Lady of Milkweed Manor Read online

  He glanced at Katherine. “Between five and twenty and five and thirty is the best age, wherein women are most temperate, healthful, and strong.”

  Katherine nodded her understanding and he continued. “And your child’s age?”

  “A half year.”

  “Good. If her child be above seven or eight months old, then her milk will be too stale. It would also call into question whether she would have milk enough to nurse your son.”

  Katherine again nodded, and Hugh Palmer continued, walking around Sally and eyeing her as one would a gown in a dress shop.

  “She is a little tall perhaps. Not too fat nor too lean, however. Arms good and fleshly . . .” He suddenly reached out and pinched Sally’s arm, and she gasped.

  “. . . and firm.”

  He returned his gaze to the book. “‘She must have a pleasing countenance, a bright and clear eye, a well-formed nose, a ruddy mouth, and very white teeth.’” He paused before Sally. “Open your mouth, if you please. Now smile. White, yes, but not very straight.”

  He read on. “‘Her hair should be between yellow and black, ideally a chestnut color. But she especially should not have red hair.’”

  Sally self-consciously touched her golden hair, pinned up in a classic twist by Charlotte herself.

  “‘She must deliver her words well, and distinctly, without stammering.’ Please tell us something about yourself.”

  Taking a breath and swallowing hard, Sally began in careful, practiced tones, “My name is Miss Sally Mitchell. I am five and twenty years of age . . .”

  From behind the door, Charlotte held her breath. Sally had already told her age. Charlotte hoped they wouldn’t find it odd that she was repeating it.

  “I have one child. His name is Dickie. He’s a rascal but I loves him.”

  Oh dear. She was extemporizing now.

  Sally, apparently seeing the fine lady frown, returned to the rote speech Charlotte had prepared for her.

  “My son is a half-year old and is in the care of my dear sister . . .”

  “Thank you. Moving on . . .”

  But Sally wasn’t finished yet. “Leaving me free to seek employment as a nurse.”

  “As we see. Thank you.” The haughty man returned his focus to the book. “‘She must have a strong and big neck, for thereby, as Hippocrates said, may one judge the strength of the body.’”

  Sally swallowed as three pairs of eyes studied her neck. She lifted her chin higher as though to accommodate them.

  “‘She must have a broad and large breast. . . .’”

  His gaze lowered and Sally’s strong neck turned bright red.

  Katherine dipped her head, touching gloved fingers to her temple, her lowered hat brim no doubt concealing her face. Charlotte noticed that Mr. Harris had the good grace to turn his face away. He cleared his throat. Mr. Palmer looked up, oblivious to their discomfiture.

  Mr. Harris said, “We shall leave it to you to examine, um, that aspect of her nature. We need not hear those particulars.”

  “Ah . . . yes. Very well.” Palmer moved on to the next page.

  “‘She ought to be of a good behavior, sober, and not given to drinking, or gluttony, mild, without being angry or fretful: for there is nothing that sooner corrupts the blood, of which the milk is made, than choler or sadness.’”

  “Yes, well, we have letters from a physician and the matron testifying to her character on those accounts,” Mr. Harris said dismissively.

  “Indeed. ‘She must likewise be chaste.’ Miss Mitchell, are you married?”

  “No, sir.”

  “‘She must not desire the company of her husband or strange men, because carnal copulation troubleth the blood, and so by consequence the milk.’”

  Sally blushed once more, and again Katherine’s hand went to her temple.

  “Yes, yes.” Mr. Harris rose, agitated. “Mr. Palmer, do try and remember there is a lady in the room.”

  “I am only trying to determine if this woman is a suitable choice.”

  “I understand that. And what is your conclusion?”

  “Well, I have yet to examine her breasts or her milk for the correct color and consistency . . .”

  Charles Harris lowered his head and bit out, “And how long does that require?”

  “Not long. For the milk, I shall have the nurse express a small quantity onto a looking glass. It should be pure white, have a sweet smell, and be neither too thick nor too thin.”

