Page 9 of Unwillingly Mrs. Darcy
Elizabeth
T he drawing room at Longbourn was modestly furnished but warm, the light from the soft evening sun filtering through the windows. Mrs Bennet paced anxiously, wringing her hands, while Jane and Elizabeth sat by the hearth. Elizabeth appeared composed but observant, while Jane looked pale, her brow furrowed. Opposite them sat Mr Eversham, a specialist of advancing years with a deliberate and thoughtful manner. He had come from Scotland to tend to a patient and, thanks to Uncle Gardiner, had agreed to examine Mr Bennet. Now, they awaited his verdict.
He adjusted his glasses before speaking.
“Well? What can be done, Mr Eversham? Can you heal him? Make him as he was?” Mrs Bennet asked, her voice rife with anxiety.
“Mrs Bennet, I understand your distress,” Mr Eversham said calmly, “but apoplexy and the resulting paralysis are grave matters. Recovery cannot be assured, but there are methods of treatment that may provide some relief. However, they require diligence and patience.”
Jane leaned forward, her voice soft but steady. “What treatments might those be, Mr Eversham?”
Mr Eversham folded his hands together and nodded thoughtfully. “Bloodletting is often employed to reduce the pressure upon the brain, though in cases such as your father’s, where a previous attempt has been made, it must be considered carefully. Leeches applied behind the ears or to the temples can sometimes assist in drawing out excess humours.”
Mrs Bennet gasped, sinking into a chair and clutching her handkerchief. “Leeches! Good heavens! Oh, my poor Mr Bennet!”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows arched. “The town surgeon has already used leeches once, and it did not work. Is there nothing more that can be done?”
“Treatments such as bloodletting or leeches can be repeated with some regularity. There are additional measures,” Mr Eversham continued. “The application of mustard plasters and warm poultices to the limbs may encourage circulation. Friction rubs with stimulating oils, such as rosemary or camphor, have been used to restore sensation and movement in affected limbs. Gentle manipulation of the muscles may, in time, provide some benefit.”
Jane’s expression remained steady. “Is there any hope that he might regain the ability to walk?”
“It is difficult to say,” Mr Eversham admitted. “Some patients do regain partial mobility if attended with care and perseverance. The key is to maintain warmth, avoid idleness of the limbs, and ensure that he is not left to languish in bed too long, lest his strength waste away.”
Mrs Bennet moaned, throwing her hands up in despair. “Mustard plasters, leeches, bloodletting, rubbing the limbs—such barbarity! Elizabeth, Jane, I cannot bear it!”
Mr Eversham allowed himself a small smile. “I assure you, Mrs Bennet, these are the most trusted treatments of our time.”
“What of galvanism? I have heard about it, is it effective?” Jane asked.
“Galvanism?” Elizabeth’s tone sharpened, though curiosity gleamed in her eyes.
“Galvanism is a most novel and ingenious treatment, though its efficacy remains uncertain,” the physician said. “Galvani pioneered the practice in animals and a fellow Italian named Volta is experimenting with it. I do not advise it. Hardly any physician practices it.”
“Pray, what is it?” Mrs Bennet asked. “We can leave no stone unturned.”
“Mrs Bennet, I must advise against it. In essence, it is the application of a mild electrical current to the affected muscles has been trialled in some cases. The theory is that it may restore function to the limbs.”
Mrs Bennet paled as if it had not been her who’d demanded the treatment’s details. “Shocking my poor husband? Oh, I will not hear of it!”
Elizabeth ignored her mother’s protests and turned back to Mr Eversham. “And has this method seen success?”
“There are accounts of minor improvements, though not in all cases,” he admitted. “It remains an uncertain treatment. The best success has been seen when physicians and nurses have been on hand regularly. One of the Prince Regent’s cousins had a case in the family and the Prince Regent paid for such treatments, and around the clock care. The relation fully recovered, or almost. But the chap may have recovered without treatment, there is no way of knowing.”
At what cost? Elizabeth wondered. They did not have the purse the Prince Regent did, after all.
Jane took her mother’s hand, her quiet resolve steadying them both. “We will consider all options carefully. Would you be willing to write down an estimate of what it might cost to get the very best treatment, as well as other options?”
Mr Eversham rose, inclining his head solemnly. “I shall leave you to your deliberations. Should you wish to proceed with any of these treatments, please send word. I will return on the morrow to discuss the best path forward and am happy to make referrals to any practitioner you wish.”
As he departed, Elizabeth turned to her sister, her expression both weary and resolute. “Jane, these treatments may not promise certainty, but we owe it to Papa to explore every possibility.”
Jane nodded. “Yes, Lizzy. Whatever it takes, we must do what we can.”
