Lady of Milkweed Manor Page 17

  “Mr. Taylor. I am surprised to see you here.”

  He turned and saw the welcome face of Charlotte Lamb. “Yes. I am not often invited to such as this.”

  “And why not, I wonder?”

  “It seems people do not like reminders of illness and death—and I’m afraid that’s what people think of when they see me. Do you?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I—”

  “Forgive me, Miss Lamb. I had no intention of raining on your pleasure this evening.”

  “Now I see why many a wise hostess has left you off her guest list.” She smiled at him, clearly teasing, hoping to put him at ease.

  “If you wonder if seeing you brings my mother to mind,” she continued, “I suppose it does. But you needn’t worry that you have ruined my evening. My mother is never very far from my thoughts.”

  “You miss her a great deal, do you, Miss Lamb?”

  “I do. But it is not a morbid missing, I hope. I think of her often and strive to remember her. I plan to tell my children all about her someday.”

  “I have little memory of my own mother—she died when I was quite young.”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Taylor. Why have you never told me this before?”

  He shrugged.

  “And worse, why have I never asked?”

  “Do not make yourself uneasy. You have had your own worries.”

  “You must think me a terribly self-interested person.”

  “Caring for your mother is not selfish, Miss Lamb. Or if it is, it is the best kind of selfishness, I think.”

  “You know, my mother was the least selfish person I think I’ve ever known. She would do anything for anybody, especially her children. I should like to be a mother like that someday.”

  “I am certain you shall be, Miss Lamb.”

  The music started, and after a glance at the musicians, Mr. Taylor looked back at Charlotte, clearly unsure of himself.

  “I am a terrible dancer, Miss Lamb, but if you would care to . . .?”

  “I would, Mr. Taylor. Very much. It’s only that . . . I’m afraid I have promised the first two dances to another gentleman.”

  At that moment, emerging from a sea of feathered hats and swishing gowns, young William Bentley appeared, looking dapper in a fine tailcoat, striped waistcoat, and extravagant cravat that had no doubt cost ten times what his own had. At least Daniel had the pleasure of looking down at the boy, whose height barely surpassed Charlotte’s.

  “There you are, Miss Lamb,” Bentley said with a bow. “I’ve come to claim you.”

  “Mr. Taylor,” Charlotte said, turning to him, “may I present Mr. William Bentley, Mr. Harris’s nephew. Mr. Bentley, this is Mr.Daniel Taylor, physician’s apprentice and long-time family friend.”

  “Physician, eh? And you have known Miss Lamb for some time?”

  “A few years now, yes.”

  “So you are uniquely qualified to give me your professional opinion about her.”

  “How so?”

  “Is it just me, or is she not absolutely perfect?”

  “Mr. Bentley, please,” Charlotte protested. “I am not perfect, as Mr. Taylor knows very well.”

  “Do you, man? Has she some hidden flaw, some malady I’ve yet to discover?”

  “Mr. Bentley, you are speaking utter foolishness. Come, the other couples are starting.”

  “Very well. Excuse us, Taylor.”

  While Charlotte danced with William Bentley, Daniel went to retrieve his coat, then sought out the host and hostess to say his thank-yous and farewells. He felt the coward, running off with his coat tails between his legs, but he had used up his courage for one evening. He was just making for the door when the music paused. He glanced over and saw Bentley escort Charlotte from the dance floor and bow, excusing himself to claim his next partner. He noticed Charlotte’s head swivel as she looked about the room. She must have seen him and guessed his route of departure, for she crossed the room at a diagonal and met him at the foot of the stairs.

  “Mr. Taylor, you are not leaving, I hope?”

  “I am afraid so.” He lifted slightly the coat over his arm.

  “Oh dear. I was hoping to see if you are as terrible a dancer as you claim.”

  He laughed. “I can assure you on that point, madam.”

  She looked at him steadily. “I would rather judge that for myself.”

  At the time he was unaware that her words had been rather forward, nearly a breach of etiquette. But clearly she was aware, for her face turned a pretty shade of pink. “Though I realize it is bad form, begging a partner this way.”

