Armed with this all-too-inadequate knowledge, Sir William posted a note of apology for his absence on his door, gave instructions to his nurse, to ‘do what she could for those who pleaded with her’ and set forth for London. Ashton Sims had not explained to him how or why Jane had become ill, but Sir William could not but think that her indisposition had something to do with Ross, who had never returned to Bath, but had instructed his servant to send on his things to a hotel in the West Country and only sent a scrawled message to say – without any explanation – that his engagement to Jane was at an end.

All of this news, together with Emmeline’s recent death and Clorinda’s absence in Ireland, made Sir William feel that he was suddenly bitterly alone. Running his hands through his thick grey hair, he wondered if his world was about to disintegrate into a state of sorrow he would not be able to bear.

He found Jane lying in Emmeline’s bed, not sleeping, but in a state of prostration, too weak, almost to move her bandaged head. But, when she saw her father, her pale lips did widen into a smile and she held out a limp hand to him. He took her hand and kissed it, then sat by her, stroking a few strands of her hair back from her forehead, which was sweaty but cold, then transferring his own hand to her wrist to take her pulse.

He found it to be very weak and his practised physician’s ear and eye would have suggested to him that his daughter was near death, except that she, above everybody that he knew, was possessed of an extraordinary strength of body and will. He only wondered, now, if she was heartbroken by Ross’s unexpected departure and wished to let go her hold on life.

At present, however, he sensed that she was too weak for any intrusive interrogation. Sitting quietly in the room was a nurse engaged by Ashton Sims, so it was to her that Sir William addressed a few quiet questions. He learned that Jane had been persuaded to sip a little soup and that she suffered from an unslakeable thirst. He was also told that her consumption of laudanum for her pain was high and that her sleep appeared to be troubled by nightmares.

‘Where is the pain?’ asked Sir William. ‘In her head?’

‘Yes, sir. And in her womb which bleeds.’

Now, Sir William was silent. Jane, too weak to talk, gazed up at him, pleading with her eyes that he not condemn her. All this he saw and to answer her, he said, ‘all that matters, Jane, is that you come back to us. To this end, I have heard some fanciful notion about the efficacy of yolks of egg and mustard seed. I wonder if our kind nurse could ask Nancy to go to one of the Chelsea markets for eggs and make a posset for you. Or is that too outrageous a demand?’