The Passions of Dr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  As for Dr. Penaflor, Dr. Shoolbred was correct that the new doctors had heard of Dr. Darcy well before meeting him four months prior. Raul Penaflor hadn’t been an accredited physician for long, but he did have a lifetime of exposure to commanding, proficient leaders so had instantly recognized that the doctor with the eccentric demeanor and daunting reputation was of the same mold. Therefore, being chosen to tend patients at Native Hospital was an honor he fully appreciated. He intended to prove himself worthy of the assignment and to learn all that was humanly possible in however long fate granted him with Dr. Darcy as well as the other healers. So naturally, he jumped at the chance to join the expedition to Tripura. It was an opportunity to observe Dr. Darcy up close and personal for an extended time, and he was abundantly thankful for that. However, equally important to him was the exhilarating prospect of using his excellent healing skills to help those who may not have been fortunate in having access to competent doctors.

  It was this drive and confidence that intrigued George no matter how forcefully he denied it. Dr. Penaflor was unique, George having detected it within the first fifteen minutes of meeting him. The Spaniard impressed him, and that was not an easy feat. In time, the level of impression built, as did his respect for Dr. Penaflor as a person. The two months traveling together hardened the foundation laid in those first months. After their return from Tripura, George assigned him increasingly difficult patients, selected him for tricky surgeries, scheduled him longer hours, grilled him with complicated questions, and challenged him with complex dilemmas. Every test George threw at him, some downright brutal, was met head on and overcome. George ignored the rumors that he had taken Dr. Penaflor as his personal project since he had never advanced such an arrangement and had zero plan to do so. What he didn’t deny was that while he held high expectations of every physician he encountered and suffered no fools, whatever their rank or experience, there were those special ones whom he respected. Earning the esteem of Dr. George Darcy was a coveted prize. Dr. Penaflor was the only new doctor to have gained that level of recognition. It had not come to him easily, but it was deserved.

  “He never blinks. Never. He may not know the answer immediately, but he finds it. He asks for help rather than attempting something he doesn’t know how to do, which is wise, and then never forgets. But you know what is most amazing, Jharna?”

  “That he has a gift for diagnosis.”

  “Yes!” He nodded his head, forgetting in his excitement that this was about the hundredth time they had talked about Dr. Raul Penaflor in the year since his arrival in Calcutta. “That is true. I have encountered others with my gift, but not too many European doctors. It is like the education sucks it out of them to be filled with pure science. Nothing wrong with science of course. Thank God for it! But why the fear of trusting one’s instinct? Why the automatic retreat to microscopes and instruments rather than patiently listening to a person and diagnosing with your senses? It is an art that I fear will be lost, Jharna. Cultivating it when a physician has it is vital. But that is not the amazing thing I refer to this time.”

  She looked up from her painting, George having finally captured her undivided attention. He scooted his chair closer and leaned in with elbows on his knees. “You know him, Jharna. I have always sensed that there is more to Raul Penaflor than meets the eye, but he is so unassuming that I figured I must have been wrong on that score. He is a handsome fellow, young, well mannered, articulate, and clearly of excellent breeding. He never flaunts his wealth, but I know he has money. I nosed into his records and the lack of information is glaring. One could suspect his evasion hints of something nefarious. I have suspected the opposite for a host of reasons, not the least of which are the letters from Spain he receives on a regular basis that are all written on fine parchment with a seal I can never get a good look at but appears grand, for lack of a better term. I concluded his connections were high, or at least rich, meaning he has integrity greater than most if he would turn his back on the easy life to work as a physician in India.”

  “Just as you did.”

  George sat back in his chair, rubbing over his chin as he considered. Then he shook his head. “No, not really. I suppose there are similarities, but I left England for lots of reasons, selfless integrity not really high on the list. Besides, my family may be wealthy, and I guess I could have tapped into the Darcy prestige for my benefit”—he shrugged—“not my way though, but even if it was, the Darcys can’t match what I now know about Raul Penaflor.”

  “And?”

