by Robin Helm
“Charlotte,” Henry said softly, kneeling before the flushed and angry girl, “would you do me the very great honour of sitting for a portrait? You see,” he leaned in and dropped his voice even lower, as if sharing a great secret, “your brother and I, and Tom, are like the knights on your chessboard, and we are protecting our queen, or, in your case, our princess. We are protecting your honour. But we need your likeness to do so. Would you help us in this very great task?”
Throughout his speech, Charlotte had been studying his face, searching his expressions and tones for ridicule or mockery, but he was as true as any knight. She relaxed, and the resulting flush was not out of anger.
Shy now, she dropped her eyes but agreed to the sitting with a very small, “I will,” but then, upon glancing up at her brother and his friend, she added insultingly, “I will sit for Mr. Brandon. Not for you two boys.”
With that, she spun on her heel and marched across the hall to gather her parasol, for it was a bright and clear morning.
The boys, however, stood still in shock and awe. They both revered and repulsed the older boy, who was, in fact, nearly a man, for his way with a female. Once again, Tom found himself able to speak first.
“Well,” he said with a sharp exhale, “now I have seen it all.”
“Beats anything,” Bennett agreed.
Eventually, the gaping mouths closed, and the friends moved on to gather the fishing supplies. Such a spectacle required some masculine occupation, and boxing was sure to offend Mama. Fishing. Fishing was safe.
The visitors departed the following day in order to be home for Michaelmas festivities. Henry had a few quick, basic sketches that he would fill out while home, and all would be ready for that fateful return to Berkshire.
Chapter Two
Back at Eton, the much-anticipated reunion was overdue. The beasts heard the rumours that they were going to look foolish, but not to go would be the ultimate shame. They had to choose between two evils, and they took their time agreeing to the meeting.
As a result, the knights took note of the enemy’s new routes and schedules and caught them by surprise on the lawn as they left a cricket match.
The beasts suffered a catastrophic beating and spirits were low. The knights were nearly drunk with victory, even before their turn at the beasts had begun.
Henry, for one, kept his head and reigned in the younger crowd’s venom. The stand-off was happening.
“Hear! Hear!” the knights called in an attempt to quiet the growing crowd of witnesses.
Once the roar had been squelched, Bennett stepped forward.
“Before last term ended, one of you simpletons insulted my sister. Let that man step forward to face me now,” Bennett challenged.
Derisions and insults were hurled across the void.
“Note that he did not say gentleman!”
“Can’t be a gentleman when you are a King’s Man!”
“No way out of it now, girls! Look! That one is going to cry!”
Henry came forward from the sidelines, and all sound ceased. He cleared his throat and passed a wise, disapproving glance over the entire crowd. The young man’s eighteen years sat solidly on his shoulders, and he was known by all to be a fair and staid judge.
“I have gone to Darcy’s home, as suggested, and I have met his sister.”
Murmurs and whispers were heard throughout the crowd, but Henry raised his hand and all fell silent once more.
“Miss Darcy, in fact, is a girl of four years. Your accusations are shameful. An apology is in order.”
The silence was broken by a cry of “Charlotte’s a harlot!” with jeers and laughter. The beasts had rallied.
Henry shook his head in apparent sorrow for the impending doom. He turned with a purpose to his left and nodded to a third party amongst the crowd of watchers. Another young man, known to be in his final year at Eton with Henry, took his place with Henry and Bennett.
Bennett’s eyes grew large in wonder and amazement. He glanced at Henry. He glanced at the newcomer, Charles DeLaney. He was so overcome, he actually giggled, albeit nervously.
Charles raised his hand for silence and was awarded it.
“Are we to assume that proof is required? Who dares to question the word of the king?”
For a moment, all was still. Then, from the belly of the beast, a cry rang out.
“Proof!” cried the voice. “What proof can be given that has not been adulterated by the opposing side?”