  “Then get on with it, man.” Mr. Harris sat back down.

  The accoucheur and Sally disappeared behind a curtained partition, placed there for this use.

  Even from her position of modest safety, Charlotte felt her heart pound, her face and neck heat at the thought of what poor Sally must be enduring on the other side of that partition. The only sounds were the rustling of fabric and an occasional murmur of “Mmm-hmm . . .” from Mr. Palmer.

  Five minutes later the man reappeared, a square of glass in his hand. He tilted it gently from side to side. “The milk flows in a leisurely fashion, not too watery, nor too thick.”

  “So?”

  “She will do,” Hugh Palmer announced. “The height and crooked teeth are not ideal, but overall an acceptable specimen.”

  Stepping back into view, Sally beamed at the words, as though they were the finest compliment a woman could receive.

  Charlotte sat on the garden bench, a swaddled Anne Taylor asleep in her arms. She remembered how her mother believed fresh air and sunshine were as important as mother’s milk for a child. Dr. Taylor came out the side door and waved to her. She tucked the child into the handled basket beside her and rose as he approached.

  “Miss Lamb, may I say you look like a woman who has borne many a child.”

  She looked at him quickly, then away, her hand moving self-consciously to her midriff, still somewhat rounded.

  Dr. Taylor’s pale cheeks turned pink beneath the sandy stubble.

  “What I mean to say is . . . you look quite the experienced. . . . That is, quite . . . as if you know what you are doing.” He rubbed his eyebrows with thumb and forefinger. “Though I obviously do not.”

  Charlotte wondered why he seemed so nervous.

  “Do you still plan to depart for Crawley soon?” he asked.

  “Yes. Unless I hear otherwise from my aunt.”

  Hands behind his back, he studied the earth. “Miss Lamb, I wonder if you might consider another course.” He cleared his throat. “That is, I do not suppose you would do me the honor of, um . . .”

  He left off and began again. “You see, I’m afraid I know not when my wife will be sufficiently recovered to return home. I should only hope it will be soon. But, as my wife must, I fear, reside here longer, I would be eternally obliged . . . Of course I shall understand completely if you refuse. I know it is terribly presumptuous, that you no doubt would rather be rid of this whole business forever, but . . .”

  Charlotte furrowed her brow, trying to follow his rambling. Then she understood. He was asking her to continue on as his daughter’s nurse. She recalled Sally’s examination and interview with humiliating clarity. She swallowed.

  “But any of the women here would be happy to oblige. I do not . . . That is, why would you ask me?”

  Dr. Taylor seemed to calm at the question. “Common wisdom dictates that a nurse passes on not only nutrition but her very character, her qualities, her good and vice through her milk. I do not believe science bears this out, but if there is any truth in it at all, I certainly believe that the care of a kind, loving, and honorable woman can only be to my daughter’s benefit.”

  “How can you say such things of me. After everything . . .?”

  He took a step closer to her and looked directly into her eyes.

  “There’s not one of us who passes through this life without making a mistake, Miss Lamb,” he said gently, “but it’s a rare soul who redeems one so utterly. I have never known a more noble, more honorable, more worthy woman .
. . and if my daughter can glean any of those qualities, well, I should be exceedingly grateful.”

  She stared up at him, seeing the sincerity shining in his blue-green eyes.

  She opened her mouth to give an answer, but at that moment she heard a familiar voice call out her name.

  “Charlotte?”

  She turned and saw a finely dressed and wonderfully familiar woman at the garden gate. She excused herself from Dr. Taylor and strode quickly up the garden path, hardly noticing that Dr. Taylor quickly stepped back inside the manor.

  “Aunt Tilney! How I’ve longed for you to come!”

  The two women embraced, and then Charlotte led her aunt to the garden bench. Amelia Tilney’s eyes widened as she looked into the basket at the sleeping infant.

  “Is this your child?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not.”

  Charlotte looked at her aunt, brows raised.

  “The tone of the letter suggested something was amiss here.”

