“No one shall enter it without your permission, doctor,” said Lady Wychwood.
She was agreeably surprised, when she reported the doctor’s words to Lucilla, to see a look of chagrin in Lucilla’s face, for she had been inclined to think that for all her engaging ways and pretty manners she wanted heart. She had certainly not expected tears to spring to Lucilla’s eyes when she was told that she must not enter Miss Wychwood’s room until all danger of infection was over, and she was a good deal touched when Lucilla said forlornly: “May I not nurse her, ma’am?”
“No, my dear, I am afraid not. Jurby is going to nurse her.”
“Oh, yes, but I could help her, couldn’t I? I promise I would do just as she bade me, and even if she doesn’t think I’m old enough to nurse people I could at least sit with Miss Wychwood while Jurby rests, or goes down to eat her dinner, couldn’t I? I can’t bear it if I am not allowed to do anything,because I do love her so much, and she does everything for me!”
Lady Wychwood was moved to put an arm round her, and to give her a slight hug. “I know how hard it is for you, dear child,” she said sympathetically. “I’m in the same case, you know. I would give anything to be able to look after my sister, but I must not.”
“But you have your baby to look after, ma’am, which makes it quite different!” Lucilla said urgently. “I haven’t got a baby, or anyone who would be a penny the worse for it if I caught influenza!”
“I can tell you of one who would be the worse for it, and that is my sister,” said Lady Wychwood. “Jurby tells me that she is in a great worry about us, and has made Jurby promise not to permit either of us to go near her. I know you wouldn’t wish to distress her—and to tell you the truth I think she is feeling too poorly even to wish to see anyone but Jurby. Wait until she is rather better! The instant Dr Tidmarsh tells us that she is no longer infectious I promise you shan’t be kept out of her room. As for sitting with her now, she isn’t ill enough to make it necessary for someone to be always with her, you know. Indeed, from what I know of her, I am very sure she would find it very irksome never to be left alone!”
Lucilla heaved a doleful sigh, but submitted, saying humbly that she didn’t mean to be troublesome. Lady Wychwood then had the happy notion that she might like to go out with Mrs Wardlow, who had shopping to do, and buy some flowers to put in Miss Wychwood’s room. The suggestion took well. Lucilla’s face brightened, and she exclaimed: “Oh, yes! I should like that of all things, ma’am! Thank you!” But when Lady Wychwood further suggested that she should write a note to Corisande to ask her to ride with her on the following morning, she shook her head, and said decidedly that nothing would prevail upon her to go pleasuring while Miss Wychwood was ill.
It was not to be expected that Miss Farlow would submit as meekly to the doctor’s decree, and nor did she. Hardly had Lucilla tripped out with the housekeeper than she subjected Lady Wychwood to an extremely trying half-hour, during which she complained passionately of Jurby’s insolence in daring to shut her out of Annis’s room; declared her intention of taking care of Annis herself, whatever the doctor said; delivered herself of a moving but muddled speech in support of her claims to be the only proper person to have charge of the sick-room, in which she several times begged Lady Wychwood to agree that whatever anyone said blood was thicker than water; and ended an agitated monologue by pointing out, in triumph, that it was of no use for her ladyship to talk of the danger of infection, because she had already had the influenza.
It was some little time before Lady Wychwood was able to bring her to reason, and a great deal of tact was necessary; but she managed it at last, and without wounding Miss Farlow’s sensibilities. She said that she did not know how she and Nurse were to go on, if Maria felt she must devote herself to Annis. That was quite enough. Miss Farlow, in a gush of affection, said that she was ready to do anything in the world to ease the burdens under which she knew well dear, dear Lady Wychwood was labouring, and went off, happy in the knowledge that her services were indispensable.
Unlike Tom, or Miss Farlow, Miss Wychwood was a very good patient. She obeyed the doctor’s directions, swallowed the nastiest of drugs without protest; made few demands, and still fewer complaints; and resolutely refrained from tossing and turning in what she knew to be an unavailing attempt to get into a more comfortable position. As Dr Tidmarsh had prophesied, her fever mounted, and though it was too much to say that she became delirious, her mind did wander a little, and once she started out of an uneasy doze, exclaiming: “Oh, why doesn’t he come?” in an anguished voice; but she almost immediately came to herself, and after staring for a moment in bewilderment at Jurby’s face, bent over her, she murmured: “Oh, it’s you, Jurby! I thought—I must have been dreaming, I suppose.”
Jurby saw no reason to report this incident to Lady Wychwood.
The fever began to abate on the second day, but it still remained high enough to make Dr Tidmarsh shake his head; and it was not until the third day that it burnt itself out, and did not recur. Miss Wychwood emerged from this shattering attack so much exhausted that for the next twenty-four hours she had no energy to do more than swallow, with an effort, a little liquid nourishment, or to rouse herself to take more than a vague interest in whatever events were taking place in her household. For the most part of the day she slept, conscious of a feeling of profound relief that her bones were no longer being racked, and that the Catherine wheel in her head was no longer making her life hideous.
The fourth day saw the arrival in Camden Place of Sir Geoffrey. He had borne with equanimity the news, conveyed to him by his dutiful wife, that Miss Farlow was in bed with influenza; a second letter, informing him that Tom had caught the infection disturbed him a little, but not enough to make him disregard Amabel’s assurance that there was not the smallest need for him to be anxious; but the third letter (though she still begged him not to come to Bath), containing the news that Annis too had succumbed to the prevailing epidemic, set him on the road to Bath within an hour of his receiving it. He couldn’t remember any occasion since her childhood when Annis had contracted anything more serious than a slight cold in the head, and it seemed to him that if she could fall ill there was no saying when his Amabel would also be laid low.
Lady Wychwood received him with mixed feelings. On the one hand she was overjoyed to have his strong arms round her again; on the other, she could not help feeling that his presence in the house would be an added burden in an establishment already overburdened by three invalids, one of whom was the second housemaid. She was a devoted wife, but she knew well that he did not shine in a sickroom: in fact, he was more of a liability than an asset, for, enjoying excellent health himself, he had very little experience of illness, and either caused the invalid to suffer a relapse by talking in heartily invigorating tones; or (if warned that the invalid was extremely weak) by tiptoeing into the room, addressing the patient in an awed and hushed voice, and bearing all the appearance of a man who had come to take a last farewell of one past hope of recovery.