  George chuckled at the curiosity she was attempting to hide. “We were sharing a meal after surgery today. Dr. Shoolbred performed another brilliant cataract removal, by the way. This was the topic of our chat, and Penaflor makes an offhand comment about his uncle being nearly blind from cataracts and how this interrupts his duties at court. I may not have caught it if he hadn’t stammered and tried to cover his slip. Well, that did it! I couldn’t stand it any longer and asked him point blank who he was.”

  “I am surprised it has taken you so long. You usually aren’t so polite and incurious.”

  “Incurious? Hell no! It has been driving me crazy! You know what a busybody I am. In this case though…” He paused for a moment, continuing slowly, “You were right, you know, when you said months ago that I may end up expecting—no, hoping—for more. That this was similar to Kshitij and me, although not quite. I see potential in Dr. Penaflor that he doesn’t yet comprehend. Watching him this past year without any preconceived notions or unimportant background facts clouding my judgment seemed wise. And it was. You see, Raul Penaflor is the son of Duke Manuel Penaflor Aleman de Vigo of Palencia. It means nothing to me, in that I don’t know who his father is precisely. I can’t keep track of English aristocracy, let alone Spaniards. But obviously the son of a duke is special, even if the third. Then, to make it more dramatic—and he really didn’t want to tell me this but I bullied it out of him—his mother is not only a duchess but also an Infanta of the Royal House. Our little Raul is a bloody royal!”

  Jharna was nodding her head and not looking as shocked as George expected. “Yes, I can see that. He has the air of a raja about him.”

  George threw his head back and laughed aloud. “Ha! What about that? Prince Raul. Raul the raja! And I had him spend the entire afternoon treating patients with dysentery. Wonder what Papa Duke would think of that?”

  It was a letter from Sasi dated February 3, 1814, in which he informed his mata and chacha-jee that he was to be wed that compelled them to leave Calcutta. In truth, it was past time and both had sensed their fascination with the area waning. Or perhaps it was a matter of being homesick.

  During their three-year absence, Sasi had stayed in Junnar, dwelling at the family home and assuming a teaching position at the Brahmin school. His passion for India’s history was an inspiration to the young boys of the community, and although a mere twenty-four, the Brahmins were impressed by his knowledge. His betrothed, Daya, was a distant cousin, a Dhamdhere met while visiting his grandfather in Kalyan the previous winter. The tentative plan was for the wedding to be held at the grand haveli of the Sardar in May, provided, of course, his mother and surrogate father could be home by then.

  Nimesh was living in Junnar with his brother and had been since January. He had taken a position at the hospital after traveling extensively through North India for eight years. By all reports, Nimesh was also in love with a young lady named Ziana that he met while in Lahore. At twenty-seven, he was far past the point of being wed, according to Jharna that is. Nimesh hadn’t seemed in too great a rush, writing to George that he wanted to fulfill his goals of learning before progressing to the next stage of husband and father. Nimesh was methodical that way, so rather than laugh at his clinical approach to life, Jharna and George simply nodded. Nothing was official as yet, although Jharna hastily dispatched a letter to her eldest son strongly hinting at how lovely it would be to have a joint weddin
g ceremony for the Ullas sons.

  “Subtle,” George declared with heavy sarcasm when reading it over her shoulder. Jharna’s elbow into his gut reply enough.

  Finagling George’s contract with the EIC required some negotiating. He had signed on for an additional two years when his initial contract expired with the added clause that he could transfer to the Bombay Presidency jurisdiction if requested. There were always ways to wrangle new deals, most of the administrators willing to appease a valuable asset rather than irritate to the point of losing them entirely later. Even with the second contract’s caveat, it would have been easier to break it and walk away rather than renegotiate, but two reasons stopped him.

  One, he had come to appreciate the high standard of medical resources available to those attached to the Indian Medical Service. Better equipment, the newest technologies, and quality medicines combined with his staunch belief in Indian healing philosophies benefitted the native people and the English. Nothing gave Dr. Darcy greater joy than to pass on his amassed knowledge so that it wasn’t just he providing the best possible treatments but other healers as well. He didn’t want to relinquish that. Plus, he looked forward to seeing how changed Bombay Island was after so many years away and to working with Dr. McIntyre, who was still the Physician General.

