I

von Wilkie Collins

I’ve been asked to share what I know about Miss Halcombe’s illness and the circumstances surrounding Lady Glyde’s departure from Blackwater Park to London.

The request for my account comes with the claim that my testimony is needed for the sake of truth. As the widow of a clergyman from the Church of England, who has fallen on hard times and now finds herself in need of a job, I’ve learned to prioritize the truth above all else. So, despite my reluctance to involve myself in such distressing family matters, I will comply.

I didn’t take notes at the time, so I can’t pinpoint the exact date, but I believe Miss Halcombe’s serious illness began during the last week of June. At Blackwater Park, breakfast was served late—sometimes as late as ten o’clock, but never before half-past nine. On the morning I’m referring to, Miss Halcombe, who usually arrived first, didn’t come down to the table. After waiting for a quarter of an hour, the upper housemaid was sent to check on her and came rushing back, clearly terrified. I encountered the maid on the stairs and immediately went to see what was wrong.

When I reached Miss Halcombe’s room, I found her in a state of confusion, unable to explain herself. She was pacing her room with a pen in hand, clearly delirious and burning with fever.

Lady Glyde—now that she’s no longer in Sir Percival’s service, I can refer to her by name—was the first to come in from her own bedroom. She was so alarmed and distressed that she was of little help. Count Fosco and his wife followed shortly after, and they were incredibly kind and supportive. The Countess helped me get Miss Halcombe into bed, while the Count stayed in the sitting room. He sent for my medicine chest and prepared a mixture for Miss Halcombe, along with a cooling lotion for her head, so we wouldn’t waste any time before the doctor arrived. We applied the lotion, but Miss Halcombe wouldn’t take the mixture. Sir Percival took it upon himself to send for the doctor, dispatching a groom on horseback to fetch Mr. Dawson, the nearest physician from Oak Lodge.

Mr. Dawson arrived in less than an hour. He was a well-respected older gentleman, known throughout the area, and we were all alarmed when he deemed the situation very serious.

The Count engaged Mr. Dawson in conversation, offering his opinions freely. Mr. Dawson, not particularly polite, asked if the Count’s advice was that of a doctor. When informed that it was the opinion of someone who had studied medicine informally, he replied that he didn’t usually consult with amateur physicians. The Count, maintaining a remarkably calm demeanor, smiled and left the room. Before he went, he told me he would be at the boat-house by the lake if he was needed. I couldn’t understand why he chose to go there, but he stayed away the entire day until dinner at seven o’clock. Perhaps he wanted to keep the house as quiet as possible, which was typical of him. He was a very considerate nobleman.

Miss Halcombe had a terrible night, with the fever fluctuating and worsening as morning approached. Since there was no suitable nurse available nearby, the Countess and I took turns caring for her. Lady Glyde, despite her delicate health and nerves, insisted on staying up with us. She was far too anxious and fragile to handle the stress of Miss Halcombe’s illness calmly. Her presence did more harm than good; she was gentle and affectionate, but her tears and fears made her completely unfit for the sickroom.

In the morning, Sir Percival and the Count came to check on us.

Sir Percival, likely distressed by both his wife’s suffering and Miss Halcombe’s condition, seemed confused and unsettled. In contrast, the Count displayed a calm composure and genuine interest. He held his straw hat in one hand and a book in the other, and he mentioned to Sir Percival, within my hearing, that he planned to go outside to study by the lake. “Let’s keep the house quiet,” he said. “Let’s not smoke indoors now that Miss Halcombe is ill. You go your way, and I’ll go mine. I prefer to be alone when I study. Good morning, Mrs. Michelson.”

Sir Percival wasn’t exactly polite—perhaps I should say he wasn’t composed enough to say goodbye to me with the courtesy I deserved. The only person in the house who treated me like a lady in distress, both then and at any other time, was the Count. He had the manners of a true nobleman, always considerate toward everyone around him. Even Fanny, the young woman who attended to Lady Glyde, wasn’t overlooked by him. When Sir Percival sent her away, the Count, while showing me his lovely little birds, expressed genuine concern about her. He wanted to know where she would go after leaving Blackwater Park and what would become of her. It’s in these small, thoughtful gestures that the advantages of noble birth truly shine.

