24. Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Four
T he past week had been a blur of pain and despair, the echoes of Elizabeth's preference for Wickham reverberating through his mind with every stabbing reminder of his malady. He had convinced himself that his heartache was merely a byproduct of physical agony and the looming fear of his diagnosis. Determined to put his affairs in order, he sat at his desk, letters of business strewn about. The ink on his quill barely dried before he found his mind drifting back to the ball, to Elizabeth, and the pain that now seemed a permanent part of him.
He tried to focus on the letter to his steward at Pemberley detailing the maintenance of the estate's tenant houses. Each word seemed a struggle, as if the ink itself resisted his command. He paused, staring at the paper, and Elizabeth's face intruded on his thoughts. Her laughter, her eyes that sparkled with intelligence and fire, the way she had looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and something he dared not name. His heart twisted painfully.
Egad, somehow, he had convinced himself that he was truly in love with the woman. That must be it because nothing else could explain the way his heart floundered in his chest at the thought of her.
How and when had he managed to lose his senses over a woman he had known but mere weeks? And most of those encounters had been tainted with the nearly certain knowledge that he did not have the luxury of finding love nor the time left on this earth to make such a pursuit worthwhile. But there it was, all the same. Given no choice but to endure without her, he had to confess… it was the most exquisite torment he had ever known.
He forced himself to continue writing. There were so many things to finalize if his prognosis was as dire as he feared. Instructions about the estate's finances, provisions for Georgiana's future, arrangements for the care of his tenants—all these matters required his attention. Yet every line he wrote felt like an echo of futility. How could he think of the future when he would have no part in it?
The next letter concerned the estate's annual harvest. He needed to instruct his steward on how to handle the upcoming season, the distribution of profits, and the improvements needed in the granary.
But the details swam before his eyes. Elizabeth's voice, her mannerisms, the way she had captivated him with her wit and spirit, all conspired to distract him. How had he let himself hope for something more with her, as if she held some sort of magical cure in the power of a woman's caress? How had he thought, even for a moment, that he could escape his fate?
He shook his head, trying to clear the fog that seemed to settle over his thoughts. He needed to write to his solicitor about adjusting certain particular figures in his will. The disposition of his properties, the guardianship of Georgiana—these were matters of utmost importance. He had to ensure that everything was in order, that there would be no disputes, no uncertainties. Yet every stroke of the pen felt like a farewell, a step closer to accepting the end he had fought so hard to deny.
Elizabeth . Her name seemed to be written in the margins of every page, her image imprinted on his mind. He had stayed in Meryton, enduring the pain and the fear, just for a chance to be near her. And now, even as he tried to prepare for the worst, she occupied his every thought. He could not escape the longing, the regret, the hope that had so cruelly slipped through his fingers.
Darcy pressed a hand to his forehead, the familiar throb of his headache a reminder of his reality. He could not afford to lose himself in memories and what-ifs. He had to finalize these letters, to ensure that everything was taken care of. But the words refused to come. The prospect of seeing a new doctor, of perhaps finding some glimmer of hope, was his only solace.
He had scheduled another doctor to call today for a second opinion, and it was his last hope for any relief. If the diagnosis remained the same, he would have to consider telling his family, preparing them for the inevitable. The thought of facing them, of seeing their faces when they learned the truth, was almost more than he could bear. But he would do it. He would do his duty, for Georgiana, for Pemberley, for the legacy that he would leave behind.
And yet, through it all, Elizabeth lingered in his mind, a reminder of what might have been, of the happiness that had seemed just within reach before slipping away .
The knock at the door came swiftly, and Darcy called for his butler to let the physician in. Dr Merton, a man of middle age with a kind face, entered the room with a medical bag in hand. He greeted Darcy with a respectful bow before taking a seat opposite him.
"Mr Darcy, I trust you are managing as well as can be expected?" Dr Merton began.
Darcy managed a weak smile. "As well as can be, Doctor. I am hoping you might offer me some clearer answers than I have received thus far."
Dr Merton nodded, opening his bag, and taking out a few instruments. "Let us begin with an examination. I understand your symptoms have persisted for some time now?"
Darcy described the relentless headaches, the nausea, and the moments of dizziness that had plagued him for months. The doctor listened intently, his brow furrowing as he took notes.
After a thorough examination, Dr Merton sat back, his expression grave. "Mr Darcy, I must be honest with you. Based on your symptoms and the results of my examination, there are a handful of possible causes, but with the duration of the symptoms…"
"You may say it, sir."
Dr Merton sighed. "I am afraid, sir, that I must agree with Doctor Westing. It is almost certain that you have a tumour in your brain."