  Two, he insisted that Dr. Raul Penaflor accompany him. Meaning, of course, that Raul’s contract would need to be renegotiated. If, that is, he wanted to come. George had no doubts and vocalized his requests to Lord Hastings before talking to Dr. Penaflor. When he did the conversation went something like this:

  “Raja”—the pet name had stuck and Dr. Penaflor no longer flinched or argued—“Jharna and I are moving back to Junnar next month. Our son is getting married, and naturally, we need to be there for that, but also Jharna is homesick. As am I, in fact. I have all the legal nonsense being taken care of, so no problems there. Anoop can help you pack if you want. He is a genius at organization. You will love Junnar and Bombay, Raja!”

  And that was the extent of it.

  George’s Memoirs

  March 20, 1815

  I gave my last lecture today, James. Received a standing ovation! Nothing quite like that to boost one’s ego, now is there? No, I shan’t pretend that accolades aren’t something I adore. No way you would let that pseudo-humbleness slide by, even if I tried. However, my frightening arrogance aside, I will assert that it moves my heart to have my countrymen and colleagues of my alma mater vociferously expressing their appreciation. To stand on the raised dais at the Royal College of Physicians in London and lecture to a jammed room of avid listeners has been a thrill. It has been over five and twenty years since I was a student here, yet I can vividly recall being the fresh-faced novice sitting in that audience, listening in awe as one of the great physicians spoke—Thomas Beddoes, Erasmus Darwin, James Lind, and John Hunter to name but a few. All of them captivated me with their intellects and drive. Oh, how I dreamt of being like them! I can’t say that dream has come true precisely. I haven’t discovered the cure for tuberculosis or solved the mystery of contagions or invented a new medical device. What I have done is advanced my skills and saved many lives along the way. When it comes down to it, illusions of grandeur notwithstanding, that is all I have ever wanted from my career. And if some of what I experienced impacts a handful of novice physicians, or maybe one of the masters, then I have excelled. There, you see how puffed with pride I am? It is fortunate that I am done and leaving soon before my swollen head prohibits me from fitting onto the ship back to India. In this one instance, the horrid months of sailing—gah!—might prove fortunate in calming my zeal. Best I not bounce onto the Bombay dock and immediately bombard Raja with manic raptures. On the off chance he remains miffed at being left behind, I best not say anything that could earn me a punch in the face! Not that it was my fault he broke his arm two days before we were set to sail. He should be thankful I was present to set the bone instead of some hack. Searc promised to keep him pain free until healed—that code for “blistering drunk”—and then too busy to lament missing this trip to England. I suppose I’ll have to make it up to him somehow.

  I will depart in three days. I was tempted to stay longer, believe me. As lovely as it has been to tour London after all this time and immerse myself in the memories surrounding Darcy House, I desperately wanted to visit Pemberley and know I shall berate myself for not taking the time. But I miss Jharna. I know you can understand that, James. Six months is far too long, and I have the interminable voyage home. Thank God and some clever humans for the new ships that reduce the sailing time. I do so wish she would have come with me, but of course I understand. She has never been on a ship and while faster, they are as smelly and cramped as ever. I shuddered at the vision of my dear priya suffering so, especially when I spend too much time bent over the railing, losing my dinner. The fact that Sasi and Nimesh are undoubtedly new fathers by now was the clincher though. I hate missing that myself. Another reason to rush back rather than divert to Derbyshire.