The voice was strong and surprisingly deep for the body that owned it. He stepped forward, out of the protection of the crowd, and stood his ground, nearly toe to toe with Charles.
Charles looked down into the eyes of this imposter, frowning. “You little fool,” he mumbled, not without a trace of sympathy.
He stepped back. “Let it be known that this lad, Mr. Rowland DeLaney, has defied the king and the judge. He requires proof that Darcy’s sister is but four years old. In effect, he defends the insult.”
He took another step back, as if to put more distance between himself and the accused. “Very well then. Proof you shall have.”
A nod to Bennett, and a paper was produced. Nay, not one paper, but a series of papers. Henry had outdone himself. Not only had he reproduced the child as she was, but he had also sketched representations of the entire family, beginning with the family portrait that was commissioned a year after her birth. The series showed clearly the baby girl with her mother, father, and older brother, proving she continued to grow with them as they aged. In the end, it was Bennett and Charlotte, at present time, seated beside the fishing pond.
It was enough. The crowd cried foul.
Bennett had not seen the entire series prior to this demonstration, and he stood frozen, his gaze fixed upon his family and his home. His heart swelled for a moment, filled with something strong and pure, until the spell was broken by the chaos around him. He managed to tuck away a sheet or two before the rest were torn from his grasp and a true brawl was unleashed. Within a week, Bennett wrote a letter to his parents, explaining what had happened. “Rowland has been expelled, at least for remainder of the year, they say.”
The Lent term had gone by without blemish after that fateful day. Bennett returned home and told them the rest of the story. “DeLaney, his eldest brother, is allowed to finish the year and move on to Cambridge, but Rowland,” he whistled through his teeth, “we will be surprised to meet him again in polite society.”
The boy chatted on about this and that, not fully appreciating the brevity of his claims.
Darcy and Elizabeth, however, glanced at each other significantly more than once. This boyish prank had escalated rather alarmingly, and they were grateful for Bennett’s escape.
“Had this Rowland been in many scrapes?” Darcy inquired after a time, attempting to sound passive.
“Nothing very serious was ever proven, but there was speculation,” was the happy reply.
“And Mr. Brandon was able to play his part well?” Elizabeth questioned with little sign of interest.
“The king was splendid! Pals with DeLaney for years, as it turned out. And his sketches, Mama!” Pride made for a loose tongue, but Bennett quickly stilled it.
He flushed and looked down at his hands.
Elizabeth peered over her book at her husband, then quickly averted her eyes. Sketches plural. More than one. Well, so be it. Henry had apparently served them well and had used his skill to defend their Charlotte, even if it had been for a mere school squabble.
Her curiosity was piqued, but there was no answer for it. This might be one of those life mysteries for which she never found an answer.
⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟
A fortnight later, Elizabeth was at her writing desk, composing a letter to her sister Jane, when a young maid burst into the room.
“Mrs. Darcy,” the maid said breathlessly, dropping a quick curtsey, “’tis Miss Charlotte. She is ill, ma’am.” The maid turned to go, then corrected herself and turned b
ack to Elizabeth, but she was obviously flustered and confused.
“In what way is my daughter ill?” inquired Elizabeth, acutely aware of Charlotte’s antics when crossed. Charlotte was due for an arithmetic lesson and was most likely making excuses to avoid it.
The maid averted her eyes. “Miss Charlotte is feverish and refuses her breakfast,” the maid answered, “and Nanny requests your presence.”
Elizabeth stood immediately. “Why did you not say so at once?” she scolded as she passed by the maid. She made her way to the nursery, but it was empty. She turned and went quickly to Charlotte’s room where she found the child swatting at poor, deaf Nanny in a silent war waged amidst the bed curtains. Elizabeth stifled a chortle and threw herself into the fray.
“Peace, rebels!” she cried. All verbal commands were made primarily to her daughter, since Nanny was known to be deaf. “What is the problem, pray?”