  He laid his coat and hat on a nearby chair and offered his arm. “Very well. But you have been forewarned.”

  Daniel soon proved that his assessment of his dancing skill was honest indeed. He was painfully aware that his steps were ungainly, his form inelegant. He did not pretend to enjoy the sneers from the other couples he inadvertently jostled, nor the dance movements themselves. What he did enjoy, however, was being with Charlotte Lamb, holding her lightly in his arms and gazing into her lovely face. When she smiled up at him, he felt as though he was not such a poor dancer after all.

  When the music ended, Daniel escorted Charlotte from the dance floor. “You know,” he said, “when you said you had promised your dance to another gentleman, I immediately assumed you meant Mr. Harris.”

  “Did you? I wonder why. Mr. Harris rarely dances, and when he does, it is only with the finest, most handsome lady in the room.”

  “Charlotte, there you are.” Charles Harris appeared, looking elegant and confident in black-and-white evening attire. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

  Charlotte swallowed, clearly stunned.

  Smiling at her hesitancy, Mr. Harris slanted a glance at him and said, “Unless you are otherwise engaged?”

  “Mr. Taylor and I have just been dancing.”

  “Taylor, is it? Oh, yes, Webb’s apprentice. How do you do.”

  Daniel opened his mouth to reply, but Harris had already returned his attention to Charlotte. “Come, Charlotte, we have not danced since you were a girl.”

  “I was just telling Mr. Taylor that you dance but rarely.”

  “Not so rarely.” He held out his hand to her, and she looked at the hand, the slight bow, the wry grin. She placed her white-gloved hand in his.

  “If you will excuse us,” Harris said to him.

  Charlotte looked back at Daniel, lips parted, clearly wanting to say something to him, even as she was being drawn away by the charming Charles Harris.

  “Mr. Harris rarely dances, and when he does, it’s only with the finest, most handsome lady in the room,” Charlotte had said.

  Well, his record is unchanged, Daniel thought, wondering at the leaden disappointment in his stomach. What had he expected, for her to refuse Harris? And why should she?

  A week after that long ago ball at Sharsted Court, Daniel had walked briskly from the study and presence of the Reverend Mr. Gareth Lamb, hat in hand, disappointment in his chest.

  He had made it out the vicarage door, past the garden, and onto the road toward the village when he heard rapid footfalls behind him. He knew who it was, of course. He had hoped to take his leave without this encounter. He did not wish to share his humiliation with anyone. Nor could he forget the triumph on the vicar’s face as he assured him that his daughter shared his views. Daniel took a deep breath before turning around.

  She looked more like the girl-Charlotte again, rather than the poised young woman he’d danced with last week. Cheeks flushed, eyes wide, hair loose from her run, falling around her face, more concerned for the feelings of others than proper appearances. The girl he’d fallen in love with in the first place.

  “You’re leaving?” she asked between breaths. “For keeps, I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without saying good-bye?”

  “I thought it best, under the circumstances.”

  “Oh . . . I suppose I should
apologize for spoiling your dignified parting by chasing after you in a most undignified manner.”

  He smiled at this in spite of himself. “Your father would not approve.”

  She looked at him meaningfully, her earnest eyes sad. “No, he would not.”

  He looked away from her, toward Doddington, grasping his hands behind his back. He felt her gaze on his profile.

  After an awkward moment, she asked, “Are you sure you must go?”

  “Charlotte, I am sure of very little. Except that I need to improve myself. I am determined to complete my studies at the University of Edinburgh and become a licensed physician.”

  “But Oxford or Cambridge would be so much closer.”

  “I am afraid I haven’t the status nor means for either of those institutions. Dr. Webb recommends Edinburgh—it is where he studied.”

  “You admire Dr. Webb.”

  “Yes. My own father is a surgeon, but I want to do more than set bones and cut out offending bits . . .” He paused. “Forgive me. That was terribly unfeeling of me.”

