Molesworth beckoned to a stable boy, who had appeared from the back of the house. ‘Take the doctor’s trap to the stables. You’d better come with me, Doctor.’ He shot a suspicious glance at Daisy. ‘The squire won’t want to see you.’

‘Miss Marshall is my nurse. If the squire is unwell we both need to see him.’

‘Be it on your own head.’ Molesworth marched into the house and led them up the elaborately carved oak staircase to the first floor. He came to a halt outside a door. ‘This is the squire’s bedchamber. Perhaps you’d best wait here, miss?’

Daisy held her head high. ‘I’m a trained nurse.’ It was a slight exaggeration, but she felt that she had learned more during the height of the cholera epidemic than she would have done in a year at the London Hospital. Dealing with self-assertive underlings had been part of her day-to-day experiences, and she was not going to be intimidated by the squire’s butler. She followed Nick into the bedroom and shut the door in Molesworth’s face.

The windows were closed and the curtains drawn, allowing in only a chink of daylight, but the smell in the room was enough to convince Daisy that the squire had fallen victim to the dreaded disease.

Nick strode over to the window and pulled back the curtains, allowing light to flood the room. The tapestry bed curtains hung limply from the four-poster and the heavy mahogany furniture glowed dully in the cold light. A fire burned in the grate, but it did little to heat the large room and the chilly atmosphere made Daisy shiver.

Nick examined the squire, who seemed to have shrunk in size. His cheeks were ashen and his eyes were clouded with suffering, but even so, Daisy felt no pity for the man whose cavalier treatment of his tenants had been the cause of the outbreak in the first place. It seemed like poetic justice that the arch tormentor was now suffering a similar fate to those who were far below him in the social scale.

‘Will he live?’ she asked in a whisper.

Nick put his stethoscope back in his medical bag. ‘It’s only a matter of time.’

‘I’m not dead yet.’ Esmond Tattersall’s voice was loud and strong, despite his physical condition.

‘You have cholera, Squire,’ Nick said calmly. ‘You need proper nursing care. I suggest you try to contact your own doctor.’

‘She can do it.’ Esmond raised his arm with difficulty and he pointed a shaking finger at Daisy. ‘She owes me that.’

‘I owe you nothing,’ Daisy said coldly. ‘You’ve done your best to ruin the village and you’ve made my relations’ lives intolerable with your threats of eviction.’

‘I’ll renew their lease if they can find the money to pay for it.’

‘Money won’t do you any good where you’re going.’ Daisy’s last shred of sympathy for the desperately sick man snapped, and she backed away from the bed. The stench in the room had made her feel sick, even though she had treated many patients with the disease, but this time it was personal. The man she detested was dying, but she felt no pity, and that shamed her. As a nurse she ought to be able to set her own feelings aside, but Esmond Tattersall had destroyed lives and refused to acknowledge his own son. He was past redemption.