The words struck Darcy, leaving him breathless. His vision blurred momentarily, and he gripped the armrests of his chair, fighting the urge to collapse. The reality he had feared but never fully acknowledged was now undeniable, crushing any remnants of denial. His chest tightened, and his mouth went dry as he struggled to process the doctor's verdict. "Is there... any hope of treatment?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"There are some treatments, but they come with significant risks and limited success. However, there is a surgeon in Cambridge, Dr Pembroke, who has developed a reputation for his advanced work on cranial operations. He may be able to provide a more accurate diagnosis and discuss potential surgical interventions. Dr Pembroke's methods are unconventional, yet he has seen some success where others have not."
Darcy's grip tightened on the armrest, his voice tense. "Such as?"
The doctor cleared his throat, adjusting his spectacles. "Dr Pembroke has been experimenting with trepanation, which involves creating an opening in the skull to relieve pressure or remove damaged tissue. He has also had some success with resectioning certain types of tumours, though this is exceedingly rare and fraught with danger. The brain is delicate, and most tumours are unreachable without causing significant harm. "
Darcy's face hardened as he absorbed the information. "So, you are telling me that he might not be able to help me at all?"
The doctor nodded solemnly. "Indeed, Mr Darcy. Dr Pembroke can only operate under very specific conditions. Most tumours, particularly those deeply embedded, remain untouchable. However, he may provide a diagnosis beyond any shadow of doubt, which could at least offer clarity on your condition and the options available to you."
Darcy's impatience flared, his voice sharp. "Why should I travel all the way to Cambridge merely to hear a third doctor confirm what I already know, especially if there is no treatment available?"
The doctor remained calm, his expression sympathetic. "Mr Darcy, I understand your frustration. However, Dr Pembroke's expertise goes beyond mere diagnosis. He has access to the latest research and techniques in pain relief. While the likelihood of a successful intervention is slim, he may be able to offer insights or recommendations that others cannot. It is also possible that he might identify a less dire explanation for your symptoms."
Darcy leaned back in his chair. The thought of undergoing yet another examination, of exposing his vulnerabilities once more, was almost unbearable. Yet, the promise of certainty—or even a glimmer of hope—well, he could not let that go without examination.
"And if he finds nothing new?" Darcy's voice was quieter now, the anger drained from it.
The doctor sighed. "If he finds nothing new, you will at least have the peace of mind that comes from knowing you have explored every possible avenue. You will have done everything within your power."
Darcy closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with a sighing hiss. The doctor was right; he could not leave any stone unturned. He owed it to himself, to Georgiana, and to the legacy of his family to seek out every possible chance of survival, no matter how slim.
Opening his eyes, he nodded curtly. "Very well. I will go to Cambridge."
The doctor inclined his head respectfully. "I shall make the necessary arrangements for you to see Dr Pembroke. And Mr Darcy, please remember—you do not face this alone. Inform your family. They will want to support you through this."
A pang of guilt and apprehension sliced through him at the thought of telling his family. He had shielded them from the truth for so long, out of hope that Westing might have been mistaken. But now, it seemed he had no choice. He would have to call on Lord and Lady Matlock to bring them into his confidence. And eventually, he must tell Georgiana.
He stood, the decision made, and extended his hand to the doctor. "Thank you. I will make the necessary preparations."
As the doctor departed, Darcy remained in his study, the room feeling colder and more oppressive than before. He walked to the window, staring out at the bustling streets of London, feeling a profound sense of isolation despite the throngs of people below.
" N ow, Mary, you must think of when you leave the church. Oh, pish-posh, do not look at me that way. This bonnet will set off your face—you know your cheeks need a little… setting off. Lizzy, what do you think of this lace at the edge?" The table before them was cluttered with fabric swatches, ribbons, and lists of wedding necessities, each item a reminder of the rapidly approaching nuptials of Mary and Mr Collins.
Elizabeth glanced at the bit of frippery her mother held up, her thoughts elsewhere. She forced a smile, her head nodding mechanically. "Yes, Mama, it is lovely."
"Indeed, it is. Just wait until Mrs Long sees you in this, Mary. Now, what do you think of this satin? Jane, you too—I should like to hear what you think as well, and Lizzy?"
Elizabeth examined the fabric, running her fingers over the smooth material. "It is quite lovely, Mama. I think it would suit Mary very well."
Mary smiled faintly, her posture prim and proper. "Thank you, Lizzy."
Mrs Bennet nodded, satisfied. "And the veil? Should it be lace or something simpler?"
Jane leaned in. "Lace, I think. It adds a touch of elegance."
"Yes, lace it is," Mrs Bennet agreed, smoothing the fabric with a satisfied nod. "We want everything to be perfect for Mary's special day. Mary's wedding is only the beginning, after all."
