‘I’m afraid the doctor is out visiting a sick patient at the moment. He’ll be back at noon.’
Meg fretted. ‘But I need to get him to the Fenton Estate immediately. The young master has taken very ill and I’ve got orders to fetch the doctor to see him.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She frowned. ‘Well that’s no good. Let me see what I can do.’ She fetched his appointment book and studied the entry in the diary. ‘Yes. He is at Mr Kivell’s just down the lane. I’ll come with you and show you the way.’ She fetched her hat and grabbed Meg’s arm. The two ladies briskly marched towards the Kivell household, though the speed didn’t seem nearly quick enough for Meg. They reached the door and knocked.
‘Mrs Greene! What’s brought you here?’ asked Mr Kivell.
‘I’m so dreadfully sorry, Mr Kivell, but I must speak to my husband immediately.’
‘But he’s seeing to my wife at present. Is it urgent?’ he said.
‘Most urgent, Mr Kivell. Mr Charles Fenton’s son has taken ill. Could you please give him this note? He needs the doctor straight away,’ she urged.
‘But, of course. I see. I’ll let him know.’ He went back inside.
Dr Greene blustered out minutes later. ‘What is the meaning of this? I’m seeing a patient. You know not to interfere with my appointments.’
Mrs Greene blushed and glanced sideways at Meg. Meg rallied the courage to speak.
‘I’m sorry, Doctor. But it’s Mr Fenton’s son. He’s awful hot and has the skitters. I tried feeding him last night and this morning and he won’t have a bite to eat. Mr Fenton has instructed me to ask you most directly if you could come and see him at the manor,’ Meg blurted, and then looked anxiously at the doctor.
I can picture the good doctor even now, frowning and rubbing his chin. It was acknowledged that the Fentons held a lot of clout in the town and he was aware that the loss of their custom would not be a wise choice. He had nearly completed his visit with Mrs Kivell and was certain that with his personal medicinal draught he had developed, she should make a full and steady recovery. As much as he loathed to be commanded, he was a pragmatic man and he made his decision as thus.
‘Take me to him. Mr Kivell, please follow my wife back to the surgery. She will provide you with my tonic to assist your wife. I will come back to check on her tomorrow.’ And with that, he collected his bag and strode with Meg to the buggy.
As they rode back to the estate he drilled Meg for information regarding Charles Junior. He asked about his appetite, his bowel movements, any skin rashes, irritability or signs of fever. Meg glumly nodded to all the questions, explaining that Master Fenton had seemed to be out of sorts for the last week and not really sleeping so soundly. Dr Greene frowned and considered what may have been troubling the small boy.
They arrived in a flurry. One of the house servants had been keeping a watchful eye out for their arrival and quickly ran inside to inform the master. Both Charles and Elizabeth dashed to the door, the worry and strain clear on their faces. As the butler helped him with his coat, they showed him to my room where I lay listlessly. My stomach was swollen and my chest and abdomen covered in red welts. The pungent smell emanating the room advised those present that I had yet again soiled myself with the loose diarrhoea seeping out around my pants. Dr Greene examined me after instructing the nanny to change and clean my reddened bottom. I was faced with the ignominy of having to wear a daytime diaper. He looked at my eyes, in my ears, listened to my heart and peered at the rash. I surrendered without fight, all anger dissipated after last night’s efforts. My parents watched him anxiously, holding each other.
‘It would appear to me that your son has all the classic signs and symptoms of typhoid fever. Not particularly prevalent usually at this time of year, but I have seen the odd case in town.’ He opened his doctor’s bag and fossicked around. ‘I recommend you give him these powders mixed in with his milk. Keep him hydrated as much as possible and protect his skin with this unguent. The diarrhoea will burn his skin and needs to be removed immediately.’ He regarded Meg the nanny. ‘He must be kept clean, warm and dry. If he is feverish, sponge him with a tepid washcloth. Keep offering him small sips of boiled water, stewed apples and broth and the milk at night. He will take some time to get better, but get better he shall. As long as you do exactly as I have instructed,’ he finished with a small smile to Charles and Elizabeth. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I must resume my appointments back in Warwickshire town. There are people waiting for me.’ He shook Charles’ hand and returned to the buggy where Jack sat perched on top.
And so my battle began.
Every morning at the crack of dawn Meg would come to my bed, remove all the soiled nightclothes and bedding and bathe me in an oatmeal soak that Magda had supplied my parents. I lay there in a trance-like state, my raw skin soothed by the tepid water Meg was drizzling over me. As she washed me she sang little ditties that her own mother had sung to her as a child. She felt genuinely distraught at my ill health and desired nothing more than a return of my usually ebullient state. She couldn’t recall her last full night’s sleep. Since I had become unwell she had been a dedicated night nanny on top of her daytime duties. Every three hours she wearily traipsed into my room to offer some fluid and change my frequently soiled diaper. Instead of gratefully smiling at her for all this love and attention, I would squeal and fuss, clamping my lips together tightly and throwing my head from side to side.
Both she and my parents surveyed my debilitated frame with dismay. My cheeks had sunken in and my petite ribs stuck out against the grotesque stomach. My eyes were dull, my skin pale and no matter what delicious delights they offered me, I would not take them. I had developed a chesty cough, bringing up plugs of green phlegm and gasping for air with even the slightest exertion. Jack made repeated trips to the doctor’s surgery for more medicinal tonics and powders but it was to no avail. I was dying.
Elizabeth was also losing weight at an alarming rate. She refused any visitors and the only trip she would make from the home was to the local church to pray. Charles insisted she have an afternoon nap in an effort to regain her strength. As she lay holding his hand, she spoke.
‘Charles, I can’t stand this anymore. We have to get Magda to come and visit again. She can make him better. I’m sure of it.’
‘You know my stand on this. People are starting to talk and the words they are saying are ‘witchcraft’ and ‘devil’s work’. Why she thought it would be okay to publicly ridicule Mr Weston, I simply do not know. Since that very public disagreement, he has had no end of bad luck and he blames her. We simply can’t have any further connection with that woman. It would be extremely detrimental to my business,’ he said.
‘Well, he shouldn’t have sold her the spoilt grains. She found weevils in them! It’s his own damned fault for trying to cheat her,’ she retorted.
‘Elizabeth! Mind your language. You sound more and more like her each day.’
‘Good. I like her and I want her to come and see our son. It’s been ten weeks now, Charles, and he is getting worse. Ten weeks. How can I believe anything that doctor says?’
Charles looked into the pale
