The Passions of Dr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  It was home because his heart lived there. It was home because his heart was utterly and irrevocably captured. It was home because Jharna lived there.

  George had fallen in love with Jharna Ullas.

  The gradual acknowledgement of the Junnar house as home had occurred simultaneously with his gradual awareness of altering emotions for Jharna. There wasn’t a specific day or month when that had happened either. He had simply come to a point of admitting that the feelings inside were no longer ones of friendship but of passion as a man has for a woman. He had not consciously sought more. It had happened of its own volition.

  George shifted in the saddle gifted to him by Jharna last Christmas. Rathore took it as a signal and stepped forward, the sound he made when George tugged on the reins clearly expressing his annoyance in more waiting, although he complied and stood still. George continued his contemplation of the house and his situation.

  Aside from a two-day layover in early March when traveling east to Ahmednagar, George had not visited since December. At that time, the Ullas family had hosted a surprise holiday celebration for George complete with foods from his country prepared quite well, considering they were cooked by Indians who had never heard of wassail or plum pudding, and Christian carols sung in mispronounced English. It was an overwhelmingly emotional experience that moved him profoundly, but when Nimesh brought in the gleaning saddle fashioned specifically for Rathore, it had taken every ounce of George’s self-control not to kiss Jharna. The entire two weeks of his visit had been an agony of repressed longing as he hopelessly fell deeper in love with a woman who responded to him precisely as she forever had.

  “I am indeed unlucky in love,” he murmured.

  After the failure with Lady Ruby Thomason, George had asserted this conviction to Dr. Ullas. To a large degree, it had been the claim of a man agonized from a broken heart. Twelve years had passed, his heart had healed, and rarely had he given the matter of his luck or lack thereof much thought. Casual affairs fulfilled his physical desires and provided a semblance of intimacy that suited where he was in his life. If asked, he probably would have said he was lucky not to fall in love and suffer the complications.

  It wasn’t guilt or betrayal he felt for loving Jharna. Kshitij was dead. George was a practical man and had never assumed that a woman as young and beautiful as Jharna would remain unwed forever. He couldn’t imagine that Kshitij would want that for her. There were no other suitors yet, but how long would that last? Would he be able to sit calmly by when another man married her? Honestly, he did not think he could. So instead, he avoided visiting until the pain of missing her, and Nimesh and Sasi, was too great to bear. He loved them and needed to be a part of their lives, no matter the agony it may cause him. The agony of never seeing them again or not being a part of their lives was worse.

  Still, he sat on the hillock and watched the sun set until the house was immersed in the shadows, with only the entrance lit with smoking oil lamps. He may have sat there indefinitely, but the clomp of hooves alerted him to the approach of Anoop.

  “Sahib Vaidya Darcy, you waited for me! Thank you! You should not have though. You could have eaten already and be at rest. I know the way myself!”

  “I know you do, Anoop. Ready then?”

  Anoop nodded enthusiastically.

  “Stop being a bloody coward,” George muttered to himself, following with the command Rathore had been waiting for. The horse leapt a foot off the ground in his eagerness, jarring George’s teeth together at the impact. His curse was lost in the clatter of hooves striking hard-packed dirt. Guards alerted by the sound rushed to intercept the unexpected visitor, drawn swords sheathed at recognition that it was Dr. Darcy arriving. Shouts of Darcy Sahib rang through the air as servants hastened to assist the respected guest of the Ullas household. George’s feet barely touched the ground before he was surrounded by two pairs of youthful arms, squeezing tight.

  “Chacha-jee! We have missed you! Where have you been? Have you seen many battles? Have you eaten dinner? Have you cured many sick patients? Have you missed us too? How long are you staying? Where is Anoop?”

  And on the questions went, tumbling on top of each other so that he could not tell who asked what, nor begin to formulate answers. Instead, he smiled and hugged until the air whooshed out of their lungs, momentarily halting the babble. The caesura was brief, but enough for Jharna’s softer voice to penetrate.