I don’t apologize for sharing these details; they are important to highlight the Count’s character, which I know is often viewed harshly in some circles. A nobleman who respects a lady in distress and takes a fatherly interest in the fate of a humble servant girl demonstrates principles and feelings that deserve respect. I’m not here to share opinions—just facts. Throughout my life, I strive to judge others so that I won’t be judged myself. One of my late husband’s finest sermons was based on that very idea. I read it often, especially in the early days of my widowhood, and each time I do, I find renewed spiritual strength and insight.

Miss Halcombe showed no signs of improvement, and the second night was even worse than the first. Mr. Dawson remained a constant presence, and the practical duties of nursing were still shared between the Countess and me. Lady Glyde insisted on staying awake with us, despite our pleas for her to rest. “My place is by Marian’s bedside,” she insisted. “Whether I’m ill or well, I won’t leave her side.”

Around midday, I went downstairs to attend to some of my regular tasks. An hour later, as I made my way back to the sickroom, I saw the Count entering the hall, looking cheerful and in high spirits after having gone out for the third time that day. At that moment, Sir Percival poked his head out of the library door and eagerly called to his noble friend.

“Have you found her?” he asked.

The Count’s face lit up with a broad, peaceful smile, but he didn’t respond verbally. At the same time, Sir Percival turned his head, noticed me approaching the stairs, and shot me a glare filled with irritation.

“Come in here and tell me about it,” he snapped at the Count. “Whenever there are women in the house, they’re always sure to be going up or down stairs.”

“My dear Percival,” the Count replied kindly, “Mrs. Michelson has her duties. Please recognize her admirable commitment to them as sincerely as I do! How is the patient, Mrs. Michelson?”

“No better, my lord, I’m afraid,” I answered.

“Sad—very sad!” the Count remarked. “You look exhausted, Mrs. Michelson. It’s certainly time you and my wife had some help with the nursing. I believe I can arrange that for you. Circumstances have arisen that will require Madame Fosco to travel to London either tomorrow or the day after. She’ll leave in the morning and return at night, bringing with her an excellent nurse who is currently available. This woman is known to my wife as someone trustworthy. Please don’t mention her to the doctor before she arrives; he tends to be skeptical about any nurse I recommend. When she gets here, she will speak for herself, and Mr. Dawson will have no reason to refuse her. Lady Glyde will agree as well. Please send my best regards and sympathies to Lady Glyde.”

I expressed my heartfelt thanks for his kindness, but Sir Percival interrupted, calling to his noble friend—using a rather inappropriate expression—to come into the library and not keep him waiting any longer.

I made my way upstairs. We are flawed beings, and no matter how strong a woman’s principles may be, she can’t always guard against the temptation of idle curiosity. I’m ashamed to admit that my curiosity got the better of me this time, making me overly eager to know what Sir Percival had asked his noble friend at the library door. Who was the Count looking for during his morning excursions at Blackwater Park? It was reasonable to assume it was a woman, given the nature of Sir Percival’s question. I didn’t suspect the Count of any wrongdoing; I knew his character too well. The only question I asked myself was—had he found her?

The night passed like any other, with no noticeable change in Miss Halcombe's condition. However, the following day brought a slight improvement. On the day after that, the Countess, without sharing the purpose of her trip with anyone I could hear, took the morning train to London, with her attentive husband seeing her off at the station.

This left me solely responsible for Miss Halcombe, and with her sister determined to stay by her side, it seemed likely that Lady Glyde would soon be here to help care for her.

The only significant event of the day was another awkward encounter between the doctor and the Count. Upon returning from the station, the Count stepped into Miss Halcombe’s sitting room to inquire about her condition. I left the bedroom to speak with him while Mr. Dawson and Lady Glyde were attending to the patient. The Count asked me numerous questions about the treatment and symptoms. I explained that the treatment was saline and that, between fever attacks, Miss Halcombe was showing signs of increasing weakness and exhaustion. Just as I was sharing this, Mr. Dawson emerged from the bedroom.

“Good morning, sir,” the Count said, stepping forward with a polished demeanor that made it hard to resist. “I fear you find no improvement in her symptoms today?”

“I see definite improvement,” Mr. Dawson replied.

“You still insist on your lowering treatment for this fever?” the Count pressed.

“I stand by the treatment that my professional experience supports,” Mr. Dawson responded firmly.

