Lady of Milkweed Manor Read online

  “And to you, Dr. Taylor.”

  “I say, this place is a tomb. Um, rather, I cannot seem to find anyone about. Have you seen Mrs. Moorling or Preston, by chance?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. They are both above stairs right now.”

  He stopped where he was. “Are they indeed?” His expression was both thoughtful and perplexed.

  “Mrs. Moorling was taking up some things Dr. Preston must have ordered.”

  He lowered the document in his hands. “What sort of things?”

  “If I am not mistaken, lances and such for bloodletting. I saw that at home on more than one occasion before Dr. Webb forbade it.”

  His expression transformed from perplexity to alarm and, she thought, anger.

  “Thank you,” he murmured tensely and jumped over the low chain easily and bounded up the stairs two at a time. He disappeared around the corner hollering, “Preston!” as he ran.

  There was something troubling going on above stairs. Quite troubling. She thought to follow Dr. Taylor, but a quick look at that little plaque, still swinging from a flick of Dr. Taylor’s shoe, stopped her. That and the thought of Mrs. Moorling’s censure.

  Charlotte walked quickly back down the corridor, past her room and to the servants’ stairs. Looking back and seeing no one, she opened the door and stepped in, closing the door behind her. She climbed the stairs as quickly as her taxed body would allow, and when she reached the top she heard the unmistakable sounds of Dr. Preston and Dr. Taylor shouting at each other, as well as Mrs. Moorling’s low, admonishing tones. But then the other voice sounded, the high, plaintive wail Charlotte had heard before. The cry seemed more distressed than ever, and the volume and panicked pitch of it were mounting by the second.

  Charlotte cracked the door open and peered down the corridor. The windows up here were unshuttered, so the passage was light enough for her to see clearly. She could also hear clearly as Dr. Taylor exclaimed, “Good heavens, Preston. You have frightened her nearly to death.”

  “I am only attempting what you hadn’t the courage to do.”

  “Yes, and see how much it has helped her.”

  “I was not finished.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  The fevered wailing rose again, and Dr. Taylor barked a command, “Get out of here, Preston. Now.”

  “Fine. Moorling, come with me.”

  Preston marched away down the corridor toward the main stairs, Mrs. Moorling following less assuredly behind him. Charlotte saw the woman glance back.

  Dr. Taylor’s voice called out, “Mrs. Moorling, please hand me that sponge.”

  “Mrs. Moorling, you will come with me,” Preston insisted. “That room is no place for you.”

  Charlotte was surprised to see Mrs. Moorling obey the man. The two turned the corner and disappeared, Charlotte knew, down the main staircase.

  “Mrs. Moorling!” Dr. Taylor’s voice had taken on new urgency. “I need you here!”

  The wail broke off into short cries and curses and Charlotte heard the unmistakable sound of struggle.

  “I need some help here!”

  Dr. Taylor’s plea pulled Charlotte into the corridor. She stepped both rapidly and timidly down its length to the open doorway. She peered in and put her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. Chills prickled her skin. Dr. Taylor held a wild-haired, half-dressed woman in a wrestling hold against the far wall of the room. In one hand, raised above her head, the woman held a lance like those Charlotte had seen on the tray earlier. Dr. Taylor held her wrist to keep the lance at bay and with the other hand held the woman still as she struggled to free herself. The woman, Charlotte realized, was cursing in French.

  Dr. Taylor must have heard her footsteps, because he said, without being able to turn around enough to see her, “The opium sponge on the corridor table. Quick!”

  Charlotte turned and found the sponge in a bowl. She picked it up carefully and quickly stepped back into the room, dripping water and who knew what else and swallowing back her fear of recrimination. Dr. Taylor pressed the woman’s body with his shoulder and awkwardly stuck out his hand behind himself to receive the sponge.

  Charlotte walked closer and laid it in his waiting palm. At that moment she stepped into his peripheral vision and he glanced up at her, and his eyes sparked with—what? Anger? Astonishment? Mortification? She wasn’t sure. Charlotte glanced quickly at the woman, and even through the dark hair strewn across her face, there was no missing the fury in her expression.