Elizabeth appeared ready to respond when a burst of voices from outside drew her attention. Rising, she moved towards the window and glanced out.
“It seems Mr Collins is being quite thoroughly detained,” Elizabeth remarked, observing her cousin with her younger sisters. She caught fragments of conversation and watched as Mr Collins crossed his arms and shook his head in Lydia’s direction.
Mrs Bennet paused her lamentations. “What’s that, Lizzy? Who is Mr Collins speaking to?”
“Mary, Kitty, and Lydia,” Elizabeth replied, peering through the curtain. “Lydia appears to be pleading her case to attend yet another ball. Mr Collins, in turn, does not seem agreeable.”
Through the slightly open window, Lydia’s voice rang clear. “Mr Collins, you are not our father! It is simply unreasonable! Why, any young lady of sense would know the importance of such engagements!”
Mr Collins’s reply was equally distinct. “My dear cousin, your father’s absence does not mean I will condone unseemly conduct…”
Mary’s calm voice interjected, “Lydia, please, this insistence on frivolities is unbecoming.”
Kitty’s stammering voice added, “Oh, but Mr Collins, do consider how splendid it would be and such a distraction…”
Another exasperated exclamation from Lydia was enough to draw Elizabeth back from the window, shaking her head with a smirk.
“It appears, Mama, that Mr Collins is quite determined to impose his moral authority, despite Lydia’s best efforts to defy it. She has, unsurprisingly, informed him he is not her father.”
Mrs Bennet’s despair surged anew. “Oh, that girl will be the ruin of us all!” she wailed. “She will turn him against us, and then we will all be without house or home, put out on the streets. My nerves, Lizzy! Jane! My nerves!”
“Mother, we will not be put out on the streets. We have Aunt and Uncle Phillips and the Gardiners. Do not fret.”
But fret their mother would, and Elizabeth knew that no matter the cost of her father’s treatment, it would do nothing to soothe her mother’s nerves.
***
Later that afternoon, as Elizabeth walked along the quiet lanes of Meryton, her thoughts were heavy. The uncertainty of her father’s health plagued her mind, and so did the dismal feeling of helplessness. She had returned from the tense atmosphere of Longbourn earlier, her mind reeling with grim realities.
The letter from Mr Eversham had arrived that afternoon as promised and contained within it a careful summary of treatment options and their associated costs. He noted that traditional remedies could continue, though with limited efficacy, alongside his observation that electrical stimulation might prove more promising. The procedure would require a specialist from Scotland who had experience with apoplexy, a physician of great reputation but significant expense. The specialist would need to remain in residence for several weeks, adding to the costs.
Elizabeth had read the sums with mounting dread. Mr Eversham estimated that the best physician’s treatments, travel expenses, and necessary accommodations would amount to nearly three hundred pounds to cover a physician who could exclusively care for Mr Bennet, along with two assistants to take care of his needs, one for the day and one for the night—a sum so immense for her family that she could scarcely comprehend how they might gather it. Longbourn, already strained with debts, could not possibly stretch to accommodate this additional burden. However, this was the very best treatment and the treatment that might allow them to properly help their father recover his health. There were much cheaper options, especially when they continued to provide the nursing care themselves and worked with the local surgeon—but their father’s chances of recovery were low.
As she mulled over the figures, a deeper ache settled in her chest. If only her family’s circumstances were less precarious. If only her father had not delayed so long in discussing Longbourn’s inheritance. What pained her most was her own utter inability to help, standing helpless while they tried to scrape together a solution.
Once again, her thoughts slipped unbidden to Mr Darcy. She recalled that day in Kent as vividly as if it had been yesterday—the sharpness of his words, the intensity of his eyes as he declared his affection.
If she had accepted him, her life could be so different now. There would be no sleepless nights fretting over money, no hopeless meetings with physicians tallying sums beyond their reach. Instead, she would be settled, perhaps even proud, as the wife of a man whose fortune alone could shield her family from any number of storms.
The thought twisted her insides. Foolish! Such vanity and bitterness now, after all that had passed between them. Mr Darcy had been insufferable, and she would have been miserable. His arrogance, his disdain for her connections—they could never be reconciled. Hadn’t he insulted her entire family? Insisted on Jane’s unsuitability for Mr Bingley?
“No,” she murmured aloud, shaking her head, her steps faltering on the shaded path. A rush of heat stung her eyes, and she furiously brushed away tears that began to form. How could she even think of him now, much less imagine a life in which she had accepted him? He was proud, overbearing, impossible.
And yet, somewhere deep within, a nagging sense of regret stirred. Could things have turned out differently? Would she have had the strength to temper his arrogance if she had acted differently?
The thought offered no comfort—only pain, like a blade pressed into a raw wound. Elizabeth straightened her back, forcing herself to keep moving forward.