“May I ask you one question regarding this vast subject of professional experience?” the Count said, his tone polite. “I offer no advice—only an inquiry. You practice some distance from the major centers of medical knowledge—London and Paris. Have you ever heard that the debilitating effects of fever can be effectively countered by fortifying the exhausted patient with brandy, wine, ammonia, and quinine? Has that new doctrine from esteemed medical authorities ever reached your ears—yes or no?”

“When a professional man asks me that, I’ll gladly answer,” the doctor said, moving toward the door. “You are not a professional man, so I must decline to respond.”

Stung by this rudeness, the Count, like a true gentleman, turned the other cheek and replied sweetly, “Good morning, Mr. Dawson.”

If my late husband had been fortunate enough to know the Count, I’m sure they would have held each other in high regard.

The Countess returned on the last train that night, bringing with her a nurse from London. I learned that her name was Mrs. Rubelle. Her appearance and her imperfect English made it clear she was a foreigner.

I’ve always tried to be understanding toward foreigners. They lack the advantages we enjoy and are often raised in the misguided beliefs of their own cultures. It has been my principle, as it was my dear husband’s before me, to treat others as I would like to be treated. For these reasons, I won’t say that Mrs. Rubelle struck me as a small, wiry, sly woman of about fifty, with a dark brown or Creole complexion and watchful light gray eyes. Nor will I mention that I found her plain black silk dress to be inappropriately expensive in fabric and overly refined in its details for someone in her position. I wouldn’t want such judgments cast upon me, so I won’t cast them upon Mrs. Rubelle.

I will only note that her demeanor was quietly reserved, perhaps not unpleasantly so, and she seemed to observe her surroundings more than she spoke, which could have been due to her modesty or her uncertainty about her role at Blackwater Park. She even declined my polite invitation to join me for supper, which was perhaps curious but certainly not suspicious.

At the Count’s suggestion—so typical of his lordship’s forgiving nature—it was decided that Mrs. Rubelle wouldn’t start her duties until the doctor had seen her and given his approval the following morning. I stayed up that night, feeling the tension in the air. Lady Glyde seemed quite reluctant to have the new nurse attend to Miss Halcombe. I found it surprising that someone of her education and refinement would be so narrow-minded towards a foreigner.

I took a chance and said, “My lady, we must remember not to be quick to judge those we consider beneath us, especially when they come from other countries.” Lady Glyde didn’t seem to hear me. She simply sighed and kissed Miss Halcombe’s hand as it rested on the bedspread. It wasn’t the wisest move in a sickroom, especially with a patient who needed calm. But poor Lady Glyde had no knowledge of nursing—none at all, I regret to say.

The next morning, Mrs. Rubelle was sent to the sitting room to be evaluated by the doctor on his way to the bedroom.

I left Lady Glyde with Miss Halcombe, who was sleeping peacefully, and joined Mrs. Rubelle, hoping to ease her nerves about the uncertainty of her position. She didn’t seem to share my concerns. Instead, she appeared confident that Mr. Dawson would approve of her. She sat calmly, gazing out the window, seemingly enjoying the fresh country air. Some might have seen her demeanor as overly bold, but I attributed it to a remarkable strength of character.

Instead of the doctor coming to us, I was summoned to see him. I found this change a bit odd, but Mrs. Rubelle remained unaffected. I left her still peacefully looking out the window, still savoring the country air.

Mr. Dawson was waiting for me alone in the breakfast room.

“About this new nurse, Mrs. Michelson,” he began.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ve learned that she was brought here from London by the wife of that fat old foreigner who always tries to meddle in my work. Mrs. Michelson, that fat old foreigner is a quack.”

I was taken aback by his rudeness.

“Are you aware, sir,” I replied, “that you’re speaking of a nobleman?”

“Pooh! He’s not the first quack with a title. They’re all Counts—hang them!”

“He wouldn’t be a friend of Sir Percival Glyde’s if he weren’t part of the highest aristocracy—except, of course, for the English aristocracy.”

“Very well, Mrs. Michelson, call him whatever you like. Let’s get back to the nurse. I’ve already raised objections to her.”

“Without having seen her, sir?”

