Page 22 of The Winter of Our Discontent
“Easily. I took John and?—”
“John! Who, pray tell, is John?”
“The child you employ in your stables,” she said in that slow, lecturing tone used for the persistently stupid.
“Oh. John.”
“He is often assigned to me when the other grooms are busy with more important work. He drove the gig.”
I waved in an impatient manner.
She proceeded, eyeing me as though I were a beast of uncertain temper. “I tasked John with taking me to the sweet shop, where I spent time buying treats for the children of Pemberley when I visit the farms. He assisted me with my selections with the most endearing discernment,” she said, her eyes softening in recollection. She then looked conscious and proceeded with her recitation in a more controlled manner. “Then, since Mrs Travers had not yet returned, we went to the apothecary where I bought a few cordials for Mrs Reynolds, and then on to the bookshop. I sent John back to the market to await Mrs Travers, and when she eventually returned, I came out of the bookseller’s, and we left the town.”
“I see.” I felt strangely deflated after a long day of anxiety for no cause.
“Will you take tea, sir? I do not believe we will have visitors unless someone comes unexpectedly. Your sister has mentioned to me that you are unusually busy these days, and I begin to wonder if she is not missing your company.”
“Lead on, madam,” I said, stopping at the library door to ask the important question I had overlooked. “Was the Derby man able to assist Mrs Travers?”
“She came away with some remedies and advice. Time will tell. I wonder if I should arrange a similar visit for Mrs Pirtle.”
“If you do so, youwillbe remarked upon. Perhaps she could take the same remedies as Mrs Travers.”
“But what if her troubles stem from another cause? I wish the answer were clear to me.”
My idea had been judged the musings of an idiot, pointed out in her mild, exasperatingly cautious way. I went to tea feeling stupid, low, and increasingly alone against the gathering army of Elizabeth Darcy’s supporters.
20
Journal Entry, November 27, 1811
Richard arrived today looking as thunderous as Zeus. I was surprised to see him so soon after my express, given that I had understood him much committed to Wellington’s current initiatives in securing the home ground. When I asked him if someone had died, he raked me with a sharp stare and suggested we adjourn to my study.
I did not write precisely what then occurred, for once we were behind closed doors, he had roared something to the effect of,‘Have you taken such an active dislike of your wife that you have got yourself the pox?’
I dipped my pen in the inkwell and wrote.
There was much confused discourse that followed, and in raised voices, I am afraid, the resolution of which was the identification of an unfortunate misunderstanding. Hethought I wrote to him becauseIwas in need of a physician for an unwholesome complaint, and when he produced my express, I reluctantly saw how he could come to this conclusion.
My university days with Wickham educated me completely on certain worldly matters, thus I identified Mrs Travers’ symptoms for what they were. After my lecherous childhood companion required treatment, in one particular instance with sulphur and mercury, I—noting all the horrible consequences of both disease and remedy—have no interest in erotic pursuits with strange women. Needless to say, I was violent in my self-defence, and my cousin came off his high horse with a mighty thud.
The silver lining of this colossal misunderstanding is that Richard identified and, in all haste, dragged along with him a naval physician. As I write, the doctor stays at the inn in Lambton awaiting my invitation to Pemberley while my cousin came ahead to slap some sense into me beforehand, or so I suppose. This man, Mr Yardley, is reportedly well-trained and devoted to a scientific approach, and since he is the third son of a baronet, he will be well-read. He may be a touch high-minded to serve as our local doctor, but perhaps he will agree to help us with our current predicament.
I sighed as I tore the page out of my now ragged diary, wondering what anyone reading this in the future would make of an annual record of my life in which half the pages were ripped out. I then scribbled out something to the effect that a physician had arrived to consult with Mrs Travers, regretting I could not, even in my private writing, express my feelings or the details of the disaster that had become my life.
21
ELIZABETH DARCY
I returned from my ride nearly blue with cold. I had understood the north to be colder than Hertfordshire but was now beginning to experience this as more than an abstract idea. How I would get the exercise my very soul required was a new anxiety for me. If I were to be confined to this great, hulking, monstrously beautiful palace for months on end without some relief for my restless urges to move, I would go mad.
Above stairs, in the envelope of warmth and comfort that Wilson had somehow woven into my room, I rubbed my hands by the fire before I went through the ritual of washing and changing for my morning pursuits.
“Mr Darcy’s cousin has arrived, ma’am,” Wilson said as she brought out my gown from the dressing room.
“Has he? I did not know we expected him.” Oh dear! This might be the same cousin who had stood by Mr Darcy during our wedding with a posture and expression radiating his dearest wish to murder me.
“Mrs Reynolds did not seem to have expected him and sent three maids at a run to see to a room.”
