Blindingham Hall, January 1862

Such is the curse of mingling in winter! I attended a gathering in the village hall to celebrate some festival or another – I don’t recall which, beyond thinking that the hedgerow-gathered decorations were gaudy. I spoke to as many of the local folk as I could, which is a duty that as Lady of Blindingham Hall I feel is impossible to shirk. I have paid a terrible price, however, as it seems that one in every ten of them was awash with infection.

My sense of civic charity – which compels me to spend time with those whose lives my patronage supports – has been my downfall, I fear. I have coughed like a horse for days. My fever is high and my chest feels as though the devil himself is bestride me. I have been confined to bed for too long, and scarcely know whether it is day, night or next Tuesday.

Villiers creeps into my room every so often with a tincture or a dollop of bread sauce. He tries to be attentive, I can see he wants to do his job, but he is clearly petrified of contracting whatever it is that has laid me so low. I am lonely enough up here already, without being treated as a pariah. I must speak to him when I am well again, and make him understand that to be my servant he must actually serve me, not avoid me.

I shall attempt to dress in the morning – assuming my maid is not as scared to be near me as Villiers is – and may even try to take tea on the terrace. The weather is bright, but I can see frost across the chapel roof. Papa always used to say that fresh air was the best Physic. He often refused whatever the doctor offered, and not for want of being able to pay for it, oh no. He simply believed that nature was its own medicine.

How I miss him.