“Yes, without having seen her. She might be the best nurse in the world, but she’s not one I’ve chosen. I’ve expressed my concerns to Sir Percival, as the head of the household. He doesn’t support me. He argues that a nurse I would have chosen would also be a stranger from London, and he believes she deserves a chance since his wife’s aunt went through the trouble of bringing her here. There’s some fairness in that, and I can’t just say no. However, I’ve made it clear that she must leave immediately if I find any reason to complain about her. As the medical attendant, I have the right to make that condition, and Sir Percival has agreed. Now, Mrs. Michelson, I trust you, and I need you to keep a close eye on the nurse for the first couple of days. Make sure she gives Miss Halcombe only my prescribed medicines. This foreign nobleman of yours is eager to try his quack remedies—mesmerism included—on my patient, and a nurse brought here by his wife might be too willing to assist him. Do you understand? Good. Now, let’s head upstairs. Is the nurse in there? I’d like to speak with her before she enters the sickroom.”

We found Mrs. Rubelle still enjoying herself by the window. When I introduced her to Mr. Dawson, neither the doctor’s skeptical looks nor his probing questions seemed to faze her. She answered him calmly in her broken English, and despite his attempts to confuse her, she showed no signs of ignorance about her duties. This was, as I mentioned earlier, a testament to her strength of mind, not mere boldness.

We all proceeded into the bedroom.

Mrs. Rubelle studied the patient intently, curtseyed to Lady Glyde, tidied a few things in the room, and then settled quietly in a corner to wait until she was needed. Lady Glyde looked startled and a bit annoyed by the presence of the unfamiliar nurse. No one spoke, wary of waking Miss Halcombe, who was still asleep, except for the doctor, who leaned in to ask about the night. I softly replied, “About the same as usual,” and then Mr. Dawson stepped out. Lady Glyde followed him, likely to discuss Mrs. Rubelle. As for me, I had already decided that this calm foreign woman would keep her position. She was sharp and clearly knew her job. Honestly, I couldn’t have done much better at the bedside myself.

Remembering Mr. Dawson’s warning, I kept a close eye on Mrs. Rubelle over the next few days. I would slip into the room quietly and unexpectedly, but I never caught her doing anything suspicious. Lady Glyde, who was just as vigilant, found nothing amiss either. I never saw any sign of the medicine bottles being tampered with, nor did I witness any interaction between Mrs. Rubelle and the Count. She managed Miss Halcombe with undeniable care and discretion. The poor lady fluctuated between a sleepy exhaustion that was half faintness and half slumber, and feverish episodes that left her mind wandering. Mrs. Rubelle never disturbed her when she was in the first state, and she never startled her in the second by appearing too suddenly at the bedside. Credit where credit is due—whether foreign or English—I give my respect to Mrs. Rubelle. She was notably reserved about her own life and seemed quite independent of any advice from those experienced in caring for the sick. Despite these quirks, she was a competent nurse and never gave Lady Glyde or Mr. Dawson any reason to complain.

The next significant event in the house was the Count’s temporary departure for London due to business. He left, if I recall correctly, on the morning of the fourth day after Mrs. Rubelle’s arrival. Before he left, he spoke to Lady Glyde very seriously, in my presence, about Miss Halcombe.

“Trust Mr. Dawson for a few more days, if you can,” he said. “But if there’s no improvement by then, send for advice from London, which this stubborn doctor must accept, whether he likes it or not. Offend Mr. Dawson if you must, but save Miss Halcombe. I say this with all seriousness and from the bottom of my heart.”

His lordship spoke with deep emotion and kindness. But poor Lady Glyde’s nerves were so frayed that she seemed frightened by him. She trembled all over and let him leave without saying a word. Once he was gone, she turned to me, her face filled with despair. “Oh, Mrs. Michelson, I’m heartbroken about my sister, and I have no one to turn to for advice! Do you think Mr. Dawson is wrong? He told me this morning that there was no cause for alarm, and no need to call another doctor.”

“With all due respect to Mr. Dawson,” I replied, “if I were in your position, I would heed the Count’s advice.”

Lady Glyde suddenly turned away from me, her expression one of despair that I couldn’t quite understand.

“His advice!” she murmured to herself. “God help us—his advice!”

The Count was away from Blackwater Park for about a week, as far as I remember.

Sir Percival seemed to feel the absence of his lordship in various ways and appeared, in my opinion, quite affected by the illness and sorrow in the house. At times, he was so restless that I couldn’t help but notice him, pacing around the grounds, coming and going. His inquiries about Miss Halcombe and his wife, whose declining health seemed to genuinely trouble him, were very attentive. I sensed that his heart was softening. If only some kind clerical friend—someone like my late, wonderful husband—had been nearby during this time, perhaps Sir Percival could have made some moral progress. I rarely find myself mistaken about such matters, having had experience to guide me during my happy married days.