  The woman began yelling at her, lip curled in disdain, obsidian eyes flashing. Charlotte’s familiarity with the French language did not extend to whatever vile words the woman was spewing—words that were cut off when Dr. Taylor pressed the sponge against her nose and mouth. Charlotte backed away slowly, watching the woman struggle in vain to turn her face away. Just as Charlotte reached the door, the woman slumped against Dr. Taylor, clearly sedated. He picked her up and laid her on the room’s lone bed. Only then did Charlotte realize that the woman was with child.

  Dr. Taylor looked over at Charlotte in the doorway. “You are not supposed to be up here, you know.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  She stood there a few seconds longer. He offered no explanation and neither did she.

  He covered the woman with a blanket, grumbling as he did so, “Blast that Preston. I have told him never to try that with her. Arrogant fool . . .”

  In repose, the woman’s face relaxed into lovely lines and features somehow familiar. Recognition flitted within reach and away again.

  “There, she will rest quietly now.” Rising, he led Charlotte from the room, locking the door behind them.

  “I suppose you wonder why I don’t have him discharged. What with things like this and those other charges you brought to my attention.”

  “I was not . . .”

  “I cannot release him, though I likely should. He knows too much. And now, so do you. I don’t suppose I have any right to ask you to keep silent about what you have seen this day.”

  “What . . . have I seen?” she asked softly.

  He looked at her, then away. He sighed deeply. “A woman who suffers from puerperal insanity.”

  “What is that?”

  “A type of melancholy mania. In her case it commenced with conception. More typically it develops after birth.”

  “I have never heard of it. Do many suffer from it?”

  “More and more it seems. And I have yet to figure out why.” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, then seemed to notice Charlotte’s hand pressing against her own chest. “Do not fret, Charlotte. I am sure you will be fine. Mania runs in her family, I discovered, but not in yours, as I remember quite well.”

  “How can one be sure?”

  “There are many early symptoms. Inability to attend to any subject, indifference to one’s surroundings, fear, melancholy, suicidal thoughts. . . .”

  “Good heavens.”

  “Yes, good heavens indeed. One might wonder what God is doing up there in those heavens of His when so many could use Him down here.”

  She stood there watching as he walked away toward the main stairs. Then she made her own retreat down the servants’ staircase, pressing a hand to her newly aching back and shaking her head as she relived the details of the startling encounter. So shaken was she that it wasn’t until she reached her own room that she fully realized that the wild-haired French woman was the bride in the wedding portrait—Dr. Taylor’s wife.

  The next morning Charlotte arose from bed and immediately groaned, thrusting her hand into the small of her back. The pain she’d first felt the previous night was now visiting her tenfold. Had she injured herself climbing the stairs? She paced her room, hoping to warm her muscles and ease the ache.

  A new belt of painful cramping seized her underbelly. Charlotte stopped her pacing and leaned over the bed, supporting herself with her hands, panting. This was no mere backache. This was something altogether new. Altogether frigh
tening. When the constriction abated, she walked gingerly to the door and opened it. Looking down the passage, she saw Gibbs walking across the entry hall.

  “Miss Gibbs!” Charlotte called.

  “Yes?” The woman paused, and then quickly strode toward her. Taking one look at her face, Gibbs said, “Your pains have begun?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “Very well. I shall alert Dr. Preston.”

  “Is there no one else who might—?”

  Gibbs shook her head, “I am afraid not. Dr. Taylor has gone home.”

  Charlotte sighed and returned to her room. Why must her babe come now, early in the day, with only Preston on hand to deliver her? Woe filled her at the thought of putting herself in such a vulnerable position in his harsh presence. She would prefer Dr. Taylor to attend her, although she would still be mortified to assume the birthing position—on her side, knees up, facing away from him, according to Sally’s whispered description. Was there no one else to help her? Another pain struck. Lord, please help me, she breathed.