Elizabeth expertly smoothed down the flapping arms and folded the little body into her own. The hand that brushed back the hair from the child’s eyes also tested the heat of the brow, and it was scorching hot.
“Nanny says I must stay abed today,” the child whimpered.
“And so you must, dearest,” Elizabeth corroborated. Nanny collapsed into a chair by the window to collect herself. Elizabeth continued. “You have a fever, Charlotte. You are not well. I will ring for cool compresses and perhaps a cool bath.” As the mother stood to pull the rope behind the bed curtains, Charlotte wailed.
“Not a cool bath, Mama!” she cried. “I am chilled to the bone already!” Her teeth chattered as if to verify the fact.
“My poor, sweet girl,” the mother sympathized, yet she ordered the cool bath when the maid appeared at the door.
The rest of the morning was spent wrestling the unruly, sick child into cool baths and warm sheets, spooning broth into her mouth as she sputtered in disgust at such rough treatment. As Charlotte had never been really ill in her almost five years, she did not approve of the foolishness.
Elizabeth and Darcy discussed their options that evening. The doctor was fairly confident of his diagnosis, and Bennett had never fallen ill with scarlet fever. Given his age, he was on the cusp of safety, but the parents much preferred to keep him away. They were thankful the boy was returning the visit to his friend Tom at their residence in Town and had not been in proximity to his sister since their previous holiday.
“What a mercy to have Bennett safely away! I shall prevail upon Mrs. Brandon’s kindness to keep him away until school begins again. If he is unable to stay with them, perhaps he may move on to Georgiana’s.”
“It is a reasonable request,” Darcy agreed. “The doctor returns this evening to verify the diagnosis?” Darcy inquired of his wife. At her nod, he stood, his expression fixed. “I shall visit the sick room and try my hand at distracting the bear cub in her den, so you will have a moment to collect yourself and pen the missive.”
He bent to plant a swift kiss on his wife’s cheek. “Do try to take your time. Perhaps enjoy a brief walk, if the wind has not become too chilly.”
Elizabeth tilted her head and smiled softly. “Fresh air would be delightful. I will do my best to follow your instructions.”
Darcy chuckled and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He stood for a moment, rooted to the floor, brows furrowed in consternation. So long they had waited for another child. When Charlotte was born, she was like a rainbow after a storm – a promise of treasures and joy to come. Did the Lord now will to take her away? Could his impetuously strong and darling girl be in true danger?
He clenched his fists. No! She shall conquer this! He marched his way up the staircase and down the hall, but his steps slowed, becoming almost laborious as he neared the bedroom door. Her whimpers threaten to crush him. He must steel himself for her tears, for her pain. He, again, stood still, willing his body to relax, to find peace, to find strength. For Charlotte. For Elizabeth. His girls.
⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟
“Well?” Elizabeth prodded more than an hour later upon finding her husband slipping silently from their daughter’s room. He raised his hand to her lips to indicate the need for hushed tones. They moved further down the hall.
“She is resting then?” inquired the relieved mother.
“At long last,” he sighed, rubbing his right temple in his usual manner of fatigue or concern, “and I shall never again regain my posture.”
Amusement played briefly across Elizabeth’s countenance, and the telling brow arched high.
“Put you through your paces, did she?”
“The child belongs in bedlam!” was the comical reply. “The maid informed me that Miss Darcy was required to drink in order to relieve her throat, but the child fought the broth with what little strength she had. I convinced her to take cool water only by droplets onto her tongue with that silly thimble from Georgiana- that tiny, silver, decorative thing she brought back from the Exhibition in Paris. Yes! You are right to laugh! She is a brute, that daughter of yours,” he decreed, adding, “she takes after her mother,” in a low voice.
“The thought of it!” Elizabeth cried, eyes watering in delight. “Heavens! Could she have chosen a smaller conduit?”
“It was torture,” was the dry reply, but honestly, Darcy knew he would do it all again to help his daughter and amuse his wife. It was those dancing eyes that had captured him in the beginning, after all.
