The Flood-Tide by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

into despair, and William came down with the measles. Allen did his best to comfort Jemima who, though she had nursed more sick horses than she could remember, was completely unnerved by the illness of her children. He told her that it was certainly not smallpox, of which he had had enough experience both at home and abroad to be sure; that the measles were rarely fatal, that strong and healthy children shook them off with no ill effects.
    ‘But William is not strong, he has never been strong,' she cried. Allen took her hands.
    ‘He may look frail, my darling, but just think - he has lived to be ten, through every illness known to childhood, so there must be some kind of inner strength to him.' As an attempt at lightness it failed, for whatever Allen might say, he was deeply worried himself. William was very sick, and for three days the household moved about on tiptoe and spoke in hushed voices while his temperature climbed and climbed. Father Ramsay made a special intention for him, and the chapel was haunted at all hours of the day by members of the family and servants slipping in to pray for the 'poor little boy'. Only Alison remained robustly unmoved by fears, declaring that if it did not get to his ears or lungs, and did not make him blind, she dared say he would be none the worse for it in a month's time. But even she was seen to dab her eyes with the corner of her apron when his fever finally broke.
    Though cross and crotchety in her ways, Alison was a fine doctor, having been brought up amongst sheep people, and having a great deal of common sense. She rubbed William's chest with goose grease, and bound it with raw sheep's wool, to protect his lungs, and gave him marshmallow tea and heather honey to ease the cough which was the most wearying thing about the disease. Jemima's favourite rosemary water she discarded with a sniff for a nauseous brew of willow bark for the headache, cinchona bark and hyssop for the fever, and camomile and strawberry for the rash. When the fever went down and he was able to eat again, she fed him on barley bread seethed in ewe's milk, which she considered more wholesome than cow's milk.
    ‘She said,' Allen reported with a smile to Jemima, who had been forbidden the sickroom, 'that though she could not stop us drinking cow's milk, she was perfectly sure no child in her nursery was going to drink it.'
    ‘How is it she lets you in so readily?' Jemima complained, and Allen looked smug.
    ‘Oh, she thinks I have a "deal of sense" and that if God had fashioned me on a more rational plan, I'd have made an excellent mother. But William is so much better she will let you in to see him tomorrow, if you promise not to excite him. Thank God ideas have changed since my childhood. Truly terrible things used to be done to the sick, in the ignorant belief they were cures.’
    No sooner was William pronounced out of danger than Charlotte and Mary both became sick. Mary had it so lightly that she did not even feel ill, but she made a bad patient, fretting all the time that she would be marred for life, and demanding that Charlotte should be nursed separately from her. Charlotte's attack went to her ears, and though she bore the pain with astonishing stoicism, barely whimpering, she cried dreadfully at being parted from William.
    But December brought better things. Sickness left the house, and Thomas returned, with the news that there were delays in the building of Ariadne, and that he was not wanted in London again until January. Even then, he said, she would have to be fitted out and manned, and then there would be trial sailings. He should be able to be in London tolerably often, and probably would not receive his orders until mid-February.
    Flora's brother Angus arrived at Morland Place from Edinburgh for Christmas, and on the same day a footman brought a note over from Shawes, which was at that time let to Sir John Fussell, his wife Marjorie, and their five children.
    ‘Well, here's something that