The Passions of Dr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  George did recall the flare of fury and urge to yell for Anoop to stop because Jharna could not possibly be dead. Then this momentary madness was replaced by plunging despair. Even in his shock, George was a physician. He knew an aneurysm or similar insult to the brain when he saw one. Worse yet, he knew when a person was dead and past the point of revival.

  Jharna, his love and light, the wife of his heart and soul, was gone. Consummate healer that he was, George could do nothing but hold her, cry, and pray to his benevolent God that somehow he would find a way to live without her.

  ***

  A month later, George sat on the bench in the small garden at the house in Junnar, staring at not one but two graves.

  Jharna was cremated in the Hindu custom, her remains then gathered and reverently placed in a silver and jeweled casket similar to the one that held the body of their daughter, Bhrithi. She was laid to rest in the Christian way, beside their daughter, under the shade of the ashoka tree. An identical cross bore her name, the dates of her life, and the inscription, “Beloved mother of Nimesh, Sasi, and Bhrithi. Adored and eternal wife of Kshitij Ullas and George Darcy.” All at the insistence of Nimesh and Sasi, George so overcome that he had dissolved into tears.

  The tears still came from time to time, and he knew they would for a long while. Grieving never got easier, no matter how many loved ones a person lost. Bitterness and anger consumed him upon occasion. He knew better than most how fragile life was. There were no guarantees. Yet he never imagined not having at least another ten or twenty years with her. Hopefully far more than that, damn it all! At that furious curse to the heavens, he realized it never would have been enough. If blessed to be with her until ninety, he would still rage at the injustice of it.

  Was he at the point of being simply grateful for the time they had spent together? No, not quite. He was grateful, the pain of loss not so profound he could not understand that loving her for a short time was better than not at all. He hoped he would eventually embrace the peace God offered in that understanding, but for the present, he wanted the anger. If nothing else, it kept the sorrow at bay. With severe sorrow came weakness. With anger came strength of a sort.

  “What are your plans now, chacha?”

  George looked at the young man sitting beside him on the stone bench. The boy he had first met as a one-year-old baby was now a father himself. It should have made George feel ancient, yet oddly it was comforting. Is that a glimmer of joy I am feeling? A sensation of belonging to something wonderful that will live on forever?

  “I am going back to work, Sasi. The Peshwa is expecting me in Poona, and Raja will be there in a week or two.”

  Sasi nodded and held his uncle’s eyes. George knew what he was not verbalizing. Managing a weak smile, George patted him on the knee. “This is my home and I am forever welcome here, I know that, Sasi. Rest assured, I am not leaving for any reason other than that through my work I can heal.” He shrugged. “That is the hope anyway. She would scold me vehemently if I sat here all day staring at her grave and didn’t keep moving.”

  “She was great at scolding, in her serene way that is.”

  “It was far more effective than if she had raised her voice,” George agreed, a sad chuckle escaping. “A day did not pass without her chiding me for dropping my clothes to the floor, using one of my favorite English idioms against me. ‘Ah, I see you were born in a barn,’ or ‘Clearly your mother taught you nothing.’ I know it drove her crazy but did it on purpose to hear which expression she would use. Now I fold my clothes.” He inhaled shakily and closed his eyes. “God, I miss her, Sasi.”

  The younger man draped one arm over George’s slumped shoulders but remained silent. George fought the stinging tears with effort and was thankful when Nimesh strolled into the clearing at that moment. In his arms, he carried his four-month-old daughter. “Onelia was asking for her dada.”

  “Was she now? Far be it from me not to give Onelia anything she wants. Come to your dada, wee one. There’s my sweet flower. It is a grandfather’s duty to spoil a baby until stinking rotten, you know.”

  “And then leave them with the parents to deal with, yes, we know.”

  “See”—George looked at Sasi while jerking his head toward Nimesh—“that is why I can’t stay away for long. Someone has to do the spoiling if for no other reason than to make sure you two perfect your disciplinary skills.”