  She gave him a tiny smile. “You certainly do not have Dr. Webb’s discretion.”

  “Quite right. Another thing I shall have to improve upon.”

  “My mother was quite fond of you—just as you are.”

  “Thank you. I am honored.”

  “Father, however . . .”

  “Yes, Miss Lamb. I quite understand. Your father himself has made his opinion of me quite clear.”

  She opened her mouth as if to say more, to apologize, perhaps, but instead she pressed her lips primly together and said no more.

  Knowing there was little more he could say on that subject, or any other, Daniel Taylor bid farewell to Miss Charlotte Lamb and to Doddington, determined to rarely think of either of them again.

  Since they may be hindered by sickness,

  or for that they are too weake and tender,

  or else because their Husbands will not suffer them,

  it will be very necessary to seeke out another Nurse.

  —JAMES GUILLEMEAU, C HILDBIRTH OR

  T HE H APPY D ELIVERIE OF W OMEN

  CHAPTER 18

  In the London townhouse of Lady Katherine and Mr. Harris, Sally sat in a rocking chair in the third-floor nursery, holding the small boy in her arms, enjoying the warm weight of his compact body against her bosom. Holding him both comforted and pricked her heart. She missed her own dear boy, a few miles away with her sister. She had only seen him once since coming here the previous month. ’Tis for you I’m doin’ this, she thought. I’m savin’ every shilling. We’ll have us a better life, Dickie. You see if we don’t.

  The lady of the house entered without knocking, and Sally sat up straighter in the rocking chair, quickly making sure her frock was properly done up.

  “Good evening, m’lady,” Sally said quickly.

  “And how is my son this evening?” Lady Katherine asked, eyes only for her boy.

  “His belly is full and his dreams sweet.”

  Lady Katherine slanted a wry glance at Sally. “And how would you know the content of his dreams?”

  “Oh, just look at him, m’lady. He’s got the look of peace about him. He sleeps the sleep of one with no worries. No twitchin’, no moanin’.”

  “Well, let us hope he is this quiet during the churching tomorrow.”

  Sally lifted the boy gently from her lap, offering him up to his mother. “Would you like to hold him?”

  “Not tonight, I fear. We’re off to a small dinner party and I haven’t time to clean spittle—or worse—from my gown. You understand.”

  “O’ course.”

  Katherine turned and stepped back to the door, then paused.

  “Just listen to that wind. It will ruin my hair. Do find Edmund an extra blanket for the night. This house is so drafty when the wind blows.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  The townhouse was drafty, especially up on the higher floors. It was tall and narrow, like those adjoining it. Sally guessed their interiors were similar too, though she had little to base this on, as she had barely been out of the house since hiring on as Edmund’s nurse.

  The warmest room in the house was the kitchen below stairs. Its high windows looked out onto a small herb garden, ruined this late in autumn. The dining room was on the main level, with large windows facing the street. On the first floor up were the drawing room, sitting room, and library; and on the second, the master and mistress’s bedchambers and dressing rooms. Above that were the nursery and two other bedrooms, and on the top level, the servant’s quarters. It had taken Sally weeks to get used to all the climbing of stairs. Her appetite since coming here had grown, and she’d overheard the cook grumbling more than once about how much she ate. ’Tisn’t my fault, Sally thought, what with the milk I must give and all this added exercise.

  Sally laid the sleeping child in his cradle and went searching for another blanket as her mistress had bid. This child already had more belongings than Sally herself had owned in her entire life. She dug through the wardrobe, then lifted the cover of the cedar chest behind the settee. She soon discovered a thick wool tartan and a small satin quilt. She ran her hands over each for the sheer pleasure of feeling the fine materials and textures. The silky ivory quilt felt cool to her touch, the wool scratchy but substantial. Surely the poor thing would sweat under either of those.

