5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

" D arcy! Now, there is a surprise."

Darcy inclined his head as his aunt, Lady Matlock, rose from the writing desk in her morning room. "Thank you for seeing me, Lady Matlock. I hope I am not troubling you by calling so early."

"Trouble?" She came to greet him, presenting her hand for him to bow over. "If there is any trouble, it is that I was expecting you last evening."

"Were you?" Darcy escorted her to the sofa, as she indicated. "I sent over a note that I expected to be in Hertfordshire some days, yet here I am already returned. What cause had you to expect me last evening?"

"Your cousin, of course."

"Richard? But I have not seen him."

Lady Matlock gave an elegant snort. "Do you imagine he does not know your comings and goings better than your own coachman? He had word that your carriage was seen in Mayfair late yesterday afternoon."

Darcy raised a brow as he accepted the seat Lady Matlock offered. "I see my cousin's talents extend into espionage. I shall have to guard myself more carefully if I wish to slip back to my own home unobserved."

"You may jest all you please, but Georgiana was quite expectant of seeing you when we heard." Lady Matlock fixed him with a knowing gaze. "I trust you are here to inquire about our dear girl's progress?"

"Indeed, Aunt. I have been concerned about her since her return from Ramsgate. Pray, how has she been faring?"

Lady Matlock waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, she is as she always is, Fitzwilliam. Quiet, reserved, far too shy for her own good. I had hoped that her time here with her cousins and myself would help draw her out of her shell, but I fear she remains as reticent as ever. "

Darcy's brow furrowed slightly. "I see. And has she expressed any... discomfort with social engagements?"

"Discomfort?" Lady Matlock chuckled. "My dear nephew, Georgiana is always uncomfortable in society. It is high time she overcame this excessive timidity. She must learn to navigate the ton with confidence if she is to make a suitable match."

Darcy tensed. "Aunt, while I appreciate your concern, I believe we must be cautious in our approach. Georgiana is still young, and I would not wish to overwhelm her."

Lady Matlock's eyes narrowed. "Fitzwilliam, you cannot coddle the girl forever. She is of an age to be out in society. What of her debut? Surely you do not mean to keep her hidden away?"

"I have given the matter much thought," Darcy replied carefully. "While I understand the importance of Georgiana's introduction to society, I believe a more gradual approach might be beneficial."

"Gradual?" Lady Matlock echoed with a cynical laugh. "My dear boy, there is nothing gradual about a London season. Georgiana must learn to swim, or she will surely sink."

Darcy leaned forward, his voice low but firm. "Aunt, I must insist on a more measured approach. Perhaps we might begin with small gatherings, intimate soirées where Georgiana can gain her confidence?"

Lady Matlock sighed, but there was a glimmer of understanding in her eyes. "I suppose there is some wisdom in your suggestion. But Fitzwilliam, you must not let your protective nature stifle Georgiana's growth. She needs to spread her wings."

"I assure you, Aunt, that is my dearest wish. But we pressed her into her own establishment too quickly this summer, and…" He hesitated. "I should say that instead of permitting her to grow, it rather… terrified her. I would have her venture forth again at her own pace, with proper support and guidance."

"Very well," Lady Matlock conceded. "We shall try it your way, for now. But I warn you, Fitzwilliam, society waits for no one. We cannot delay Georgiana's debut indefinitely."

"I understand, Aunt. Thank you."

Lady Matlock leaned forward. "Now, then, let us set the matter of Georgiana aside for more pleasant gossip. You are quite behind all the talk this season."

"Aunt, truly, I—"

"None of that high-minded nonsense. You cannot afford not to be in the know when you come to my dinner party next week. Only think if you put your foot in your mouth! Did you hear that Lord Ashbury's youngest son has been caught in a compromising position with Lady Worthington?"

Darcy offered a tight expression. "I had not."

"Well, it is quite true. Can you imagine? And she, a newly married woman!" Lady Matlock shook her head in mock disapproval, though her tone betrayed her delight in the scandal.

"Indeed, Aunt. How... unfortunate," Darcy replied, struggling to muster appropriate concern.

