Manner of Devotion
"Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."
Jane Austen, Mansfield Park
Author's Note: Before you say it, that is the way they spelled "Hindu" in 1817.
Chapter 7 – The Protégé
When Dr. Andrew Bertrand received the card, the most confounding thing was the instructions. 11 pm, outside the Society house, wear your worst clothing and bring best equipment.
Not one to question orders, he did precisely that, putting together his oldest, most threadbare outfit short of his field uniform (which would hardly have been appropriate). Fortunately his parents were not around. They had left long ago for the usual tour of evening entertainment. Aging ex-nobility, they lived the life expected of them in Town – that is, well beyond their means. The most fashionable occupation for the rich was being in debt. It also meant he was not likely to inherit anything past his name, so the young ex-Viscount decided to make his own way, and this post would legitimatize his profession in his parent's eyes – just, not as he was dressed now.
He was rather surprised when he applied for the well-sought position that the man making the decisions was no more than perhaps fifty, probably younger. Bertrand expected an old man in a wig who had served the king. Dr. Maddox, when he asked around, had a good reputation but had never published any papers or spent much time at any of the clubs the other doctors frequented, and he never gossiped about his patient, so they knew little of him and cared for him less.
Either way, Maddox seemed a reasonable man to be employed under and the position was no doubt a cushy one, so Dr. Bertrand had no objections and made it to the society right on time. The doors were shut, and the doctor was sitting on a bench, dressed mainly in black, with no hat. "Ready, Dr. Bertrand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you by any chance armed?"
"Yes, sir. A small pistol." It was quite foolish to go about London without one these days.
Dr. Maddox stood up. "I always belied in the kindness of strangers. From that axiom I earned most of my scars. Nonetheless I can't bring myself to think of actually using a weapon, so I am glad you brought one," he said, and called for their carriage.
They rode in silence for some time before stopping at the edge of East London, where one wouldn't want to be seen in such a nice carriage. "Wait here," Dr. Maddox told his driver. "Now Dr. Bertrand, I assume you've had all of your vaccinations."
"I have, sir."
"As a royal physician I'm forbidden to enter a cholera ward or a hospital, so you should have no fear of that." He left his walking stick with the carriage and carried only his satchel. He reached into his coat and removed a piece of paper. "I know the street at least. Perhaps not the exact address, but we shall find it. And take off your hat – you look like a man of wealth."
Blushing, Bertrand did so, and left it with the driver as they proceeded up the foul-smelling streets of some of the worst sections of London, well outside Town proper. "Now, whatever I say, you just follow my lead," Dr. Maddox said as they came to a wooden door that was nearly off its hinges. "Here we are." There was no doorknob so he knocked with his fist. "Hello? Mrs. Potter?"
There was some noise before a fat woman in an apron opened the door, holding up a candlestick. "Who is it?"
"You requested a surgeon, for a Mr. Potter," he said. "I am Dr. Maddox and this is Mr. Bertrand."
She looked at them both skeptically. "I can't afford two, much less a doctor."
"The fee is the same, I assure you. Mr. Bertrand is my apprentice."
"A shilling."
"Yes."
She hesitated, then stepped back to let them in. The apartment had maybe three rooms – a kitchen, some kind of sitting room, and a bedroom. The sitting room was outfitted with cots and there were children sleeping on them. When some of them stirred, they were hushed by a stream of curses from their mother as she led the doctors into the bedroom.
Sitting up was a man in a bloodied white shirt, with an old soldier's jacket from the continental war over his shoulders. His beard was brown, his hair filthy, and one of his arms was cut off about halfway up the forearm. "I can' afford two."
"There's no extra charge, Mr. Potter," Dr. Maddox said, bowing to him. "I am Dr. Maddox and this is Mr. Bertrand. Do you mind if we look at your wound?"
"Just make it stop with the gunk, wouldja?"