  She dug farther. Near the bottom, she found a small blanket rolled up like a sausage. Curious, she pulled it from beneath the layers and unrolled it. The material was coarse—ordinary unbleached cotton. Just like the material the girls at Milkweed Manor used to stitch up blankets and nappies. She was surprised to see such a homely article in this chest of treasures. Had some poor relative given it as a gift, only for the thing to be stuffed to the bottom of the heap, with no hope of touching Edmund Harris’s delicate skin? She felt embarrassed for the foolish pauper, whoever she was.

  But then the lamplight fell on the corner of the blanket and Sally’s fingers flew to trace the unusual stitching. She lifted the corner and inspected it closely. Why, she recognized this embroidery, this flower and pod. This was Charlotte’s work, surely. Wasn’t that the faintest hint of her initial C in the leaf of the flower? But how had Charlotte’s blanket . . . the one she had stitched for her very own child . . . ended up here, at the bottom of Lady Katherine’s cedar chest?

  The door creaked open and Sally jerked awake. She had fallen asleep rocking Edmund. Lady Katherine and Mr. Harris stepped into the nursery, no doubt to check on their son after their evening out.

  “What is that?” Censure obvious in her tone, Katherine stood beside the chair, looking down her nose at Sally.

  “What?” Sally looked down at herself, then at Edmund, asleep in her arms.

  “That filthy thing you’ve wrapped him in?”

  “’Tisn’t filthy, m’lady. Only plain.”

  “Wherever did it come from?”

  Mr. Harris stepped closer, quickly looking from the blanket, to Sally, to his wife, and then back to Sally. His face was somber.

  “Perhaps Nurse brought it with her,” he suggested.

  “No, sir, I found it in the chest.”

  The father shrugged. “It might be from the hospital. It was cold that night, and I believe the physician might have sent Edmund home bundled up in an extra blanket or two.”

  “The hospital? Well, get it off him, then. Who knows how filthy the thing is.”

  “I’m sure it’s been laundered,” Mr. Harris assured her. “During your recovery.”

  “Still . . . we have all these fine lovely blankets,” Katherine walked to the cedar chest herself and lifted its lid. “Please use these.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” Sally bobbed her head.

  Lady Katherine selected the ivory satin quilt, and realizing her mistress meant now, Sally quickly unwound the hospital blanket from the infant. Lady Katherine handed her the quilt and took the embroidered blanket from her with two fingers held far f
rom her body. She furrowed her brow and brought it closer to her face. “That’s odd . . .”

  “What is?” Mr. Harris asked.

  “This stitching. I have seen something very like it before.”

  “All stitching’s alike to me. It’s late—come to bed.”

  “Very well. Dispose of this for me, please.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  Sally folded up the offending blanket but could not bring herself to discard it. After her employers left the room, she shoved it back down into the bottom of the chest.

  Charlotte hired a hansom using the few bank notes her aunt had slipped into her hand prior to her recent departure. She knew she should not go. But she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Once more leaving Anne in Mae’s capable hands and donning her large brimmed bonnet, she stepped into the hansom and gave the driver the simple directions.

  She had received her aunt’s note just yesterday. Knowing now that her niece had an ally in Dr. Taylor, Amelia Tilney had sent him a brief letter of gratitude, thanking him for alerting her to Charlotte’s situation and within that note, enclosed another addressed to Charlotte herself. Her aunt had thought to cheer her, Charlotte supposed, with her news. But she had not.

  My Dear Charlotte,

  I thought it might please you to know that two you have long held dear are celebrating the joyful occasion of the birth of a son. We all feared how your cousin Katherine would do, considering her somewhat advanced age and the discomfort she experienced late in her lying-in. But I know you will be happy to hear that all is well and Charles and Katherine have a little son they have named Edmund. I understand Katherine is to be churched this Wednesday at St. George’s Hanover Square. They have even graciously included your uncle and I in their plans for a christening dinner in honor of the occasion. Our old friend Lord Elton will also attend, so it will no doubt be a grand celebration. I am sure if things were different, you would have been invited as well. But let us think only on the joy of such news, in hopes that you will glean hope that life indeed goes on. It was a difficult lesson for me, but I hope to ease your way a little if I might. So please take this news with the happiness intended. . . .