Lady Glyde, the Countess, was now the only company Sir Percival had downstairs, and it seemed to me that she was neglecting him—or perhaps he was neglecting her. A stranger might have thought they were deliberately avoiding each other now that they were alone. But that couldn’t be the case. Still, it was true that the Countess preferred to have her meals at lunchtime and always retreated upstairs in the evening, even though Mrs. Rubelle had taken over the nursing duties completely. Sir Percival dined alone, and I overheard William, the man not in uniform, remark that his master had put himself on a half-ration of food and a double dose of drink. I dismissed such an insolent comment from a servant at the time, and I want to make it clear that I still disapprove of it now.

In the days that followed, Miss Halcombe seemed to be improving, at least a little. Our faith in Mr. Dawson was renewed. He appeared confident about her case and assured Lady Glyde that he would call for a physician the moment he had any doubts.

The only person who didn’t seem comforted by his words was the Countess. She confided in me that she couldn’t feel reassured by Mr. Dawson’s authority and would wait anxiously for her husband’s opinion upon his return. His letters indicated he would be back in three days. The Count and Countess exchanged letters every morning during his absence, setting an example for married couples everywhere.

On the evening of the third day, I noticed a troubling change in Miss Halcombe. Mrs. Rubelle noticed it too. We didn’t mention it to Lady Glyde, who was asleep on the sofa in the sitting room, utterly exhausted.

Mr. Dawson arrived later than usual for his evening visit. The moment he saw his patient, I could see his expression shift. He tried to mask it, but confusion and alarm were evident on his face. A messenger was dispatched to fetch his medicine chest, disinfectants were brought into the room, and a bed was prepared for him according to his instructions. “Has the fever turned to infection?” I whispered. “I’m afraid it has,” he replied. “We’ll know more by tomorrow morning.”

By Mr. Dawson’s orders, Lady Glyde was kept in the dark about this worsening condition. He strictly forbade her from joining us in the bedroom that night for the sake of her health. She tried to argue—there was a heartbreaking scene—but he had his medical authority to back him up, and he stood firm.

The next morning, one of the male servants was sent to London at eleven o’clock with a letter for a physician and instructions to bring the new doctor back on the earliest train. Half an hour after the messenger left, the Count returned to Blackwater Park.

Without consulting anyone, the Countess immediately brought him in to see the patient. I saw no impropriety in her decision; after all, his lordship was a married man, old enough to be Miss Halcombe’s father, and he entered the room in the presence of a female relative, Lady Glyde’s aunt. Mr. Dawson, however, protested against his presence, but it was clear he was too alarmed to put up a serious fight this time.

The poor lady was beyond recognizing anyone around her. She seemed to mistake her friends for foes. When the Count approached her bedside, her eyes, which had been darting around the room, locked onto his face with a look of sheer terror that I will never forget. The Count sat beside her, took her pulse, felt her forehead, and then turned to the doctor with a look of such indignation and contempt that Mr. Dawson was momentarily speechless, pale with anger and fear.

His lordship then looked at me.

“When did the change happen?” he asked.

I told him the time.

“Has Lady Glyde been in the room since?”

I replied that she hadn’t. The doctor had strictly forbidden her from entering the room the night before and had reiterated that order in the morning.

“Have you and Mrs. Rubelle been made aware of the full extent of the situation?” he asked next.

We knew, I said, that the illness was considered infectious. He interrupted me before I could say more.

“It’s typhus fever,” he declared.

In the brief moment that followed, Mr. Dawson regained his composure and addressed the Count with his usual authority.

“It’s NOT typhus fever,” he said sharply. “I refuse to allow this intrusion, sir. No one has the right to ask questions here but me. I’ve done my duty to the best of my ability—”

The Count interrupted him, not with words, but by simply pointing to the bed. Mr. Dawson felt the weight of that silent challenge to his competence, and his anger only intensified.

“I’ve done my duty,” he repeated. “A physician has been called from London. I will discuss the nature of the fever with him and no one else. I insist that you leave the room.”

“I entered this room, sir, for the sake of humanity,” the Count replied. “And if the physician’s arrival is delayed, I will enter it again. I warn you once more that the fever has turned to typhus, and your treatment is responsible for this unfortunate change. If that poor woman dies, I will testify in court that your ignorance and stubbornness caused her death.”