  ***

  Jharna had often teased George for having a lazy streak within him that with the slightest provocation emerged and reigned for a spell. It was true, as he had discovered multiple times in his life. George could lie about and soak up the sun while reading for days on end and not feel the teeniest bit guilty over the behavior, even when she referred to him as a wastrel or some other jesting slur. The fact was, she had loved it when he relaxed, because no matter how thoroughly he embraced inactivity, he followed those brief spans with his typical ceaseless action.

  This was the life of Dr. George Darcy and it had been so since he was in the schoolroom and long before grief touched him. It was not within George’s nature to sit on a bench and stare at a grave. Wallowing in unhappiness was out of the question.

  Thus the latter half of 1816 unfolded in many respects no differently than George had planned it prior to Jharna’s precipitous demise.

  He left Junnar to meet Raul Penaflor in Poona in July. Their medical team conferenced with the Peshwa, George relieved when the audience was conducted in a business-like manner. His relief ended when the prime minister and royal descendent of the Maratha Empire later paid homage to his relative Jharna Dhamdhere with a solemn ceremony that wreaked havoc on George’s professional control. Jumping into his assignment with both feet restored his equilibrium, and since he had often traveled for jobs without Jharna, it was almost possible to forget that she was gone.

  George’s passion for medicine and intense work ethic were legendary. Few recognized anything different in how hard he pushed himself or the lengthy hours he kept, and for the most part they were correct. The yawning hole created by Jharna’s absence wasn’t filled by work nor was his melancholy cured, but at least action kept the pain at bay. Roughest was when his job took him back to Bombay or when his yearning to visit the Ullas families took him to Junnar. There, the acute attacks of agony were around every corner or in every room when she did not appear. At least in Bombay he had work to attend to, books to read, research to conduct, and anything else that avoided dwelling on the leisurely dinners they had shared followed by tranquil evenings and sweet lovemaking.

  In late August, a visit to Kalyan offered a needed boost as well. George’s friendship with Jharna’s father, Pandey Dhamdhere, had taken root decades ago. Pandey was seventy-five and no longer the Sardar of Thana—that honor having passed to his eldest living son—but the one-time warrior still possessed a daunting aura of power and influence over the region. If nothing else, his grand haveli continued to be a favorite locale for celebrations and official business. Over the years, George was a frequent visitor, before and after Kshitij died, alone and with Jharna. Pandey had accepted his relationship with Jharna, never once expressing displeasure, but George had never known how the nobleman with staunch Hindu beliefs truly felt deep inside. He hadn’t thought it mattered to him until this visit after Jharna’s death.

  “You were good together,” Pandey declared. His cloudy eyes were wet with tears but fixed decisively on George’s face. “I am thankful to the gods that she enjoyed your love until the end, George. The gods shined upon my watering spring, my precious Jharna, with two worthy men to drink from her life-giving water and replenish with their devotion and praise. Ah! How blessed she was in this life! Oh, how the joy she was showered with shone from her skin! Her light and reservoir of water increased as those who adored her increased! Too few can claim this honor in life and I thank you, dear friend, for bestowing your love as a gift to her. How the gods and our ancestors
must be relishing her in their presence!”

  The aged Hindu’s flowery way of speaking brought a smile to George’s face. Whimsical as it may be, George was moved by the beauty of Pandey’s phrases.

  Jharna meant “a spring,” as George knew, yet he never had given the meaning much thought. It wasn’t an English custom to do so. Hindus were different, and for the first time, he saw his beloved Jharna in that light. She was a spring of fresh, pure water filling his soul and heart with love and so much more every day of her life, the ceaseless stream flowing into him still.

  Pandey’s words were a comfort and a revelation. Placing George on the same plain with Kshitij was profound, and being praised for his influence upon her spirit being visible in the Hindu afterlife was an honor George had no words for.

  It was a good thing that Pandey did not overdo the nostalgia and praise, the warrior leader conquering the sentimental father with their talks mostly about politics during the days of his visit.