Dr. Maddox pulled up a chair close to the bed. "Light, please, Mr. Bertrand." Bertrand held up the light as close as possible as Dr. Maddox pushed his glasses up into his hair and looked very closely at the wound. It was an old amputation, probably done hastily on the battlefield. The sewing job was only adequate, and it showed. Parts of his remaining arm were dead or dying slowly. Dr. Maddox covered his mouth with a cloth and probed the wound with a metal tong, and though there was no clear opening, pus seeped out as Mr. Potter cried out. Without flinching, Dr. Maddox let the pus drip into a small tin, and held it up to the light for them both to inspect. "A moment, please, Mr. Potter." He stood up and they walked to the corner of the room. "Your assessment?"
"He wasn't sewn properly in the first place, and whatever happened in the meantime, the limb's dying. It needs to be done properly."
Dr. Maddox nodded. "How much would you amputate?"
"I would try to do it cleanly around the shoulder. I've done that before – I think it looks better at a natural stopping place."
"You've done it before? In the precise place?"
"I almost always went for just under the elbow and sewed it there."
Again, Dr. Maddox nodded. "Get your saw ready. If you don't have one, I do." He put his glasses back over his eyes and turned to Mr. Potter as he opened his bag on the dresser. "I think you know what I'm going to tell you, Mr. Potter."
"Oh G-d in heaven," Potter said. "I just – I don' think I can do that again."
"It will be different this time, I assure you. I'm going to give you something to make it far less painful and we're going to do it cleanly. If you keep the wound clean and have the stitches removed properly, it should heal just fine." He removed several small bottles of powder and began to measure them before pouring them into a small bottle of water, which he closed and then shook the contents. "Do you have any other amputations?"
"No, Doctor."
"Good, good. Have you been bleeding a lot recently?"
"No, just this awful mush."
"Have you been drinking excessively in the last few hours?"
"Just a little gin maybe ... I don't know, an hour ago."
Dr. Maddox poured his mixture onto a large spoon. "Open your mouth. And yes, I know, it tastes very bad. For that I apologize." He gave him two spoonfuls, neither of which Mr. Potter cared for, but put up little protest. "All right, here's some sugar to change the taste." He fed him a spoon of sugar. "Now you may feel a little drowsy – there is no reason to fight it. Tell me, under whom did you serve?"
As Bertrand readied his equipment, he watched Dr. Maddox make conversation with Mr. Potter, who had been a private at Waterloo, shot in the hand, which was gangrenous within a week. He was treated in the tents in France before returning to the mainland. Over the next few minutes, his answers became increasingly slurred to the point where he was incoherent. "It's time," Dr. Maddox said.
Dr. Bertrand was ready. This was slightly different from the battlefield – despite Mr. Potter's screams, as drugs could only have so much worth – it was rather quiet. There was no one around him screaming orders in French, or people running back and forth. Dr. Maddox sat quietly, watching his work while holding Mr. Potter's hand, keeping one finger on his wrist for a pulse. "You're doing well, Mr. Potter," he would occasionally say, even if Potter gave no answer. His voice was remarkably gentle.
Bertrand was used to doing quick work, and even at his leisure it didn't take long to make a clean cut. Stitching it was actually a longer and more complex process, but he managed that in a few minutes.
"Pour this over it," Dr. Maddox said, handing him another vial. "It's not honey, but it will do."
Bertrand smiled. Mr. Potter, meanwhile, had actually fallen asleep, and was snoring. Dr. Maddox wiped his face as Bertrand packed up his items. Mrs. Potter entered as they were tying the final bandages. "I will be back or send my assistant in a week to remove the stitches and check on the patient. Don't give him anything tonight and be liberal with the alcohol tomorrow, but not more than two glasses an hour."
"He's sleepin'!"
"He is drugged. Let him sleep as long as possible – he won't feel very well when he wakes up, but he will live."
She paid him the shilling, and they made their exit. They walked back down the street in a casual stroll. "Sorry for the demotion," Dr. Maddox said, "but she wouldn't have believed two doctors were only charging a shilling."
"Why were we only charging a shilling?"
"Because that's the going rate for surgeons, and I have no desire to mess with their market, having been one for many years myself."
"What did you give him to make him so peaceful?"
"A mixture of raw opium and some other ingredients to make it drinkable. With the quality of opium I tend to use, and the amount I gave him, we barely broke even tonight." He handed the coin to Bertrand. "You did most of the work."
