The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (10 page)

“Very well, Mama,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Darcy will arrive in a few days.”

“Mr. Darcy! That insufferable man!” Mrs. Bennet said, and then smiled pleasantly. “Jane, where are the children?”

“Outside, Mama.”

“And the grandchildren?”

At a loss, Jane said, “Also outside. They will be in soon.”

“They shouldn't stay out—the sun will ruin their complexions. You know how Georgiana freckles!” she said. Georgiana was in Ireland,
but that didn't matter to her. “I must find Edmund. Edmund!” she shouted, and walked slowly down the hallway, in the direction of Mr. Bennet's study.

“Edmund?” Elizabeth said, picking up the dropped embroidery circle. The stitches seem to be randomly placed, a spider's web of confusion.

“I know! She's been doing that since I arrived.” Jane frowned and then dismissed the servants. “The doctor said she may have had a stroke.”

“A stroke! When?”

“We don't know. Sometime after Mary left. It hasn't inhibited her speech or movement, so it was minor, and Papa said he did not notice it for a few days.”

“Can anything be done?”

“No, but it won't get worse, unless she has another one. Oh, Lizzy, these things are so unpredictable!” Jane leaned on her shoulder.

“Now, what's this? Unexpected guests?” said Mr. Bennet, announcing his presence in the doorway with a heavy tap of his cane.

“Papa!” Elizabeth said and hugged her father. He was perhaps a little older (and shorter, it seemed) and more wrinkled, but very much alive. “I came as soon as I heard.”

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, taking a seat in the armchair. “I admit I did not notice anything amiss until your mother started calling me by my Christian name. The last time she did that must have been around the time that Kitty was born!” He chuckled. “Well, there's nothing to be done about it. The doctor said it could have been much worse. She has no significant loss of memory, although she gets
confused
about names and dates. And you will find her nerves in good working order, perhaps the best they've been in years! So, my daughters, the news is not all bad.”

“Has anyone told her?”

“She might suspect. But we haven't told her. It would just embarrass her,” Jane answered. “Or so the doctor said. We may
apply for a second opinion, but there really is nothing to be done for a stroke.”

“A very minor one, he said,” Mr. Bennet added, “Though if I have to hear about Netherfield being let one more time, I may have one myself!”

“
Papa!
” they said together.

He sighed. “It seems the only one who is allowed to joke around here since this happened is Mrs. Bennet herself! I know it gave us all a good scare—and still does. But, my dears, watch carefully. Mrs. Bennet!” he called.

“There you are!” she said, re-entering with the children tugging at her dress. “Where have you been?”

“I've been looking for you, my dear. I assumed you would be in your own sitting room.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you. Please forgive me, my darling husband.” She leaned over and kissed him on his head more tenderly than they had ever seen Mrs. Bennet act around Mr. Bennet.

“You are forgiven, my dear wife,” he said. “I believe you will be besieged by grandchildren if something is not found for them to eat before long.”

“Of course.” She kissed him again, which he returned, and left. The children who were old enough to bow or curtsy did in passing to their mothers and grandfather.

“You see?” Mr. Bennet said with a sly grin. “It's not
all bad
. If she'd lost her wits entirely, she might be wondering why her betrothed was an old man!”

CHAPTER 7

WHEN DR. ANDREW BERTRAND received the card, the instructions were confounding:
11 p.m., outside the Royal Society of Medicine house. Wear your worst clothing and bring best equipment
.

Not one to question orders, he did precisely that, putting together his oldest, most threadbare outfit aside from his field uniform (which would hardly have been appropriate). Fortunately, his parents were not around. They had left long ago for their usual tour of evening entertainment. Aging ex-nobility, they lived the life expected of them in town—that is, well beyond their means. The most fashionable pastime of the rich was the avocation of incurring debt.This meant that he was unlikely to inherit anything other than his name, so the young ex-viscount had decided to make his own way. This post would legitimatize his profession in his parents' eyes—although the way that he was dressed at the moment would not have impressed them.

He had been surprised to discover when he applied for the sought-after position that the man making the decisions was no older than forty-five or perhaps fifty. Bertrand had expected an old man in a wig who had served the king. When he asked around, he found Dr. Maddox had a good reputation although he had never published any papers or spent much time at the clubs the other doctors frequented. Also, he never gossiped about his patients. So they knew little about him and didn't care much for him.

Either way, Maddox seemed a reasonable man to be employed under and the position was no doubt a comfortable one, so Dr. Bertrand had no objections and made it to the society house right on time. The doors were shut, and the doctor was sitting on a bench, hatless and dressed in black. “Ready, Dr. Bertrand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you armed?”

“Yes, sir. A small pistol.” It would have been foolish to go about London without one.

Dr. Maddox stood up. “I have always believed in the benevolence of humanity. From that axiom, I have earned most of my scars. Nonetheless, I can't bring myself to actually use a weapon, so I am glad you brought one,” he said, and called for their carriage.

They rode in silence for some time before stopping at the edge of East London, where one wouldn't want to be seen in such a nice carriage. “Wait here,” Dr. Maddox told his driver. “Now, Dr. Bertrand, I assume you've had all of your vaccinations.”

“I have, sir.”

Dr. Maddox had left his walking stick inside the carriage, and he carried only his satchel. He reached into his coat and removed a piece of paper. “I know the street at least. Perhaps not the exact address, but we shall find it. And take off your hat—you look like a man of wealth.”

