Lady of Milkweed Manor Read online

  In fact, Georgiana Henshaw was well on her way to nursing her son herself. She had begun nursing him once or twice a day as her recovery allowed while Charlotte kept up with the other feedings. But the young mother was quickly assuming the majority of nursing. Mrs. Henshaw had assured Charlotte she would be welcome to stay on as long as she liked, but Charlotte doubted Mr. Henshaw would agree to such generous terms.

  “And after?”

  She shrugged. “Return to Crawley, I suppose. As I intended to do before.”

  But the next morning, Sally received a letter that changed Charlotte’s plans once again.

  Charlotte had returned to take breakfast with Sally and, privately, to assure herself that Mr. Taylor was all right. As they sat visiting, Mrs. Beebe came into the kitchen with the morning post. “Letter for you, Sally.”

  Sally took the letter and studied the direction with surprise but none of the happiness Charlotte might have expected.

  “’Tis from my sister.”

  Dr. Taylor came in for a cup of tea while Sally opened the missive and read as quickly as her skill allowed. After a moment, she propped a hand on the table as if to support herself.

  Alarmed, Charlotte asked, “Sally, what is it?”

  “’Tis Dickie. She says he’s very ill. Oh! I must go to him at once.”

  “Steady on,” Dr. Taylor said. “What else does she say?”

  “He’s weak, high fever, won’t eat. . . . She fears the worst. And this was written days ago now! Dr. Taylor, please help him. You will come, won’t you? Please.”

  He hesitated a moment, in which time Charlotte feared he was offended by Sally’s presumption that he should drop everything to help a child he barely knew, or that, in his morose state, he felt ill-equipped to save anyone.

  Instead, he set his cup down. “We shall go directly.”

  In a flurry of plans and instructions, Charlotte agreed to remain at Lloyd Lodge for a few days to nurse Anne and give notice to the Henshaws. Marie would return with Sally and Dr. Taylor to prepare the London house, which had no doubt gathered dust during their absence with only John Taylor to care for it. Charlotte would stay behind long enough to see to the packing and help the Beebes set the place to rights. Then she would escort Anne back to London, to the home Dr. Taylor shared with his father. After that . . . she did not know.

  It wasn’t within her to refuse any help Anne Taylor—or her father—needed. Still it chafed her a bit to realize she was allowing her course to be set by the winds of circumstance. Yet again.

  Forcing thoughts off herself, she set to work and prayed fervently for the recovery of Sally’s son.

  What will you think when I tell you she is not yet weaned?

  How to set about it is more than I know . . .

  —1765 LETTER BETWEEN FRIENDS, FROM

  T HE G ENTLEMAN ’ S D AUGHTER BY AMANDA VICKERY

  CHAPTER 31

  Mr. John Taylor met her coach with broad smiles for both Anne and herself.

  “How good to see you again, Miss Charlotte. And little Anne! How much you have grown!”

  Anne’s little lip trembled as her grandfather put his face close to hers.

  “Forgot me already, did you? We shall soon put that to rights.”

  “I am sure you shall—if you can catch her. She has just learned to creep about.”

  “Has she indeed. Well, there’ll be no rest for any of us now. All those tempting staircases.”

  He gestured to the hackney driver he had hired to take them the rest of the way to the Taylor residence. The bulky man came and gathered her baggage and carried the load to his carriage. They followed and Mr. Taylor held Anne while Charlotte climbed in. The child looked at him warily but did not cry.

  Once they were all settled and Anne back in Charlotte’s arms, Mr. Taylor looked across at them and said, “You look as well fed as a stuffed goose at Christmas. I mean Anne, of course. I must say you look far too thin. You are in good health, I hope.”

  “I am. Thank you.”

  “What a trying time this has been for all of you, no doubt. Daniel looked positively dreadful upon his return.”

  “And little Dickie?”

  Mr. Taylor shook his head gravely. “I’m afraid the lad is very ill indeed. Still, Daniel hasn’t given up hope.”

  Coming to a halt at the Taylors’ offices and residence on Wimpole Street, Mr. Taylor paid the driver and asked him to bring the baggage to the living quarters above.

  Marie, looking worn and apathetic as usual, met them on the first floor up. “You and ze child will be in ze same chamber as before.” She turned her back without offering to help carry up their things.