  “Namaste, mitra. We are so happy to see you.”

  George lifted his head, his heart already pounding from the effect of her voice alone, and willed his expression to remain neutral as he bravely looked at her. She wore an emerald green sari of silk, edged with a wide trim woven with gold thread into an intricate design of flowers, the garment hugging the curves of her hips and generous breasts before falling in a cascading drape down her back and over one arm. Her black hair was pulled away from her face with a gold circlet, the heavy tresses loose upon her shoulders and spilling in waves to just above the slope of her buttocks. She was smiling happily and her eyes were luminous in the lamp-lit courtyard, shining with friendship and sincere delight. Then suddenly they widened with alarm, the lips that George had been staring at fixedly opening as she mouthed a troubled oh.

  “You are bleeding!” Her exclamation was accompanied by a tender brush of her fingertips across his lower lip, the shockwave of her touch making him gasp and jerk his head backward. “Sorry”—she pulled her fingers away—“I am sure it is painful.”

  Jharna sent a servant for water, towels, and medicinal ointment, her attention momentarily diverted, allotting George the time to recollect the wits that scattered the second she touched him. Gingerly pressing a finger to his lower lip, he belatedly realized that it was in fact bleeding.

  “Rathore took one look at the house and set off at a fast gallop. I guess it rattled me more than I thought. It is nothing,” he assured the woman whose concerned eyes were staring at him. “I didn’t notice it in my excitement to see all of you. And get some food! What does a man have to do to be fed around here? Is that tandoori I smell?”

  Anoop rode into the courtyard at that moment, his slight body bouncing crazily on the back of the pony that had bravely tried to keep pace with Rathore. In no time at all, the two men were ushered into the house amid laughter and endless streams of conversation as food was brought into the dining area on large platters. The various kinsman that lived in the house with Jharna poured through the open archways, everyone delighted to welcome Dr. Darcy and join in the lively meal, even though they had already partaken of their evening repast. George’s jovial nature took over, his happiness to be among people he cared for genuine. The only tense moment was when a servant brought the requested medicine for his split lip, but George was able to relax when Nimesh assumed the task rather than Jharna. It was humorous how Nimesh adopted a serious expression while meticulously tending to the wound, as if performing the most delicate of surgeries. George held the smile in, partly because the cut did sting a bit, but mostly not to insult the boy’s heartfelt intentions. He did wink at Jharna from above the boy’s bent head. Her return smile was warm, expressive eyes conveying her appreciation for him tolerating Nimesh’s fussing.

  It was a brief exchange, a small moment and insignificant on the face of it, but in that short span, George sensed the cords binding his heart into knots loosen. More important than the love he felt for Jharna was the friendship they shared, and he refused to do anything to jeopardize that. As he gazed at Jharna and then down at Nimesh and across to the laughing people clustered about the low table, his eyes sweeping rapidly about the spacious room with palms and colorful flowers adding to the beautiful decor, George knew that this was home in more ways than just his love for her. As long as she was here, as long as Sasi and Nimesh were here, as long as he was welcomed into the family fold, he would do nothing to compromise the situation. It might be painful but losing them would be far, far wor
se.

  ***

  It was a good plan and one that worked well until the day the topic of love and marriage was brought up.

  Groups engaged in various household tasks were scattered about the enormous roofless courtyard in the middle of the house. Some were sewing and mending while others laundered soiled garments. Near the entrance, a cluster of men and boys polished swords and leather saddles while watching a half-dozen brawny, sweating guards spar. Gardeners tended to the numerous potted trees and flowers while craftsmen bent to repair broken tiles and service fountain pumps. Cleaning servants wandered about with brooms and scrubbing cloths in hand. More than half the household, family and servant, were in the central courtyard, harmoniously milling around each other with conversation flowing and laughter frequent as they worked. Yet the area was designed so well that the voices rose in the air, drifting up and over the high rooftops of the living quarters so that tranquility was maintained.

