The Passions of Dr. Darcy

  Anoop and I arrived home yesterday. We were greeted with a bit of fanfare, I must say. Delightful! I only wanted to whisk Jharna to bed—forgive the imagery there—but was happy to gather with the others for a while first. Nimesh is living in Junnar near the hospital so I will see him later. If I had my way, Jharna would have stayed in bed with me all day, but she has to prepare for her father’s visit next week. I decided to be lazy and am currently reclining on the terrace with a tray of food and drinks beside me as I write. I am hoping Jharna comes back so am staying near the bed. Told you I wasn’t a monk! I also said I knew what I wanted in my life. That is Jharna. Maybe I’ll have better luck convincing her to marry me now that I am constantly underfoot. How can she resist my myriad charms indefinitely?

  Chapter Nine

  Derbyshire

  June 1805

  The wide path through the tall brush and wildflowers led to the woods north of Pemberley Manor. One of the numerous divergent trails ended at Rowan Lake, another at the cave, while others skirted areas prime for hunting birds and rabbits. The trails were familiar and traversed so often that after two decades, George could have reached any destination on the vast estate without watching where his feet fell or heeding to the passing terrain. It wasn’t geographical uncertainty that made him pause at the fork bearing to the left hillock.

  Unfortunately, George knew this pathway equally as well.

  When he was young, before Alex died, it was usually taken in the dark as the result of a dare. Much like bravely dwelling in the dank cave overnight served as a sort of initiation, so too had staying past midnight in the gated cemetery. As George stood and gazed at the iron gate and stone wall in the distance through the waving grass, he recalled Alex’s resolutely stubborn face as he flatly refused to be goaded into accepting the challenge from his siblings. Eventually they had relented, especially when George flipped sides and supported his twin’s stance. Later, watching Alex’s wooden coffin lowered into the ground, the irony had struck George and incited fresh tears. Since then, he hadn’t been a big fan of cemeteries, and thankfully family deaths weren’t too frequent.

  Frequent or not, George knew this path. He knew the precise dimensions of the cemetery. He knew the layout of every plot and how each of them would lie beside his father, mother, and Alex. Therefore, he did not have to guess what bench James was sitting on, the spaces allotted to he and his wife decided on long ago although never imagined to be used so soon.

  Pemberley’s butler, Mr. Taylor, had welcomed George as if his unannounced arrival was nothing unusual. His professional aplomb had brought a smile to George’s weary face. It was a smile that vanished minutes later when Mr. Taylor informed him that Mr. Darcy was at the cemetery. The butler’s tone was bland, but the hint of tragic acceptance and unspoken “as always” was detectable to George. He hadn’t asked where Fitzwilliam or Georgiana were in the huge house with the palpable air of depression. No point in coming all this way to be sidetracked with greetings and introductions.

  Inhaling deeply and sending a silent prayer skyward, George ascended the gentle rise to the entrance and pushed open the gate. Not the tiniest squeak from the oiled hinges. Not a bit of rust or decay was to be found. The groundsmen included the cemetery in their duties, so there wasn’t a single weed among the fragrant flowers and manicured trees. Natural grasses and clover grew over the graves and open expanses, but they were controlled so that the graveled footpaths were clear. George veered to the right, weaving past the Darcys from the 1600s and the crypt where a whole family from the late 1400s rested. Three enormous oaks shading graves where his great-great-grandfather and contemporaries were buried obstructed his view for a few yards, but then he moved past and, sure enough, spied James where he imagined.

  James sat on the stone bench with his elbows on his knees and head bowed. George could not see his brother’s face, nor did he hear weeping. In fact, it was deathly silent. No breeze to ruffle the leaves and apparently the wildlife gave the cemetery a wide berth. Quiet and still it may have been, but George could feel the grief of his brother. It was as if a dark cloud rolled off of his slumped shoulders, thickly drifted on the immobile air, and slammed into anyone or anything nearby with the force of a hammer. Wetness stung George’s eyes, and he swallowed against the assault of emotions. Waiting until he had some control, George stepped out of the shadows and purposefully scraped his heel into the pebbles.

  It was faint but enough to alert James. Nevertheless, he lifted his head sluggishly, eyes unfocused for several heartbeats before widening.

  “Hello, James.”

  “William?”

  “No, it’s George. Your brother.”

  “George?”

  “Yes, it’s me. And I am really here. I haven’t died in an Indian jungle as predicted and probably wished for by some. I’m not a ghost here to haunt you, so don’t start screaming like a girl.”

  “Am I dreaming? I can’t believe my eyes! You look… good.”

  “You sound surprised!”

  “I suppose I am, on many counts. Something is different about you. I can’t place my finger on it, but you just look… good.”

  James hadn’t risen from the bench and was peering bemusedly at George. All things considered, George didn’t blame him for believing he was dreaming. He came closer until feet away. “Thanks for the compliment, James. I wish I could say the same about you, but you look ghastly. When did Pearson shave you last?”