The good doctor came, decreed, and departed with promises of return.
The Darcys absolutely refused to hire anyone to help them care for Charlotte, but the demands of just one day had been exhausting for the household. Many of Charlotte’s things were removed from the house to be burned, and the rest would follow upon her recovery.
The doctor recommended blood-letting, purging, and withholding food, but the parents felt those treatments were counterproductive. They promised to consider it overnight and let the doctor know their decision in the morning. Charlotte was already pale beneath her rash and burning cheeks, and the thought of bleeding the child until she fainted rocked Darcy to his core.
⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟
“Do not, by any means, follow the good doctor’s prescriptions!”
Elizabeth and Darcy looked up from their breakfast coffee and toast, their eyes meeting across the table.
“Who, in heaven’s name …,” Darcy began just as the door was abruptly opened, revealing their unannounced visitor.
“Mr. Brandon?” Elizabeth responded in shock.
“I rode all night, after receiving your message,” the young man explained. “You have not bled her or forced her to purge?” His exhaustion was evident, yet he stood there in earnest, drilling the parents as well as any coach or sergeant.
“No, we have not,” replied Elizabeth, curiosity and motherly instincts winning over annoyance at being questioned by a school boy. It was well that her response was faster than her husband’s.
“Sit, Mr. Brandon, and break your fast. You must be famished. I will ring for a room to be prepared,” Elizabeth continued.
Henry allowed himself to be led to a chair and even seated himself, but he pushed away the offered plate, his mission coming back into sharp focus.
“I must know that she is safe.”
Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, expecting a rebuke. She was not wrong in her estimation of her husband’s initial reaction, but he squelched it and studied the boy.
After a moment, Darcy spoke. “The doctor has examined Charlotte and is sure of his diagnosis. Scarlet fever. You are correct in your assumptions that he recommended bleeding and purging, but her mother and I delayed the treatment.” Darcy considered further. If the boy knew the treatment and was confident enough to ride through the night to refute it, perhaps they should hear his reasoning.
“Do you have experience with the illness?’ he asked finally.
Henry paled, but he replied calmly and confidently. “I do. Personal experience and the resulting years of focused study.”
“Most likely the things you are already doing,” Henry replied. He leaned forward, intent on his purpose. “Cool baths and compresses for the fever, liquids – whatever she will take. The throat is painful and swollen, and it is difficult to swallow, but liquids, either cool or warm can be comforting and welcome. They must be taken regularly to keep the pain at bay. Distraction to keep up the spirits.” The pale face brightened. “That is why I came.”
Both parents stared in confusion.
“For distraction,” he explained. “Do not bother your household on my account. Simply allow me to help amuse the invalid.”
Darcy pushed away from the table and stood. “You are asking us to ignore the recommendations of an experienced physician, to burden a guest with the duties of the sick room, and to entrust our young daughter to the care of a young man?”
Henry stood and thoughtfully considered all points.
After a moment, he replied. “A physician’s experiences are to be respected. However, many good doctors never grow beyond their training. Their stance is that what has worked for a hundred years will continue to work, yet the results do not support the claim. The treatments have not worked for many, or even most, patients. Their reluctance to try new therapies limits their abilities to really help. Many impressive arguments lay claim to the power of healing being in the blood, if we could only harness or empower it. Bleeding an already weak invalid until they faint – it is nothing short of criminal.”
Elizabeth stood at long last and walked slowly to stand beside her husband.
“What you say is similar to what we have already considered, though we have not the confidence of personal experience nor years of focused study.” She took a moment to breathe, a controlled inhale and exhale, while she pondered the situation. “You will understand that whatever we decide, it will be with the best interest of our child in mind, and in no way will reflect upon our opinion of you.” She smiled weakly. “We appreciate your zeal and your offer of help,” she continued until interrupted by their young guest.
