Mr. Darcy Came to Dinner (5 page)

“We will rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors,
We’ll rant and we’ll roar all on the salt sea!
Until we strike soundings in the channel of ole England;
From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues!”

The gentleman took notice of his impromptu audience and called out to a tall, thin, white-haired man in the room, “Ah, Bartholomew, we have guests! Come in, come in!”

“I gave him laudanum,” said Mr. Jones in
sotto voce
. “One cannot predict how the patient will react, especially in combination with sprits.”

Shockingly, Mr. Darcy was laughing! “Come, Bingley, do not stand about in that stupid manner — fill a glass! We must sing to the ladies! I know you will not decline a glass, Hurst! Mr. Bennet, your brandy might be only adequate, but at least it is plentiful. Pour for us all, will you? Mr. Jones, too! We must sing! Sing to your good wife and fair daughters!

“Now let ev’ry man drink off his full bumper,
And let ev’ry man drink off his full glass;
We’ll drink and be jolly and drown melancholy,
And here’s to the health of each true-hearted lass!”

Mr. Darcy drained his glass before returning to the refrain. “
We will rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors
. . . ” Meanwhile, the other gentlemen stood in various stages of amazement, joined by most of the ladies. Kitty and Lydia were almost doubled over in laughter.

Once Mr. Darcy had finished his song, the man referred to as Bartholomew removed the glass. “Well done, sir,” he said in the dry, unemotional voice of a senior servant of a rich man. “It is time to retire.”

“Is it?” cried Mr. Darcy.

“Yes, sir. There is much to do tomorrow. You informed me to make certain that you get your rest.”

“Did I? Well then, I suppose I must say good night to my friends.” Mr. Darcy turned to the door. “Good night, all!”

Bartholomew crossed over to the open door, his long, lanky, almost frail body blocking the view of the room to the observers without. Without preamble, he addressed the apothecary, his voice dripping with condescension. “Are there any other instructions for tonight, Mr. Jones?” He looked down the long, narrow beak of a nose, not for a moment hiding his disdain, proving the maxim there was no snob like the personal valet of a member of the Quality.

Mr. Jones only suggested a very small amount of laudanum if the patient had any difficulty sleeping. The valet gave the man a hard look. “Be aware, sir, that I have sent an express to Mr. Darcy’s personal physician, the distinguished Mr. Macmillan of Park Place. He will most certainly be here in the morning.”

Instead of taking insult at the servant’s pronouncement, Mr. Jones seemed delighted. “Mr. Macmillan, you say? I have heard of the gentleman! Very high up in the Academy! I should be pleased to hear his diagnosis!” He turned to Mr. Bennet. “I shall stop by in the morning, then.” He turned back to Bartholomew. “What time did you say he would be here?”

“I expect him no later than ten o’clock. We will not wait for you.” Bartholomew then turned to Mrs. Bennet. “I take it you are Mrs. Bennet? The girl, Sally, is adequate. Please see that she is here first thing tomorrow to see to Mr. Darcy’s breakfast.”

Mrs. Bennet was flustered. “Of . . . of course. I shall tell Mrs. Hill and have her arrange quarters for you.”

“That will not be necessary, madam,” the valet said with only the barest civility. “I shall make do with an armchair in this room, but you may have a couple of blankets brought by. The rest of you, I would ask that you remain as quiet as possible for my master’s sake.”

Mr. Bennet finally roused himself to respond to the outrageous servant. “Now, see here! I am Mr. Bennet, and Longbourn is my house. Who are you to make such demands of my family?”

Bartholomew narrowed his eyes as he stared, not at Mr. Bennet’s face but at his cravat. “It has been a long time since you visited Town, I see. That knot has been out of fashion for ten years.” Mr. Bennet blanched, but the valet continued. “This may be your house, sir, but this room is reserved for the use and care of
my
master. I have served the Darcy family all my life, father and son both, and I will have no one trouble Mr. Darcy whilst he is incapacitated. You can have no business here. Therefore, I wish you all a good night.”