Lady Matlock barely paused for breath before continuing. "Oh, and you must have heard about the Barclays? Rumor has it they are on the brink of financial ruin. Such a shame. And after Lady Barclay just hosted the most splendid ball! They say Sir Randall lost all his fortune speculating on the Continent, but—"

"But there is no profit in speaking of it. What am I to do on the occasion?"

She sighed. "Honestly, Darcy, you are so tiresome. What harm can there be in a little talk? Besides, I wager you have not heard of Lord Wexfield. Oh! Your uncle speaks of nothing else. I've no head for politics, but it certainly seems like something you might be interested in."

Darcy shifted in his chair, his eyes flicking to the clock on the mantel. Blast, there was that twinge behind his left eye again. The megrim was looming, and he had best return home before other symptoms followed. "I dabble very little in politics, save where it directly concerns my interests."

"And how are you so certain this does not? Your uncle speaks of nothing but reforming constituencies and pocket boroughs, and… oh! I know not what else."

Darcy thinned his lips into an approximation of a smile. "Perhaps I will have a drink with him some evening and speak with him more on the matter."

"Well, I care nothing for any of it, anyway," Lady Matlock said, waving her hand dismissively. "What you really ought to know about are the lovely young ladies making their debut this season. The Honorable Miss Amelia Fairfax, for instance. Such a beauty, and her dowry is said to be substantial."

Darcy's attention snapped back to his aunt. "Aunt, I—"

"Oh, and Miss Clara Winthrop! A true diamond of the first water, and so accomplished. I hear she plays the pianoforte divinely." Lady Matlock's eyes twinkled meaningfully. "Perhaps you might call on her when next you have a free morning? "

Darcy cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Aunt, while I am sure Miss Winthrop is a charming young lady, I have no intention of—"

"And let us not forget Lady Penelope Rutherford. Such a sweet girl, and from an excellent family. Her connections alone would make her a most advantageous match."

"Aunt, I appreciate your... concern for my marital prospects. However, I assure you, I am quite content at present."

Lady Matlock tutted disapprovingly. "Fitzwilliam, you cannot remain a bachelor forever. It is high time you settled down and provided an heir for Pemberley."

"I am well aware of my responsibilities, Aunt," Darcy replied, his tone growing firmer. "And I have decided against seeking a bride this season. Not until…" He allowed a faint smile. This little notion would do the trick. "Not until Georgiana has been presented at court, and we see which way the wind is blowing. My remaining single could prove… advantageous in forming the right connections."

Her eyes narrowed, and she tapped a finger on the arm of the sofa. "Very clever, Fitzwilliam. But I still say the greatest danger is in losing opportunities to others." Lady Matlock frowned and looked as though she would have liked to argue further but was mercifully interrupted by the opening of the door. Georgiana entered, and Darcy had never been so relieved to see his sister.

Georgiana's eyes, wary at first, lit up upon seeing Darcy. She curtseyed to Lady Matlock before turning to her brother, her face breaking into a warm smile. "Brother! What a wonderful surprise. I had no idea you were coming today."

Darcy rose, embracing his sister briefly. He noted the way she clung to him, just a moment too long. "Georgiana, my dear. I wanted to see how you were faring."

As Georgiana pulled back, Darcy caught a flicker of apprehension in her eyes as she glanced at Lady Matlock. His aunt would likely interpret Georgiana's effusive greeting as a sign of confidence, not the neediness it truly was.

"I am well, Brother," Georgiana said, her voice slightly too bright. "Aunt has been most kind."

Lady Matlock beamed. "You see, Fitzwilliam? Our Georgiana is thriving. Perhaps your concerns were unfounded."

Darcy placed a gentle hand on Georgiana's shoulder, squeezing lightly—a silent signal to temper her enthusiasm. "Indeed, Aunt. Tell me, Georgiana, are you enjoying your stay? "

Georgiana's brow creased. "Very much. Though, I do fear I am little credit to our aunt. I…" She winced faintly. "I am afraid I do not perform well to strangers."

Lady Matlock waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense, my dear. You simply need more practice. Now, shall we take tea and discuss plans for your debut?"

As they moved towards the tea table, Darcy caught Georgiana's eye. He gave her a small, encouraging nod. She returned it with a grateful smile, her posture relaxing slightly. She maintained a brave face for Lady Matlock, engaging in polite conversation and expressing her gratitude for her aunt's hospitality. However, Darcy could sense the underlying turmoil that she carefully concealed.