"I'll give you this back for that recipe, Dr. Maddox."
The doctor smiled. "Now, now, I don't give it out often. It is highly addictive. You must use it sparingly. But of course, only the best for the Crown."
Ahead, they found the carriage waiting, and began the ride back to the decent part of the city. "I should be available to do the return visit next week. If not, I'll send you a note. This is why I requested a partial retirement, anyway. I wanted to do more charitable work than picking up drunken lords." He shook Bertrand's hand. "Good work, Dr. Bertrand. If you can stand it, you can have the job I just so lovingly described."
"Gladly," Dr. Bertrand replied.
"Mama!"
Jane stepped out of Longbourn's doors to greet her eldest daughter running towards her. She barely had time to get her arms out before Georgie embraced her mother. She was twelve and growing quickly. Her expression of affection was rare and therefore all the more felt, regardless of how long she had been gone. Georgiana Bingley was not always an easy child to manage, sometimes strangely compliant and other times disobedient to the very end. No one knew quite how she would take to going out – either she would be begging for it or be dragged kicking and screaming into the social sphere. "I missed you too, dear."
As Georgie greeted her Aunt Darcy, Jane turned to Nadezhda Maddox, emerging from the carriage. "Your Highness."
"Mrs. Bingley," Nadezhda said. She was dressed in all her standard Romanian clothing, which was far less revealing than their gowns. "Thank you for letting me take your daughter. It would have been lonely without her."
"I assume she wasn't any trouble."
"None. She is a treasure." She curtseyed to Elizabeth. "Mrs. Darcy."
"Your Highness."
"Would you like to stay a few days?" Jane offered. "All the children will be here tomorrow for Edmund's birthday anyway."
What Nadezhda did with her time without Brian, they did not know. She was not part of the London social circles. She spent time with her Maddox nephews and niece, but the month-long trip to Ireland was really the highlight of her activities. "I would be honored."
The Maddoxes arrived in due time for Edmund's birthday, which had somehow turned into a regular social gathering in Hertfordshire. Dr. Maddox was quickly grabbed for his expertise despite Mr. Bennet's words against it, and he spoke with Mrs. Bennet for some time before reaching the same conclusion that the original doctor had.
"She likely had a minor stroke," he said. "She will not get worse. She will probably stay just as she is now."
"Is there anything we can to prevent another one?"
"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Darcy. Cerebral apoplexy is impossible to predict. Though, considering it is likely her brain that is involved, you'd best try not to do something to upset her nerves."
There was nothing in all of their concern that could prevent the former Bennet sisters from breaking out into laughter at that statement. Mr. Bennet stood up, putting aside his glass, and said, "Well, I'd better be off to bed, then. Everything I say and do upsets her nerves. But wait! Every time I disappear it also upsets her because she comes looking for me! So I guess I must sit quietly in her presence and say or do nothing. A precarious position, is it not, Dr. Maddox?"
"Indeed," Dr. Maddox said.
Edmund Bingley celebrated his first birthday without his father surrounded by his siblings, cousins, and aunt and uncles. Georgiana Bingley had done the same in March. Bingley said that a return before late summer was highly unlikely, but he would try. Jane did her best to hide her melancholia and the others did their best not to observe it and be supportive all the same.
As the adults sat down for luncheon, Mr. Bennet announced, "I do hope my far-traveling son will return soon, selfish as it may be for me to say it, because I have decided to hold a celebration next month for all of my daughters and their families, and my brothers and sisters. In other words, an army will march on Hertfordshire. We'd best alert the authorities beforehand so they don't become alarmed."
"The occasion, Papa?" Elizabeth asked.
"I am going to attempt to do something I have never done before, and doubt very much I will ever do again. I am going to turn seventy. And do we not love to celebrate round numbers?"
This came as some surprise, as Mr. Bennet was not in the habit of mentioning his age or celebrating his birthday, and none present (aside from maybe Mrs. Bennet) even knew it. Mr. Darcy gladly initiated a toast to the idea.
"Edmund!" Mrs. Bennet said. "That means our anniversary –"
"- shall be almost half a century of me hiding in the study and you talking about 'our girls.'" He paused. "My goodness, now I do feel old."
