“They say the fever, miss.”
“Heavens! What fever?”
“Typhoid, miss.”
“I don’t believe it,” declared Lady Selina.
Nevertheless, she filled a small basket with soup and wine, and dispatched Cicely with it immediately. Obviously the lady of the manor was distressed. Her fingers trembled as she tied on the lid of the basket, and she said nervously: “I send you first, Cicely, because I am aware of Timothy Farleigh’s hostility. I saw poor Mary a week ago. There was nothing about her appearance to suggest this.”
“I saw her too. I—I thought she looked ill, so ill that I begged her to see Mr. Grimshaw.”
“Quite right. And has she?”
“I don’t know.”
On arrival at Timothy’s pretty cottage, Cicely found Martha Giles and Timothy in the kitchen. Grimshaw, so she learned, was upstairs with his patient. Timothy received Cicely civilly but coldly. Martha chattered away as usual:
“Ramblin’ in her talk, pore Mary be. ’Tis the fever seemin’ly.”