Chapter 24 Binding Sickness
BINDING SICKNESS
One part of that night was spent reviewing the hundreds of important questions I should have asked a talking wyvern. Even the most idiotic was profoundly more intelligent than asking if she was Hindu.
The other part of the night was confused. My argument with Mr. Darcy had left my emotions splintered and rutted, like a boat flung against an unseen rock.
Bleary-eyed, but bored with staring at the ceiling, I went down when the household woke. Charlotte was friendly but subdued. Mr. Collins was oblivious. When the post delivered two letters for me, I retreated to my room.
The first letter was from Jane, but it was old. She had misaddressed it, and an unknown hand had written a correction.
The other letter was in Mary’s distinctive hand. Mary wrote rarely, at least for pleasure, so that was unusual.
I decided to read in order of posting and unsealed Jane’s. Her last letter had described another ball, so this might be light-hearted. Mary’s letter would likely require that I wade through Latin.
Jane began with no salutation as if continuing a prior page:
“The river is slick and beautiful with rain. Denny just slipped in and floated, instead of that terrible violence, and was never seen again, happy when he stopped, caught in reeds or sunk at last.
So I danced again. Charles held my hand, and we spun and spun. Cold, though. The snow on my slippers, my hair soaked. He carried me to warm me, and my feelings replenished until the moon drew them. But now I am alone. Mamma is irksome, rattling about Charles leaving when he is underneath—”
That was all. I turned the page over and back, then said out loud, “What?” Charles seemed like a reference to Mr. Bingley, but my mother would have written by express had he returned. And anyway, it was… fantasy. Incoherent.
I opened Mary’s letter. The page was dense with her angular writing, marked by sharpened hooks even on the corners of her a’s and e’s:
“Dear Lizzy,
I write with extreme concern for our sister Jane. She has not left our house since you departed and hardly leaves her room. Her words, whether spoken or written on the peculiar notes she leaves in the hall, have become bizarre.
Papa and I have argued on this. He declares Jane upset over Bingley, or star-crossed, or invokes Ophelia. That is an offensive categorization of female fragility, as if a missing man will fracture our sanity. I told him he was incorrect, but I influence his opinion less than you.
Sadness over Bingley I would believe. But Jane is too sound and sensible for what I see. Therefore I have, for the last eight days, pressed to determine the cause.
After much wasteful investigation, I chanced upon our Scottish laundry maid visiting Jane. Through forceful insistence, I discovered you treated Jane’s venomous poisoning by administering draca blood.
I will note that it would have simplified my task had you told me this directly. But do not mistake me; I do not question your decision to treat Jane, for you had no choice.
Through examination of the Loch bairn journal, I suspect Jane has an illness variously named “torn bynding” or “binding sickness.” An old passage describes a woman who “drinkes golden ichor most potente” while in love. The man she loves dies before they bind, and she contracts the disease.
I think Jane loved Bingley when she was treated. Because she has not married and bound, the disease has begun.
Lizzy, I am frightened for her. Your return would be welcome. Jane’s physical illness seems minor, but her mental symptoms progress.
Mary Bennet.
P.S. Today I consulted with Mr. Jones. He suggested leeching.
I doubted the efficacy of this treatment for a mental disturbance, so I requested he demonstrate on myself.
Leeching had no discernable effect upon my mind other than disgust. As he could provide no logical reason for leeching when women naturally lose blood every month, I have rejected this treatment for Jane.
From this, I have also decided that establishing female physicians would be beneficial.
Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum puto. ”
I fumbled back through Jane’s letters. There were three, all describing balls and dancing and dresses. But Mary said Jane had not left the house, and Mary was exact in her statements.
Read again, the letters were eerily vague. Unfamiliar names mentioned like intimate friends. No places. No dates. Because I had believed them, they were even more frightening.
Mary thought the illness was torn bynding or binding sickness. That was the same illness Mr. Darcy had attempted to treat in an afflicted wyfe. Although I did not wish to speak with him, I appeared to have little choice. But Colonel Fitzwilliam might know as much. I would see whom I found first.