Some ten minutes later, Lady Matlock excused herself to attend to a household matter, and Georgiana's calm facade faded as soon as the door closed. She sank onto the settee, her shoulders drooping slightly.

"Oh, Fitzwilliam," she moaned, "I am trying so hard to be what Lady Matlock expects me to be. But I feel... confused."

Darcy sat beside her, taking her hands in his. "Tell me, dearest. What troubles you most?"

"I… How can I trust anything or anyone when I was apparently so wrong before? I simply cannot credit what you tell me of Mr Wickham."

Darcy bit back a sigh. And there it was again—that wave of dizziness. He ought to call for his carriage soon. "This again? Georgiana, we have spoken of this a dozen times. How can you still doubt my words?"

She shook her head. "But you were not there , Fitzwilliam. You maintain that he only meant to take advantage of me, but there was never one inappropriate word or gesture."

"His very presence there was inappropriate!"

"It was a coincidence," she insisted. "I saw the man he had come to Ramsgate to meet—a Mr Billings, that was his name. Mr Wickham was to become his steward."

"Steward! How terribly convenient, then, that my arrival disrupted his chances at honest employment," Darcy retorted, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

"He did not leave Ramsgate because he heard you were in town. I told you, he had a letter… Brother? Are you well?"

Darcy was wincing, squeezing his eyes shut against a sudden crashing sense of nausea. No, no, not now! He did not have time for this! He sucked air between his gritted teeth and tried to continue in a steady voice .

"Georgiana, you must understand that Mr Wickham could not possibly have had honorable intentions toward you. He knows better than most what expectations you were brought up to, and he knows equally well that he is not a suitable match. He meant to exploit you."

"He meant no such thing! I am sure of it, Fitzwilliam. He was only ever a faithful friend."

"Indeed. Tell me, was this ‘faithful friend' ever entertained in your sitting room?"

She blinked. "Well, yes. With Mrs Younge present. She thought he was a remarkably polite guest, and she complimented you on having such a friend."

"That is not…" He bit his lips together. Dear heaven, it was too late, for he tasted bile. Another moment, and he would humiliate himself in front of his sister! His eyes darted to a decorative basin Lady Matlock kept on a side table. If needs must, he could employ that…

"Brother, are you listening? I feel as though you hardly hear a word I have said, and you do not care, anyway." Georgiana crossed her arms, but her eyes were brimming with tears.

Darcy worked his mouth. That bitter tang was starting to subside, but there was a strange new sensation travelling down the right side of his neck. He drew what he hoped was a calming breath and forged ahead.

"Did Wickham ever ask you for anything? Speak of his ‘reduced circumstances,' lament a ‘broken heart,' or try to get you to reminisce about your fondest childhood memories at Pemberley?"

Georgiana's gaze grew unfocused in thought. "Well… yes, I suppose… all those things…"

"There you have it, then. He was working upon your sympathies, Georgiana. And he would have succeeded, too, if I had not arrived when I did."

Georgiana's brow furrowed. "But, Brother, he said that he meant to leave Ramsgate a full day before you arrived. He told me the afternoon previous that he had an urgent letter from a distant relation and had to go to London on short notice."

"And he offered to escort you with him, no doubt," Darcy snorted.

And that was when his right hand spasmed. Horrified, he tucked it behind the arm of the chair, so Georgiana saw nothing. But it seemed to have acquired a life of its own, twitching and contracting like a coiling snake. And he had no control of it whatsoever.

"Not at all!" Georgiana was protesting. "He… Oh, what is the use? No matter how innocent it was at the time, you will only see the worst in whatever I say. "

Shooting tingles were now spearing the length of his arm. He had to end this conversation, and quickly! "Georgiana, you have been deceived," Darcy grunted. "Wickham never had any such relatives. His sudden departure upon hearing of my arrival is evidence enough of his ill intent."

Georgiana scowled and stared out the window for a full minute, her jaw clenched and her eyes glittering with unshed tears.

Darcy used the moment to collect himself. His hand had gone entirely rigid, the muscles of his forearms contracted and the arm stiff. Angels in heaven, what was wrong with him? But he could not leave his sister yet… not when she finally looked as if she might be willing to hear something from him. "Forgive me, dearest, but… I am afraid men are not such tame, civilised creatures as most ladies expect them to be. Pray, trust me in this. I do know that of which I speak."