Their laughter was only broken by the doorbell. Mr. Bennet nodded for a servant to answer it, and that man returned with a package, "For Mrs. Bingley."
The paper around it was worn and dusty, and there were stamps all over it but no return. She tore it open immediately to reveal a top letter over the other material. "It's from Mr. Bingley!" she said. After scanning it, she read the first few lines out loud.
Dearest Jane,
By the time you read this, I will hopefully be speeding home. At the time that I am writing this I am however sitting on a hill overlooking the Ganges, which is a river in India much larger and longer than the Thames. Across from me is a Hindoo temple where they worship a god with the head of an elephant. The sun is setting and it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, marred only by the fact that my family is not here with me.
Enclosed are letters for everyone and gifts for the children. Do apologize for me for missing their birthdays and assure them they'll come around next year at the same time. Mr. Maddox also is reminding me that we have to move now, because it gets terribly buggy here at night and we are going to retreat to behind a screen. He sends his love to everyone.
Yours,
Charles Bingley
P.S. A man tried to buy our daughters for sixteen goats but I refused. I hope you find this to your approval.
It was hard to recall when there had been such a display of joy at the Bennet table as of late. Jane was in tears when she removed the cover letter to reveal an entire sketchbook of drawings, the last being no doubt the scene he had described, complete with tiny figures in the corner that were crudely drawn caricatures of the two of them with "CB" and "BM" written under them. It was passed around with great care, to be inked and colored by a professional when he returned home. The buildings contained on those pages were something out of a fairy tale, with unimaginable shapes and spirals. There were also letters for everyone, including Nadezhda from her husband, and the luncheon was recessed so that the children could be called in.
"Just in time for your birthday," Jane said as she handed Edmund his gift box and kissed him on the cheek, "Like he promised."
Edmund Bingley, now seven, opened his box to reveal a small set of wooden toy soldiers. Unlike his cousins' sets, these soldiers were Indian ones, painted in bright colors and carrying bayonets. He immediately abandoned the adults to start setting them up on the drawing room table. The twins, who had their father home for their birthday, received puzzle boxes made of a strange wood, and spent hours figuring them out.
Georgiana Bingley opened her box to reveal a metal locket set on a chain. It was a tiny glass box contained in a metal case molded like the temples of India in the pictures. She quickly discovered the upper spire could be pushed down like a button of some sort, but it did nothing but click. She was about to set aside the box when she found a note, which she read.
"What does it say?" her mother inquired.
"It says it's magic," Georgie said. "He said the man in the shop made it a charm, and it will only work for me, and only when saying one person's name."
"Whose name?" Elizabeth said.
"Papa says I have to figure it out for myself," Georgie said as her mother helped her get the locket around her neck and the clasp fastened in the back. It was just the right size for her. "Georgiana Bingley," she said, and pushed down. Nothing. "Charles Bingley." Nothing. "Fine. Charles Bingley the Second." Nothing. "Charles Bingley the Third." Still nothing. "Jane Bingley." Nothing. "Jane Bennet." People interrupted with suggestions, which varied from "Grandfather Bennet" to "King George the Third" but she cycled through all of them, and her siblings, and aunts and uncles in all their various names. "Her Highness Princess Nadezhda." The box remained unchanged. "Nadi-sama." Still nothing. She leaned against her mother on the couch, clicking away with increasing annoyance.
Geoffrey Darcy, whose birthday was also missed, received a wooden dog that looked just like his, painted the same way and everything. He turned his attention back to his cousin. "Does it have to be proper names? Or is it supposed to be the name of a place?"
She looked at him, then back at the locket. "Geoffrey Darcy." It lit up in a brief array of circling lights of all colors – red, then orange, then pink, then purple and blue – until shutting off after about ten seconds. "Yay! Thank you!" She hugged her cousin, who had no idea what he had done precisely, before running off to show the rest of her family.
Geoffrey turned to his Aunt Bingley, who only said, "I have no idea, either. Your uncle has a rather strange sense of humor."
...Next Chapter: The introduction of the BEST CHARACTER EVER!