Chapter 12
Mr. Jones, Meryton’s apothecary, was a short, rotund man with a pink complexion and an inveterate smile. The man appeared in a constant state of joviality, an appearance which he no doubt attempted to remedy with long, lamb chop whiskers … to no effect.
He was not an easy man to take seriously, and Darcy was not convinced his opinion was the most appropriate to seek. Mr. Jones had, however, requested Darcy’s presence, and the apothecary’s invitation allowed for a greater degree of tolerance.
The vicar had cramped three chairs into the vestry, and at Mr. Jones’ gesture, Darcy and Elizabeth sat opposite him.
“I came as soon as I could,” he began, pulling out several papers from the case on the floor beside his chair.
“As you know, the care I offer as an apothecary differs quite drastically from a doctor of the mind — such men are rare and often contradictory. Too little is understood of the workings of the brain.”
Darcy crossed his arms over his chest. This was not a promising beginning. He would rather not waste his time when a trip to London to search for a qualified physician awaited him. “Are you capable of helping Miss Elizabeth, or not?”
Mr. Jones shuffled through the pages, replying absentmindedly.
“I believe I can. Not through any treatment, mind you, but with this information in my possession.” He lifted one page up in triumph, then placed it on top of the pile on his leg, smoothing them carefully.
“I subscribe to all the medical journals available, and I believe I may offer some guidance by way of facts. That was why my arrival was delayed.”
“Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Jones,” Elizabeth said. “I would not have missed my sister’s wedding for an examination anyway.”
His smile widened. “I thought as much, Miss Bennet. Now, your father told me the details of the accident, but I would like to hear what you recall from the time leading up to the incident and immediately after.”
Darcy would not let Mr. Jones near Elizabeth unless he proved his qualifications. It was a point in the gentleman’s favor that he did not offer treatment by means of a miraculous tonic. But Darcy needed a degree of certainty that Mr. Jones’ advice would not do more harm than it would help.
Before Elizabeth could reply, Darcy asked, “Which medical journals did you consult?” He did not boast any particularly profound knowledge in science and medicine, but he enjoyed deep conversation with thinkers more sagacious than himself.
He knew which sources they trusted, and which they discredited.
“Oh, of course. How thoughtless of me. My apologies, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy marveled at the gentleman’s ability to smile and apologize while giving every appearance of sincerity.
Mr. Jones tapped his papers. “I have consulted with The Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London, for one.”
“Recent journals?”
“Their older articles are hardly worth consulting. I appreciate the attention their present-day writers give to details, and I find their inclusion of failed experiments convincing of an unbiased study — the work of the medical members on their committee, no doubt.”
Darcy remained skeptical. “I have spoken with several studied men who criticize their caution as excessive. Philosophical Transactions is well-known for not stating any opinion without saying perhaps it is so or it may seem apparent or it is not improbable.”
Mr. Jones chuckled. “They do, at that! You keep good company, Mr. Darcy. I am relieved you are not ignorant regarding the source of research I must rely upon. Allow me to assure you that I do not consult their findings to instruct me on how to proceed but rather to enable me to come to my own conclusions for the benefit of my neighbors, with whom I have the advantage of intimacy.” He nodded at Elizabeth as a father would.
Elizabeth returned his smile, then turned to Darcy, a mischievous twinkle in her fine eyes. “Are you satisfied Mr. Jones is reputable enough to see to my injury, Mr. Darcy, or do you have any more questions?”
Darcy’s heart lightened, overjoyed at her display of humor. She was not as altered as he had feared. Playing along, he teased, “I am nearly satisfied. Perhaps Mr. Jones would tell us what other works he consulted?”
Mr. Jones was happy to oblige. “I brought a study in which the methodology is emphasized with admirable clarity. The experimental description is second to none. Were it my field of medicine, the detail would allow me to replicate the study.” He pulled out another paper, pressing it to his breast before extending it to Darcy. “This is the one.”
“Edinburgh Medical Journal,” Darcy read aloud. This was the source his personal physician most often cited.
“Yes, the author, a renowned doctor of the mind, the foremost authority in the nation, focuses on the disease...”
Darcy cringed. Elizabeth was not diseased. Just injured.
Unaware of the effect his choice of words had on his audience, Mr. Jones continued, “... I find his descriptions professional and methodical. The work of a doctor and scientist with a great deal of experience.”
Speaking over the lump lodged in his throat, Darcy said, “I thank you for allaying my doubts, Mr. Jones.”
“Any sensible gentleman would require the same, Mr. Darcy. Now, if I may, I have several questions for Miss Bennet.”
Over the next quarter of an hour, Darcy stewed in silence while Elizabeth answered every question the apothecary posed to her.
Mr. Jones was visibly pleased. “Very good. Very good, indeed. Now, I would like very much to hear how you met this gentleman.” He gestured at Darcy.
The confidence with which she had spoken disappeared. Just as Darcy had feared it would.
“I do not know,” she whispered.
“What is his name?”
“Mr. Darcy.”
“His given name?”
She paused, and Darcy’s hope rose.
“I cannot recall.”
Hope plummeted. Shattered against the pitiless flagstones.
Her fine eyes, so often vivacious and gleeful, brimmed with melancholy … and guilt. “I am sorry.”
Darcy would do anything to rid her of this sadness, to shield her from ever feeling anything but happy again.
It felt impossible to smile, but he made himself do it.
“I have always regretted the poor first impression I gave, and now, I find myself with the rare opportunity to amend the past.” A panicked thought quickened his pulse.
