The Passions of Dr. Darcy by Sharon Lathan
“I am waiting to see what any of this has to do with me, but since we are talking politics here”—George grimaced—“and you are apparently in the Governor’s confidence, does any of this smell of empire expansion to you? Wellesley’s doctrine of subsidiary alliance has already gained Hyderabad, Awadh, and Mysore—”
“Territories that were volatile and blatantly threatening the Company. Ye have seen it first hand, Darcy, and said yerself that Tipu was a menace.”
“He was intense, that is for sure,” George agreed with massive understatement. “We were in Mysore during the years of ‘peace’ but the currents never disappeared. And the one time we met the Sultan was one time too many for me. Nevertheless, I am surprised to realize you are such a patriot and fan of British control.”
McIntyre winced. “I ken the parallels, Darcy. I also see the differences. Scotland had legitimate, competent rulers who wanted to reign in accord with England. Most of the time,” he added in a firmer voice when George opened his mouth to speak. “I have reasons deeply-seated in my blood not to trust the pretty words of an English aristocrat, and even if the marquess is honest as a day is long, he is only one man. Who knows what the king is thinking, mad as he is. But he is half a world away and the Company is stretched too thin to exert empiric control. Just keeping the peace will take all they got.”
“So, as fascinating as this conversation is, what does it have to do with me?”
“Are ye really going to keep playing the innocent game?” he asked scathingly, but went on before George had a chance to reply, ticking off each condition on one of his fingers. “I am promoted ’cause Dr. Trenowyth is moving up to Surgeon-General of the Bombay Presidency section of the Indian Medical Services. He ousted Dr. Clinton, whom we all know wasn’t very competent but not a total failure at the job. It dinna take an augur to predict there will be trouble with the Maratha dynasties in the years ahead nor does one need to be a genius to figure where that may lead. With battles comes the need for doctors and since Jaswant Rao’s uprising last June, they have added a dozen or more surgeons to the ranks. The call is out for more and they are looking for doctors, British, Indian, or whatever, who have experience first but also knowledge of the region. I am surprised they bothered offering ye the PG of Bombay Headquarters position. You are needed out there”—he waved toward the northeast—“not here.”
George had sat back through McIntyre’s speech, mug still in his hands and eyes fixed on his companion’s face. He wasn’t “playing the innocent game” for the reasons McIntyre assumed. George wasn’t a secretive man in general, and one of his main purposes in time alone with his friend was to talk about this very topic. He was genuinely startled that McIntyre knew of Governor Duncan offering him the Physician General position, however. It hadn’t been a serious offer, George instantly aware that Duncan was testing him, wanting to hear what his justifications would be for turning the job down. For a second, he had toyed with the idea of saying yes, just to see how Duncan and General Wellesley would react. That would have been humorous! George was too skilled a diagnostician not to read their eyes, and clearly they not only had another preferred plan for him in mind, but also they knew he was not the best candidate for Physician General. Commander Doyle of Bombay Headquarters, who had also been in the room along with Dr. Trenowyth, had known Dr. Darcy since he first stepped foot onto the dock twelve years prior and could assert better than any other that he was not the stay-in-one-place kind of fellow.
No, they had been confident that George would say thanks but no thanks. And of course he had. Then he had waited. Sure enough, they had an alternative. George wasn’t one to closely follow politics, that was true, but there were some realities that couldn’t be ignored no matter how hard one tried. Like McIntyre, George had seen the signs and suspected trouble on the horizon. Rumors and gossip can never be avoided completely, so he wasn’t surprised when Duncan presented him with another post. Nevertheless, he hadn’t given an answer. They granted him time to think about it, and he was determined not to be hasty in accepting an assignment with so many potential consequences. Hence the reason he needed to hear McIntyre’s uncolored opinion of what was occurring in the region and how Dr. Darcy might best fit into the scenarios.
