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He looked away and then back up at the portrait.
‘So what do you say we give it another few months–just until Christmas? You agree? That’s good, because I appreciate your advice, man to man, duke to duke, you having been there before me, so to speak.’
Emerald felt sick and faint with panic. She was in Robbie’s bedroom and her son, far from being ready to apologise for his earlier transgressions and admit that he had been pretending to be unwell, was patently very unwell indeed.
She sat down on the edge of Robbie’s bed. He was barely conscious, his face flushed and his skin burning.
Emerald called his name, reaching for his hand, willing him to respond rationally, but instead he simply shivered and moaned, patently oblivious to her presence.
He really was ill, and needed a doctor quickly.
Her heart pounding, Emerald hurried into her own bedroom, picked up the receiver of the white telephone beside the bed and dialled the number of her private doctor in Harley Street.
It was several minutes before the ringing telephone was answered at the other end.
‘I want Dr Ruthers to come round immediately. My son isn’t at all well,’ Emerald told the receptionist.
‘That won’t be possible, I’m afraid.’ The receptionist’s voice was crisp. ‘Dr Ruthers is in Scotland, shooting, at the moment.
‘But there must be someone,’ Emerald protested.
‘Dr Ruthers’ locum has had to go to a family funeral. He’ll be back tomorrow. If you’re really worried you could take your son to Great Ormond Street, the children’s hospital, you know.’
Emerald replaced the receiver and hurried back to Robbie’s room. She was probably worrying unnecessarily. Children did seem dreadfully poorly when they were sick. Now she would probably find him sitting up in bed and demanding orange juice and biscuits.
Only she didn’t. If anything he looked even worse. Was it her imagination or had he someone shrunk and become smaller, frailer in the few minutes she had gone? Fresh panic seized her, a different panic this time. She wanted to pick him up and hold him, anything to stop him getting worse, to keep him with her, to…
The hospital, the receptionist had said. Emerald hesitated. She needed help, someone…
She went back to her bedroom and looked at the telephone and then taking a deep breath she picked up the receiver.
Drogo was attempting to finish The Times crossword when the phone rang, and he was glad of the excuse to stop. The butler hadn’t been too pleased initially when Drogo had announced that he was going to have his calls put straight through to him rather than having the butler answer them, but Drogo had insisted.
‘Drogo, it’s me, Emerald. Drogo–it’s Robbie. He’s sick and our doctor is away. The girl said to take him to Great Ormond Street, but…’
He could hear the fear and panic in her voice, and his stomach muscles clenched against what she was telling him as he answered, ‘I’m coming round. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’
‘It’s all right, darling, Mummy’s here,’ Emerald whispered to her son, holding the small hot hand tightly in her own, and when he made no response, adding almost pleadingly, ‘Uncle Drogo’s coming.’ But there was still no response, as Robbie lay huddled on his side, facing away from the window with his eyes closed and his breathing strained and ragged.
Where was Drogo? He should have been here by now. She got up and went to stand in front of the bedroom window, looking anxiously down into the square.
He’d said ten minutes and that had been over fifteen minutes ago.
A Rolls-Royce, stately and shiny, turned into Cadogan Place, momentarily obscuring her view of the pavement. As Emerald waited impatiently for it to pass she realised that it was slowing as it approached her house, and then she saw Drogo striding swiftly down the street towards them, and everything bar her relief vanished as she almost flew down the stairs to let him in.
Only when she opened the door, he was standing on the pavement in deep discussion with a much older man who had got out of the Rolls-Royce.
Frantic with anxiety, Emerald was just about to demand his attention when he turned towards her and told her, ‘I took the liberty of telephoning Dr Salthouse and asking him if he could come straight here, Emerald.’
A doctor! Emerald could almost have cried with gratitude.
‘He’s upstairs,’ she told them both.
It seemed to take an age for the doctor to complete his examination of Robbie. Emerald answered his questions as best she could.
‘I thought he was just pretending when he said he had a headache and felt sick. It was something I used to do myself at his age when I didn’t want to do something.’
It was her fault that Robbie was so ill. Her fault. Her heart felt as though it was being gripped by giant pincers and torn apart. How, why had she not known until now how very precious to her her son was, how infinitely more important than anything else in her life?