“I do hope I have not reflected poorly on my character. I had not thought to request an introduction.”
Mr. Jones came to his aid. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, it is my honor to present Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire.” He watched her closely, as did Darcy, for any sign of recognition.
There was none.
But Elizabeth’s smile returned. “I am happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Darcy,” she said. “I am curious to know what you could have done to give such a poor impression when I consider your every action despite the shock of changed circumstances as considerate and … gentlemanly.”
Gentlemanly. A sweeter word she could not have uttered when he had acted so ungentlemanly toward her and her family in the past. Had Mr. Jones not cleared his throat, Darcy would have kissed her.
Perhaps it was for the best. This Elizabeth had no reason to welcome his kisses. He would have to be careful. He crossed his arms and feet and restrained his affections.
Mr. Jones steepled his fingers under his chin.
“There is still much to learn about amnesia, and your case is unique in that it is remarkably selective, but I will explain it as well as I can.” He held up his hands.
“According to French scientist, Francois Bichat, the brain is made up of two hemispheres. These hemispheres act in synchrony — one side mirrors the other. He calls it the Law of Symmetry.” He squeezed one hand into a fist. “You see, when one hemisphere is injured, it throws the whole of the brain off balance, causing a general confusion.” He waved his other hand around the fist. “Like this, see?”
“How can the hemispheres be brought back into symmetry?” Elizabeth asked.
“Before I tell you that, I must explain why symmetry is so important. If balance is rectified, no permanent harm is done. That is what we want for you. However, if the imbalance continues, derangement progresses.” He stopped.
Derangement was such a hopeless word. Darcy cleared his throat, gently nudging the conversation down a more propitious path. “How long before recovery is impossible?”
“Most people achieve this balance within a few hours. A few cases recover by the following day. After that, the derangement sets in.”
He calculated the time. About two hours had passed since the accident.
The apothecary continued, “Sadly, those patients lose their minds altogether.”
Elizabeth gasped. “Insanity?”
“I am afraid so. But that is the worst of it. I hold every hope that you will recover any minute.”
Damage to one hemisphere. Symmetry. How, exactly, was symmetry supposed to be restored? A sick feeling seized Darcy. “Are we to conclude that this Law of Symmetry suggests injuring the other side of the brain’s hemisphere to restore equilibrium?”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “You mean to suggest that a blow to the other side of my head will put me right?”
The doctor had grace enough to look sheepish. “It is the commonly accepted treatment at the moment.”
Elizabeth pointed at his case. “And I suppose you are carrying a club in there with which to bash your patients on the head?”
Mr. Jones blushed and blustered.
Darcy rubbed his temples. This was ridiculous. “While I appreciate your clear explanation of this law of the mind, I have to question the theory’s soundness. If one blow causes injury, surely another would only worsen the harm. I cannot allow it.”
“Nor will I permit it,” exclaimed Elizabeth.
Tapping his papers, Mr. Jones said, “It is only senseless to those who have not studied the complexities of the human brain. These scientists have. Many have met with success after this … treatment.”
Darcy exclaimed, “My concern is with those who have not met with success, sir.”
Elizabeth nodded in agreement.
The apothecary opened his case and returned the papers inside. No club was visible, nor did the man’s round figure permit him to hide one on his person. Darcy relaxed.
Shaking his head, Mr. Jones said, “I have known you your entire life, Miss Bennet, so I will spare you from further inquiry. There are other determinants proven to provoke amnesia, but I know them not to be an option.”
“I pray you would tell me what these determinants are, Mr. Jones. I wish to understand everything I can about my injury. Perhaps we might find the missing piece to solve this puzzle.”
He sighed. “They are not the habits of a lady.”
“I will hear them all the same.”
Another sigh. “The only other known and studied causes for amnesia besides a head injury are drunkenness, loose morals, and affectation. Please do not ask me to explain further.”
“Are you suggesting I am pretending — faking my loss of memory?” Elizabeth gasped, then, just as quickly, softened her manner. “Not you specifically, Mr. Jones, but the committee of scientists and medics who dedicate their lives to the study of the brain. This is the best they can do?”
Mr. Jones dabbed his face with a handkerchief. “It is not unheard of for a young lady to imagine herself affected before … entering a marriage. Not you, of course,” he added hurriedly, “but others have certainly used it to … justify their … change of heart.”
Darcy heard Elizabeth inhale sharply, saw her eyes sparkle with tears, her chin tremble, felt her fear.
In this, he could console her. Addressing Mr. Jones, he said, “Like you, I do not believe Elizabeth capable of such disguise. Not when she accepted my second proposal as vehemently as she rejected my first.”
Being a decent sort, Mr. Jones pretended not to hear Darcy’s admission, but the brilliance in Elizabeth’s surprise made his divulgence less humiliating. A tear dripped down her cheek, not from her upset but from release. Darcy handed her his handkerchief.
She dabbed her face dry. “Really? I refused you?”
Darcy nodded.
“How can I not remember a terrible first impression and a refused proposal? Vehement, you described it. What on earth did you say to deserve that?”
Darcy groaned. He had had his fill of humiliation for one morning. “That is a conversation for another time.”
“I wait on tenterhooks.”
Mr. Jones closed his case and stood. “It is not improbable that there will be no need for Mr. Darcy to tell you your story, Miss Bennet. You have always been clever and quick-witted. Perhaps you will recover before the end of the day. And if, by chance, you do not … it is my genuine hope you will reconsider the treatment.”
He sounded like an article straight from Philosophical Transactions.