  Hat in place and newspaper tucked under his arm, Daniel locked the door to his private medical office on the street level of his townhouse on Wimpole Street. He had no idea where his father was. He had still been abed when Daniel had left early this morning to pay a house call but was not at home when Daniel returned. He hoped his father hadn’t broken down and headed out to a tavern somewhere. Hungry, but with little interest in eating alone, Daniel decided to walk down the street for a quick meal at the Red Hen before his next appointment at two.

  He was startled to see Preston rounding the corner and heading toward the Red Hen as well. Wasn’t the man supposed to be on duty?

  “Hello there, Preston.”

  “Taylor. Hello. I’m rather surprised to see you here.”

  Daniel was about to icily tell him the same, and to remind him of the office hours for which the Manor was compensating him, but the man’s next words stopped him.

  “How fares Miss Smith?”

  Daniel pulled a grimace. “Fine last I saw her. Why?”

  “She’s delivered, has she not?”

  “Has she? When?”

  “Well, beg me, I am confused. Mrs. Moorling told me to head on home, that Taylor was on duty, helping Miss Smith as we spoke, or some such.”

  “I haven’t been to the manor since last night.”

  “Something afoul there, then. Shall I go back and sort it out?”

  “No. I’ll go.”

  He thrust his paper into Preston’s arms and strode quickly down the street, worry pushing aside his hunger. Had there been some misunderstanding? Had Mrs. Moorling sent Preston away, thinking Daniel had spent the night and was still above stairs when Charlotte’s time came? Had Charlotte been left alone, to deliver her child unaided? Was she suffering still? Or worse, what if complications had arisen as they had with Charlotte’s mother? Fear prodded his heart, and soon he was running down the street, over the manor lawn, and pushing through the doors. It was too quiet, deathly quiet. Was he too late? His shoes slapping against the floor echoed as he ran to Charlotte’s room. He knocked but didn’t wait for an answer as he pushed the door open and barreled inside. Charlotte looked up at him, clearly surprised at his abrupt entrance. But far from looking distressed, Charlotte smiled a wide, contented smile. Heart pounding in his ears, Daniel bent over, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He looked around the room, trying to deduce the situation. Charlotte was sitting up in bed, fresh nightdress and bedclothes around her, bundled babe asleep in her arms.

  “Are you . . .” He panted. “Are you well?”

  Charlotte nodded, eyes bright.

  “But . . . how? When?”

  “About an hour ago. As to the ‘how,’ I think you should know that better than I.” Again she smiled at him, a heavy-lidded, peaceful smile.

  “But who delivered you? You were not alone, I trust?”

  “No, thank goodness. When Gibbs did not find you at home, your father offered to come in your stead.”

  “My father? Did he? But was he—That is . . . was his attention . . .”

  “He was quite wonderful, Daniel. A godsend.”

  A quick knock sounded and his father walked in, looking the part of the regimental surgeon he once was—dressed in shirtsleeves, black waistcoat and linen apron, drying clean hands on a white cloth. Only his snowy hair, standing here and there out of place, detracted from his competent appearance.

  “Daniel. There you are. Have you ever seen such a stout, healthy lad?”

  Daniel looked at Charlotte’s babe, which he had yet to examine. “Perhaps I should have a look at him.”

  “Go on, feast your eyes if you like. But I checked him over myself, I did. A perfect specimen, if I say so myself.”

  Charlotte grinned up at his father. “I must say I quite agree with you, sir.”

  “May I?” Daniel asked.

  Charlotte nodded, and he began his examination of the plump, pink babe.

  His father said mildly, “Miss Charlotte here tells me she knew you when she was a girl.”

  “Yes, I had the privilege of meeting Charlotte’s family during my apprenticeship in Kent.”

  “And now here you meet again. God looks after His lambs, now doesn’t He?”

  Charlotte’s lips rose in an attempted smile, but Daniel could see she doubted the sentiment. For his part, he did not miss the irony of his father referring to Miss “Smith” as a “lamb.”

