When the chair brought me back to Gay Street, our own travelling coach was outside with the boot opened, and Mama’s trunks were being carried out. Inside the house, on the hall table, was Uncle John’s Malacca cane and grey round hat, and in Mama’s bedroom, sitting on her bed, was Uncle John himself. Mama was upright in bed, her wrapper on, her hair in a plait down her back, looking a thousand times better than when I had left her that morning. Uncle John had received two letters from me, one telling him that Mama was a little unwell and that I had called the doctor, and then another telling him that she was as yet no better. Of course I had to come,’ he said reasonably. ‘Do you two have any idea of the cost of a Bath physician? Celia, it is essential that you come home where I can treat you for free.’ Mama chuckled ruefully, her voice a croaky shadow of its usual ripple. ‘We cannot go,’ she said. ‘Julia is in the middle of her season, and she has appointments with Dr Phillips.’ John looked across the room at me.
