‘Don’t fuss, Frances,’ he muttered as she tried to sit him up so that he could drink, but the effort simply brought on another bout of coughing. Amabel, now living in a world of her own, took no part in nursing her husband; it was probable that she had no realisation of his illness. Kitty was expecting a baby and had been so sick herself that she was unable to help with the nursing, so the responsibility fell on Fran, ably helped by Mrs Crowley. Fran had wanted to employ a proper nurse, but her father had been adamant.

‘I’m dying, Frances,’ he’d said, ‘I don’t want anyone fussing round me. Let me go with dignity.’

Fran had understood and accepted his wishes. Rupert visited every day, only to see his father growing progressively weaker. Dr Evans had paid several visits, but admitted that there was no more he could do and that it was just a matter of time.

‘His cough is in his chest and there is almost certainly fluid in his lungs,’ he said. ‘That means pneumonia, and in his weakened state it could carry him off any day. I’m afraid you must prepare yourselves.’

Rupert, Fran and Kitty all knew of this diagnosis, but they had kept the news from Amabel. She was in no fit state to hear it. Time enough when the worst happened and she had to be told.

Rupert opened the bedroom door quietly and went into the room. Fran was still sitting holding the cup, but Sir Philip was lying back on his pillows with his eyes shut.

‘How is he?’ whispered Rupert.

Fran gave a faint shrug and, keeping her voice low, said, ‘Much the same.’

‘I can hear you talking,’ said the voice from the bed. Sir Philip opened his eyes again. ‘I’m not dead yet.’

‘How are you, sir?’ asked Rupert, knowing as he posed the question what a stupid one it was. The old man was a shadow of his former self, wasted to the size of a child, his skin the colour and texture of parchment. He lay under the covers with only his hands above the sheet, but his eyes were open again and he fixed them on Rupert.

‘Never better,’ came his reply. It was followed by another bout of coughing, great rasping coughs that shook his whole body. When at last it stopped, he said, ‘How’s that wife of yours?’

‘Still feeling sick, I’m afraid,’ Rupert replied. ‘At the moment she’s staying in bed on Dr Evans’s orders, but she’s very anxious to get up and come over to see you.’

‘Tell her not to,’ said Sir Philip. ‘No point in putting that baby at risk; he’s the future.’ Ever since he had heard there was a baby on the way, Sir Philip had referred to it as ‘he’. ‘I didn’t think I’d live to see my grandson,’ he’d said when he heard the news, but now he knew he’d been right – he would be in his grave before the baby was born.