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She fought for patience. “I am an avid walker and have experienced my share of blisters. I fail to see how they could possibly be helpful.”
“Permit me to say that there must be a wide difference between the understanding amongst the laity and those which regulate the best physicians. I look upon the trained medic as equal in point of wisdom with the highest rank of the kingdom.”
Since the highest-ranking man in England, King George III, was widely considered insane, she could not take comfort in his sentiment.
“Unless at once diverted by the most energetic means, his disharmonious humours are predisposed to attack the brain or spinal cord, quickly disorganising their structure. This is the source of his mania and inability to speak.”
Donavan’s expression grew truculent, as if daring her to continue arguing. Every part of her wished to; she was not uneducated on the subjects of illnesses and care of the body. She’d always felt a connexion to Grandmother Bennet, whose herbals held pride of place in her father’s library—and were amongst the first volumes that she had assumed actual risk in ‘borrowing’. She had taken many notes from them in her own journals, and while most of her experience had to do with megrims, nervous complaints, and menstrual difficulties, she could brew a tea to ease fevers, prepare an ointment to relieve burns, hold numerous intelligent discussions with Mrs Bailey, the midwife, and had, on one memorable occasion—and unbeknownst to her parents—delivered one of Longbourn’s tenant wives of a babe who had arrived before Mrs Bailey could.
Mr Donavan’s explanations sounded like…balderdash.
“Lady Catherine,” Lizzy said, hoping to appeal to a voice of reason, “perhaps, before such extreme measures are tried, simpler treatments with proven success, such as—”
“Did I ask your opinion?” the lady interrupted stridently. “Am I consulting you for your expertise? I am shocked and astonished that you would attempt to interfere with your betters—”
“Excuse me, Aunt. I-I feel I should…see to my correspondence,” Georgiana interpolated, standing, swaying slightly, her voice nearly a whisper. She was so pale, she appeared almost ghostly in the bright yellow room—and slightly greenish.
Lady Catherine swivelled to look at her. “Young lady, you look peaked. Perhaps the doctor should attend to you too.”
“I am certain Miss Darcy is well. We often rest this time of the day, do we not?” Lizzy invented quickly, going at once to her friend.
Lady Catherine quickly lost interest in them both. Georgiana appeared in great danger of swooning; Lizzy grasped her arm as they took their leave of the doctor and Lady Catherine. Those two remained oblivious, beginning a discussion on ferrous humours and overexcited organs. Neither acknowledged the younger ladies’ departure.
* * *
At the door to her room, Georgiana paused. “I think I will rest now.”
Lizzy nodded dumbly as the girl disappeared inside, shutting the door quietly behind her. For long moments, Lizzy just stood there, wondering what to do. Her impulse was to follow Georgiana into her room, but to say what? What possible consolation could she offer?
Absolutely none.This all felt like her own fault—had not she insisted Georgiana write to Lady Catherine, bringing the difficult lady into the situation in the first place? She had no comforting ideas, no words of wisdom, and no reassurance. Besides, it was the man upstairs who was apparently to be tortured into good health. Or most likely, simply tortured.
She went so far as to open the door to her room—so pretty and luxurious—and enter. Her feet sank into the thick rug. The bed, with its fine linens and thick mattresses, called to her. Besides, she was exhausted—not simply from lack of sleep, but from feeling powerless and insignificant. Moving to shut the door behind her, however, a sudden thought speared her soul:
“Miss Elizabeth, it is all in vain. My sentiments cannot be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
The memory of his words hurt. It had hurt when he’d spoken them, taunting her, as she’d thought then. What man of honour pronounced such declarations from his saddle, after disdaining her for weeks? But last night’s kiss…could he possibly have meant any of it?
Oh, if he had! What would she have replied had she believed in his love? What might be different, now, if instead of laughing off the remark in what might have seemed a callous response, she had questioned him as to why he had said it?
But it did not signify. She could not go back in time and change the past. She could do nothing to offer hope or peace or solutions in the present. The only thing she could do for him in the whole world was to keep his beloved sister from bearing her burdens alone.
With a sigh, she turned on her heel and exited her chamber, closing the door gently behind her.
Georgiana lay facedown upon her bed, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Lizzy sat beside her, placing her hand gently upon the girl’s back, trying to think of something to say.
Georgiana finally turned to face her, her eyes red and swollen. “I have disappointed him in every possible way,” she cried. “His illness is my fault. I cannot explain. I simply cannot. You must trust me…I am the cause of his illness. Donavan ought to be blistering me!”
“You are correct; I do not understand,” Lizzy said after contemplating this for some moments. “But—your brother does understand. He already knows whatever it is you are unwilling to tell me, does he not? And yet, it is obvious he thinks only of your welfare and happiness.”
“I do not deserve his love,” Georgiana said at last.
“Fortunately for you, you do not have to deserve it. It just is. A gift you can accept and even grow and nurture. You know my history. By all rights, my sisters should have hated me. Certainly, had they treated me ill, they would never have been punished.”
“I doubt you ever gave them cause.”
Lizzy laughed. “I certainly did. We were regarded equally by our nurserymaid, but as I grew older, I realised I was not granted the same parental affection. However, I was endlessly hopeful that if I was good enough and well-behaved enough, this might change. It came to a head upon my seventh birthday. We are all close in age, and I had recently witnessed Jane and Catherine’s birthdays. While there was not much in the way of celebrations for any of us, they had each received a doll on the great day. I expected one on mine and waited—not very patiently—for my gift. It did not come. Finally, I went to my mother and demanded it. She told me there was nothing, blamed my father for pinching pennies, and sent me back upstairs.”
“That was not right,” Georgiana said.