  “But I did not send a letter.”

  “A letter from a physician, a Dr. Taylor.”

  “Dr. Taylor wrote to you?”

  “Yes.” Her aunt sat beside her, withdrew a folded note from her reticule, and handed it to her. “Very wise, really. Your uncle would have recognized your hand and chastised me. He might have read this directly and not known it pertained to you.”

  Charlotte read the brief note quickly.

  To Mrs. Amelia Tilney,

  Madam, I thank you for your interest and support of our work at the Manor Home in the past. I am writing to inform you of a new development here which will be of particular interest to you. In fact, we are in need of the wise counsel that your past association uniquely equips you to offer. We understand you are a person with innumerable commitments and restraints upon your leisure, but do urgently hope you will find the time. Our facilities are open to you at any hour. Please do call on us as at your earliest convenience.

  Most sincerely,

  Dr. Daniel Taylor

  Physician, The Manor Home for Unwed Mothers

  “I never asked him to write,” Charlotte said, still staring at the letter. “I do not see how you understand anything from these few lines.”

  “I read between them, as they say. What has happened?”

  Charlotte handed back the note. “I had a child. A son. But he is gone. Lost to me.”

  The tears that sprang immediately to her aunt’s large brown eyes were salve to Charlotte’s soul. Her mother’s sister sat next to her on the bench and laid gloved fingertips on Charlotte’s hand. “My dear girl. How long ago?”

  “He was born ten days ago. I had him for six days. Six very short days.”

  “I am so sorry, my dear. So very sorry. How this loss must pain you.”

  “Indeed it does. At times I can barely breathe for it.”

  “I understand. And yet, who can question God’s will? Perhaps He allowed this so you might return to your family.”

  “I do not see how this changes anything.”

  “But it does! The evidence is—”

  “Evidence! He was not evidence—he was my son. My precious little boy, my heart.”

  “My dear, forgive me. I do understand.” Her aunt wrapped her other arm about her shoulders.

  “I am so glad you are here.”

  “May I ask, then . . . whose child this is?” She nodded toward the basket.

  “Dr. Taylor’s daughter.”

  “And why are you . . .?”

  “His wife is ill. He has asked me to be the child’s nurse.”

  Amelia Tilney lifted her gloved hand from Charlotte’s and laid it across her lace-covered chest.

  “Can you seriously be thinking of accepting this offer?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “You know what disgrace such a thing would bring to your family were it known?”

  “More disgrace than I have already brought?”

  “Substantially. My dear, if you must have a post, be it that of a governess.”

  “And who, pray, would hire me to teach and mold their children?”

  “Many families would. Many fine families.”

  “Now that I haven’t a babe with me, you mean. I shall not lie about it.”

  “I understand your scruples, my dear—though some might wonder where they were in other matters.”

  “Aunt—”

  “Forgive me. You know I only want the best for you.”

  “I do know that.”

  The older woman squeezed her hand again, and the two sat quietly for a moment. Then her aunt continued, “I think your secret is still safe, my dear. Your father and sister know, of course, and the people here, but they are not likely to be in contact with the type of family with whom you would seek a situation.”

  “Surely others have guessed . . . or at least suspect.”

  “Suspicions do not allegations make. Of course there is the . . . father. Does he know?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is he trustworthy?”

  “Evidently not. If you mean, will he keep my secret, then, yes, I believe he will. Now more than ever.”

  “Are you absolutely certain there is nothing that can be done in that regard?”

  “No, Aunt. Nothing.”

  “But certainly a gentleman. . . . He is a gentleman?”

  “Aunt, I told you. I will not reveal his identity, so please do not fish about for hints.”

  “I only want . . . Please tell me it wasn’t that young gravedigger who ogles you so rudely.”

  “Ben Higgins? He doesn’t ogle me. Heavens no, Aunt. You can rest on that score.”

  “But someone, at least, of your station in life?”