When McIntyre fell silent, George leaned forward. “They want me to be the Deputy Surgeon-General, working alongside Dr. Trenowyth.”
McIntyre nodded, his expression bland. “I figured it was something like that. Might involve a fair amount of administrative duties. Ye up for that?”
George rubbed his chin. “Not sure, to be honest. Oh, I know I could handle the work, that’s not the issue. I’ve been around long enough to understand how the medical corps for the army is arranged and what the attitudes are. And therein lies the problem: I also know where they are falling short. I have worked with various groups, western and native, recognizing what is efficient and what is not.”
“That is why they want ye for the job, I reckon.”
“Yes. But saying they appreciate my experience and want my authoritative input is vastly different than implementing my ideas if they diverge from the norm. Diplomacy is not exactly my strong suit,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll probably irritate Trenowyth or someone else in the first month and be booted out anyway, so shouldn’t worry over accepting.”
“Bollocks, and ye know it, Darcy. Except for a handful of notable persons that we best not mention, ye can charm the worst of the lot. People love ye, men and women. More importantly, they respect ye. As a physician, there are few better and I for one don’t doubt ye administrative skills. And as bullheaded as ye are, any obstacles will be rammed right through. Plus, ye know Trenowyth well after yer time here. Ye two have similar methods and get on.” He stabbed his finger at George. “I’m no saying anything you dinna already ken; otherwise, I would no be falling over myself with the compliments. So what’s the real concern?”
“None really,” George admitted with a shrug. “Truth is, the idea appeals to me. It will be a challenging appointment at a challenging time. It’s just—” He sighed and ran one hand through his thick, wavy hair, continuing hesitantly, “I guess I’ve gotten used to my freedom. Being able to come and go as I please is nice. As Deputy Surgeon-General, I will be traveling. I made sure of that because sitting behind a desk preparing reports is not an option and never will be. And I’ll be acting as a working physician. But it will be more regimented. I may not be able to set my own pace as I am accustomed or be able to focus on medicine as often. That gives me pause.”
“And ye are not sure how often ye can veer off to Junnar.”
“Remind me to tell Lileas that you are not nearly as obtuse as you claim to be.”
“Never mind that. Best she believes me a simpleton. It is easier that way, trust me. I dinna see the problem with Junnar. It isn’t that far away and ye wouldn’t be sitting about on ye arse there for long neither. For what its worth, I see this as a smart choice for ye, Darcy. But I’ve never known ye to care much what anyone thinks. Trust yer gut and it ’twill be the best.”
George’s Memoirs
December 25, 1802
Merry Christmas, Father! The clock struck midnight not an hour ago, making it officially the day our Savior was born, although I am probably the only person in Junnar who noted it. I wonder if Christmas is celebrated in Heaven? I suppose I shall find out someday, but for the present will imagine a massive feast with Jesus as the Honored One and you sitting at a gigantic table with the other saints. As I wrote in my previous entry in November, I was not sure whether I would be able to extend my planned visit with the Ullas family through the holiday. Aside from the fact that it makes more sense to celebrate a Christian observance with other Christians rather than a household of Hindu Marathi, the turmoil in Maharashtra may not have allowed it. Surprisingly enough, we are experiencing a lull. Let me see if I can sum up, more so that I will remember these events if I ever pick up this journal fo
It took three of the Bombay Presidency medical corps, with the help of dozens of Indian healers and I don’t know how many nurses and helpers, to tend to all the wounded Sindhia and Marathi after the battle in Poona on October 25. Jaswant Rao of Indore did a bang up job in decimating his enemies and sacking the Peshwa’s capitol. Too many died, but our combined skills saved many who would have joined them. Let’s pray they do not heal only to die upon another battlefield, but more than likely that will be the case. It was a test of how well our organizing and training this year has paid off. We had adequate supplies for the most part, and down to the last man and woman, the medical corps conducted themselves efficiently. I was too busy and exhausted during the onslaught to notice or praise anyone, but once we were able to breathe, I assessed the situation and have to say that my pride swelled considerably. Trenowyth was verbose in his praise, once the reports reached him that is. What is it with bureaucrats and paperwork? Must they substantiate their existence with piles upon piles of documents written so that no one can truly know what they say? I think so. I kept my report as brief as possible, but it still took me days to provide the information I knew they would insist upon. It must have sufficed, thank the Maker, since no one came after me for more details.
