Page 39 of Till Death Us Do Part: Book 2
“Yes, I was just asking Nurse Babette how I can help, and she was graciously thanking me for my proposed efforts.”
Babette laughed at the incongruity of the assertion, and Nurse Dashwood laughed at the idea that M Darcy had convinced Babette of anything. “You can barely walk thirty yards without help, M Darcy.”
“There are at least a dozen beds within thirty yards, and nothing stops me from resting for ten minutes and walking another thirty.”
“You are believed to be somewhat important, sir. What happens if you relapse?” Nurse Dashwood asked.
Feeling he had entered territory where he might be able to win the argument (for once), Darcy replied, “I have been reading about the illness. Most believe that having it confers immunity, at least for a time. Studies go back at least to the sixteenth century, and the doctors know more than you might think. I am at considerably less risk than either of you.”
Babette laughed, and Miss Dashwood said, “In that, you are mistaken. We have both had typhus. That is part of the reason we take care of most patients.”
“All the more proof of my thesis. Neither of you have fallen sick, so I can help you.”
“You do not know anything about nursing.”
“I can learn, and I will dispute that I know nothing. I have been on the receiving end of the best nursing in France, and I paid attention.”
Babette laughed, shook her finger at him like a naughty schoolboy, and said something about flattery getting him nowhere, but too fast for him to follow.
Nurse Dashwood looked carefully at him. “All right. You are still not recovered, and I do not look forward to the chastisement if I lose you, so do not overexert yourself. You will start with simple things. Read to people, help feed them or give water, things that will not tax your strength.”
“But is exercise not part of my recovery?” Darcy asked logically.
Nurse Dashwood laughed, and turned to return to her duties, saying only, “Do not push your luck, M Darcy. Simple things—then we shall see. I will have M Barbeau watching, and you know you cannot get anything past him.”
“It would not occur to me to try.”
Thus, began what would later seem the longest month of his life. The epidemic kept getting larger over the following weeks. A dozen became two, then four, then six. Darcy did as instructed, and every day his strength improved, while the workload increased even more. Additional doctors, apothecaries, and nurses were brought in, but still his two most familiar ladies were run ragged day and night. Every morning Darcy woke up and got right to work, and every night he collapsed into his bed, exhausted.
He came to know death and suffering at a level he had never come close to appreciating before, and he wondered how soldiers managed to deal with it day in and day out over a longcareer. It did not take long to learn to spot those most likely to die, and he gravitated towards them as a way to shield the nurses from a little bit of pain. After all, he would return to his life soon enough, but they would still be there—unless of course he convinced either or both to accept his help. Offering some comfort to the dying had some satisfaction, but since most of them died during the fever stage, they were rarely even aware of his presence.
Mayday came and went in a blur of exhaustion, with the only notable event being the receipt of two more letters from the French army that dashed a few more hopes of reaching his cousin.
The onslaught tapered off soon after, and by mid-May things had returned to almost normal. The dead had been buried, while the survivors were beginning the slow and steady struggle to regain their strength, just like Darcy but a few weeks behind. Those who had a home and loved ones to care for them returned, while the rest stayed until they were more recovered. Darcy helped those who remained as best he could, and the numbers finally tapered down to a trickle.
It was on the fifteenth of May that things finally changed. He had no way of knowing that his wife was meeting with his uncle and aunt in Pemberley that day (or that the meeting went badly), but he did spend a very large part of his day thinking about Mrs Darcy, and planning how he might redeem himself. He had long accepted that the fault of their poor beginning was entirely his. He could have avoided all the unpleasantness of their nuptials and parting. He could have set them up for success instead of failure, if he had been willing to ask one simple question: ‘Were you complicit?’ He had not asked, but assumed, and that assumption, that lack of faith, that willingness to say vows he did not really mean, probably soured the relationship for years to come.
He sat down with a man in his sixties who had been there for a couple of weeks, though Darcy had never talked to him, and asked how he was doing.
“You are M Darcy, is that correct?” the man asked without preamble. The rules of politeness had been mostly shaved off all interactions in the ward as a matter of practicality, so Darcy thought nothing of the abrupt beginning.
“I am—and you?”
“Major Hugo, and, as the English say, at your service.”
Darcy laughed and sat down on a chair next to the major’s bed. “You seem inclined to stay on this side of the great dividing line, Major.”
“Seen worse, have you?” the major asked in impeccable English, which no longer surprised Darcy. After the previous month, he wondered if anything would ever shock him again.
“I have, but if you are a major, I suspect you will have me beat handily.”
“I suppose so, but I have never felt much was achieved by boasting about how much suffering you have seen or experienced.”
“A sensible opinion, Major.”
Darcy noticed an unknown woman coming down the aisle carrying a teapot on a tray, and tried to stand to give her room, but found he was just too bone-tired.
The young woman did not seem overly bothered, so she just stepped around him and put the pot, along with two cups, on the bedside table. She gave him an instructing look, and when he nodded, she smiled and left.