  “Aunt, please. I will tell you this, and then let it be the end of the matter. Our family would suffer no further from either the man’s name or connections, were they known. All right?”

  “A gentleman. I knew it. Then why . . .? Forgive me. We will speak of it no more.”

  “Thank you.” Baby Anne began to fuss, and Charlotte drew her forth and cuddled her close. “I am sorry you disapprove of my course, although I am surprised by the vehemence of your objections.”

  “My dear, wet nurses are infamously ill-bred, uneducated, immoral creatures . . .”

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean, in general, of course. You will be little higher than a scullery maid. The mistress of the house will treat you with ill-concealed contempt so long as her infant needs you. If you vex her, there is nothing to stop her from putting you out on the street as soon as another nurse might be found.”

  “The mistress will not be in residence, at least not for some time.”

  “What? But that is worse yet. Really, my dear Charlotte, I must put my foot down here. You cannot live in a house with a man if his wife is not living there with him.”

  “Servants do so all the time.”

  “But Charlotte Lamb does not.”

  “His father lives there as well.”

  “Two men, Charlotte?”

  “But his wife is in hospital. She is indisposed and may be for some months. Dr. Taylor hopes for less, but he cannot be sure.”

  “Why can he not care for his wife in his own home? He is a physician, is he not?”

  “Yes, but she . . . Well, it is not for us to question. Dr. Taylor wants only what is best for his wife, I am sure.”

  “What’s best for her . . . or for him?”

  “Aunt. I am certain he is completely selfless in this situation.”

  “But what is best for you? Certainly not this. My dear, I beg you reconsider. If it becomes known, you will not be able to secure a position as governess, I am quite sure. Your father and sister would be mortified, and I confess, I should not be far behind. But think, Charlotte, even if it is not known, could you really bear another parting? And you will be parted from this child—make no mistake.”

  “I know this,” Charlotte said dully.

  “Can you re
ally bear it? Would it not be better to leave this place now, to make a new start?”

  “I do not know. All I know is . . . I need this. I feel as though I am standing on a ribbon’s edge over a black pit, and this is the only way I can keep my balance. Why should I not use this God-given sustenance to nurture this child?”

  “It is not your child.”

  “I am very aware of that Aunt. Painfully aware. I know this will not bring my son back, if you fear I am suffering from that misapprehension. But this little girl needs me.”

  “No. She does not. Any of a dozen women in this place could care for her needs.”

  “But who will care for mine?”

  “God will.”

  “I believe that, Aunt, I do—or I would be in that pit already. But I cannot hold God, smell or caress God. His cries do not drown out my own as hers do. She gives me a reason to get out of bed, to keep living, for today, for a little while longer.”

  “There are other ways to cope.”

  “How do you know? Forgive me, but you are not a mother. You have no children of your own.”

  “I did.” She stared off, a sudden sheen of tears brightening her eyes. “I had a little girl many years ago, long after your uncle and I had given up hope of children. She lived but a few days.”

  “Oh, Aunt. I am sorry. I had no idea.”

  “She had dark curls, just like you. I suppose that is one reason I have always felt close to you.”

  Charlotte gazed at her aunt’s profile, but instead saw bits of memory like pieces of colored glass, a beautiful jumble of special moments and little kindnesses collected over a lifetime. “How did you get past it?” she asked quietly.

  “I am still getting past it. Every day. The pain is dimmer now, but still there. The first days, weeks, were torture—like being skinned alive. But it is not something we talked about. Infants die all the time. Women are supposed to be strong and try again as soon as possible. But there was no trying again for me. I lost my womb along with my babe.”

  “Dear Aunt. How dreadful for you.”

  “Yes. And for you.”

  “But . . . you always seemed so cheerful. So happy when you visited us.”

  “I was happy. In many ways. Especially when your mother was alive. Although visiting your family was a joy with a slice of pain all its own. My sister with her two beautiful daughters. And you, with your dark hair and eyes . . . I could never look at you without thinking of my own daughter. How old she would be, what she would be like, how similar and how different from you.”