“I believe I have discovered why Mr Hurst’s illness is not progressing as usual,” the apothecary announced when the door closed behind them, and Mrs Hurst had taken a seat beside her brother. “It is a rare complication: in some people, very few, the disease diverts blood from its natural courses within the body and causes it to pool beneath the skin. We shall try giving him food and drink which are beneficial to the blood—beef, liver, red wine, and porter, but…”
Darcy saw Bingley gripping the arm of his chair.
Mr Jones looked at them earnestly, sorrow in his eyes. “You should prepare yourselves for the worst.”
Darcy quickly glanced at Mrs Hurst; her distress was matched by that of Hurst’s loyal servant, Mulgrew. Both stared at Jones in shock for several seconds, then Mrs Hurst sank slowly back against the cushions of the settee and sat quite frozen, one hand covering her mouth.
Bingley turned to the apothecary. “I cannot believe, sir, that it is as dire as all that. Or perhaps I do not wish to believe it. What are we to expect for my brother?”
Mr Jones spread his hands. “You must understand that I have never seen a case of this type before. All my information is from books, and there is little even there. All of it is grim,” he said before providing them some details of the likely trauma and loss of blood in such a diagnosis.
The apothecary’s horrifying disclosure was greeted with a weighty silence; Darcy feared Bingley or his sister would faint. “But some do survive?” he asked intently.
“Some few, according to the texts,” he allowed. “Which is why I prescribe food and drink to strengthen and thicken the blood.”
There was another silence. Then Bingley said with a decisive, even defiant, air, “Then that is what we shall do. We shall give Hurst every chance that diligent care can afford, and trust that he shall be spared.”
Darcy was watching Mr Jones, and though the man smiled and nodded encouragingly, there was something in his expression that suggested his own hopes were faint. Darcy allowed a few minutes to pass, and then stood and said, “Come, Bingley, Carter, we must be about our rounds if we are to return before dark.”
With a few final encouraging words for his sister, Bingley joined his friends, and they all made their way out to their horses again, as Mr Jones assured them he would now monitor Mr Hurst twice daily, and in the afternoons would also see Miss Bennet.
Darcy examined the apothecary, whose exhaustion was far too evident. “Sir, you do not look well. I hope you are not becoming ill?”
Mr Jones smiled faintly. “No, I am well in body. Yesterday I lost a patient, and I am merely tired and very sad.”
“Who has died?”
“Little Michael Blake. It has been obvious for some days that his chances were not good, but one always hopes until the very last, particularly with the young.”
Carter sighed heavily. “I rode to the Blakes’ two days ago. I am sorry to hear of their tragic loss.”
“The others in the family?” asked Darcy.
“Mr and Mrs Blake and their elder sons are recovering.” Mr Jones straightened his shoulders. “Allow me, gentlemen, to thank you again for your efforts on behalf of this community. I do not know how I should have managed without such aid as you have so diligently supplied.”
“Surely our daily rides, however cold, are nothing compared to your work directly with the ill,” said Darcy. “It is a relief to me, and surely to everyone in the area, that you have not succumbed to the illness yourself.”
Mr Jones looked faintly startled. “Oh, did I never mention that I was inoculated when I studied at St Bart’s?” he asked, naming the great London hospital at which the most promising medical students received their practical training.
“No, nor did you mention your studies there,” Darcy exclaimed. “So youarea physician?”
The apothecary’s expression closed off. “I was unable to complete my studies or sit the examination for licensing by the Royal College of Physicians. I am merely an unusually well-trained apothecary.”
“Whatever training you have had, I am glad of it,” said Bingley with a weak show of his usual cheer, breaking the tension. “I expect you saw many cases of smallpox there, and that is what has made you so able in the present crisis.”
Mr Jones inclined his head. “Yes, there was an outbreak during my training. I was fortunate to become familiar with the course of the disease and the signs of complications, at least the more common ones.”
Struck by a sudden notion, Darcy wasted no time in acting upon it. “Sir, I am ashamed I have not thought of it before, but would you accept the use of my carriage and driver for your daily travels? It would allow you to conserve your energies for your patients.”
Mr Jones smiled and spoke with real gratitude. “That is a very kind offer, Mr Darcy, and I am sorely tempted to accept, but I feel I must retain the freedom and speed which a horse provides. It is likely I shall need, sooner or later, the minutes which a shortcut across the fields provides.”
“And your daily rounds would no doubt be quite extended in time, if not in effort, by being confined to the roads,” Darcy said with a nod. “Of course. I did not think.”
“You thought of my comfort and well-being, and I am grateful for it.” He looked about, including them all as he continued, “Well, I must get on to Longbourn. Miss Lydia reported a pain in her eye yesterday, but I was unable to get a good look by candlelight. I mean to take advantage of this sunshine to do better.”
They mounted their horses and soon parted at the gates of Netherfield. Darcy noted that Mr Jones’s saddle and tack, like his greatcoat, were worn but had once been as fine as any of theirs. His horse, too, was a good mount; not spirited but strong and bred for endurance. He wondered at these disparate clues—the fine education and possessions, the overt signs of present poverty—for a moment, before he set them aside to turn to Bingley and offer his commiseration on the unfortunate diagnosis of Hurst.
“He shall be well,” Bingley declared. “I refuse to believe otherwise.”