  “I must say that having you back with us is the one bright spot in the whole dismal affair,” John Taylor added kindly. “Though I would not have chosen the circumstances for the world.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I’m afraid we won’t see much of Daniel for some time, between his work at the Manor, his own practice, and seeing the Mitchell boy. But we’ll do quite nicely on our own, I trust. Do let me know if there is anything you need.”

  “Thank you. You are very kind.” Tears filled Charlotte eyes as she spoke the words, and she didn’t stop to wonder why.

  “You are certain you do not wish your post back?” Charlotte asked Sally over tea in the Taylors’ sitting room a few weeks later.

  “No. My place is with Dickie now.”

  “How does he fare?”

  “He’s fully recovered, I am happy to say. Thanks to your Dr. Taylor.”

  “He is not my Dr. Taylor.”

  The look Sally gave her said she begged to differ.

  “And how is your Thomas?”

  “’Tisn’t mine.” She hid a toothy grin behind her hand. “Yet . . .”

  Charlotte smiled. Soon after her return to London, Thomas had arrived to begin his apprenticeship to Dr. Taylor. The young man slept either in one of the manor’s upstairs chambers or on a cot in the offices on the street level, depending on where Dr. Taylor needed him on a given day.

  “Why not come out with me and Thomas sometime?” Sally asked.

  “Thomas loves going to hear lectures and concerts and the like, and he is determined that I should learn to like such as well. Come along with us. You’d enjoy a night out now and then, wouldn’t you?”

  “You are thoughtful to include me. But Anne . . .”

  “My sister would watch her and Dickie both. I know she would.”

  “Anne is still nursing. It is difficult to get away. You remember how it is.”

  “Aye.” Sally’s eyes clouded.

  “I did not mean . . .”

  “’Tis all right, Miss Charlotte. I remember my blunder whether anyone reminds me of it or not.”

  “It is forgotten, Sally.”

  “Not by the Harrises, ’tisn’t. And not by me.”

  “Oh, Sally . . .” Charlotte reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand. “Someday soon I should be delighted to accompany you for an evening out.”

  Charlotte glanced up and saw Dr. Taylor standing in the doorway, his expression dour. How much of their conversation had he overheard?

  A few days later, Dr. Taylor approached Charlotte as she sat spooning porridge into Anne’s open, bird-like mouth. When she glanced up at him, he cleared his throat. “I’ve been wondering,

  Miss Lamb, if it might not be time to wean Anne? She has begun eating other foods now.”

  She glanced at the spoon in her hand. “Yes, I know. But I had thought to nurse her for a full year or more.”

  “Ah, well. As you wish.” He started for the door.

  Charlotte turned, spoon still poised midair. “But if you want me to cease, then, of course, I shall.”

  “I was only wondering . . .”

  Then it struck her. He wanted to be rid of her. Her heart pounded dully, painfully.

  She would not overstay her welcome.

  She had not expected the process to be so diffic
ult. In fact by the next morning, breasts full, she had already resigned herself to continuing on. But Anne was fussy and restless and wouldn’t nurse properly. She pulled off again and again as Charlotte encouraged her to latch on.

  “You must be hungry. . . .” What was the trouble? Had Charlotte eaten something that had spoilt her milk? She did not believe so.

  Charlotte grimaced. “One would almost think you understood your father’s suggestion about weaning . . .” Finally Charlotte gave up, hoping the little girl wasn’t coming down ill.

  The next morning was much the same. Anne nursed fitfully, pulled away, tried again. Charlotte stroked her little tummy. “What is it, dear? What pains you?”

  A sharp pain struck Charlotte’s breast. Charlotte cried out and jerked back. Startled, Anne began to wail. Tears welled in Charlotte’s eyes at the stinging pain. As Anne cried, mouth wide, Charlotte saw the white kernel protruding from her pink gums. Her first tooth.

  “Well, you needn’t have bitten me. That hurt.”

  Anne cried louder yet.

  “There, there now. It’s all right. I know you did not mean to.

  At least I hope not.”