  Under the shading palms and porch roof in the corner near the kitchen sat tables laden with assorted edibles as the women cut fruits and vegetables, spiced meats, and rolled dough for breads and desserts. They were all familiar with George and his appetite, it having become an old game to try to catch him as he sneakily pilfered from the piles of food while charmingly distracting with a toothy grin and witty joke. Of course, he was unrepentant when caught, merely slipping another slice of something between his fingers as he shook the hand that had been slapped. The fact that stray bits of food were left lying about was no accident, naturally, but the charade continued.

  Today he was sitting cross-legged on a large cushion near a table where two women were rolling dough for naan, a small girl on each leg. Three-year-old Ihita sat on his left knee, her face scrunched as she waited to explode into another series of loud laughs when he would abruptly jerk the leg and nearly send her tumbling backward unless she was quick enough to grab onto him. Two-year-old Treya was perched on the right and not as happy about it. She would rather be running amok around the feet of the women but kept to her confinement with borderline contentment as long as the big man kept tickling her and feeding her bites from the tray of victuals on the floor just beyond her reach. Several young girls and a few boys sat close to him, children gravitating to the affable George. Two other girls stood behind him, Tvarita and Dhanya, ten years of age and doing goodness only knew what to his long, thick, wavy hair. George had lost count at three braids and six flowers, but then he wasn’t paying too much attention. He was busy entertaining Treya and carrying on a conversation with Gita, Jharna’s elderly aunt, about various medicinal treatments for preventing miscarriage. One of Jharna’s sisters was pregnant for the fourth time, the previous three lost midway through term and since she was early in this pregnancy, they were hoping to prevent another tragedy.

  Suddenly one of the girls glanced up from the basket she was weaving, her curious gaze resting on George. “How is it you know so much about birthing and babies, Vaidya? That is work for a dai.”

  “A dai, or midwife in my language, does deliver most babies, that is true, Esha, but as a doctor I have substantial experience. I have cared for many women during their pregnancies, births, and afterward. Your chachi Gita is a skilled dai and hopefully with our combined knowledge we can help your cousin.”

  “Will you deliver your own baby, Vaidya? Or have a dai?”

  “Well now”—George scratched at his chin—“that is an idea I have given no thought! Perhaps, if I ever am faced with the matter, I will decide then.”

  “Your wife will decide,” one of the girls added with a sage nod. “It is her choice.”

  “Do you have a wife, Vaidya?” This from a wide-eyed child confused by the last sentence since she was sure Dr. Darcy did not have a wife.

  “No,” he began, but was cut off by Esha.

  “You should have a wife. A man your age needs a wife.”

  “Oh yes! You should have a wife, Vaidya!” chimed in several young voices all at the same time. “That is the proper thing! We can help you find a wife.” And this was followed with a flood of options from among the household females as well as other names he had never heard.

  “Daaktar Darcy can marry no one, since he has promised to marry me, haven’t you?” The tug on his hair brought his eyes in contact with Tvarita, her expression a mix of seriousness and teasing. Then Dhanya’s face came into view just as she said, “He cannot marry you, Tvarita, because he is going to marry me!” This claim was taken up by several, while additional names were tossed into the ring for his matrimonial consideration.

  The adults were all laughing. Mercilessly laughing. George was flummoxed that he had proposed marriage to so many without remembering a single one and that there were this many unattached women in the Junnar household!

  “Silly girls,” Gita’s voice pierced the refrain of marriage options, “he can marry none of you because he is a Christian and you are Hindu.”

  As if that were the main reason and not the huge age difference or that they were children! George grunted and shook his head. Gita’s words did sting, however, although he shoved the immediate thought of Jharna from his mind. For a while, this was easy to do, since the determined youngsters quickly redirected their marriage candidates.