Anyway, while we patched up holes and reset broken bones, among other injuries, Jaswant chased after Peshwa Baji Rao II, who fled to Suvarnadurg fort in Konkan for refuge. Rumors ran the gamut from reports of his death and capture by Jaswant to that he was heading east to Calcutta or north for goodness knows what purpose, to wilder stories in between. What we did know for sure was that he had appealed to Colonel Close, the British Resident at Poona, for an alliance with the EIC in exchange for assistance in reestablishing his authority over the Maratha Confederacy. No one with any knowledge of how matters lie with the EIC and Governor-General Marquess Wellesley can doubt that an agreement will be made. Then, a couple days before I left to travel to Junnar and while still in Bhiwandi, word reached us that the Peshwa sailed from Suvarnadurg under British protection, making his way to Bassein for further negotiations. I am sure he is there by now with a treaty probably already signed. British commands in Madras and Hyderabad, just to name a couple, are amassed and quietly waiting the next move. Or probably not so quietly, knowing soldiers like I do. Not that I blame them since Jaswant isn’t too quiet either. But at least for the interim, we are at a standstill and I was able to slip away for a much-needed rest.
What 1803 will bring is anyone’s guess. Maybe the EIC will have luck in negotiating with Jaswant. Then again, considering he wants Baji’s head on the end of a stake, I rather doubt it. He has settled in at the palace in Poona, ostensibly taken command of the Maratha army, and is calling one of his relatives the new Peshwa. Somehow I doubt the Bombay Presidency will take kindly to that. I foresee more bloodshed, Father.
I decided to grasp onto the momentary cessation of hostilities. I have been at Junnar for nearly two weeks now. It is so peaceful here. The Ullas house is located on the outskirts of town, and with Junnar not on a direct avenue between larger towns, we are especially isolated. It is like stepping backward in time, or sidestepping into an alternative universe where war and death do not exist. I can relax here with nothing more strenuous on my docket than a sporting game with the boys. Anoop loves it as well, utterly forgetting that he is a mature man of twenty-some years and cavorts with the children for hours at a time. There is great hunting in the jungles near here, but even that typically enjoyable pastime isn’t intriguing to me. I suppose I have heard enough gunfire for a while. I am doing a whole lot of nothing and loving every second of it. Although our makeshift hospitals were always well away from the skirmish lines, one never feels completely safe when with a fighting army. Here I am safe with my only fear another embarrassing defeat in chess at the hands of Jharna.
