The Passions of Dr. Darcy by Sharon Lathan
“Hold him tight,” he commanded in Hindi, the message clear even to those not sure of the words.
The hollow reed Dr. Ullas handed George was blunt on one end but shaved to a sharp point on the other. It was the pointed end that George pressed into the bleeding incision, easing through the tissue until resistance was felt. He paused for a second, his broad left hand spanning the rib cage and bracing, and then with a controlled thrust the hardened reed pierced through the tough membrane protecting the lungs. Another jerk was the prince’s response, but the helpers had listened well and kept a firm grip on him.
Immediately, cloudy, blood-tinged fluid began to flow from the blunt end of the reed, Dr. Ullas collecting it into a cup for later examination.
“Not too thick and translucent. Odor not foul and minimal blood. All good signs, but I will need to leave the drainage tube in for a while to make sure.” George flicked his discerning gaze back and forth from the fast-filling cup, the patient’s chest, and then his face. The first cup was replaced with a new one before improvement was detected. Initially, there was a faint increase in the lift to his chest as each inhale grew deeper, the alarming blue tint receding incrementally. Then as the second cup hit the halfway point, the young man gasped and shuddered, his nostrils flaring and mouth opening wide as he drew in a ragged breath followed by another and another. Healthy color suffused his face, not completely but a vast improvement over the deathly cyanosis of minutes prior, and the chest rose higher with each harsh inspiration.
“I have seen this I don’t know how many times now and it still amazes me. Well done, Dr. Darcy.”
George said nothing. He was too busy wrapping a clean cloth around the puncture site, holding tight to the reed while gently rolling the youth back to rest on a pillow wedged against his back.
“Well, look who is waking up!” George smiled into the fluttering eyes of the rallying prince. “A drop or two of opium,” he said to Dr. Ullas while keeping his gazed fixed on the bewildered eyes staring up at him. “Do you understand me, Your Highness? Excellent. I am Dr. Darcy and this is Dr. Ullas. We are vaidyas from Mysore City…”
In simple language and cadenced tones, George explained what had been done to him, hands simultaneously checking his pulse and applying pressure to precise points until the prince fell into a deep, untroubled sleep, opium, exhaustion, and Ayurvedic application combining in a sedative effect. Only once assured the critical situation was under control did George leave the bed. Taking the wet cloth from Kshitij and wiping his bloodstained hands, George grinned at his colleague, mentor, and friend.
“See? I told you it would be exciting.”
***
“Yes, that is truly what he said. ‘I told you it would be exciting.’ And then he laughed.”
“It blows off the tension,” George explained with a straight face.
The two men were sitting across from each other in the dining room of the Ullas house in Saliom. They had returned home an hour prior, after a week in Tipu Sultan’s palace, and of course, the boys had flocked around them with questions gushing. Delaying until settled with food and refreshing beverages in front of them, they were recounting their adventures to a captive audience.
“So what happened next? Did he die?”
“Of course not! Would I or your father allow that to happen? Never!”
Jharna rolled her eyes. Sasi looked vaguely disappointed, as if the death of a prince would be much more dramatic. Nimesh beamed with pride.
“We continued to treat him, with the aid of the other healers. He was an acutely ill young man. Dr. Darcy had to replace the drainage tube once when it obstructed with exudate, but within a day he was able to leave it out. The prince’s strength enabled him to recuperate, thankfully.”
Interruptions were frequent. Nimesh inquired on the medications and techniques while Sasi attempted to steer the conversation into descriptions of the palace.
“At what point did you meet the Tiger of Mysore?”
“Not for four days,” Kshitij replied to his wife’s query.
Her expression was serene, showing no overt sign of the intense fear she had lived with for eight interminable days. George could sense her distress, however, as did Kshitij, and it was why they were jesting and painting a glorified picture. Neither had felt overcome with anxiety while residing in the palace, yet the fact remained that they were, for all intents, hostages whose fates were at the whimsical mercy of a tyrannical man not know for being merciful. How he would have reacted if his son had died is anyone’s guess.
They had been treated with due respect throughout their stay, with every personal need attended to. Not a soul was rude, yet the guards posted sent a clear message that they were not to wander beyond the designated wing where the ill prince lay. A thirty-foot square garden courtyard was the only allowed exterior area. The prisoner sensation hung over their heads and the curiosity over whether the Sultan was aware of his son’s illness or their presence remained a mystery, both hoping they could slink away as quietly as they had come.
Still, as George would later say to Kshitij, there aren’t too many people, especially Westerners, who can say they dwelt for a time in the palace of Tipu Sultan and entered his throne room to carry on a conversation.