Jane tilted her head. "What do you mean, Mama? "
"I mean, my dear, that it is only natural for a mother to think of all her daughters being happily settled. Mary is the first, but you and Lizzy will soon follow in her footsteps."
Elizabeth's eyes widened. "Mama, you cannot be serious. Jane and I are not even engaged."
Mrs Bennet waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, but it is only a matter of time. You must also think of your own wedding attire. Of course, you, dear Jane, and especially you, Lizzy, must think of something grander than what is fitting for a parson's bride."
Jane blushed and looked down, her cheeks pink. "Mama, we should focus on Mary now."
"But we cannot leave these things for the last minute, my dear! After all, Mr Bingley may propose any day."
Lydia, sprawled in a chair with Kitty, scoffed. "Oh, Mama, Lizzy and Jane are not thinking of weddings. They are too busy pretending to be serious. Besides, have you heard the latest about the officers?"
Kitty sat up straighter. "Oh yes! Did you know that Captain Carter is to dine with us next week?"
Elizabeth sighed, trying to steer the conversation back. "Mama, what do you think of this lace for the bodice of the gown? It has a delicate pattern that would suit Mary perfectly."
Mrs Bennet barely glanced at the lace. "Yes, yes, that will do. But Lizzy, have you not noticed how often Mr Wickham looks your way? And Jane, Mr Bingley was practically glued to your side at the ball. You both must start thinking seriously about your own matches."
Jane shifted uncomfortably. "Mama, Mr Wickham and Mr Bingley have their own minds. We cannot assume anything."
Lydia burst into laughter. "Oh, Jane, you are too modest! And Lizzy, you are too distracted with your books to notice when a man admires you."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Lydia, perhaps it is you who are too distracted with the officers to notice anything else."
Kitty giggled. "Well, at least they are interesting! Much more than discussing lace and silks."
Mary was glancing between them all, still sitting primly with her hands folded in her lap. She cleared her throat. "I think the lace is lovely, Jane. Thank you for suggesting it. "
Mrs Bennet beamed at Mary. "There, you see? Mary appreciates the importance of these details. Now, Lizzy, do you think we should have satin or leather for her wedding shoes?"
Elizabeth exchanged a look with Jane, both of them feeling the pressure of their mother's expectations. "I think satin would be more elegant," she said finally.
"Satin it is, then!" Mrs Bennet declared, her eyes twinkling with satisfaction. "And remember, girls, this is the only time she shall have a wedding. Everything must be perfect for our Mary."
Mary sat somewhat straighter—no doubt delighted at being the centre of her mother's eager focus for once. Lydia and Kitty, however, could hardly focus on Mary for two minutes together, and sat elbowing each other and trading snickers over this officer or that. Elizabeth rolled her neck and sighed. This was going to be a long, dull afternoon.
Jane's foot shifted restlessly on the rug, and Elizabeth stifled a yawn as her attention wandered to the sounds filtering through the walls from her father's library. Mr Collins's voice droned on, a persistent murmur even over the lively din of the parlour. She could only imagine the trials her father was enduring, trapped with Mr Collins's endless self-congratulation.
"Mama, perhaps this lace would be more suitable for the veil," Jane suggested. Elizabeth sucked in a stale breath and pulled her attention back to the table.
Mrs Bennet ran the lace between her fingers, examining it with a critical eye. "Yes, you are right, Jane. It is exquisite. Mary, you will look like an angel."
Mary's smile widened, and she murmured her thanks, but Lydia's laughter from the opposite sofa interrupted anything else she might have said. "And can you believe it, Kitty? Mr Denny said that he once saw a duel! Imagine that!"
Kitty's eyes widened. "A duel? How thrilling! Who was it between?"
"Jane, what do you think of this trim for the pelisse?" Mrs Bennet asked, holding up a length of delicate satin.
Elizabeth's head snapped from one conversation to the other. Gracious, how was anybody to focus on a single thing? She was tempted to rub her temples again… and again, she wondered if this was how Mr Darcy had felt at the ball. Overwhelmed and lost in the middle of it all.
"Now, Lizzy, do pay attention," her mother chided gently, interrupting her thoughts. "What do you think of these flowers for the bouquet? Lilies, perhaps, or roses? "
She shook her head. "I beg you would excuse me, Mama. I… I just remembered something I meant to do."
"But the flowers! Now, if it were your wedding, I should say roses and lilies for Jane, beyond a doubt, but for Mary—"
Elizabeth stood to her feet and pointed. "Mary is right there. Perhaps you may ask her and stop considering this a ‘rehearsal' of some sort for other weddings that are not yet planned. I am going upstairs."