Chapter 26
March had made its blustery entry and Darcy was feeling rather more himself. He had slept well last night and the early mornings were noticeably lighter as dawn gave way to sunrise a few minutes earlier each day.
In fact, he recalled that he had slept well for the last several nights. That would be what had him in a better frame of mind.
As he ran lightly down the stairs, he was very conscious that his breathing was easier, and he was unworried by twinges of pain in his ribs. At last, he might be able to put these terrible few months behind him and be more himself.
He passed the darkened breakfast room and decided that he could return to his previous routines.
Tea and toast early, a good gallop in the spring morning, followed by a bath and then he would break his fast downstairs where there was far more choice than when he took a tray in his chambers.
Yes, he would do that. He even felt he could control his tempers better.
That apothecary in Hertfordshire had been right; three months had made a difference.
In his study, he called for coffee and crossed to the window, delighting in breathing the cold air deeply without any discomfort.
The coffee tray arrived, along with Mr Payne carrying the post on a salver. “Good morning, Mr Darcy. The post has arrived.” He seemed very solemn, almost wary, and Darcy wondered if he ought to cheer the mood a little.
But he could not find the right words. “Thank you. I shall see to them directly.”
He crossed to the armchair, still needing the fire to warm him, and shuffled through the letters, frowning slightly when he saw one directed in a hand that was somehow familiar, but yet he did not recognise it enough to know who it was from.
The rest he put aside for now, and took a sip of coffee, tapping the edge of the letter against the arm of the chair.
Then he shook his head and rose to cross to the desk. The only way to relieve the puzzle was to open the letter. Breaking the seal, his gaze dropped to the signature; Sir Charles. He frowned further.
Sir,
I hope this letter finds you much improved, and I trust you have consulted with Dr Owsley regularly when needed.
When I saw you in Hertfordshire before you journeyed to Pemberley, I gained your consent to inform him, as your family physician in the north, of what had occurred, although I think you might not recall giving that permission.
However, it is now a little over three months since the occasion where you received those injuries, and I believe you ought to summon him to examine you and determine if there is any further need for treatment other than time.
At the request of Lord Matlock, I have taken the liberty of also writing to Dr Owsley to expect your summons.
I remain, Sir,
Your obedient servant,
Charles Withinshaw
Darcy scowled at the letter, his temper rising without volition. How dare Uncle Henry go to see Sir Charles without apprising him of his interference! He found himself pacing across the room in fury, his steps echoing on the parquet when he passed the central rug.
Finally, he flung himself down at his desk to write to Derby. If he did not, he would open himself to the arrival of his uncle, or worse, his aunt.
Sealing the letter, he was struck by the flare of anger that had overtaken him, and rather ashamed. Perhaps he was not as recovered as he could be. He must place himself under better control.
He went to the door to give the letter to Mr Payne, and saw Mrs Kerr crossing the hall.
“Mrs Kerr!”
“Yes, Mr Darcy?” The woman dipped him a polite curtsy.
“I have written to Dr Owsley, asking him to call here at his convenience, so I do not know when he will appear, but please tell Mrs Reynolds so that she can make suitable arrangements for his call.”
The deputy housekeeper dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Of course, sir. All will be ready.”
“Thank you. Oh, and can you give this letter to Mr Payne? It is to go at once.”
As he turned away, Darcy realised he had not seen Mrs Reynolds about much recently. But the thought was gone as soon as it had arrived. He turned to read his other letters.
Dr Owsley arrived early the following afternoon, having driven the twenty-five miles from Derby, and bowed to his patient. “Good day, Mr Darcy. I was pleased to see your letter, and am also pleased to see you looking well.”
Darcy nodded at him. “Please come into my study, where we may speak freely.” He turned to the butler.
“Please have refreshments sent in.” As he turned back to his visitor, he saw Mrs Darcy standing in the hall, as if waiting to greet the guest. No.
He could think of no way to manage it without disturbing his composure, so he pretended he had not noticed her, and the men entered the study and he shut the door.
The examination was brief and Darcy did not allow too much in the way of detail. “I am feeling much better now. The apothecary at the time said it would take three months, and I believe I have fully recovered.” Not for anything would he discuss his temper of yesterday.
“And I am glad of it.” Dr Owsley’s hand had strayed to his medical bag, but he withdrew it on understanding he would not be able to use any of his instruments.
He merely asked about Darcy’s vision, balance and other questions, and looked at the scar at the back of his head, and then admired that Darcy’s nose had healed without visible change from before.
As they then sat drinking coffee, Darcy was unprepared for the next comment. “And I had heard of the changes to your temperament. That is not in any way an indictment of your character, sir, but due entirely to the injury you suffered. Has that completely resolved, partially, or not at all?”
Darcy bit back the sharp response, and attempted to be reasonable. “It is mostly resolved, I believe.”
The other man’s eyes were astute. “But not when there seems to you to be interference by family or physicians, I assume. But I am happy that you could control this episode with little outward evidence of it.”
“I had hoped there was none.” Darcy’s reply was short.
“Your family has always hired the best, Mr Darcy, and I would not be doing this if I was not an observant man.”
“I suppose so.” Darcy chuckled, despite his mood, and then understood that this was the first time since … since then, that he had felt any amusement at all.
“Well, I believe I must be on my way, since darkness is still earlier than I like, and I would not wish to have a night on the road.” The doctor heaved himself to his feet.
“I think you may consider yourself healed enough to return to your normal activities, sir. Although you ought to dress very warmly, more than usual. After all, you had some considerable time indoors in a sickroom.” He smiled.
“But the irritability may come upon you occasionally for a few months more. You say it is already improved, and those occasions will become fewer and fewer until one day you will come to realise that they are no more.”
As he stood waiting with Owsley for his coach to come round, he noted her approaching them, and she stood quietly.
Darcy frowned. He had not involved her in this; why had she drawn close? But he could not ignore her.
“Mrs Darcy — Dr Owsley of Derby.”
His wife inclined her head to the physician. “It was good of you to call, sir. I have arranged for a hot flask of tea to be placed in the coach, as you have several hours to travel.” She dipped her head again and left them.
At least she knew it was right to leave them.
Darcy’s gaze followed her; it was draughty and cold in the hall where the door had been opened to await the coach, and she was wearing a thin muslin dress, not a woollen one.
He shrugged to himself. She must not wish to take the trouble to buy warm clothes.
Darcy was satisfied that she had left them, but hoped Owsley would not talk about her. Fortunately, he did not and soon Darcy had seen him to the coach, his duty to his guest discharged.
Once he was back in his study, he found himself thinking of the afternoon. Owsley would write to Sir Charles, who could say he had been given a clean bill of health, so Darcy would be left alone.
Then he frowned, would they take it that they could now call upon him? No, it was March. The family would have gone to town for the season, so he was safe a while longer, and he breathed carefully, relieved.
The memory of her came back to him. She had been quiet, asked no questions, and that relieved him too. She seemed reserved, unlike his memory of her in Hertfordshire before all this had happened. He pushed the thought away, it was uncomfortable and he did not know why.
The next morning, as he returned from his ride rather earlier than he had wished, the crisp cold having chilled him thoroughly, he saw that the morning room fire had not been lit. Was that not where his wife sat after breakfast, sewing, or some such activity? She deserved to have it warm for her.
He beckoned the footman. “The fire in the morning room should be lit earlier each day. See to it.” He nodded at the man’s acknowledgement, and continued up the stairs. A hot bath was just what he needed.