With that, he closed the door in the crowd’s collective faces. The assembled looked at each other in astonishment.

Mr. Bingley shrugged. “My apologies, Mr. Bennet. Bartholomew is somewhat . . . protective of Darcy, I have learned through experience.”

“Too right there,” agreed Mr. Hurst, his first words of the evening save a couple of grunts.

Mrs. Bennet, white with anxiety, wrung her hands. “Well, let us return to dinner before it is spoiled!” She spun on one heel and made for the dining room, the others in her wake.

Two lingered — her husband and second daughter — who stared at the closed door incredulously. Then, with a sigh, Mr. Bennet put his head down and followed the others.

Elizabeth remained flat-footed and flabbergasted in the hallway.

Chapter 3

E
LIZABETH AROSE EARLY AND
made an abbreviated
toilette
. She had retired right after Mr. and Miss Bingley and the Hursts returned to Netherfield and wanted to be downstairs in good time to witness the arrival of Mr. Darcy’s physician, the paragon from Park Place, Mr. Macmillan.

Alas, just as the maid finished her hair, she glanced through the bedroom window to see that a carriage and a curricle were being attended to by the groom. As she recognized Mr. Jones’s curricle, she supposed the other must be that of the famous physician. She was too late.

Elizabeth was not made for gloom and made her way into the dining room in good humor. Only those who knew her intimately could perceive a slight air of disappointment in her mood. One of those people was her father who, to Elizabeth’s surprise, had arrived at the breakfast table before her.

They greeted each other affectionately and, save for informing Mr. Bennet that Jane would soon be coming down, they ate in agreeable silence. Not long after that, Mr. Jones came into the room accompanied by a distinguished gentleman introduced as Mr. Macmillan. Elizabeth was impressed with his serous mien yet gentle manner of speaking. At Mr. Bennet’s invitation, given reluctantly to Elizabeth’s dismay, the two men of medicine helped themselves to the offerings at the side table. By that time, Jane had joined the party, and Mr. Macmillan gave his report as he ate.

“I must concur with the diagnosis of my colleague.” He indicated Mr. Jones. “It is my belief that Mr. Darcy has suffered a simple fracture of the fibula. There seems to be no damage to either the knee or ankle, and from what one can judge by the aspect of the leg, the bone has not shifted out of place. With time, Mr. Darcy should have a full recovery.”

“How much time?” was Mr. Bennet’s question.

“The leg must be immobilized for at least two months before we can chance placing weight on it.”

Mr. Bennet dropped his face into a hand. “And can he be moved?”

“I should not think Mr. Darcy will be fit for travel for at least four weeks, sir. These things take time.”

Mr. Bennet groaned, earning a sharp look from his favorite daughter.

“I am certain that they do,” said Jane to Mr. Macmillan. “Is Mr. Darcy in any discomfort?”

Mr. Macmillan’s countenance brightened at Jane’s concern. “There is pain, to be sure, but it can be managed with quiet and laudanum.” He turned to Mr. Jones. “
Careful
administration of laudanum. I understand there was an unfortunate incident yesterday.”

The color rose in Mr. Jones’s face. “Yes . . . well, the determination of the proper dosage is often a matter of trial and error.”

The London physician immediately set the other man at ease. “Very true. I meant no disparagement of your abilities. Rather, I am impressed with your knowledge. If you will pardon me for saying so, you are very learned for a country apothecary.”

Mr. Jones preened. “I thank you, sir. After finishing my apprenticeship and beginning my practice, I began reading any medical text that became available to me. I have an uncle who is a solicitor at Chancery Court, and he taught me Latin. I have had the honor of reading several treatises by you, Mr. Macmillan, and have learned a great deal. Your views on phlebotomy and its substitutes were very enlightening.”

“You are very kind. But why remain a mere apothecary? Surely you have the training to be a surgeon.”

Mr. Jones shrugged. “While there is no surgeon in Meryton, one from Hertford can always be gotten when such services are required. The distance is not too great. To own the truth, I dislike the saw; I much prefer my potions and elixirs. I leave the bloody work to others.”

