Page 16 of Grief and Grievances
“Pray, do not lose heart; sometimes, miracles do occur,” the doctor offered, attempting to provide a measure of hope amidst the despair. “Mrs. Collins and Miss Bennet are an admirable pair of nurses; Miss de Bourgh could not ask for better. I have agreed also to send for one of my colleagues from London, to gain a second opinion, but I must caution you that I do not believe it likely that there is any hope.”
A heavy silence settled over the room as Darcy and Fitzwilliam processed the dire news of Anne’s condition. The weight of their responsibility hung in the air, as palpable as the fading warmth of the fire. Darcy steeled himself, blinking back a sudden sting in his eyes, and met the doctor’s gaze.
“Rest assured, Doctor,” he said with quiet determination, “we will relay this information to Lady Catherine. It is our duty to ensure she is prepared for what lies ahead.”
“Indeed,” Fitzwilliam added, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. “We are grateful for your candour and skill in attending to Anne.”
The doctor nodded gravely. “I appreciate your understanding, gentlemen. In these circumstances, honesty is the best course of action. And, if I may advise you further,” he continued, his eyes betraying a hint of concern as he glanced at the sleeping Lady Catherine and the laudanum bottle on the tray beside her, “I would caution against excessive use of laudanum for Lady Catherine’s nerves. The effects can be unpredictable, particularly in times of great distress.”
“Is there an alternative you might recommend?” Fitzwilliam inquired.
“Indeed, there is a calming tea I can provide to Mrs. Collins,” the doctor replied. “It should help to soothe her ladyship’s nerves without the potential dangers associated with laudanum.”
“Your counsel is most appreciated, Doctor,” Darcy said, offering a stiff but sincere smile. As he did so, his thoughts were consumed by the daunting task ahead: breaking the news to his formidable aunt, and witnessing the shattering of her well-ordered world. The prospect filled him with dread, but he knew it was a burden he must bear.
“Let us hope,” Fitzwilliam murmured, echoing Darcy’s unspoken thoughts, “that the tea will bring some measure of comfort to Lady Catherine in these trying times.”
“Indeed,” Darcy agreed, his heart heavy with the weight of their shared grief. “For all our sakes, let us hope that it does.”
As the two men prepared to face the difficult conversations ahead, Darcy’s mind wandered to Elizabeth and Charlotte, who had so selflessly taken on the care of Anne. The image of Elizabeth’s tender touch and serene countenance as she attended to his cousin filled him with an unexpected warmth. In these dark times, he found solace in the knowledge that Anne was surrounded by such unwavering compassion—a balm for the wounds inflicted by fate, if only for a fleeting moment.
The creak of the door heralded the arrival of Mr. Collins and Maria, their faces etched with worry as they stepped into the sombre atmosphere that had settled over Rosings. Darcy watched them for a moment, noting the sheen of perspiration on Mr. Collins’ brow, his eyes darting nervously about the room. His countenance bespoke a man ill at ease, his hands wringing together in a futile attempt to dispel the tension that had seized him. Though he was no stranger to Lady Catherine’s whims and caprices, the gravity of her daughter’s plight seemed to have rendered him incapable of rendering any practical assistance.
“Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” he stammered, bowing with uncharacteristic haste. “I must express my deepest condolences for the unfortunate turn of events. My very deepest!”
“Thank you, Mr. Collins,” Darcy replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil that gripped his heart. “We appreciate your concern. However, we must now focus on providing support for those who are tending to Anne.”
“Indeed, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam chimed in, eyeing the flustered clergyman with thinly veiled impatience. “It is imperative that we ensure the well-being of all those involved in this trying time.”
“Of course, gentlemen,” Mr. Collins agreed, his brow furrowing in consternation. “But what can I do? I am but a humble clergyman, possessing neither the skill nor the authority to intervene in such a delicate matter.”
“Mr. Collins,” Darcy said, his patience wearing thin, “there is much to be done within the household. The staff will require guidance and reassurance during this tumultuous period. You are well-acquainted with the staff of Rosings, and it falls upon you to attend to their spiritual needs.”
“Attend to the needs of the household staff?” Mr. Collins repeated, his expression a mixture of bewilderment and dismay. “But, Mr. Darcy, I have always endeavoured to model my conduct upon that of my esteemed patroness, and—“
“Enough!” Darcy interrupted, his voice firm but measured. “Lady Catherine’s current state of distress precludes her from offering guidance to those under her employ. It is your duty, as her clergyman, to provide the necessary direction in her stead.”
“Very well, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Collins acquiesced, his shoulders slumping in resignation. “I shall endeavour to do so, though I fear that my efforts will be woefully inadequate in comparison to Lady Catherine’s capable administration.”
“Your willingness to undertake this task is commendable, Mr. Collins,” Fitzwilliam said, his tone placating. “I am certain that your efforts will prove invaluable in maintaining order and stability within the household.”
“I thank you for your kind words, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Mr. Collins replied, his chest puffing up ever so slightly with pride. “Rest assured that I shall discharge my duties with the utmost diligence and devotion.”
As Darcy watched Mr. Collins depart on the weighty errand he had been tasked with, Colonel Fitzwilliam laid a steadying hand upon his cousin’s shoulder. “Come now, Darcy,” he said gently, “you must not let this unfortunate circumstance unnerve you. Remember, our dear Anne is in good hands.”
“Indeed,” Darcy replied, attempting to quell the tempest of emotions that threatened to overpower him. He looked towards the chamber where Anne lay, her fragile form attended by the diligent care of both Mrs. Collins and Elizabeth Bennet. “I am grateful for their assistance, Fitzwilliam; but I cannot help but feel guilty for entrusting my cousin’s well-being to those who are not kin.”
“Your concern does you credit,” Fitzwilliam reassured him. “But I have observed both Mrs. Collins and Miss Bennet closely these past few days, and I can say with certainty that their dedication to Anne’s welfare is beyond reproach. They are capable, compassionate, and resourceful—qualities that are far more vital in times of crisis than mere consanguinity.”
Darcy nodded, his brow furrowed as he pondered Fitzwilliam’s words. It was true that both Charlotte and Elizabeth had displayed an impressive level of composure and capability in the face of Anne’s sudden accident. Their swift, decisive actions had doubtless contributed to the stabilisation of her condition. And yet, the gnawing sensation of guilt persisted, as if he were somehow betraying his family by entrusting Anne’s care to others.
“Perhaps you are right,” Darcy admitted at last, his voice tinged with uncertainty. “Still, I cannot help but feel... responsible.”
“Responsibility is a heavy burden, my dear cousin,” Fitzwilliam said softly, his gaze compassionate. “But it is one that we must all bear in our own way. In this instance, our duty lies not only in ensuring Anne’s comfort, but also in supporting those who have so selflessly taken up her cause. We must have faith in their abilities, and offer them our unwavering support and encouragement.”
“Very well,” Darcy agreed, drawing himself up to his full height. “I shall endeavour to do just that, for Anne’s sake—and for the sake of those who have shown themselves to be true friends in this time of need.”
“Spoken like a true gentleman,” Fitzwilliam replied, clapping him on the back. “Now, let us return to our posts; there is much work to be done, and little time for idle reflection.”