Blushing, Bertrand did so, and left it with the driver as they proceeded up the foul-smelling streets of some of the worst sections of London, well outside of the Town proper. “Now, whatever I say, you just follow my lead,” Dr. Maddox said as they came to a wooden door that was nearly off its hinges. “Here we are.” There was no doorknob, so he knocked with his fist. “Hello? Mrs. Potter?”

There was some noise before a fat woman in an apron opened the door, holding up a candlestick. “Who is it?”

“You requested a surgeon for a Mr. Potter,” he said. “I am Dr. Maddox and this is Mr. Bertrand.”

She looked at them both skeptically. “I can' afford two doctors.”

“The fee is the same, I assure you. Mr. Bertrand is my apprentice.”

“A shilling.”

“Yes.”

She hesitated and then stepped back to let them in. The apartment had maybe three rooms—a kitchen, some kind of sitting room, and a bedroom.The sitting room was outfitted with cots and there were children sleeping on them. When some of them stirred, they were hushed by a stream of curses from their mother as she led the doctors into the bedroom.

Sitting up was a man in a bloodied white shirt, with an old soldier's jacket from the Continental War over his shoulders. His beard was brown, his hair filthy. One of his arms was cut off about halfway up the forearm. “I can' afford two.”

“There's no extra charge, Mr. Potter,” Dr. Maddox said, bowing to him. “I am Dr. Maddox and this is Mr. Bertrand. Do you mind if we look at your wound?”

“Just make it stop with the gunk, wouldja?”

Dr. Maddox pulled a chair close to the bed. “Light, please, Mr. Bertrand.” Bertrand held up the light as close as possible as Dr. Maddox removed his glasses and looked very closely at the wound. It was an old amputation, probably done hastily on the battlefield. The sewing job was only adequate, and it showed. Parts of the arm were dead or dying slowly. Dr. Maddox covered his mouth with a cloth and probed the wound with a metal tong, and though there was no clear opening, pus seeped out as Mr. Potter cried out. Without flinching, Dr. Maddox let the pus drip into a small tin, and held it up to the light for them both to inspect. “A moment, please, Mr. Potter.” He stood up and they walked to the corner of the room. “Your assessment?”

“He wasn't sewn correctly in the first place, and whatever happened since, the limb's dying. It needs to be done properly.”

Dr. Maddox nodded. “How much would you amputate?”

“I would try to do it cleanly around the elbow. I've done that before—I think it looks better at a natural stopping place.”

“You've done it before? In the precise place?”

“I almost always went for just under the elbow and sewed it there.”

Again, Dr. Maddox nodded. “Get your saw ready. If you don't have one, I do.” He put his glasses back on and turned to Mr. Potter as he opened his bag on the dresser. “Mr. Potter, my apprentice and I must operate on your arm again.”

“Oh, God in heaven,” Potter said. “I just—I don' think I can do that again.”

“It will be different this time, I assure you. I'm going to give you something to make it far less painful, and we're going to cut it cleanly. If you keep the wound uncontaminated and have the stitches removed properly, it should heal just fine.” He removed several tiny bottles of powder and measured out part of their contents before pouring them into a small bottle of water. He put a lid on the bottle and shook the contents. “Do you have any other amputations?”

“No, Doctor.”

“Good, good. Have you been bleeding a lot recently?”

“No, just this awful mush.”

“Have you been drinking excessively in the past few hours?”

“Just a little gin maybe…I don't know, an hour ago.”

Dr. Maddox poured his mixture onto a large spoon. “Open your mouth. And yes, I know, it tastes very bad. For that, I apologize.” He gave him two spoonfuls, neither of which Mr. Potter cared for, but he put up little protest. “All right, here's some sugar to change the taste.” He fed him a spoon of sugar. “Now you may feel a little drowsy—there is no reason to fight it. Tell me, under whom did you serve?”

As Bertrand readied his equipment, he watched Dr. Maddox make conversation with Mr. Potter, who had been a private at Waterloo and been shot in the hand, which was gangrenous within a week. He had been treated in the tents in France before returning to the mainland. Over the next few minutes, his answers became increasingly slurred to the point where he was incoherent. “It's time,” Dr. Maddox said.

Dr. Bertrand was ready. This was different from the battlefield—despite Mr. Potter's screams, as drugs could have only so much worth. It was rather quiet. There was no one around him shouting orders in French, or people running back and forth. Dr. Maddox sat quietly, watching his work while holding Mr. Potter's hand, keeping one finger on his wrist for a pulse. “You're doing well, Mr. Potter,” he would occasionally say, even if Potter gave no answer. His voice was remarkably gentle.

Bertrand was used to doing quick work, and even at his leisure it didn't take long to make a clean cut. Stitching it was actually a longer and more complex process, but he managed that in a few minutes.

“Pour this over it,” Dr. Maddox said, handing him another vial. “It's not honey, but it will do.”

Bertrand smiled. Mr. Potter, meanwhile, had actually fallen asleep, and was snoring. Dr. Maddox wiped his face as Bertrand packed up his items. Mrs. Potter entered as they were tying the final bandages. “I will be back or send my assistant in a week to remove the stitches and check on the patient. Don't give him anything tonight, and be liberal with the alcohol tomorrow, but no more than two glasses an hour.”

“He's sleepin'!”

“He is drugged. Let him sleep as long as possible—he won't feel very well when he wakes up, but he will live.”

She paid him the shilling, and they made their exit.They walked back down the street in a casual stroll. “I'm sorry for the demotion,” Dr. Maddox said, “but she wouldn't have believed
two
doctors were charging only a shilling.”

“Why were we charging only a shilling?”