  James rubbed over the stubble on his cheek then shrugged. He didn’t answer, the topic clearly not of any concern to him. He was still staring at George as if expecting him to disappear any second. “Did we know you were coming, George? Did I miss the message?”

  He asked the question but absently, as if the possibility of being a bad host meant nothing. There wasn’t much in the way of enthusiasm at George being there at all, for that matter, but George did not take it personally. It was a fair bet that James showed little if any enthusiasm these days, meaning the abyss of grief he burrowed further into each day was consuming him. George’s heart constricted, but he forced a grin onto his face.

  “Oh, you know me, popping up uninvited whenever I can. I like to make an entrance. I tried to scare old Taylor but nothing rocks him. Maybe I’ll have better luck with Mrs. Reynolds. She did take a shine to me last time I was here so will probably weep with delight.”

  While speaking, he sat on the bench beside James, forcing his brother to scoot over, which seemed to startle him partially out of his haze. Apparently touching the apparition had some impact on making it real! He was now staring at George’s profile with a confused frown, knitting his brows. George ignored him and continued to babble.

  “You still have Mrs. Langton as your cook? I sure hope so. God, she is fabulous! Contends with the best I have ever had at an English table including the Bombay Governor, just don’t tell him I said that ’cause I know he pays the man a bloody fortune. If I have to go without native cuisine for a bit, I can happily do so with Mrs. Langton’s food. You should avail yourself of the table more, Brother. I think you have lost twenty pounds since last I was here. A few pounds you could go without—all that good eating and laziness hitting you around the middle a bit—but not this much. We should go hunting for a fat buck. The venison here is the best in the world and when fresh?” He closed his eyes and made a series of satisfied appetite sounds. “Nothing better. I miss the trout from our pond too. And the wild grouse. And plum pudding. Think Cook will make some for me even though it isn’t Christmas? I need to make a list of my favorite foods so that—”

  “Anne died.”

  George turned his head and met James’s eyes. They were black and drowning in anguish but free of tears. George suspected tears no longer sufficed as a way to express James’s grief. One glimpse at the stricken man’s face was frightening. A longer scrutiny was terrifying. George had witnessed and dealt with grief. Lots and lots of it. Ne
ver had he seen this degree of utter despair, not even in his own eyes after Alex’s death. James’s once boyishly handsome face with the inner light of gay optimism and love was gone. Now it was lined, sallow, aged beyond his forty-five years, and dull. The brown eyes perpetually warm and shining with humor were flat and dead, the only emotion a vague confusion as if he couldn’t comprehend how he managed to live with the unrelenting pain.

  George had anticipated that Anne’s death would rock his brother. He had spent the past six months preparing himself for confronting James in his sadness. It wasn’t enough. What he observed shocked him profoundly, and it took a very great deal to shock Dr. George Darcy. It was a mystery how he wrestled the strength not to cringe when the urge to remove his gaze from the empty, agonized shell that was his beloved brother was more powerful than any urge he had ever felt. It had to be of a divine source because George knew he was not that strong.

  “Yes,” he said in a calmer voice than he expected, “I know Anne died. I am very sorry, James. More sorry than I can express. I wish I could have been here.”

  “She just grew weaker and weaker. Day by day and month by month. Her body refused to respond, as if her muscles were disconnected from her brain. It was the strangest thing.” James’s eyes had glazed over and were unfocused somewhere over George’s left shoulder. His words were ethereal, whispered in a voice without emotion. “Nothing could be done. We tried everything, even the remedies my brother suggested. She was in so much pain.” James blinked and swallowed at that, pausing and inhaling against the tendril of feeling tickling his senses. Then he visibly slumped. “It was gradual,” he resumed in the same dead tone, “and took so long. She tried to fight… it… but couldn’t. Then one morning she was gone. I held her in my arms as tightly as I could. I begged her to stay but she was gone.”

  George laid one hand on James’s shoulder and repeated, “I wish I could have been here. I don’t think I could have prevented Anne’s death, but I would have tried with all my might.”

  James said nothing. He bent over with his elbows on his knees and rested his eyes on the headstone etched with the name of his wife. He hadn’t twitched when George touched him and showed no further awareness of his brother’s presence. The past ten minutes replayed in George’s mind and, visualizing it from a different perspective, increased his alarm a thousandfold.

  Word of Anne Darcy’s death had reached George in Junnar, shattering the cocoon of bliss he was living in with Jharna. It was distressing to leave his home for a trip that could easily separate them for a year, and he did struggle with the decision for a few days. Yet no matter how many arguments he made for not going to England, some of them completely rational, he could not shake the nagging sense of urgency felt inside. Illogical as it seemed, George knew he had to go. The sensation grew every time he read the notice of Anne’s death, penned not by James but by his sixteen-year-old son, William.