Oh yes, I almost forgot! I received a parcel of letters from home. I haven’t gotten mail in six months, not that I have written all that often either, but it appears that my correspondence was languishing in an office in Bassein. A clerk who knows me saw the pile by accident and sent them to Bhiwandi with orders to either locate me there (they did) or be sent on to Junnar. Finally, a man in the EIC employ with some brains! He better watch out, or they will make him a general! So, letters from a handful of blokes from school days, one from Malcolm (Lord Matlock as he now is), and another from Henry Vernor, two from young William including scribbles by the hand of my namesake Georgiana—so precious—one from Estella, and five from James. All in all, a major delight for me! Most were filled with typical newsy bits of gossip from the countryside that I love reading about. Estella’s daughter was presented at Court this year, which means she may well be married soon, which means I am getting damned old! How the hell did that happen? Sorry, Father, I know I should not swear, but I am shocked and dismayed. Worse though was the news James had to impart. It seems that Anne has never recovered her bloom. James says it is nothing that can be pinpointed exactly. I would tend to disagree with him, arrogantly believing I could detect the problem, yet none of the symptoms he chronicles are definitive. Her muscles are weak and difficult to control with muscle spasms and ataxia common. He says that at times she is her old self and they will hope it is permanent. Yet it never is and she will faint or spend hours sleeping from a malaise that does not respond to rest. Pain is associated, although not consistent or localized. It is odd. I have guessed anemia or a heart weakened from the burden of pregnancy. However, none of my prescribed treatments have worked and with further probing, I have discovered that Anne was displaying some of these symptoms prior to conceiving Georgiana. Not as severely, mind you, so no one thought it serious and I noticed nothing while visiting. I am beginning to suspect a neuropathy of some kind and that is not good news, since there is little that can be done for such diseases. I sent another packet of herbs and a letter with instructions. Unfortunately, they are only of a palliative nature and focusing on the symptoms rather than the cause. I continue to pray that it is not a fatal ailment. The thought of anything happening to Anne is more than I can bear. And James? Well, you know how deeply he loves Anne, Father. I have no doubt whatsoever that her death would destroy him. I must consider a journey home soon. Perhaps this peace will last, Jaswant will see reason and withdraw, and Maharashtra will again be the great nation it once was. If I were an optimist, I might believe my own rhetoric!
Chapter Eight
Junnar
April 1803
George pulled on the reins and murmured a gentle whoa. The horse obeyed reluctantly, sidestepping and tossing his head impatiently. “I understand, Rathore,” he soothed, bending to rub the silky, white neck of his faithful mount. “You can smell the fresh water and grains from here. Bear with me for a minute, vafadar, and I promise we will be home soon.”
Rathore snorted, conveying his displeasure with waiting but did lean into the firm caress of his human friend. George had named the Marwari stallion gifted to him by Jharna’s father after the rulers of the Marwar region of India who were the first to breed the exquisite animals in the twelfth century. Together the two had traversed the length and breadth of Maharashtra and the Deccan Plain, growing in their mutual respect with each passing month. George was a Darcy, and thus a man who loved horses as if a kinship was buried inside the fabric of his bones and muscles. It had taken no time at all for him to bond with his new mount and vice versa, Rathore sensing that this man was a worthy one to allow the privilege of sitting on his back. Therefore, trust was an aspect of the partnership forged, so Rathore relaxed in the shadows of the overhanging trees and waited.
George continued to rub Rathore’s neck, but his attention was on the sprawling house nestled in the verdant valley below the hillock they stood on. Designed as a rectangular structure encompassing an open central courtyard of stone, the large, two-level building was impressive, even in the half light of dusk. The receding illumination from the sun muted the effect
Inhaling, George closed his eyes to greater appreciate the aromas. Individually they were common to any dwelling place in India. Combined, they were unique to the residence of Jharna, Nimesh, and Sasi Ullas in Junnar. The place George called home.
Home.
Since arriving in India, he had never stayed anywhere long enough to think of it as home. If asked, he would have answered that Pemberley in Derbyshire was his home, yet the truth was that his ancestral estate hadn’t felt like home for decades, even before leaving England. Another truth was that George, for all his sentimental nature, hadn’t cared all that much. The itinerant life was what he had happily chosen, so such perks as having a home with all the emotional ties that the word conjured weren’t part of the package.
So why did the word now fill him with such peace and longing? And when had he started thinking of the house where the Ullas family lived as home? George could not pinpoint the day or the month. It had happened gradually, the term spoken inside his heart a dozen times before he realized it.
Perhaps the better question was, “Why this house?”
It was a beautiful house designed flawlessly and constructed well. It was a perfect blend of modern conveniences and old-world ideals. Not overly ornate, comfortably furnished, spacious, and airy, accented with lush gardens inside and out, the house now owned by Jharna Ullas since the death of her paternal grandmother five months prior was worthy of being loved. Nevertheless, George knew his affection toward the place was not because of the structure itself.