extract from chapter 7
1801: London
Hastings was not a well child and had suffered from fits since infancy. Eliza had taken him sea bathing in every resort to cure him, but his fits were getting worse. On top of that, he had developed a troubling cough that would not shift.
‘My mother sends her love, and my father his prayers,’ Henry passed on to Eliza from his morning post. ‘They invite us to join them in Bath when Hastings is stronger.’
‘How I wish we could,’ replied his wife. She doubted Hastings would ever travel outside London again. The boy had always been welcomed by Henry’s family, and Eliza held on to the memories of Mr and Mrs Austen indulging him, and Henry’s sisters treating him as the best plaything they could wish for. Eliza sighed wearily as she took away yet another drink from her son’s bedside table he had not touched.
Photo: Cragside, Northumberland
Photo: Upper Berkley Street, London
A noise from the street indicated that their physician, Dr Baillie, was coming to the door. He was Eliza’s last hope. He was well respected in the medical profession and was doing all that could be done. Dr Baillie’s clientele included members of the royal family, so he was well esteemed, and Eliza liked him because he did not put pressure on her to send her son to an asylum like so many others did.
‘How are you feeling today, young man?’ the doctor asked breezily as soon as he had crossed the threshold of his room.
Hastings did not even open his eyes. The doctor listened to his breathing, which was shallow, and examined the pallor of his skin on his chest. It was pale and grey, and there were scars all over his body from where cups had been put onto his skin to create enough suction to draw out bad blood. Poor Hastings had cried out in pain so much that Eliza had begged the doctor to stop.
Photo: Lyme Park, Stockport
Elsewhere, on his arms and legs, he was covered in tiny bites from leeches that still seeped blood and refused to heal. Hastings winced as the doctor wiped them with his stinging water, although he was too weak to cry out.
Photo: Brontë Parsonage, Yorkshire
'Has he taken any fluids today?’ the good doctor enquired.
‘No,’ replied Eliza. ‘Nothing at all.’
Hastings’s face was glowing unnaturally. His red cheeks burnt in contrast to the coolness of his forehead.
‘I can’t bear to see him in such pain,’ said Eliza when the physician had concluded his examination.
‘He will not endure it much longer,’ promised the medical man. ‘Continue with the laudanum. That will help.’
Photos: Berrington Hall, Herefordshire
Henry stood beside his wife and held her hand. There was nothing more to say that they had not said a thousand times before.
Copyright Diane Jane Ball 2025