A/N Goodness! Thank you all so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows for the first chapter, as well as the reblogs, likes, and kind comments on tumblr. You're very supportive, and I feel quite fortunate. Here's the second chapter, set quite a while after the first, in which Charles has been feeling ill and tries to uncover the nature of his affliction.
Special thanks to brenna-louise and evitamockingbird for helping me determine a timeline of events for this chapter and the next one or two. They kindly indulged me in a discussion about precisely when Charles figured out what – and how he came to terms with his feelings. Thanks also to chelsie fan, jr., jr. jr., my youngest daughter, for proofreading this chapter and the last one.
March, 1924
Charles paced in his pantry, clenching and unclenching his hands and wearing a track in the floor. He wondered what was wrong with him. For many months now, he'd been feeling out of sorts – or longer than that, even. Ever since the whole business with Grigg, two years prior, he'd occasionally felt unwell; but near the end of the Season in London last year, his condition had begun to deteriorate considerably, and since the family and staff's return to Yorkshire, he'd been suffering more serious symptoms almost daily.
He debated with himself whether to mention something to Mrs. Hughes. Mostly likely, she'd send him to bed and keep him there to make him rest. That was just what she'd done after his nervous attack, following Dr. Clarkson's instructions, and he'd been annoyed with her for keeping him idle so long afterwards when clearly, he was fully recovered. He'd been ready to get back to work the next day, but she wouldn't hear of it and had kept him in bed for three more days. He wasn't sure that bed rest was what he required right now, but he didn't know what he did require. What if he really were ill? He'd certainly been grateful for her care when he'd had the Spanish flu. He'd been in no condition whatsoever to be up and about, and he was more than willing to rest and allow her to care for him then. He'd had neither the strength nor the inclination to resist when he felt so wretched, and if he were honest, he would have to admit that he'd rather enjoyed her attentions. He definitely didn't feel that awful right now, but his symptoms had been plaguing him for a long time, and they'd been steadily worsening. During the last several months, he'd diagnosed himself with various maladies, including a stomach ulcer, pleurisy, angina, and rheumatic fever.
After considering his predicament for a few minutes longer, he decided his wisest course of action would be to go directly to see Dr. Clarkson. Even if he were to tell Mrs. Hughes of his concerns, her first question would be whether he'd seen the doctor. And if Charles were to answer in the negative, she would surely call and book him an appointment herself or summon the doctor immediately. No, Charles thought it better just to schedule a visit himself for his next half-day.
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Several days later…
"And what brings you here today, Mr. Carson?" asked Dr. Clarkson after they'd exchanged pleasantries.
"I've not been feeling quite myself."
"That is the usual reason for a visit to the doctor. But I'm afraid you'll need to be more specific if I'm to help you," Dr. Clarkson prodded gently. "Can you describe your symptoms for me?"
As the doctor began to examine him, Charles answered, "Well, I've had quite a range, really. Sometimes, I feel flushed … or chilled … or clammy. My heart races. I find myself short of breath or lightheaded … dizzy. My hands shake of their own accord. My stomach feels upset. My throat constricts and feels dry. Occasionally, I notice myself perspiring, even though I'm not particularly warm. And at other times, my skin breaks out into gooseflesh, though I'm not at all cold. All of these things happen for no apparent reason. I might be doing nothing out of the ordinary, just sitting at breakfast or walking down the corridor or discussing the menu with Mrs. Hughes, when I suddenly start to feel unwell."
"I see." The doctor placed a thermometer in Charles's mouth and prepared his instruments while he waited for the mercury to rise. When the shiny column of liquid metal stopped moving, he removed the thermometer, read the temperature, and cleaned the glass with alcohol.
"Open your mouth wide, please," requested the doctor before shining a light and looking in Charles's throat. "Thank you. Now, tell me: how long have you been feeling this way?"
"I first noticed the signs near the end of the Season when we were in London last summer for Lady Rose's coming out."
"And can you correlate the onset of these episodes with a particular event? Did something happen while you were in London? Anything that might have upset you? I'm just going to check your eyes, ears, and nose." The physician shone his light and looked in his patient's pupils, ear canals, and nostrils.
"Not that I can think of, no. Everything went smoothly: the ball and all the other events. Mrs. Bute, our London housekeeper, was ill, and we were hard-pressed for a short time, but Mrs. Hughes arrived and sorted everything. And as a matter of fact, near the end of our stay, Lady Grantham treated the staff to an outing, and we had a very enjoyable day by the sea. I hadn't been so keen on the idea at first, but I must admit, it proved to be quite relaxing."
"Breathe in … and out," Dr. Clarkson instructed as he listened to Charles's lungs and heart with a stethoscope. "And how often do you suffer from these symptoms? Would you say these occurrences have increased in frequency or intensity since you first detected them?"
"Yes, I believe they have. At first, I noticed only occasional, mild discomfort. But now … I would say I'm bothered by something almost daily now. Not every single indication I've described – but at least one or two each day, I think. And they're more severe now."
"Raise your arm for me, please, so I can measure your blood pressure. Are you under any unusual strain with your work at the Abbey? Or is there something else that might be troubling you?"
"No, I don't think so," Charles replied as a cuff was wrapped around his arm and inflated, and the doctor felt for his pulse.
"Have you had a falling out with someone? Is there a particular person who makes you uneasy or nervous?" The doctor was finished with his examination and set his equipment aside.
"Not especially."
"The reason I ask, Mr. Carson, is that the symptoms you're experiencing are indicative of stress or anxiety. Do you remember, during the war, when you had your nervous attack?"
"Sadly, yes. I recall only too vividly," admitted Charles.
"Well, everything you've described is consistent with your being under exceptional pressure. Your symptoms are your body's natural responses to excessive strain. You seem otherwise perfectly healthy. I find nothing else out of the ordinary to concern me."
"So, then, what should I do, doctor?"
"To start, I think you should try to isolate the cause of these incidents," recommended Dr. Clarkson. "First, try to think of anyone or anything that might make you uncomfortable or agitated. And if you can't pinpoint a person or thing that way, then take note of what you're doing and who is with you when you do start to feel ill. Once you determine the reason for your uneasiness, you can work to remedy the situation."
"But how?"
"By avoiding or changing the circumstances which cause you difficulty. Or by speaking with the person who unsettles you and resolving the issue that distresses you."
"Well, I shall certainly try, but I'm not sure I shall have much success. I am relieved, however, to know that it's nothing more serious."
"Anxiety can be very serious, as you well know. I'd like to see you again in a few months if you haven't uncovered the basis of your apprehension by then and aren't feeling better. Come back sooner if you feel worse. But you're an intelligent man, Mr. Carson, and I have every confidence that before long, you'll have sorted it out."
"Thank you, doctor."
A/N So now Charles has some homework to do; the doctor has given him his assignment. We know what ails poor Charles, but he hasn't quite pieced it together yet. He will soon, though. Stay tuned! (My proofreader tells me, "It's obvious, Mom: he's sick whenever he's around Mrs. Hughes! That's called 'dramatic irony,' by the way." I'm going to send her English teacher a nice gift!)
Also, I don't know exactly what a medical exam in the 1920's might have entailed, but I did do some research into what basic diagnostic instruments were available and what techniques were common. I think the picture I've painted is fairly realistic; it wouldn't have been too different from what goes on at a regular check-up today, except that the tools were much more rudimentary back then. If anyone has more accurate information or knowledge of the history of clinical exams, please let me know, and I'll fix whatever is wrong.
Please review if you can spare the time. It would make me very happy.