The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (9 page)

He saw fear and a wary respect—not greed—in George's eyes at the sum.This was comforting to Darcy, because it meant George understood the value of money and that there were responsibilities that came with it. On the other hand, it was a burden to lay on an essentially fatherless boy. “You have no obligation to tell your mother. It is not your responsibility yet. There is no need to be concerned now.”

George looked up at him, his expression one of wanting to believe him, but not quite being able to do so.

CHAPTER 6

THE NEXT WEEK IN TOWN passed quietly for the Darcys. Fitzwilliam Darcy was buried in financial affairs, and spent a little time at his fencing club. He was frustrated that he had to work with his left hand, as his right hand was not responsive enough for the subtleties of swordplay, and he no longer had the energy of youth to make up for it. But he was determined to learn, and his coach thought he was admirable in his attempts. Geoffrey was not old enough for a club, but he would be soon. He loved the sport as much as his father and he looked forward to facing him as a serious opponent.

Upon returning one day from a meeting with a banker, Fitzwilliam found Elizabeth waiting for him with more eagerness than usual, a letter in her hands. She was not, however, in tears, so that was a good sign. “What is it?”

“Jane,” she said, but he had recognized her sister's handwriting from afar. They moved into the study, and the servant shut the door behind them before Elizabeth started speaking. “She suggests that I visit Longbourn sooner than we had anticipated going, while you finish your business here. Everyone else is fine, but Mama is out of sorts.”

“She is ill?”

“No—not precisely. She just—well, Jane is at a loss to describe it, but her habits have changed. She says odd things.”

“What does your father say?”

“He actually thinks her temperament has improved, or so he said to Jane—but he also called for a doctor.”

“Did he call for Dr. Maddox?”

“Darcy, Dr. Maddox is not our personal doctor, at our beck and call for every minor scrape.You know that he is swamped with his own work.”

“So Mr. Bennet thinks it is serious enough for a doctor, but not serious enough for Dr. Maddox.That is a good sign, I think.” He put his hand around his wife's shoulder, and she leaned into his embrace. “I'm sure that if it were serious, there would be an urgent letter to everyone. Why don't you go on ahead with the children? I can be finished in a few days and then I will join you.” He kissed her on her forehead. “Your mother is not as young as she used to be, but she is not obviously ill or suffering. Go see her, and you will feel better.”

She nodded, but stayed in his arms for a long time.

Dr. Maddox appreciated the irony that he sat behind the very same desk at the Royal Society of Medicine where, fifteen years earlier, the man who had just approved his license had told him to stick himself in a dark hole and not come out. Brian had ruined their family fortune, and their reputation had sunk with it; the ink wasn't dry on the license certificate before young Daniel Maddox was not fit to show his face in decent society and was carrying around more debt than he could pay. But they couldn't revoke his license, and he had survived, and here he was, interviewing applicants for the royal service.

It had been two long weeks. He was a man of high professional standards, and he knew the Prince Regent expected nothing less of him. He was not willing to take people based on their reputations; he quizzed them on technique and found them lacking. Some of King George III's former doctors applied, and were furious at being turned down by this young upstart. Anyone who mentioned
bleeding as a method of treating fever was immediately dropped; the Prince hated being bled and Dr. Maddox did not believe in it, except in rare cases.Also, he wasn't going to have the Prince Regent sitting in filthy water at Bath, so those experts were turned away. By the end of the first week, he wondered whether he was being too exacting. The new man, after all, would essentially be in charge of resuscitating the Prince after his nightly overindulgences. But then he reminded himself that eventually the prince was bound to come to more serious harm from his intemperate habits. Also, the new doctor would likely replace Dr. Maddox down the line, when he became incapable of working because of his failing eyesight.

He began looking through the applications of surgeons with licenses, having been one himself and having a healthy respect for a doctor willing to get his hands bloody. Most were too young, or blatantly lied about their age before showing up for the interview.

He had the card of a young doctor who had been a surgeon at Waterloo. Many people had made that claim, but he backed it up in writing. He was young but experienced in fieldwork. His degree was from St. Andrews, a very respectable medical school, and his license was on record.

Dr. Maddox took a fresh cup of tea before sitting down opposite the visibly nervous Dr. Bertrand. The man was young, maybe five and twenty, but not ridiculously so. He seemed even more edgy than he should be. “So Dr. Bertrand,” Maddox said after the formalities, “you treated the wounded at Waterloo. Were you on the battlefield or in the tents?”

“Both, sir.”

“I assume you didn't keep track of the number of men you treated. What did you do to fight infection among the wounded?”

