our new kitchen. As I set the bread crumbs to soak, Felicity coughed a hoarse, bleating cough & my back stiffened. She assured me she only had something caught in her throat, but I don’t believe her
.
January 1857
Some new element of secrecy has come over Felicity. Sometimes her silence is weighted, as if she verges on revealing some momentous thing, but
when I ask, she shakes her head & wanders outside to feed her pony an apple. It is a puzzling new aspect to her & I cannot say I like it. I feel left out
.
She is coughing again & has discontinued her work at the orphanage lest she infect someone. I would not be surprised to learn that her charity work in foul hovels has caused her relapse. I never liked the idea of her going to noxious bustees full of beggars & lepers. I fear the air in those quarters is contaminated with zymotic poisons
.
The servants are talking about arson in Calcutta. It would seem some sepoys are seriously disgruntled
.
January 1857
Felicity has taken a dramatic turn downward. It is a wrench to see her glide, oh, so slowly, through the house with a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. She is pale & her lovely hands look like twigs
.
Surely this is a recurrence of consumption, & yet it is different from the last siege. I am feeding her up on beef tea & buttermilk, but she continues to languish. I pray it is only consumption, which she has already survived, & not one of the dreadful afflictions common to this land
.
I proceed as I did in England, hanging the camphor ball over her bed & insisting on a daily dose of tartar emetic to strengthen her blood. But her body does not respond, & I am baffled. In the mornings she vomits. She is chronically fatigued, & often lies abed in her chemise for hours. Her monthly courses have stopped as they did when she was ill in Yorkshire, & she moves around as though under water
.
I sent a message to her mother, & she in turn sent the station doctor, who arrived that night, drunk & stumbling. He staggered up the verandah steps, asking where he might find the patient. I said, “Don’t you usually find them in bed?”
As he held Felicity’s wrist, he belched. Then he asked, stupidly, “How are we feeling, young lady?” When she said, “Perfectly fine,” he seemed relieved. “Very good then,” he said. “I’ll let your sister know you’ve recovered.”
“I think you mean her mother,” I said tightly
.
He shot me an irritated look. “Rest tonight & if you’re not up & about tomorrow, I’ll come back & bleed you.”
“Lovely.” Felicity treated him to one of her wonderful smiles
.
I saw the useless blighter to the door, & he asked, “Shall we have a peg for the road?” I gave him a short whisky just to be rid of him, & then went in to Felicity, who seemed to think the drunken fool quite comical
.
The next day Lady Chadwick arrived in a smart victoria pulled by a sleek black pony. She picked her way through our overgrown verandah with distaste, & filled our doorway with her crinolines. She swept through our little drawing room, making it appear suddenly small & shabby, & went to the foot of Felicity’s bed. “I hear you are once again on the road to recovery.”
“Yes, Mother. Thank you for coming.”
It was a ten-minute visit but awkward enough that it seemed to last for hours. Now Felicity says the only visitor she will receive is the Indian. Thank God we live out in the mofussil where there are no prying eyes to make something ugly of their innocent, if ill-advised, friendship
.
The Indian. I am reluctant to use his name, as if relegating him to the anonymous masses will make him disappear, or at least seem less important. When speaking to him, I call him sir, & he bows politely & calls me madam. Our exchanges are brief & cold & it is I who keep them so. Heartless, I know, but there it is. I was happier when it was only Felicity & I
.
At least the man is not lowborn. He speaks the Queen’s English, having lived in London & studied
.
January 1857
Some new element of secrecy has come over Felicity. Sometimes her silence is weighted, as if she verges on revealing some momentous thing, but
when I ask, she shakes her head & wanders outside to feed her pony an apple. It is a puzzling new aspect to her & I cannot say I like it. I feel left out
.
She is coughing again & has discontinued her work at the orphanage lest she infect someone. I would not be surprised to learn that her charity work in foul hovels has caused her relapse. I never liked the idea of her going to noxious bustees full of beggars & lepers. I fear the air in those quarters is contaminated with zymotic poisons
.
The servants are talking about arson in Calcutta. It would seem some sepoys are seriously disgruntled
.
January 1857
Felicity has taken a dramatic turn downward. It is a wrench to see her glide, oh, so slowly, through the house with a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. She is pale & her lovely hands look like twigs
.
Surely this is a recurrence of consumption, & yet it is different from the last siege. I am feeding her up on beef tea & buttermilk, but she continues to languish. I pray it is only consumption, which she has already survived, & not one of the dreadful afflictions common to this land
.
I proceed as I did in England, hanging the camphor ball over her bed & insisting on a daily dose of tartar emetic to strengthen her blood. But her body does not respond, & I am baffled. In the mornings she vomits. She is chronically fatigued, & often lies abed in her chemise for hours. Her monthly courses have stopped as they did when she was ill in Yorkshire, & she moves around as though under water
.
I sent a message to her mother, & she in turn sent the station doctor, who arrived that night, drunk & stumbling. He staggered up the verandah steps, asking where he might find the patient. I said, “Don’t you usually find them in bed?”
As he held Felicity’s wrist, he belched. Then he asked, stupidly, “How are we feeling, young lady?” When she said, “Perfectly fine,” he seemed relieved. “Very good then,” he said. “I’ll let your sister know you’ve recovered.”
“I think you mean her mother,” I said tightly
.
He shot me an irritated look. “Rest tonight & if you’re not up & about tomorrow, I’ll come back & bleed you.”
“Lovely.” Felicity treated him to one of her wonderful smiles
.
I saw the useless blighter to the door, & he asked, “Shall we have a peg for the road?” I gave him a short whisky just to be rid of him, & then went in to Felicity, who seemed to think the drunken fool quite comical
.
The next day Lady Chadwick arrived in a smart victoria pulled by a sleek black pony. She picked her way through our overgrown verandah with distaste, & filled our doorway with her crinolines. She swept through our little drawing room, making it appear suddenly small & shabby, & went to the foot of Felicity’s bed. “I hear you are once again on the road to recovery.”
“Yes, Mother. Thank you for coming.”
It was a ten-minute visit but awkward enough that it seemed to last for hours. Now Felicity says the only visitor she will receive is the Indian. Thank God we live out in the mofussil where there are no prying eyes to make something ugly of their innocent, if ill-advised, friendship
.
The Indian. I am reluctant to use his name, as if relegating him to the anonymous masses will make him disappear, or at least seem less important. When speaking to him, I call him sir, & he bows politely & calls me madam. Our exchanges are brief & cold & it is I who keep them so. Heartless, I know, but there it is. I was happier when it was only Felicity & I
.
At least the man is not lowborn. He speaks the Queen’s English, having lived in London & studied
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