Chapter 12 #2
“Georgiana, my dear, Mr Lynn is on his way.”
Her head lolled on Mrs Darcy’s shoulder. The coughing seemed to have passed for now, but his sister’s breath was short and hurried, and perspiration covered her forehead. Darcy stared uselessly at his suffering sister, thinking of the fatal spitting up of blood that had carried off his mother.
“Send the maid in with more cold water; her fever feels very high. You can wait for Mr Lynn downstairs. Mr Darcy? Mr Darcy, did you hear me?”
He nodded, and did as he was bid, pacing and awaiting the first sound of the doctor.
The sunlight was inching over the horizon when Mr Lynn entered the house.
Darcy followed on his heels and stood in the doorway between Georgiana’s room and his wife’s.
The wretched suspense of waiting for him to examine the patient felt as though it took hours.
“Is she in excessive pain? Can you prescribe a composing draught, something anodyne?”
“I would rather bleed her, if you can convince your wife to agree, but twenty-five drops liquid laudanum in cinnamon water with common syrup can be taken.”
Mrs Darcy shook her head. Georgiana still leant against her like a child against its mother. “Do not bleed her. She is so weak. Let her sleep.”
Darcy glared at her. “Would bleeding help?”
Mr Lynn shrugged. “It may check the frequency of her pulse and lower her fever, but only temporarily. This is not a cough that can be cured, particularly if this leads to haemoptysis, as many consumptives experience.”
“What about her strength? She is restless and weak, and—”
“Go downstairs,” Mrs Darcy said firmly. “She is finally asleep. Mr Lynn, should I stay with her tonight?”
“Mr Jones says that healthy persons should not sleep with consumptive ones. I do not believe in the contagiousness of the disease, but the secretions of the body are too disordered for it to be judicious for a healthy person to be exposed to its influence for an extended period.”
Mrs Darcy settled Georgiana onto the pillow and told the maid to come for her if she awoke, and they filed from the room.
Someone had lit candles in the parlour, and Darcy fell into the sofa to await the news.
Mrs Darcy moved to sit near to him, and at the last moment changed her mind and sat in the chair farther away, for which he was grateful.
He could not bear to be near enough to see fear for his sister in her pretty eyes.
“Mr Darcy, if I understand Mr Jones’s letter correctly, Miss Darcy had a consumptive cough throughout her childhood, and had been weak and oppressed during her confinement, and had not recovered well.
She bore a foetus after the seventh month, and since then has worsened, with more exportation and a loss of strength. Is that accurate, sir?”
What could any brother who loved his little sister say to that? To have her sufferings, her short life, reduced to those indifferent sentences filled him with misery. He fought the soreness in his throat that threatened tears in absolute silence.
“You understand correctly,” Mrs Darcy eventually said, “but what Mr Darcy and I need to know is what can be done for Miss Darcy to prolong her life and ease her pain.”
“If this is a hectic fever, then her comfort will be your concern. If it is not remittent, then I doubt she will survive a fortnight. A fever in the third stage of consumption is sometimes a measure of an impending improvement or it is a precursor of a swift decline.”
A hectic fever: a slow, consuming fire to accompany the wasting away of her body and the filling of her lungs.
Mrs Darcy and Mr Lynn talked on, but Darcy only thought of how much it hurt to think the words: My sister is dying.
The knowledge closed around him, stealing his breath and knotting his insides.
“Oedema may supervene, and the palliative measures—”
“What?” he asked loudly. He did not know for how long the conversation had gone on without him.
“Her ankles will swell,” Mrs Darcy said gently, “and Mr Lynn says rest in the horizontal position and light bandages will ease her discomfort.”
Darcy rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands.
He heard talk about diet left to the patient’s choice and continued cod liver oil for weight and strength.
The tears did not begin until he heard mention of amounts of opiates to sedate the sufferer.
By the time Mr Lynn took his leave, promising to call every day and offering empty platitudes, he was finished crying.
My sister is dying.
Mrs Darcy put her hand on his shoulder, and he flinched. Darcy ran a sleeve over his eyes and hoped she had the sense not to try to console him.
“She is most concerned with worrying us.” His wife made no attempt to conceal her own tears.