Before Mr. Dawson could respond, and before the Count could exit, the door swung open from the sitting room, revealing Lady Glyde standing in the doorway.

“I MUST and WILL come in,” she declared with remarkable determination.

Instead of stopping her, the Count stepped into the sitting room, allowing her to enter. Normally, he was meticulous about details, but in that moment of surprise, he seemed to forget the risk of infection from typhus and the urgent need to protect Lady Glyde’s health.

To my surprise, Mr. Dawson acted with more presence of mind. He halted her at the first step she took toward the bedside. “I’m truly sorry, and I’m truly concerned,” he said. “The fever may be contagious. Until I know for sure that it isn’t, I urge you to stay out of the room.”

She hesitated for a moment, then suddenly dropped her arms and collapsed forward. She fainted. The Countess and I quickly took her from the doctor and carried her into her own room. The Count went ahead of us and waited in the hallway until I emerged to tell him that we had revived her from her faint.

I returned to the doctor to inform him, at Lady Glyde’s request, that she insisted on speaking with him immediately. He went in right away to calm her agitation and reassure her that the physician would arrive within a few hours. Those hours dragged on painfully. Sir Percival and the Count were downstairs, sending inquiries up from time to time. Finally, between five and six o’clock, to our immense relief, the physician arrived.

He was younger than Mr. Dawson, serious and decisive. I couldn’t say what he thought of the previous treatment, but I found it odd that he asked many more questions of me and Mrs. Rubelle than he did of the doctor. He didn’t seem particularly interested in what Mr. Dawson had to say while he examined the patient. I began to suspect that the Count had been right about the illness all along, and my suspicions were confirmed when Mr. Dawson, after a brief delay, asked the crucial question for which the London doctor had been summoned.

“What is your opinion of the fever?” he asked.

“Typhus,” the physician replied. “Typhus fever without a doubt.”

Mrs. Rubelle, that quiet foreign woman, folded her thin brown hands in front of her and looked at me with a knowing smile. The Count could hardly have appeared more pleased if he had been in the room to hear the confirmation of his own assessment.

After giving us some helpful instructions on how to care for the patient and mentioning that he would return in five days, the physician withdrew to speak privately with Mr. Dawson. He wouldn’t offer any opinion on Miss Halcombe’s chances of recovery, stating that it was impossible to make a judgment at that stage of the illness.

The five days passed with great anxiety.

Countess Fosco and I took turns caring for Mrs. Rubelle as Miss Halcombe’s condition continued to deteriorate, demanding our full attention. It was an incredibly trying time. Lady Glyde, under the constant strain of worrying about her sister, surprised us all by rallying in a remarkable way. She showed a strength and determination that I would never have expected from her. She insisted on visiting the sickroom two or three times a day to see Miss Halcombe for herself, promising to keep her distance from the bed if the doctor would allow it. Mr. Dawson reluctantly agreed; I think he realized it was pointless to argue with her. She came in every day and kept her promise to stay back.

It was personally distressing for me to witness her suffering in this way, as it reminded me of my own grief during my husband’s last illness. I would rather not dwell on this part any longer. It’s more pleasant to note that there were no further disputes between Mr. Dawson and the Count. His lordship made all his inquiries through others and spent most of his time downstairs with Sir Percival.

On the fifth day, the physician returned and offered us a glimmer of hope. He told us that the tenth day since the onset of the typhus would likely determine the outcome of the illness, and he planned to visit again on that date. The days passed much like before, except that the Count went to London one morning and returned that night.

On the tenth day, a merciful Providence relieved us from our anxiety. The physician assured us that Miss Halcombe was out of danger. “She doesn’t need a doctor now; all she requires is careful watching and nursing for a while, and I see she has that,” he said. That evening, I read my husband’s heartfelt sermon on Recovery from Sickness, finding more joy and insight in it than I ever had before.

Unfortunately, the good news overwhelmed poor Lady Glyde. She was too weak to handle the sudden shift in emotions, and within a day or two, she fell into a state of weakness and depression that forced her to stay in her room. Mr. Dawson suggested that rest, quiet, and a change of air would be the best remedies for her. It was fortunate that things weren’t worse, because the very day after she retreated to her room, the Count and the doctor had another disagreement. This time, the argument escalated to such a serious level that Mr. Dawson left the house.