It wasn't a normal interview question. Dr. Bertrand was quiet for a moment before answering, “Honey.”

“Honey?”

“Yes, sir.” He went on to explain, “It's a temporary method, but it keeps dirt from the wound.”

“Old medieval trick, isn't it?” Dr. Maddox said, trying to contemplate how it would work. It did make sense, however ridiculous. “What were the results?”

“I did not have time to do a general study, but I think the rate of infection was lower. Though…a few delirious men licked their wounds.”

“Gives a whole new meaning to the phase, doesn't it?”

Dr. Bertrand finally smiled. “Yes, sir, it does.”

Dr. Maddox leaned back. “So you did your surgical studies at St. Andrews.” He looked at Bertrand and at his application again. “How is Professor Maurice? Is he still around?”

“He is, sir. I heard him lecture on sutures.”

“Yes, I remember him.” He added, “He's not a professor at St. Andrews. He's a professor at the Academy in Paris, where I studied.”

Bertrand sank. He had been caught.

“Your parents were French nobility, I assume?”

“Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir. I'll go. Please don't tell—”

Dr. Maddox raised his hand. “Now, now, I'm not going to hold your family's history against you.You are applying because of your medical skills and little else. Now please sit down and answer my question.”

Dr. Bertrand swallowed, and did so. “My parents had an estate near Toulouse. During the Revolution, they expatriated to England. When I was eighteen, they repatriated because Napoleon had suffered his first defeat, and they felt he was on the way out. So I completed my education in France, but I didn't feel at home there. I had been born and raised an Englishman. After the war, I came back.”

“We have no prejudices against French doctors here. You are well aware of that. French culture is the most fashionable culture there is. This has been true for centuries. So the conclusion I must draw from the falsehoods on your résumé is that you were a surgeon at Waterloo for the other side.”

Clearly terrified, Bertrand nodded.

“Well, you'd do best not to mention that if the Duke of Wellington is ever in the room.” He closed the folder with the application and took a sip of his tea. “I assume from your soldiering days that you are capable of lifting a grown man and carrying him?”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Good. I warn you, the Prince is very fat. Not as bovine as the
Courier
would have you believe, but not far from it. When he falls, he usually breaks whatever is beneath him, and it takes two men to get him up, so you'll need someone else to help you. That is assuming you want the position of babysitting the Prince Regent every night while he drinks himself into oblivion.” Before Bertrand could answer, he continued, “There will, of course, be a field test next week. I'll send my card with instructions.” He rose, and offered his hand. “And no, I won't say anything. Honey.Why didn't I think of that? Exemplary thinking.”

The young doctor shook his hand. “Thank you, sir.” He seemed to notice that half a finger was missing, but he said nothing. “Thank you very much.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Dr. Maddox said, and was not lying.

One could never go home again. Every time Elizabeth Darcy came to Longbourn, it had undergone some new renovation. Mary's inheritance, in Mr. Bennet's possession, was no small sum, and on the interest alone they could do as they pleased to make the estate comfortable. Although it was true that it now had fewer occupants than ever, it also hosted more guests who needed the space, so another wing had been added. The real question was how Mr. Collins expected to keep it all up when he inherited the estate. He could not sell it, and Joseph Bennet was not legitimate and had no claim to it. Mr. Bennet dismissed these concerns with his staunch refusal to keel over.

Mr. Bennet was very old, but in good health, and his pattern of living had not altered much in the many years since his
daughters (most of them) had married and moved away. He read, he ate, and on occasion he went to church. Joseph Bennet was eight, and between his grandfather and his mother, he had two accomplished tutors.

Mrs. Bennet had been sad to see Lydia go when her favorite daughter remarried, and she spent much time talking with Mrs. Philips and the Lucases, and whoever else was available. With the war over, there were fewer redcoats these days, just men in shabby versions of their old uniforms, drinking and making trouble. Otherwise, life in Hertfordshire continued as normal, only thirty miles from London but far away in its way of life.

“Aunt Darcy!” cried a horde of children, who were the first to greet her carriage. Joseph Bennet, the Bingley twins, and Edmund Bingley came charging out the front doors of Longbourn before the servants could stop them.

“I am glad to be the object of so much attention,” she laughed as they surrounded her before going to greet their cousins. Then she could finally turn her attention to Jane, who was following her children. “I came as soon as I could. Mr. Darcy will be here in a few days.”

“It is not urgent,” her sister said. “Though it is good to see you.” She threw her arms around Elizabeth and the two hugged.

As the children were rounded up, the two sisters walked inside, where Mrs. Bennet was in the sitting room, working on some new embroidery. “Oh, my dear Lizzy! How are you?”