“Georgiana is such a sweet girl, and she is more afraid for our feelings than her own end. No matter”—her voice cracked—“no matter whether she lives two days or two weeks or two months, we must not depress her spirits. I cannot bear the idea that should she suffer from a broken-hearted affliction in worrying for us that might worsen her final days.”
He looked at this woman he had married only for the sake of the girl dying upstairs.
“I thought you would die first.”
She blanched, and Darcy already regretted his grief-driven rudeness as she walked to the door. “So did I. But you need not feel such pessimism. I still might!”
The next day opened as they always did, and Elizabeth was forced to contend with managing the mundane when she wanted to crawl under her bedclothes and cry.
But servants needed to be directed, meals had to be ordered, medicines had to be made, and Georgiana needed her devoted care and attention.
She looked at her wan reflection as she brushed her hair.
Do not distress her, and do not let her know that her brother’s marriage is a sham.
Georgiana’s feelings mattered more than how little she and Mr Darcy truly thought of one another.
They had both thought she would predecease Georgiana, but to hear Mr Darcy say it aloud, with the disappointment in knowing of his sister’s death in his tone, hurt her more than she had a right to lay claim to.
Rather than think of herself, Elizabeth dressed and went to see her sister.
Georgiana was awake, and the maid had helped her to dress, but she was languid, and had a quick, weak pulse.
“Did I keep everyone awake last night?”
“You need not worry about that. The rain has stopped, and we ought to move you downstairs and open all of the windows. It is a lovely day, and I will pick you some flowers to brighten your room.”
“Lizzy, I cannot walk the stairs today.”
Her eyes were bright with fever, but her skin was ashen.
“Who said anything about walking? That is what older brothers are for. Mr Darcy is going to bring you downstairs after I brush your hair, and when I am finished in the garden, I will put on a concert for you.”
She found Mr Darcy in his study. He was in his shirtsleeves, poring over a stack of letters and looking abjectly miserable.
While he would take whatever action he could on behalf of his sister, take on any duty for her sake, Mr Darcy would not be able to nurse and tend to Georgiana at the end.
Someone had to administer laudanum, to say no to bloodletting and purgatives and other measures that might prolong her life but increase her suffering.
Mr Darcy’s attempts to preserve her reputation had left both him and his sister isolated, and now it was too late for anyone to share the burden of Georgiana’s demise with him.
His friends and family thought him fifteen hundred miles away, and in order to protect her good name, there was no one who loved him to whom he could turn.
Even after Georgiana was gone, it would be six weeks before he could claim to be in England and return to his friends.
Elizabeth had thought the greatest service she could do in life before her heart ailment carried her off was show kindness and compassion to Georgiana Darcy. Now, with her sad end in sight, it seemed to Elizabeth that caring for Mr Darcy after the death of his sister was to become her purpose.
“Why are you here?” he asked without looking up.
That was going to be immensely harder.
“Your sister wants to sit downstairs today. Would you carry her when you are finished?”
Mr Darcy nodded once.
“You are writing to prepare your relations for the sad news? Is there anyone I can write to for—”
“No, they know nothing of you”—he did not look up—“yet.” This added word came out as easily as a pulled tooth.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam . . .”
“Is with his regiment and not at liberty to leave.”
When it became clear he did not intend to add anything else, she said, “We ought to keep Georgiana to the same routine as she has had, so long as she is well enough. And I see no reason to put her through more bloodletting or cupping or blistering.”
“She will do whatever the apothecary suggests will prolong her life.”
“Fitzwilliam, Georgiana is—”
“My sister calls me that!” She flinched at the hard look in his eyes. “That is a family name.” His eyes did not soften even after he moderated his tone.
“I beg your pardon? You have not once called me Lizzy or Elizabeth. You think so little of me that you will not, even now, let me address you by your Christian name?”
“As I said, madam, it is a name for family. I am certain you are needed elsewhere.” He looked to the door and gave a lazy gesture with his hand before returning to his letter.
All the wretched grief of watching his nearest relative die did not make it acceptable for her to be dismissed as though she were a disobedient child. Elizabeth crossed the room, plucked the pen from his hand, and bent it in half.
“Mrs Darcy!”