“We did not ask for an audience, that’s for sure.” George popped a fig into his mouth. “But it was exciting when we were summoned. Well, it was! You can’t deny it.” He wagged a finger at Kshitij, who shook his head and laughed. “You should have seen it, boys. A massive chamber dripping with gold and jeweled tapestries.” He leaned forward, eyes wide and hands gesturing, his voice dropped into an awestruck pitch as he went on, elaborating upon the furnishings with explicit detail only slightly exaggerated for effect. He painted a picture with his words, relating features that Kshitij barely remembered, Sasi and Nimesh open-mouthed and silent. The Sultan he described perfectly, from his attire to physical appearance to changing expressions. Practically word for word, he quoted Tipu’s thanks for saving his son and praise for their skill.
“Then he stepped off his throne, descended the dais, and after retrieving a casket from a waiting servant, he walked right up to us. ‘Payment for services rendered,’ he said, handing the casket to your father. Then, ‘Let it be known that Sultan Fateh Ali Tippu treats fairly with his English and Hindu neighbors.’ He bowed and we thought that would be the end of it, but he snapped his fingers and another servant hurried forward. In his hands, he held two chains with dangling pendants that he placed over our heads. We were out of the room before we could see what it was.”
Reaching inside his kurta, George withdrew a chain of gold. The unadorned links were small but thick, falling to midbreastbone with a two-inch-long replica of a roaring tiger in gold plated with black and orange enamel, the eyes tiny ambers, fastened with three wide rings.
The boys whistled and Jharna gasped. Kshitij pulled his out of his pocket and handed it to his wife. “Keep it safe. It is worth a small fortune, I imagine, but I have no desire to wear it.”
“I do!” George shrugged when they collectively gaped at his vehemence. “Not because I care for who gave it to me but because it is incredible. Just look at it!” He dropped it onto his chest, the gold flashing in the sunlight. “Quite the eye-catcher isn’t it? Think of the conversations this little beauty will start. The ladies will love it, and then I can tell of our adventure into the tiger’s den. Nothing like a man of undaunted bravery to stir up enthusiasm, is there Jharna?”
His cheeky grin and egotistical chuckle sent them all into gales of laughter. Kshitij mouthed a silent thank you and George winked. Best to keep the topic light and not let on how appreciative they were to be safely back with their family. Excitement aside—and it had been exciting, as far as George was concerned—coming face to face with a man some considered on par with the devil was not exactly fun.
Kshitij took over answering the endless
“A treasure chest!” Sasi breathed.
“That about sums it up,” George agreed, lifting the lid with agonizing slowness until the contents were revealed to the eager trio. Inside, it was filled with coins. Some bore Persian and Arabic writing, but most were the gold pagoda, silver rupee, or paisa copper elephant coins commonly seen in town. The lesser value coins were overwhelmed by the larger denomination gold ones, it easily calculable without separating and counting that the physicians had been paid more for this one patient than all others combined for the past six months.
“We’re rich.”
“We were already rich, Nimesh. We do not need this and will not keep it.”
“Pati!” The wails were in unison. Jharna said nothing, but the stricken look on her face made George burst out laughing.
“Don’t fret, Jharna. Kshitij intends to let you keep the casket. Now tell them the good news, Kshitij, before they perish from broken hearts.”
“You two can each select five coins to keep. That is all. Sasi, there are some rare ones in there. I think I saw a Persian safavid that will make a fine addition to your collection. Once done, we will be donating the money to the hospital. Before we leave permanently, Dr. Darcy and I can make sure they have a new microscope at least.”
The boys were no longer listening. Treasure hunting had taken over! They would all end up with souvenirs of their sojourn in Mysore, just as they had from every other place traveled to, but none with a story quite like this one attached.
George’s Memoirs
April 25, 1798
Today brought news that I have dreaded on some level since leaving England. Alex, our father is ill. A letter arrived from James. A letter dated November 13 of last year no less. James’s previous correspondences have hinted that Father’s age has caught up with him in small ways, such as not riding every day, as he used to, or eating less. But he assured me that nothing was seriously amiss. Father still spent the bulk of his time in the stables, usually with young William, who has inherited our father’s passion for horses, and of course, he never misses a Sunday service. Now he says that Father has been diagnosed with a wasting illness. Typical of James to not know the proper medical terms or details. Nevertheless, I know our brother well enough to know he would not insist I come home unless it were of a severe nature. So I am making hasty preparations. I can do nothing about the vast distances between us, but it does weigh heavily upon my heart that months have lapsed while this letter made its way to India and then was diverted a half-dozen times until finding me at Yellapur in Kanara, where we now are working. Fortunately, that means I can sail from Karwar and shave off a bit of time. Pray my luck holds firm on the voyage and that the weather and tides will be in my favor. And I shall be praying with all my strength that Father hangs on until I am home.