She kept staring out the window, her creamy throat bobbing in a frustrated sob. "I do trust your wisdom, Fitzwilliam. Truly, I do. But I was so sure of his regard. He was so sincere, and how could anyone who learned at our father's knee be anything but good?"

Egad… his face was frozen. Darcy tried to smile, or frown, or… or something, God help him, but the right side of his face seemed suddenly afflicted with the same palsy that had overcome his hand. He forced his tongue and the left side to work, but if Georgiana were paying attention—which she was not—he could not have hidden the trouble.

"Georgiana, Wickham is… well, in my experience, he is not the man our father hoped for him to become."

Was… was that drool he felt on the side of his mouth? He swiped at it with his left hand, and it came away wet. And Darcy could only stare in horrified awe. Oh, this was so much worse than it had ever been! The vomiting and dizziness that often accompanied his worst megrims would have been far more welcome than… whatever this was.

"But you do not know that. You have not seen him in five years, since the reading of the will."

That was enough talk of George Wickham for the day. Darcy's body was rebelling in every way possible, and yet his sister persisted in talking of that miscreant? This was no longer to be borne. "While that is true, I have experienced enough of him to believe my opinions are altogether too accurate. No, it is for the best that you came back from Ramsgate with me when you did. I am sorry to cause you any pain, but I am sure that you will reflect on the matter and discover that I am right. "

She pouted, her gaze falling to the cold tea in her cup. "Why is it always I who will someday have to admit that I was wrong? Just once, I want to hear someone else admit that to me ."

She was still a Darcy, after all—as proud and stubborn as any of them had ever been, and she despised being wrong. Darcy wanted to chuckle, but now the nausea came sweeping back with an almighty force. His eyes crossed, and he clutched his stomach. "Perhaps someday, but… good Lord, call for my carriage at once!"

He heard her start to ask why, but in the next instant, he had snatched that priceless basin from Lady Matlock's side table and buried his head in it.

" S urely, it is only a mild fever. I was travelling just recently, and—"

"Mr Darcy, with all due respect." Dr Westing frowned and shook his head, waiting for Darcy to subside with his excuses. "You have been experiencing these megrims for what… a few months now? Nearly a year?"

He quieted. "Better than six months."

"And you've still no notion of what might have caused them, do you?"

Darcy's brow furrowed. "Not as such." He puckered his mouth and cleared his throat. Surely, there was something… if only he could remember. "I had a fall from a young horse I was trying last winter."

Doctor Westing frowned thoughtfully. "And did the megrims begin after that?"

"Yes, but… not immediately. I walked away from the fall with only a scrape on my shoulder and a slight bruise to my temple that subsided in less than two days. I doubt it was causative at all."

"Indeed. And how long after that would you say that you began experiencing these megrims? "

Darcy started to shake his head but stopped himself when a stabbing pain in his eye reminded him of why he had permitted a doctor to see him in the first place. "I… I think April, so… a handful of months. I cannot recall exactly."

"That is the third time since my arrival that you said you could not recall something," Westing noted, scratching down something on a piece of paper beside him.

"Well, it was hardly something I thought to record," Darcy replied testily.

Westing thinned his lips. "Tell me more about your hand. What happened this afternoon?"

"I wish I knew. I was speaking with my sister when it seemed that my body was determined to carry on without me. My muscles locked, my face felt numb, and I was even starting to drool as I was speaking. Now, surely, that is some new fever. Something brought across the Channel by some deviant sailors on leave, no doubt. You have seen it before, yes?"

Westing shook his head with a weary sigh. "I have, but not in fever patients. There are… a few possible causes, though."

"Well? Tell me what must be done."

Westing got up from the chair and paced to the window. "Mr Darcy, I expect you have been experiencing symptoms far more frequently and with greater severity than you have confessed. In fact, were it not for Lady Matlock's insistence that I pay a call to her ‘favourite' nephew, I doubt we would be speaking this afternoon."

"That is not true. I would have sent for you if I had suffered a repetition of today's… anomaly."

Westing turned. "Mr Darcy, the truth, if you please."

