Chapter Twenty-Six #3
“I asked to see you because of this.” Elizabeth closed her left hand over the twist of paper she had taken from the package while she waited, and held it up.
“This is the Chinese powder, called mafeisan. Dr Barrow uses it instead of opiates such as laudanum, because it does not have the same disadvantages and ill effects. It makes the patient quiet, relieves his pain, and in the proper dosage, will make him sleep as well and as easily as if he had taken laudanum. It is tasteless, and dissolves swiftly in water.” She paused.
“Or, I may venture, in brandy. I believe it may explain why I had such difficulty rousing you at the fire.”
Mr Reid had already stiffened, his granite features cracking into a frown.
Mr Darcy’s eyes narrowed. He took the paper from her, untwisting it to view the white grains inside. “I remember my father writing to me before he died. He told me he was using this powder, and how efficacious he found it. Why did I not remember earlier?”
“Ask most people in England what may be used to bring sleep and surcease of pain, and though many will know of laudanum, none will have heard of mafeisan. After all, how many doctors learn their trade in the East? It is unsurprising it did not occur to us that it might be used in such a way.”
“We suspected we were drugged, lad. This powder, this maf—” Mr Reid broke off, frowning.
“Mafeisan,” Elizabeth said.
He nodded. “Mafeisan. It was in the house.”
“No. That is the point. When my uncle died, my aunt gave what was left of the powder over to James Wickham’s use. The powders help keep him calm and tractable. There was none in Pemberley itself.”
Mr Darcy turned abruptly and leaned upon the mantelpiece, hiding his face between his hands.
The paper of mafeisan fluttered to the ground in a cloud of fine powder.
Mr Reid’s frown was so fierce, it gave Elizabeth pause.
This man had been a soldier. He had seen battle and death.
She thought he loved Mr Darcy as he might love a son, and she was surprisingly comforted in thinking nothing under God’s heaven would prevent him from protecting the younger man.
She knew what torment Mr Darcy felt at that moment. It tore through her too, shaking her entire world to its foundations. She had not felt so grieved, so unsteady, so lost, since Papa had died in her arms almost four years before. The forced calm she hid behind was crumbling to dust.
Mr Darcy straightened, ran a hand over his face. His voice was rough, torn out of him. “There is no proof.”
“No.” Elizabeth blinked back tears, her eyes burning brighter than the fire on Michaelmas Sunday. “No. Only conjecture.”
“Then we will watch and wait. For now.”
“Lad—”
“For now, John. Until we are certain.”
Keeping her voice under control took every ounce of strength. “Tomorrow. If you cannot rearrange the visit—”
“I would not know how to explain to Bingley.”
“Then you must take both George and Hugh with you. Both of them. Then you… everyone will be safe. You understand me.”
Mr Reid huffed out a snort.
Mr Darcy sighed. “Well. Watch and wait.”
Reid grimaced, but nodded.
Exhausted, Elizabeth sank back in her chair. “Forgive me. I am very tired. You will be careful tomorrow, and take them both?”
“If I can.” Mr Darcy stooped to catch up her left hand, raising it to his lips. “I owe you a very great deal.”
If she were drowning, she could not grasp his hand harder. Is that what drowning was? The sense of being swept up and away, buffeted on all sides, unable to catch one’s breath? Clinging to another as a sailor clung to a spar to stop himself from sinking? “Be careful. You must be careful.”
For a moment they stared at each other, and she had time to think she was surely making a complete cake of herself, all her defences gone, when he nodded and raised her hand to his lips for the second time.
“I will be very careful. Please think on it no more tonight, and take your rest.”
She could only shake her head, unable now to speak without betraying herself even more completely than she had thus far.
With her nod of agreement, he took another of the twists of paper and put it into his pocket, before striding over to the open connecting door and calling for Jane. She hurried in, her expression showing its usual placidity, other than one watchful, assessing look to gauge the cost to Elizabeth.
Mr Darcy’s own air of calm was impressive. “Miss Bennet, I leave your sister to your care. Will you need help in returning her to her bed?”
“Oh! No. No, thank you, sir. We will manage.”
“Then, if you are certain…” He bowed. “Good night, ladies.”
“Take care!” Elizabeth called as he and Mr Reid bowed themselves out. To her own ears, she sounded frightened and childish, wavering and weak.
He stopped at the door and smiled at her, but his face was pale and the smile strained. “I will, I promise. Rest now, Elizabeth. Reid and I will deal with it.”
The door closed, and Elizabeth could dissemble no longer. Tears burned their way from her eyes to stream down her face and every breath choked in her throat. Her arm ached. Her head ached. But neither ached anywhere near as fiercely as her heart.