Manner of Devotion

"Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."

Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

Very Important Author's Note: Many of you may have noticed that FFnet is having some issues and chapters are showing up and then not showing up an hour later. If you think you are missing out, I fully encourage you to check out my own offsite forums, where I am posting the chapters as well:

laughingman (dot) web (dot) aplus (dot) net / phpbb / index.php

Chapter 6 – The Newlyweds

The next week in Town passed quietly for the Darcys. 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 offhand, his right hand 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 most 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, he 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, the servant shutting the door behind them before Elizabeth started speaking. "She suggests that perhaps I visit Longbourn sooner than we had anticipated going, while you finish your business here. Everyone else is fine, but Mama is rather 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 he's 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 if it was very serious, there would be an express 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 thought it not lacking 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 told him to stick himself in a dark hole and not come out. Brian had ruined their fortune and their reputation sunk with it; the ink wasn't dry on the license certificate before the young Daniel Maddox was not fit to show his face in decent society and carrying around more debts than he could pay. But they couldn't pull his license, and he survived, and here he was, interviewing applicants for the royal service.

It had been two long weeks. He was a man of high standards when it came to medicine, and he knew the 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 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 had his own prejudices against it, except in certain cases. Also he wasn't going to have the head of England sitting in filthy bathwater at Bath, so those experts were turned away. By the end of the first week, he was starting to think he was being too exacting for the man who would essentially be in charge of resuscitating the Prince after his nightly overindulgences. This man would likely also replace him down the line, when he truly became incapable of working for vision-related reasons.

He began looking through the applications of surgeons with licenses, having been one himself and having a healthy respect for a person willing to get their 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 field work. 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. Something about him was nervous, though, more than he should be. "So, Dr. Bertrand," Maddox said after the formalities, "you treated the wounded at Waterloo. Were you on the field or in the tents?"

"Both, sir."

"I assume you didn't keep track of the numbers. What did you do to fight infection among the wounded?"

It wasn't a normal interview question. Dr. Bertrand hesitated 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. "All right. 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 visibly sunk. 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 remains, as it has been for centuries, the most fashionable culture there is. 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 Duke Wellington is ever in the room." He closed the folder with the application and took a sip of his tea. "I assume from your soldier days that you are capable of lifting a grown man and carrying him?"

"Y-Yes, sir."

"Good. I will warn you, the Prince is very fat. Not quite as bovine as the Courier would have you believe, but not terribly 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 Crown Prince every night while he drinks his way 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 all mine," he said, and was not lying.

One could never go home again. Every time Elizabeth Darcy came to Longbourn, it had undergone some 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 it comfortable. While it was true that it now had fewer occupants than ever, it also hosted more guests who needed the space, so another wing was 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 claims to it, but Mr. Bennet dismissed all of these concerns with his staunch refusal to keel over just because they were already making arrangements.

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) married and moved away. He read, he ate, and on occasion went to church. Joseph Bennet was eight, and between his grandfather and mother, he had two very accomplished tutors.

Mrs. Bennet had been sad to see Lydia go when her favorite daughter remarried, and spent much time talking with the Mrs. Phillips and the Lucases, and whoever else was available. With the war over, there were fewer redcoats these days, just men with 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 lifestyle and mood.

"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 still be the object of so easy 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 following in a few days."

"It is not urgent," her sister said. "Though, it is good to see you."

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?"

"Very well, Mama," Elizabeth said. "Mr. Darcy will be here in a few days."

"Mr. Darcy! That insufferable man!" Mrs. Bennet said, and then smiled pleasantly. "Jane, where are the children?"

"Outside, Mama."

"And the grandchildren?"

At a loss, Jane said, "Also outside. They will be in soon."

"They shouldn't stay out – the sun will ruin their complexions. You know how Georgiana freckles!" she said. Georgiana was in Ireland, but that didn't matter to her. "I must find Edmund. Edmund!" She shouted, and ran off down the hallway, in the direction of Mr. Bennet's study.

"Edmund?" Elizabeth said, picking up the dropped embroidery circle. The strings seem to be randomly placed, completely ignoring the pattern and becoming a spider web of confusion.

"I know! She's been doing that since I arrived." Jane frowned, and dismissed the servants. "The doctor said she may have had a stroke."

"A stroke! When?"

"We don't know. Sometime after Mary left. It hasn't inhibited her speech or movement, so it was minor, and Papa said he did not notice it for a few days."

"Is there anything that can be done?"

"No, but it won't get worse, unless she has another one. Oh, Lizzy, these things are so unpredictable!" Jane finally unleashed her anxieties on her sister, leaning on her shoulder.

"Now what's this? Unexpected guests?" said Mr. Bennet, announcing his presence in the doorway with a heavy tap of his cane.

"Papa!" Elizabeth said and hugged her father. He was perhaps a little older (and shorter, it seemed) and more wrinkled, but very much alive. "I came as soon as I heard."

"Which is faster than I even discovered it," he said, taking a seat in the armchair. "I admit I did not notice anything amiss until she started calling me by my Christian name. The last time she did that must have been when Kitty was born!" He chuckled. "Well, there's nothing to be done about it. The doctor said it could have been much worse. She doesn't even have memory loss – she just gets confused about names and dates. And you will find her nerves in good working order, perhaps the best they've been in years! So it's not all bad. Positively bizarre, actually."

"Did someone tell her?"

"It would just embarrass her," Jane answered. "Or so the doctor said. We may apply for a second opinion, but there really is little or nothing to be done for a stroke."

"A very minor one, he said," Mr. Bennet added, "Though if I have to hear about Netherfield being let one more time, I may have one myself!"

"Papa!" they said together.

He sighed. "It seems the only one who is allowed to joke around here since this happened is Mrs. Bennet herself! I know it gave us all a good scare and still does, but watch carefully – Mrs. Bennet!" He said it loud enough for her to hear.

"There you are!" she said, reentering with the children tugging at her dress. "Where have you been?"

"I've been looking for you, my dear. I assumed you would be in your own sitting room."

"I am so sorry to disappoint. Please forgive me," She leaned over, and kissed him on his head more tenderly than they had ever seen Mrs. Bennet act around her husband, "my darling husband."

"I do my best," he said, "now I believe you are to be besieged by grandchildren if something is not found for them to eat before long."

"Of course." She kissed him again, which he returned, and left. The children who were old enough to bow or curtsey did in passing to their mothers and grandfather.

"You see?" Mr. Bennet said with a sly grin. "It's not all bad. If she'd lost her wits entirely she might be wondering why her betrothed is an old man!"

"Papa!" Lizzy said, while both his daughters colored at his inflection.

...Next Chapter – The Protégé