Darcy sagged, rubbing his temple. "Oh, very well. Indeed, I have been enduring these confounded headaches almost daily of late. Most days, I can carry on as though little is amiss."

"And the other days?"

He scowled. "I cannot endure light of any sort. My valet must draw the drapes and shield the fire grate, and I can hardly sit up in my bed."

"I see. And how long does that last?"

"Sometimes, it is days before I am right again." Darcy's shoulders rounded in a heavy exhale. "But that is rare. Once a month, perhaps. Only yesterday, I travelled to Hertfordshire with a friend. We intended to remain in the area for a day or two but were obliged to return the same afternoon. I suppose the travel fatigue is what has me so undone."

Westing tutted a little, clasping his hands behind his back as he paced. "Stress and fatigue may certainly trigger a megrim, but Mr Darcy, by my own examination of you—as well as what little you will confess—I believe your condition is worsening."

"‘Condition?'" Darcy scoffed. "Many people suffer headaches."

"Fit, healthy men of seven and twenty do not usually experience almost daily megrims that frequently escalate into dizziness and vomiting. They do not usually have to spend a day or two a month in their beds in darkened rooms. They do not suffer sudden palsies, and they do not…" Westing paced before Darcy and leaned forward for emphasis… "show signs of memory loss."

Darcy's forehead pinched as the halo of the room cooled and faded, its spin slowing about him. "I exhibit no such thing."

Westing resumed pacing. "I took the liberty of speaking with Lady Matlock and Colonel Fitzwilliam before I came. You forgot the anniversary of your own father's death."

He stiffened. "Why should I mark the anniversary every year? Seems a morbid habit."

"The colonel said you forgot the date entirely, and when reminded, you looked pale and shaken."

"Do you like being reminded of such things?" Darcy shot back. "I have forgot nothing of import."

Westing smiled thinly—a patient smile, but Darcy felt no comfort in it. "I also spoke with your butler, sir."

Darcy blinked. "How dare…"

"You have begun neglecting your correspondence until he reminds you. You also forgot the name of two callers only recently—people well known to you, and had to be reminded by your footman."

"You would try to forget Mrs Woodrow Fairfax and her daughter if you knew them, too," Darcy grumbled.

"Mr Darcy." Westing returned to his chair. "I am afraid the time is come to face certain realities. There is something very much the matter."

Darcy blew out a breath. "Very well. Fetch your leeches or your drill. Extract a perfectly good tooth, change the humours in my room, saw off an arm. Whatever you must do, get on about the business, for I am blasted weary, and my head still feels as if some fool is banging a gong inside."

"I am afraid it is not a matter for either sarcasm or the barber-surgeon, sir."

"Then, what?" Darcy dug his fingers into the bridge of his nose, pinching as if it might numb the throb.

"Sir, I… I do not like to propose this, but… there is a strong possibility that you may have a tumour."

Darcy's hand dropped. "A what?"

"A growth, sir, inside your head. Malignant."

"I know what a tumour is, curse you! What makes you think I have one?"

"Well, naturally, I do not know . But the history speaks for itself—ah, increasing frequency and severity of localized headaches, the, ah, the dizziness, the vomiting, the forgetfulnes, and finally the palsy…"

"So, what? You can cut it out, naturally."

Westing's mouth fell open. "Mr Darcy, sir! No one… that is to say, there is not a surgeon in the world who could manage it. Not on a living patient, at least."

A peculiar thing, gravity. Most of the time, one existed with it without being entirely aware… but just now, Darcy's bones each sank into his chair with the weight of lead, and his heart was labouring just to permit him to draw breath. He made no sounds—heard no sounds—for a solid minute, and when he finally did hear something, it was a distant, fragile voice that spoke.

"How long?"

Westing's mouth worked as he bit his lips together. "As I said, sir, there is no way to even be sure. Why, the only knowledge we even have of such tumours is gained from post-mortem examinations, and—"

"How long?"

Westing's face faltered. "I cannot say. A few wee… ahem. Months, perhaps. Or it could even be years. Then again, it may be something else entirely."

"I've no patience with prevarication, Westing. The truth."

Westing swallowed. "We could watch the progression of your symptoms. That may tell us more, but… I am sorry, sir but it may be wise to put your affairs in order."