I wasn’t there when it happened, but I learned that their dispute centered around how much nourishment Miss Halcombe needed to aid her recovery after the fever. Now that his patient was safe, Mr. Dawson was less willing to tolerate any unprofessional interference. For some reason, the Count lost the self-control he had maintained in previous encounters and repeatedly taunted the doctor about his earlier mistake when the fever turned into typhus. The unfortunate situation culminated in Mr. Dawson appealing to Sir Percival and threatening to withdraw from attending to Miss Halcombe if the Count’s interference wasn’t firmly stopped. Sir Percival’s response, though not intentionally rude, only made things worse. Mr. Dawson left the house in a state of extreme indignation over how the Count had treated him and sent in his bill the next morning.

We were now without a doctor. Although there was no immediate need for another physician—since nursing and watching were all Miss Halcombe required, as the doctor had pointed out—I would have sought professional help from elsewhere for the sake of appearances if my authority had been consulted.

Sir Percival didn’t seem to see things the way I did. He insisted that we could wait to call in another doctor until Miss Halcombe showed any signs of getting worse. For now, we had the Count to consult for any minor issues, and he thought it best not to disturb our patient with a stranger at her bedside while she was still so weak and nervous. There was some sense in his reasoning, but it left me feeling uneasy. I also struggled with the decision to keep Lady Glyde in the dark about the doctor’s absence. It felt like a kind deception—she was in no state to handle any more stress—but it was still a deception, and for someone with my principles, that was a troubling position to be in.

That same day, another unexpected event added to my growing anxiety.

I was summoned to the library to see Sir Percival. The Count, who had been with him, stood up and left us alone. Sir Percival politely invited me to sit down, and then, to my shock, he said:

“I need to talk to you, Mrs. Michelson, about something I decided a while ago. I should have mentioned it sooner, but with all the sickness and trouble in the house, I didn’t. To put it plainly, I want to break up my household here immediately, leaving you in charge as usual. As soon as Lady Glyde and Miss Halcombe are well enough to travel, they need a change of air. My friends, Count Fosco and the Countess, will be moving to the London area before that, and I have my reasons for not wanting to entertain any more guests here. I need to cut costs as much as possible. It’s not your fault, but my expenses are far too high. In short, I’ll be selling the horses and letting go of all the indoor staff immediately. I don’t do things halfway, as you know, and I plan to have this house cleared of unnecessary people by tomorrow.”

I stood there, completely stunned.

“Are you saying, Sir Percival, that I’m to dismiss the indoor staff without the usual month’s notice?” I asked.

“Absolutely. We might all be out of here before the month is up, and I’m not leaving the staff here to do nothing without a master.”

“And who will cook while you’re still here?” I pressed.

“Margaret Porcher can manage the roasting and boiling—keep her. I don’t need a cook if I’m not hosting dinner parties.”

“Sir Percival, the servant you mentioned is the least capable in the house.”

“Keep her, I said, and hire a woman from the village to come in for cleaning and then leave. My weekly expenses need to be cut immediately. I didn’t call you here to argue, Mrs. Michelson—I called you to implement my cost-saving plans. Dismiss all the indoor staff tomorrow, except for Porcher. She’s strong enough, and we’ll make her work hard.”

“With all due respect, Sir Percival, if the staff leaves tomorrow, they’ll need a month’s wages in lieu of notice.”

“Let them have it! A month’s wages saves a month’s waste and indulgence in the servants’ hall.”

His last comment felt like a personal attack on my management. I had too much pride to defend myself against such a blatant insult. The only thing that stopped me from resigning on the spot was my concern for Miss Halcombe and Lady Glyde, and the trouble my sudden departure would cause them. I stood up, feeling that continuing the conversation would only diminish my self-respect.

“After that last remark, Sir Percival, I have nothing more to say. I will follow your instructions.” I said this with a stiff bow and left the room.

The next day, the staff left all at once. Sir Percival himself dismissed the grooms and stable hands, sending them and all the horses except one to London. Now, the only ones left in the house were myself, Margaret Porcher, and the gardener, who lived in his own cottage and was needed to care for the one horse that remained.

With the house in this strange and lonely state—with its mistress ill in her room, Miss Halcombe still helpless, and the doctor’s attendance withdrawn—it was only natural that my spirits would sink and my usual composure would be hard to maintain. I felt restless and wished for the health of both ladies and for my own escape from Blackwater Park.