  “You are both correct,” Daniel pronounced. “Perfect indeed.” He rebundled the infant and returned him to Charlotte’s arms.

  “And what will you call him?” his father asked.

  “I have not decided.”

  “Well, no great hurry.” His father picked up his bag and packed away his last few things. “You rest awhile, miss. You’ve had quite a day already.”

  “Thank you. I shall.”

  Mrs. Moorling knocked at the partially opened door and stepped inside. “I’ve brought Ruth to nurse your child for you.”

  “I planned to do that myself.”

  “In time you shall.”

  “But—”

  Charlotte glanced from Mrs. Moorling to him, clearly embarrassed to discuss such matters in front of two men, but still he didn’t feel he could leave without explaining. “Prevailing opinion is that a mother’s first milk is not suitable for her child. Most women have nurses for the first few days.”

  “And you agree with this ‘prevailing’ opinion?”

  “Frankly, I do not. Nor does Father.”

  “You go right ahead and nurse that bonny boy yourself, if you like, miss,” his father soothed. “Won’t hurt him a bit. After all, the good Lord knew what He was doing when He designed the whole affair.”

  “Dr. Taylor?” Mrs. Moorling, clearly disapproving, looked to Daniel.

  “I see no problem with it. Perhaps Sally Mitchell would be so good as to instruct Miss Smith on proper positioning.”

  He noticed Charlotte’s face and neck became splotched red with embarrassment.

  “We shall leave you for now,” he said, wanting to end her discomfort. “Come now, Father.”

  “I shall return on the morrow to check on you, miss,” his father offered. “And I will sign the birth record as soon as you settle on a name.”

  “Thank you.”

  Once in the corridor, Daniel took his father’s arm and leaned close as they walked away. “What are you doing, Father? You do not really mean to return?”

  “I always check on my patients.”

  “She is not your patient . . .”

  “Of course she is. I delivered her son myself.”

  “Yes, and I appreciate your stepping in to assist when I was not available. But I can check on Miss Smith and the others.”

  “Daniel, I have not felt this good, this useful, in a long time.”

  “Yes, I am sure. But remember, I agreed to take your place with the condition that you would stay home and . . . get be
tter.”

  “Get sober, you mean.”

  Daniel sighed.

  “I am sober, Daniel. Have been for some time. I am ready to return.”

  “I am glad, Father. I am. But for how long? This institution operates on public funding. We cannot afford any more pocks on its reputation.” His father’s pained expression lanced his conscience. “Father, I did not mean . . .”

  But the older man was already walking past him down the corridor, a bit less steady on his legs than he seemed only moments before.

  Lord Clarendon, British foreign secretary, reported that Queen Victoria

  was hostile to maternal breastfeeding. “Our Gracious Mistress,” Lord

  Clarendon wrote, “is still frantic with her two daughters

  making cows of themselves.”

  —JUDITH SCHNEID LEWIS, I N THE F AMILY W AY

  CHAPTER 12

  When Charlotte first attempted to nurse her son, she quickly realized it wasn’t as easy as it appeared to be. As Sally helped her position her baby, and herself, she felt awkward and humiliated. When Sally then showed her how to coax the child’s small mouth open and compress her flesh to fit more fully inside, she was quite relieved no one else was in the room, that she had her private room at last.

  She was just beginning to think she’d been dreadfully wrong in insisting she nurse her babe herself when finally, wonder of wonders, he latched on with a lusty mouthful and began suckling greedily. Seems they’d both figured it out at about the same time. Charlotte giggled with relief and satisfaction, and Sally smiled at her in return.

  “There you are now—that’s how ’tis done. You shall be an old hand in no time, just like me.”

  Charlotte opened her mouth to say she had no plans to become an experienced wet nurse as Sally was, but she thought better of it. She smiled at Sally instead.

  “You have been such a help to me. To us.”

  Us . . . the single syllable was an unexpected salve to her soul. She who had lost her family now had her own. The memory of birthing pains began fading more rapidly at the thought.