  Dear Uncle,

  I pray this letter reaches you safely and is delivered into your hands in a timely manner. I further pray your health and circumstances are excellent. I regret that this missive, written on behalf of my father, your brother, is of a grievous nature and thus may instill melancholy into your heart and upset your daily affairs. These concerns notwithstanding, I believe you would wish to be informed that, this month past, my dear, sainted mother lost her battle with the ailments besetting her and has gone to be with God. Pemberley is deeply immersed in a state of mourning, most especially my father, who is unable to write to you directly. If I may be so bold, I request your devotionals include appeals for his health and emotional well-being during this immediate season of crisis. Perhaps written words of encouragement and comfort from you, his most beloved brother, could be sent in response? My father holds you in the highest regard, Uncle, so I know your presence, albeit from a distance rather than by his side, shall appease his heart and lighten his spirits. With affection and esteem,

  Your nephew,

  Fitzwilliam Darcy

  George could not claim to know his nephew well, but one thing he was sure of after meeting the lad five years ago and reading the six letters William had written to him since was that the youth was extremely careful in his choice of language. Usually George laughed aloud at the precisely phrased sentences and paragraphs written with an economy of words distinctly picked to convey the proper meaning. William lacked overt humor in his correspondence yet constructed sentences in such a way that nuances, witticisms, and deeper interpretations were evident if one was intelligent enough to discern them. In this case, George was affected on several points. One, it was odd that even while sunk in grief, James had not written himself. Yet James was “unable to write” and the pleas in regards to his “health and emotional well-being” pointed to a serious problem. The references to George offering words of encouragement, the comments as to his importance to James, and the subtle remark about his presence were clear. Fitzwilliam wanted his uncle to come to England and felt it was vital to James’s recovery for some reason. He was simply too polite to come right out and say it.

  Try as he might, George could not silence the tug at his heart. He had sat down a dozen times in the space of four days and attempted to write to James. Never could he finish the letter. He told himself he would wait a bit to see if James wrote to him or if William did again. He told himself that with time James would rally, but his anxiety only grew more pronounced. Finally it was Jharna, she who read into his soul better than anyone alive, who all but insisted he leave.

  Five months of monotonous travel was spent reassuring himself that after nearly a year James would be healing, even if just a little. The plan was for a month of brotherly camaraderie maximum and then he would set sail on the fastest ship back to India and Jharna.

  James, however, was far worse than George’s wildest imaginings had envisioned. Aside from his appearance—and it truly was ghastly—he was disconnected from reality. George’s abrupt presence after nearly six years away hadn’t startled James one iota. Instead, he was staring at the gravestone as if George were not there. Words were not penetrating the self-installed barrier but maybe action would.

  “Remember at the Summer Festival when Anne was seventeen and Millie Hent tried to kiss you? Lord, I have never seen a woman so furious! There she was, a diminutive sprite spitting fire, and she charged right up to Millie and punched her in the nose. Remember that? Millie fell flat on her hind end. It was hysterical. But we sure learned not to anger Lady Anne Fitzwilliam after that. She always had a temper, that one, especially about you. If she could see you now, it would be you with a bleeding nose and dirt on your ass. Then she would stand over you for an hour, delivering a good tongue lashing.”

  James had turned and was staring at George with the same vague expression. George stared right back, this time with visible disgust and irritation. “Not sure if Anne can see you from Heaven, and while normally I hope for that sort of possibility, this time I pray she can’t. Still, on the off chance she can, and since she can’t deliver the slap you deserve, I’ll do it for her.” And without any preamble, George balled his fist and punched James square in the nose. He controlled the blow so that James wasn’t hurt too much—no blood or crunched bones—but enough of an impact that it stung and knocked him off the bench onto the hard-packed gravel.

  “What the bloody hell!” James roared.

  “About damned time you showed some emotion, Brother,” George roared back. He stood up and loomed over the supine James. “Now get up off your sorry ass so I can do it again. Or is once enough to wake you up from your pathetic bout of self-pity?”

  “You hit me! I can’t believe you hit me! That’s just… Wait. What are you doing here? When did you get here?”

  “We have been sitting here for the past half hour, James. Where the blazes were you?”

  “I…” The shock and anger on James’s face was replaced by confusion, and then after a glance toward the grav
estone now inches from his eyes, the glazed mask of sadness began creeping in.

  “Oh no you don’t!” George reached down and grabbed James’s soiled, loosely tied cravat, yanked him to his feet, and raised his other hand in the air.

  “Wait! Don’t hit me again, George. I take your point.”

  “Do you? Because if I hear you sniveling and sinking into your grief like that again, James, I will beat you until you’re bloody.”

  “Why all the hostility? And where is the compassion, damn it all! Did you come all this way to harass or commiserate?”

  “I have a suspicion you have gotten far too much commiseration.” He let go of James’s cravat and stepped back with a sigh. “Listen, James, I have oodles of compassion for your loss. Believe me. I feel it too. I loved Anne and can’t believe she is gone. I also knew your wife well and am sure she would not want you to curl up and die of mourning her. That isn’t the Anne Darcy I knew. She was a fighter who was full of life. She loved Pemberley. She loved her friends and family. And she loved you too much to want you to suffer so.”