Mr. Macmillan chuckled. “You have all the makings of a physician! There are many of my brothers who will not soil their hands on a patient. I do not hold to that and am considered a bit of a radical.”

“Your splint was a revelation, sir,” said the apothecary. “You immobilize the knee and ankle?”

“Yes — a French invention. They do make things besides wine and trouble.”

This impromptu meeting of the mutual admiration society was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Bingley. The pleasant young man greeted everyone happily, particularly Jane, which earned a blush from the lady. For Elizabeth’s part, she was happy that the Superior Sisters had not accompanied him. Mr. Bingley was introduced to Mr. Macmillan, and after refusing a plate — he had eaten before leaving Netherfield — he reported that his sister was much recovered from her swoon the day before and asked about his friend. Given the same intelligence as the Bennets, Mr. Bingley thanked the physician for his quick response to Bartholomew’s summons.

“Do you now return to London, sir?”

“No,” replied Mr. Macmillan. “I intend to spend the night and readjust the splint tomorrow. There may be some swelling. Mr. Darcy’s man, Bartholomew, will attend me, and I shall show him how it is done.”

“If you do not mind, I should like to observe,” offered the apothecary. “I am always looking to improve my technique.” Mr. Macmillan assured him that his presence would be welcomed.

“You cannot stay here!” Mr. Bennet said ungraciously.

The reader can be assured that this pronouncement was met with astonishment by all assembled.

Seeing his error, Mr. Bennet softened his objection. “We are rather full up, Mr. Macmillan, with Mr. Collins in residence. I am sorry we cannot accommodate you.” As much as he tried, his tone left the company convinced that Mr. Bennet’s regrets were at best half-hearted. Elizabeth could not believe her father could show such ill-breeding.

“I certainly understand your predicament, Mr. Bennet,” said the physician with the grace Elizabeth’s father should have shown, “but there is no harm done. I had already fixed my mind to stay at an inn in Meryton.”

“Nonsense!” cried Mr. Bingley. “We have rooms enough at Netherfield, and we are less than three miles away. You shall stay as my guest. I insist upon it!”

Elizabeth was pleased by Mr. Bingley’s generosity and was happy that the usually reserved Jane allowed herself to smile fully at her erstwhile suitor. Mr. Macmillan demurred, of course, but Mr. Bingley was persistent, and soon the physician agreed to the scheme. As the rest of the Bennet family remained above stairs in the embrace of Morpheus, the remainder of the breakfast passed in a quiet and agreeable manner before Mr. Bingley and the two men of medicine took their leave.

As was their settled routine, Mr. Bennet retreated to his book room, Jane took up her embroidery in the sitting room, and Elizabeth indulged in a walk in the garden. The flower beds were mostly barren, prepared for the coming winter’s sleep, and Elizabeth had to be content with the crunching of the leaves beneath her feet while she turned her thoughts once again to their unexpected guest.

Every moment in Mr. Darcy’s company seemed designed to throw her into more confusion as to his character. Never in all her life did Elizabeth expect to see anything like the exhibition of the previous evening, and that Mr. Darcy was the performer . . . well, she had no words to fully express her astonishment.

She knew that the gentleman was under the influence of laudanum and brandy and therefore had no control over and bore no responsibility for his actions. But to sing a drinking song — in honor of the ladies of Longbourn, he claimed! His disheveled, smiling countenance was undeniably handsome, she had to admit. And that voice! That deep baritone sent shivers down her spine! Elizabeth’s traitorous heart was at war against her reason. How could she admire and despise a man in the same instant?

Never had Elizabeth longed for a day to pass as quickly as she did that day. The Philipses’ party that evening would bring her in contact with Mr. Wickham and perhaps the answer to a growing mystery.

* * *

“Are you done with your breakfast, sir?” asked Sally.

Darcy, half-sitting up on the couch, handed the maid his nearly empty plate. “Yes. My compliments to Cook. The chicken was very fine.” It was no false compliment; for all of Longbourn’s shortcomings, there was nothing wrong with the quality of the food served there.