  My month with William and Georgie has been fabulous. It has soothed my heart to see the man your son has become. James, you would be immeasurably proud! He is devilishly handsome, naturally. No offense, elder brother of mine, but his resemblance to me is remarkably fortunate. Ha! The ladies swoon over him, not that the sorry lad appreciates his fortune. Not sure what he is waiting for, but I fear it may be your fault. If I didn’t comprehend the glory of a worthy mate, I would kick the boy in the ass good and hard. A bit of female fun would benefit him. Then again, I certainly learned the hard way that waiting patiently is the wiser course. Best I leave him to his own devices. He is managing capably enough in every other way, and his tendency to shy from overt female machinations is a blessing when it comes to Miss Caroline Bingley. Oh, she is a pretty miss, no question. Cultured and all the other boring traits the ton seem to value. God, was it that bad when we were young? I honestly can’t recall. But then, I was more interested in cadavers and sick people than the pointless games of Society. She so clearly wants Mr. Darcy for herself it is nauseating. Personally, I think it is Pemberley she wants instead of William. Whatever the case, he pays her little heed and I pray it stays that way. With luck, he will meet a nice girl before CB gets her claws into him. Strange how irritating she is when her brother is a delight. Charles Bingley is good for William. He needs a friend who is lighthearted and fun now that Richard Fitzwilliam is away at war. God knows I have tried to loosen him, but he resists. Perhaps I am too brash, shocking as that is to imagine, yes, James? Ha! Georgiana loves my sunny personality and I think for a few moments there I almost charmed Miss Bingley. Who knows? Maybe she is compatible with William. I love your son, James, so don’t misunderstand. He is simply an enigma to me. Far too serious, as I have always noted, as well as reserved to the point of insularism. He really needs something dramatic to break him out of his shell. I tried but apparently my ebullience wasn’t enough. I can’t quite place my finger on it, and that drives me insane more than anything. I am usually better at diagnosing situations and people, but I honestly cannot decide how William feels about me. He is polite down to the tiniest degree and would sooner die than say I am unwelcome. I am sure he considers me part of the family with every right to be here, but I also don’t think he has enjoyed having me here. I am poorly explaining it and maybe it is all in my head. Maybe I am too vain and used to people universally loving me that it bruises my vanity not to have my nephew delivering a teeny bit of hero worship!

  James, it is rough to be here now that you are gone. All of my past is just that: past. Yes, seeing Malcolm and Henry has been marvelous. They are dear friends but not family. I did hope to see Estella, but her husband took ill so she could not leave Exeter. The memories are here, yet so much has changed. I suppose it isn’t a big mystery. India has become my home. I just never thought it would, as ridiculous as that sounds. Or rather, I thought I could somehow have two homes: England with Pemberley and the Darcys
; India with Jharna and my work and the boys. I never consciously imagined one wholly taking the place of the other. In a strange way it makes me feel adrift.

  Oh bother! Far too much self-analysis going on here! I must be tired. Or more likely missing Jharna and her kisses and warm body. Yes, surely that is it. Denial of anything deeper suits me just fine.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bombay

  May 1816

  “What do they call this thing?”

  “A phaeton. I assure you it is perfectly safe, Jharna. No need to clench so tightly.”

  “Have you driven one often?”

  “Hundreds of times!” Ignoring her disbelieving glare, George clapped the horses with the reins to speed them along.

  Jharna squeaked and held tighter. “Must we race and tire the horses? Are we in a rush? What if they collapse?”

  “We are barely moving. The horses will not collapse. And while not precisely in a rush, I am anxious to arrive.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Goodness! You ask more questions than a child! And if you think to trick me into answering that last question when I haven’t answered it the previous ten times you asked, you will be disappointed.” She shot him a second irritated glare, George not ignoring it this time but grinning as he leaned to kiss her cheek. “It is a surprise and you will love it.”

  “Watch the road before we topple off the edge into a ditch.” She shoved him away but did smile, albeit wanly.

  They were wheeling at a swift pace, and while George’s claim to have driven a phaeton hundreds of times was an extreme exaggeration, he wasn’t a total incompetent. Bombay had been left behind and the Hornsby Vallard crossed. The curved road hugging the coastline toward Worli offered a stunning view of sandy beaches, lush vegetation, and the Arabian Sea stretching to the horizon. Occasionally they passed carriages and native pedestrians, but that ceased when he veered onto a secondary road. More a wagon trail than a true road, this one was narrow and rougher in places. Fortunately for Jharna’s frayed nerves, it was short, dumping into a tree-lined clearing barely large enough to fit the phaeton and two horses.