  “Then he must pick from the Christians at the mission house. Memsahib Maria is pretty and so is Memsahib Anna. She is nice, too, and always has sweet cakes.”

  “She does have a big nose though, but maybe that would not bother you, Vaidya?” This from Tvarita, who was pointedly staring at George’s generous proboscis.

  “I say Memsahib Corina or Marcie.”

  “Memsahib Stukas is the perfect choice.”

  “Hey, wait a minute! She is at least fifty if a day!” All eyes turned to George, as if seeing him for the first time, and then they shrugged in unison and went on naming prospective brides irrespective of age or the fact that most of them were Catholic nuns!

  Into this chatter Jharna emerged from the kitchen, depositing a bowl of chopped onions and garlic for the naan next to her aunt. “Why are you discussing the physical attributes of the missionary women?” Jharna asked as she picked up a ball of dough.

  “We are finding a wife for Daaktar Darcy,” Esha answered, “since he is not accomplishing the job himself and it must be done.”

  Jharna dropped the dough, it hitting the table edge and falling to the ground by George’s foot. Ihita kindly picked the dough ball, handing it to Jharna when she bent over and with trembling hand took it from the toddler without meeting George’s questioning gaze. “I am sure Daaktar Darcy can find his own wife if he wanted one,” she said, her tone clipped. Her rough attack on the dough as she commenced kneading brought a curious lift to George’s brow.

  Esha noted none of this, waving her hand airily and snorting disdainfully as she added, “Women are better at arranging these matters, are they not chachi Gita?”

  “Oh yes,” Gita agreed. “Arranging a proper wife for a man is a time-honored tradition best approached with cool rationality.”

  “Well, call me a sentimental fool, but I would rather have a wife I chose myself with affection as a prime factor, thank you. I appreciate the recommendations, however, and if I reach a point of desperation, I’ll consider the viable options.”

  The topic changed, thankfully, but in the week ahead, George noted a marked increase in the number of speculative glances from the ladies in the house. At first he thought it just his imagination, but as the days passed with hardly an hour going by without one of the unmarried women smiling at him provocatively or engaging him in a conversation about something inane, he knew it wasn’t. Clearly word had spread that Dr. Darcy was in need of a wife and just as clearly the fact that he was a Christian and English did not bother them all that much!

  Of course, foreigners had taken wives from the Indian population for years. It wasn’t precisely embraced with full endorsement, b
ut when white women were in short supply, a man naturally looked elsewhere, love and attraction occurring as a result. Liaisons of all types were common, marriage included.

  Vani had not been George’s first Indian lover or his last. None of them had captured his heart enough to contemplate a serious commitment until Jharna, and with her the issue was not their differing faiths but that she did not love him. Fervently, he wished for her to gaze at him with eyes of love as none of the others had. His heart would spiral into heights of ecstasy if she did.

  The uncomfortable feminine pursuits forced George to vacate the house to preserve his sanity, leaving one day shortly after the morning meal and walking a narrow path through the trees toward a small pond a half mile from the house. He strolled with his eyes to the ground, searching for stones of a certain shape, those found to be just right tucked into a sturdy sack. The first order of business once at the pond was to strip naked and dive into the cool water. After ten laps from one end to the other, George turned over to float. With eyes closed, he tuned in to the hum of nature underneath the silence, peace calming some of the inner turmoil.

  Hunger lured him out of the pond, the bread and cheese confiscated from the kitchen eaten in spaced bites while he stood at the edge of the pond and methodically picked one stone at a time from the heavy sack sitting on a boulder beside him. Each smooth stone was tested and rolled between his fingers for several minutes before he bent and, with expert technique, pitched it out over the surface of the still water. By the time the food was gone, he managed at least three skips on each stone tossed, the record of six skips unlikely to be beaten, although he intended to keep trying. His hair was still wet, the slow drip of cool water sliding down his back and shoulders a pleasant reminder of the pond’s waiting delights when the stones were gone.