” he affirmed when George arched a brow, “I do. While ye was out traipsing about the country, I have been here firmly entrenched—”

  “Which is why you are a far better choice for the PG job.”

  “Damn right I am! Unlike ye, I have an interest in politics and that adds to my qualifications. Ye, on the other hand, have something more valuable than that.”

  Dr. McIntyre paused, but George did not take the bait. He wanted to hear what McIntyre thought and what rumors he might have heard, so he sipped at his ale and stared silently.

  “’Tis no secret to anyone with half a brain that neutralizing the French factions in Mysore and Hyderabad bent on causing rebellion, and especially the death of Tipu Sultan, has stabilized matters to the south. Problem is that the War Office back home thinks life is now rosy. The Tiger Sultan was a lunatic but a smart one with power and connections. I can see why eliminating him would seem to eliminate the threats. Yet I tend to agree that there are greater threats yet to deal with. That is the opinion of Lord Wellesley, our illustrious Governor-General, in case you haven’t kept up on the news.”

  George pierced him with a condescending glare. “I am not completely uninformed,” he replied drily. “Calcutta and the War Office are primarily concerned with money. How to keep amassing it through uninterrupted trade while not spending so much on military campaigns is the question, and my guess is that they each have different answers.”

  “That is one way to put it. But the War Office is a long way from here and Wellesley has the authority, and the will, to get the answer he wants.”