Alex, you know I am not one to figuratively flog myself over past choices and actions. I have considered taking a trip home a number of times. Always there were too many reasons not to do so, mainly my desire to be here and continue my travels. Nevertheless, if I arrive and Father has gone, I will be overcome with regrets and have James do the flogging, literally. I can’t regret the experiences of these past eight years, and I know I am not done with India and will be back as soon as possible. Even amid my anxiety over Father, I am annoyed that I will miss out on working with the Portuguese in Goa and skirting the edges of the Gaults on the way north through Konkan as we planned. Nor can I pretend I am not dismayed at what the news from Mysore portends. Wellesley has heard of an alliance between Tipu Sultan and the French, and naturally he is not pleased. Rumors of another war are filtering in. Kshitij and I were discussing the ramifications if this happens (and I would bet my inheritance it will) and whether we should delay our plans until we see if physicians are called for, as they always are where battles occur. Now that is a moot point as far as my services are concerned, and I am appalled at how much this distresses me when I should only be thinking of Father. I am a horrible son!
I left home knowing the odds were good that Father would die without my seeing him again. Or at least it occurred to me. Father has forever been larger than life, seemingly indestructible and inexhaustible. Even now, it is nigh impossible for me to imagine him ill.
So I have spent the day packing and making arrangements. Kshitij is supportive, of course, but his desire to return home will keep him moving north. Jharna said a blessing for my safe journey and lit incense to her goddess. At this point, I will take anything I can get, which is what I told her, and of course, she scolded me as she always does when I tease her about her religion! I needed the levity. Anoop was in tears at my leaving, not appreciating my insistence that he stay with the Ullas family. I am sure he is convinced I will perish without him. Nimesh helped me gather my medicines, including some herbs that he thought might help Father. That boy is going to be a wonderful physician, like his father. Captain Andrews has agreed to send an escort with me, which will make the trek to Karwar easier and safer. I was pleased at his kindness. Then he surprised me further by writing letters of accommodation! That assures me passage on the next ship leaving whether they need a physician onboard or not. With luck I shall be on my way within a week. Alex, if you have the ear of God from your seat in heaven put in a request for me, will you? Please let Father be alive.
Chapter Six
Derbyshire
October 1798
As soon as George touched English soil, he paid for a fast courier to deliver the message of his arrival. Securing a coach to transport him to Derbyshire was easy, George deciding the quick pace of a public coach with fresh teams of horses every few miles was better than hiring a private carriage. A few hours would likely not make any difference, but the moment George spied land from the deck of the ship a sense of urgency gripped him. At Lambton, he intended to immediately get a horse, even if he had to steal it, and dash the remaining five miles to Pemberley.
Fortunately, theft was not required.
George exited the coach to see none other than his old friend Henry Vernor standing on the stoop with a broad smile on his face. George was never so happy and terrified to see anyone in his life.
Henry opened his arms, George gladly stepping into the manly embrace and then almost fainting with relief when Henry said, “Welcome home, George. Your father will be so happy to see you.”
Henry assured him that “the stubborn old man refused to die” but did admit that he was close. So close that James hadn’t wanted to leave even to meet his brother, and asked Vernor to be there instead.
The carriage clattered over the stone bridge spanning the River Derwent, the woods that had obstructed George’s view of Pemberley left behind. He sat with his face pressed to the glass, much as an overanxious child, and sucked in his breath as Pemberley Manor became visible. How many times had he beheld this exact scene? Hundreds, most often taking it for granted, with rare instances of appreciating his home’s majesty. He had seen many grand places in his travels, exotic temples to opulent palaces, yet none of them inspired the deep-seated love of Pemberley.
Sitting on a gentle slope rising from the Derwent, the Baroque manor of beige brick shone in the midafternoon sun. The lawns, hedges, trees, and gardens were brilliant with the colors of autumn. Wooly sheep wandered freely over the wide, grassy expanses near the river, and horses grazed in the pastures to the north, beyond the massive stable complex. All was serene, the only activity aside from the animals a couple of groundsmen weeding and the stable crew moving among the horses.
“Does it look like you remember?”
“Even better. There is no place on earth as beautiful as Pemberley.”
“I agree, although if you tell anyone I said that I will deny it vigorously.”
George laughed. “Sanburl Hall comes close, Henry. How is that?”
Vernor grunted. “You know it doesn’t, but it is mine and I love it.”
“Thanks for meeting me, Henry. I appreciate the welcome from a friendly face.”
“It was my pleasure. We have missed you, George. I know it may prove difficult, but try to come round for a visit. Mary would like to see you as well.”
George nodded but made no promises. Too much was uncertain for him to plan social engagements.
Once over the bridge, they were on Darcy land, from there a short jaunt along the north drive lined with sculptured hedges and thick stone posts topped with iron lanterns, unlit at the present. An enormous stone arch, half covered with ivy, spanned the road that was wide enough for three carriages to enter in a row, the iron gates open and welcoming. Etched into the smoothed rock surface above the arch was one word in tall, bold letters, painted black: PEMBERLEY.
The graveled drive curved slightly, leading to the front façade of the manor. George had a glimpse of James standing on the covered portico, his heart leaping and a smile growing despite the serious nature of his visit. Seconds after the carriage halted, George was out and bounding up the steps. James greeted his brother with a shout and warm embrace, the shorter James engulfed in George’s long arms and towering body.