  At George’s invitation, which sounded suspiciously like an order, Dr. Penaflor moved out of the bungalows near the hospital and into a suite of rooms in George’s Bombay house in September. Raul’s stubborn stipulation was to pay room and board at a fair market price. George’s attempts to negotiate were met with a stony face and immovable arms crossed over the Spaniard’s burly chest until finally George threw up his hands and signed the contract Raul had drawn up.

  “I don’t need the money,” George groused. “What I need is the companionship. I am a lonely, old widower, pining away in a huge, empty house, wandering the echoing corridors like a forlorn ghost.”

  Raul grunted, responding to that nonsense with a mocking rebuttal in heavily accented English. “You aren’t old and appear hale enough for a man pining away. You have Anoop, a cook, and two houseboys living here. I am here a good amount of the time already, as are dozens of other doctors, including Dr. McIntyre. Furthermore, your house, while spacious, hardly qualifies as huge enough to have echoing corridors.”

  “Ouch! The insults are dropping like monsoon raindrops. Where is your compassion? Are all royal Spaniards so heartless?”

  “Most of them, yes.” Raul scrutinized his friend’s signature with dramatic intensity.

  “It is legible and doesn’t say Dray or Darry, I promise.”

  “Making sure. You did note that it is delineated that you cannot refuse the monthly specified rental nor return it to the tenant in a furtive manner?”

  “Yes, yes! The tenant has nothing to worry about.” George rolled his eyes and sighed, then after a moment, his eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips. “Although, the contract does not specify what the landlord can do with the money, now does it?”

  Raul shrugged, trying not to laugh. “You can do as you wish, George, and that will most likely be donating to charity. As long as I am paying my own way, I don’t care. Now, how about we seal the bargain at the pub. You can use my rent payment to buy us drinks if it makes you feel better.”

  “Ho! Not so fast there, Raja Pay-My-Own-Way. Don’t be too hasty spending my money. This is enough for an entirely new outfit with shoes too. Hassieh received a new fabric shipment from Madras with some stunning patterns and those yellow juttis have been calling my name…”

  The money Raul paid to live with George was given to the Bombay orphanage, as Raul figured it would be. Between children and the ill, George was a generous giver, plus it was true that he did not need the money. His income, the stipend his father had added on, and a series of wise investment combined with minimal personal requirements—clothing an exception—meant that George had amassed a small fortune. He did admire Raul’s stance, the teasing simply for fun and to make sure he wasn’t moving in out of pity. Those who knew George Darcy well knew he was far too practical and cheerful to bemoan his fate and whine for sympathy. The occasional query on how he was faring or a heartfelt reference to missing Jharna was appreciated, but nothing more. As harsh as the reality, time did not stand still and George knew he had to move forward along with it. Nothing good came of miring in the past.

  Slowly, he relinquished the unconscious expectation of hearing her voice or seeing her smile or feeling her touch. Incrementally, the verve for living and passion for medicine overwhelmed the sorrow.

  After a three-week sojourn in Junnar, George and Raul returned to Bombay for Christmas. The town had tripled or maybe quadrupled in the twenty-seven years since George stepped foot onto the dock. Houses, churches, offices, stores, and barracks—you name it and there were more of them. Yearly, the EIC-controlled port town was transforming into a British-appearing outpost, not that the exotic Indian atmosphere could ever be erased. During the Christian holiday season, to celebrate the birth and epiphany of the Savior, the inhabitants strived to create a festive ambience as close to home as possible. It was a poor imitation when the temperature was higher than a summer day in England and pine greenery or mistletoe did not exist, but that didn’t stop the cooking of mincemeat pies and wassail or the giving of presents. Every family of means hosted a dinner or ball, their finest attire of a lightweight construction rather than velvets and broadcloths, but the minstrels played as loudly and the dancing was continuous.

