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.”
“Doyoulike 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 thebarber-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.”
“Iknowwhat a tumour is, curse you! What makes you think I have one?”
“Well, naturally, I do notknow. 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.”
Chapter Six
“Forgive me, sir, butyou have a visi—”
The butler never even got the word out before Charles Bingley burst into the foyer. “Darcy! Thank heaven you’re back. I’ve been waiting for hours.”
