Heirs of Ravenscar. Barbara Taylor Bradford

for this particular virus. I think I ought to take a look at him also before I leave.’ Then the doctor finished, almost under his breath, ‘Unfortunately there seems to be no remedy for Spanish flu. No one knows how to treat it.’

      Observing the look of apprehension crossing Edward’s face, the doctor took his arm and murmured, ‘Look here, there’s no point in my beating about the bush, Mr Deravenel, you have to know the facts. But let us hope your little son has not contracted this terrible illness and that he either has a very bad cold or bronchitis. They’re bad enough, I know, but at least they are treatable. And curable.’

      ‘I understand, and please don’t apologize for telling me the truth. However unpalatable the truth might be, I prefer to hear the worst, so that I know what I’m dealing with. I hate surprises. Let’s go to Young Edward’s room shall we? You can examine him and then check on the rest of the brood.’

      When they entered the bedroom a moment later, Elizabeth and Cecily turned around, politely greeted the doctor and then stepped away from the bedside.

      ‘I shall go along and look in on the other children,’ Cecily announced. ‘Give you a little breathing space in here, Dr Leighton.’

      The doctor nodded, offered her a grateful smile as Cecily slipped out; Elizabeth moved closer to her husband, who was standing near the door of the bedroom, took hold of his arm, leaned into him.

      Elizabeth explained to the doctor, ‘The coughing seems to have abated, Dr Leighton, since my mother-in-law managed to spoon down a raspberry vinegar mixture.’

      Peter Leighton glanced at her and nodded. ‘It’s often those old-fashioned remedies that work the best, you know.’ As he spoke he took a stethoscope out of his medical bag, bent over Young Edward, noting at once that the boy was feverish and had a glazed look. He listened to his chest, then put a thermometer in his mouth, held it there for a few seconds.

      After reading the thermometer, he said, ‘His temperature is a bit high, but that’s to be expected. I’m going to turn him over, Mrs Deravenel. I want to check his lungs.’

      ‘Do you need my help, Doctor?’ she asked, her eyes pinned on the doctor, a worried expression on her face.

      ‘No, no, there’s no problem.’ Dr Leighton laid the little boy on his side, lifted his pyjama top and put the stethoscope on his back, listening acutely. A moment or two later he repositioned the child, and covered him with the bedclothes. After opening his mouth gently, the doctor used a wooden tongue depressor to look down Young Edward’s throat.

      Finally straightening, and turning to Edward and Elizabeth, Dr Leighton said, with some relief, ‘He has bronchitis. It’s not Spanish flu.’

      Elizabeth put a trembling hand to her mouth and swallowed back a sob. She looked up at Edward, sudden tears of relief glistening on her blonde lashes, and attempted to smile at him without much success.

      ‘You’re certain?’ Edward said softly.

      ‘I am, Mr Deravenel. He has all the symptoms. Let me explain. Bronchitis causes obstruction to the flow of air in and out of the lungs, and interferes with the exchange of oxygen between the lungs and the blood, hence the hacking cough. The airways are continuously inflamed and diseased, and are filled with mucus. And sometimes, after a fit of coughing, flecks of blood appear in the mucus, from the strain of coughing. I’m going to telephone the chemist in Scarborough and prescribe an excellent cough mixture, as well as an expectorant and a fever powder which will help bring down the fever. The chemist will send his son up to Ravenscar with the medications. In the meantime, you can continue to give him the raspberry vinegar mixture until you have the cough syrup.’

      ‘Thank you, Dr Leighton. Now, what else should we do for him?’ Elizabeth asked.

      ‘Keep him warm, but not hot. Aim for an even temperature, and let him rest quietly. Give him plenty of liquids, particularly beef tea and chicken broth – warm liquids are best,’ the doctor explained.

      Edward cleared his throat, looked over at the doctor and said, ‘What about food? What should we feed him?’

      ‘I don’t think he’s going to feel very hungry, Mr Deravenel, but if he is, you should give him very light things … fruit jellies, rice pudding, sago pudding, blancmange, custard, calf’s foot jelly, soft boiled eggs, or scrambled eggs, things like that which are easily digested. And easily swallowed, obviously, since his throat is somewhat inflamed.’ After glancing again at Young Edward, the doctor picked up his medical bag and led the Deravenels out of the room.

      ‘I think someone should stay with the boy in order to tend to his needs,’ Dr Leighton now informed them. ‘I know you would prefer to be there yourself, Mrs Deravenel, but frankly you are extremely pale and appear over-tired to me. You need a rest, you know, we can’t be having you getting sick. What about Ada, the young woman who assists Nanny? She has always seemed rather efficient to me.’

      ‘Ada is good, but Nanny can manage on her own, I’m sure of that.’ Elizabeth smiled for the first time that day as she added, ‘And nine-year-old Bess has become quite the mother hen these days, so she can keep an eye on her little sisters. Also, the maternity nurse is still with us, looking after the new baby. We are well covered, Dr Leighton.’

      ‘Excellent. Now, why don’t we go along to the nursery, Mrs Deravenel? So that I can examine the other children.’

FOUR

      Cecily Watkins Deravenel sat alone in the library. She had positioned herself on one of the large, comfortable, overstuffed sofas near the fireplace, and was enjoying a cup of coffee, thinking about her little grandson. Everyone called him Young Edward, in order to differentiate between him and his father, but in her mind he would forever be Neddie. That was how she had always thought of him since he was born. He was the spitting image of his father when Ned had been a little boy.

      He was such a beautiful child, her little Neddie … a Botticelli angel, with his red-gold curls and blue eyes, so bright and sparkling and full of laughter. He was a happy little scamp, but he had been rather late in arriving, this heir to the Deravenel empire, the fourth child after his three sisters, Bess, Mary, and Cecily (who had been named for her).

      He was only five years old, having celebrated his birthday in early November, but there were times when he expressed himself so well she often thought she was talking to a much older child.

      Cecily was filled with relief that he was not suffering from the dreaded Spanish flu. Bronchitis was bad enough; on the other hand, she had never heard of anyone dying of that disease. Yet people were dropping like flies all over the world, once they became stricken with this new strain of the flu virus. The newspapers were now saying that more people were dying of the flu than had been killed in the War.

      At this moment the doctor was upstairs examining the other children; but she was certain none of them was ill. She had just spent the last twenty minutes with them in the nursery playroom, and they were boisterous, happy, and laughing, as they played with their toys. Yes, they were all very well indeed, including Richard, who was two years old, and Anne, the baby, born a few months ago. The latest arrival.

      Her son might not find his wife Elizabeth a true soulmate, or even a companionable woman to be with – God knows, he spent as little time as possible with her – but he was obviously still attracted to her physically. Elizabeth seemingly held a tremendous allure for him when it came to their marital bed. Six children already, and Cecily felt sure there would be more to come in the not-too-distant future.

      Although Cecily Deravenel had never liked her daughter-in-law, she had always acknowledged her great beauty. Some said Elizabeth was the most beautiful woman in all of England, with her silver-gilt hair that fell half-way down her back to her waist, her crystal clear, sky-blue eyes and that incomparable pink-and-white complexion which was without blemish.

      She was thirty-eight now, and yet Elizabeth did not show her age: there was no sagging chin; no wrinkles; no crow’s feet around her