  The Ullases had always honored the day for him with their version of a typical Christmas, and George had attended a Christmas Day worship service if there was an Anglican church available. However, it had been years since he last spent Christmas with Englishmen, celebrating in the traditional way. George was invited to dozens of parties and attended the majority of them. Why not? He loved to socialize and he certainly loved great food. The vigorous exercise and endless entertainments were good for him and it made no sense to sit home doing nothing.

  Before he turned around, the calendar flipped to 1817. Twelfth Night arrived with a massive extravaganza at Governor Nepean’s mansion complete with Mummers, a Shakespeare-themed costume ball, performing singers and dancers, a stage production of select scenes from Twelfth Night, and steady streams of food and spirits. George remembered having a marvelous time. He also remembered the incapacitation experienced the next day that took three days to recover from.

  On an eve five days after, George entered the house owned by his longtime friend Dr. Searc McIntyre. Walking unerringly to the room Searc referred to as his “Scots Sanctuary,” he knocked once and twisted the unlocked knob before the bellowed, “’Tis open!” This was followed by a redundant, “Yer early.”

  “As if you care,” was George’s laughing response. “I did wash and change so be thankful for that much. I was too excited to wait for dinnertime!”

  “Ye do seem in a dither. Dinit think me wife’s cooking thrilled ye so. Sit. Whiskey?” McIntyre stood from his desk and crossed to the sidebar where an array of glass decanters and glasses sat.

  George sat on the chair indicated by a casual wave of the Scotsman’s hand, but perched on the edge rather than flopping into a sprawl as typical. “No thanks. Tea will do.”

  “Still a wee peaked, are we?” Searc glanced over his shoulder, grinning evilly.

  “Sorry to disappoint, but I feel fine. Nevertheless, I think I drank my quota for the next six months, and I never trust your whiskey.”

  “Probably for the best considering yer delicate English constitution. Where’s Dr. Penaflor?”

  “He was finishing up a procedure but will be here later. I left a note with Anoop for him to come as soon as he can. And for now, I shall allow the delicate constitution insult to pass. I have to share this.” He withdrew an envelope from the inner pocket of his lavender sherwani, holding it so that McIntyre could see the Darcy seal. “I haven’t heard from William in over six months, as you know, and was worried especially when the letter I received from Georgiana dated June hinted that he wasn’t well or something. She was maddeningly obtuse, probably because she didn’t know what was wrong with him. My nephew is reserved to a fault and insanely protective of his sister. It ha
d to be bad for her to notice and then comment to me.”

  “I presume all is well or ye would no be smiling. Do ye now know what ailed the lad?”

  “No. He says nothing of being ill and from the tone of this letter any sufferings, whether physical, financial, or other, are gone.” George scooted even further onto the edge of his seat and waved the papers covered with precise lines of penmanship in the air. “He is in love! And to be married! Or rather, is married by now. The date was set for November. Ha! Nothing like the love of a great woman to cure a man, eh, Searc?”

  “I needed no curing, thank ye, but I shall agree that a guid woman is a pretty boon.” The older physician joined George, taking the chair across and sipping his whiskey. “Is it the red-haired wench ’twas pursuing him? His friend’s sister?”

  “Praise God, no!” George shuddered. “Miss Bingley could never inspire the passion in William’s writing. He is fairly gushing! And he never gushes. I have been receiving letters from him since he was twelve or so, and you know how stifled he was when I was there two years ago. This person”—he again waved the letter—“isn’t the same man I saw then.”

  “Are ye gonna give details, or do I need to snatch the pages and read for myself?”

  George grinned. “Intrigued, are you? All right!” He laughed at McIntyre’s glare and raised fist. “Her name is Elizabeth Bennet, the daughter of a gentleman in Hertfordshire. Apparently, they met last year when Mr. Bingley, the wench’s brother, was living there. Why the long delay I am unsure. He does not say other than a reference… where is it, ah, that, ‘Miss Elizabeth was unsure of her regard for him’ and that ‘they were separated by unfortunate circumstances’ until meeting again in Hertfordshire in September. Clearly, he did not delay this time.”

  “Smart lad. Snatch the fine lassies before someone else does.”