The colonel was wandering in one of the clearings I haunted. He hailed me when I approached.
“Miss Bennet,” he said with an unusually serious bow.
I curtsied with equal formality. “Colonel Fitzwilliam. I have been thinking of our discussion of binding sickness. Can you tell me what treatment you attempted?”
This topic was unexpected. The colonel tugged at his collars before replying.
“I hesitate to call it treatment. Darcy was convinced restoring a binding would help, but we found no means to achieve this. He may know more…” His voice trailed off before resuming awkwardly. “I saw him go after you last night.”
Last evening’s argument returned with all its violent emotion. “Do not speak to me of Mr. Darcy,” I said heatedly.
The colonel seemed to approve. He relaxed and gestured to our usual path. We began walking.
“I understand your dismay,” he said. “I partake of Rosings’s hospitality with unease myself.
It was Darcy that convinced me to attend.
You must not be too hard on him. He did not assume control of Pemberley until his father died.
Father and son loved each other dearly, but they disagreed over policy.
I imagine Darcy has divested Pemberley of investments benefiting from slavery.
At least, as much as is practical. He is astute in business. ”
“This sounds greatly like speaking of Mr. Darcy,” I said tightly.
“Then I shall apologize for myself. I saw your shock at dinner. I should have exposed Rosings’s reprehensible underpinning to you. It would have saved you embarrassment.”
“That was not your responsibility.” It was Mr. Darcy’s. I stopped walking. “Why did Mr. Darcy ask you to Rosings?”
“So, we are speaking of Darcy?”
I hmphed but nodded.
“You know I am involved with the military’s effort to utilize draca,” the colonel said.
“Darcy advises that. Or criticizes it. When he called on his aunt for a business matter, I came up from Brighton to discuss the project. Then Darcy lingered, and… I chose to stay. My visit has been unexpectedly enjoyable.” The colonel gave me a gallant half-bow, and I smiled to acknowledge the compliment.
He held the bow, serious. I looked down, a little flustered, and we resumed walking.
The colonel did not speak for a time. When he did, it was with a chuckle to indicate a lighter subject. “Darcy did convince a friend to divest his investments from the colonies. I met him. A friendly, good-natured fellow.”
I matched his humorous tone. “Was he rescued by the Darcy talent for business?”
“In more ways than one. Darcy also saved the fellow—Bingley was his name—from an unfortunate marriage.”
Propriety required I speak. All I had to say was that I knew Mr. Bingley. But my heart had stopped. Words would not come. Part of me leaped to a horrid conclusion, while another part could not believe it.
Into my silence, the colonel continued, “The astounding thing was Darcy had to overcome both Bingley’s feelings and those of his sisters.
Bingley’s married sister liked the girl, and Bingley was so passionate that his other sister was wavering.
But for Darcy, the challenge was spice. He recruited Caroline, and together they convinced Bingley. ”
That was so ironic a reversal of my blame for Mr. Bingley’s departure that it cut home as the absolute truth.
I no longer cared for propriety. “Why did Mr. Darcy oppose the marriage?” The words emerged thin and uninflected.
“Apparently the girl was pleasant enough, but a puppet of her mother’s scheme to acquire Bingley’s marriage gold. And the father was a scoundrel. Darcy described a cruel scene at a ball. Darcy is devoted to his sister. He was repulsed to see a father mock his own daughter.”
“I must go.” Every ounce of my will was consumed to keep my voice from shaking.
“Already? I had hoped… but, of course. May I accompany your return?”
“Thank you, but I received serious family news. I prefer to walk alone. I must plan my travel.”
“Travel? Are you leaving?”
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow! But… May I see you before you depart?”
I said something about next morning and turned away. I fixed my eyes where the path vanished behind trees. I had to reach that.
Somehow, I arrived. The moment I was concealed, I bent, racked by tears. Each sob tore like red-hot thorns.
My sister’s happiness had been ruined, utterly and casually—almost as sport—by Mr. Darcy. And, because my own hand had poured draca blood into her mouth, that lost love was driving her into madness.