  After that, both of them seemed resigned to wean each other. Charlotte steeled herself for each of the few nursings that followed. Anne must have felt her apprehension, for she too seemed tense and nursed very poorly. Still, nights were the most difficult for Anne, when she rooted against Charlotte, wanting to nurse for comfort, to ease into sleep. Charlotte obliged her. Mornings were most difficult for Charlotte, when she longed for the relief of pressure nursing brought. Gradually she realized, however, that the morning fullness was diminishing. By evening, when Anne grew most fussy, it seemed Charlotte had very little milk to offer her, for Anne pulled away quickly.

  Though she had set out to wean Anne, now that the reality of its imminence dawned on Charlotte, a strange panicked sadness stole over her. She knew once she was through, there was no going back. Her unique role in this child’s life would be over. She would be more replaceable than ever. Anne would not need her anymore. How would Charlotte support herself now? True, she had never wanted this vocation, but what would she do?

  Her breasts lost some of their fullness, which seemed sad too. She began to feel as empty as they. She would need to take in her gowns.

  Knowing each might be her last, she began to cherish every nursing—and concerns for her livelihood were not uppermost in her mind. She would miss this. The warmth and satisfaction of holding this little one close to her body. Anne’s little face relaxed and content, now and then opening her dark eyes to look up at Charlotte as if to greet her or thank her. Her little hand, lying against Charlotte’s breast or stomach. The sweet sting of milk coursing through her, the tug of the curled tongue and rough-ridged mouth. The sounds of drawing, of swallowing, of nourishing. Of life.

  Charlotte stroked Anne’s hair, the soft curve of her neck. “Very soon, you will not even remember this time together. But I shall always remember. And I shall miss it. And you . . .”

  Even as Charlotte’s milk stopped flowing, her tears began, running over to take its place.

  Two weeks after Sally’s teatime visit, Charlotte stood before Dr. Taylor’s desk, hands clenched together. “I will be leaving in a week’s time, Dr. Taylor. Does that give you sufficient notice to make other arrangements for Anne’s care?”

  “Leaving? But why?”

  “I have weaned Anne, as you requested.”

  “I only suggested it to afford you a bit of freedom.”

  “Well, I am free. You will not have need of me any longer.”

  “But we do. Anne is quite dependent on you.”

  “I am only the nurse, Dr. Taylor. My post here is finished.”

  “Well, that part may be ended. But there are other . . . capacities in which you might stay.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, however you like. That is . . . I know it’s too soon to talk of . . . such things, and I haven’t any right to presume on your time, but all I know is that, that . . .”

  He stopped then, catching his breath and running his hand across his face.

  “All you know is, what?” she prompted, trying to be gentle but feeling unaccountably frustrated.

  He swallowed, then stuttered, “I want . . . I wish . . . I would like you to stay.”

  She was oddly touched by his stammering, his obvious nervousness. But no, she was foolish to read anything into his manner. His wife was not long in her grave, and he’d clearly loved her. Though the last years of their lives together had been wretched, that did not erase his pain, his mourning. He was not offering anything other than a position, and she’d do well to remember so.

  “Do you wish me to be Anne’s governess?” she suggested tentatively.

  “Governess? She’s a bit young for that, but…would you want that? I mean, eventually? Of course I would like you to keep caring for her as you do.”

  “Nursery maid, then?”

  “Well, I don’t like the sound of that. That’s beneath you, Miss Lamb.”

  “No it isn’t.” Not anymore.

  “What I mean to say, is that a woman of your character and education could do so much more, could be anything she wanted.”

  “But you need a nursemaid.”

  “Anne needs a nursemaid. I . . .”

  “What?”

  “For Anne’s sake, I wish you would stay on as nursemaid, governess, what have you. But quite frankly, I don’t.”

  “You don’t want me to be Anne’s nurse.”

  “No.”

  Charlotte felt as though she’d been slapped and drenched with icy water at the same time. She’d thought he admired her way with his daughter—that he admired her in general.

  “I shall leave immediately.”

  “No!” he all but shouted.

  She looked at him, stunned by his uncharacteristic outburst.

  He sighed and said more gently, “Forgive me. I know I am a broken shell of a man with little to offer you. But still, I ask you.”

  “Ask me what?”

  “To stay.”

  “As what?”

  “Why must we define it? Can you not give me more time?”

  “I’m afraid I do not understand, sir. I am an unmarried woman.

  I cannot stay under your roof unless I am employed by you in a legitimate capacity. Tell me you are not asking me to be your . . . to be your . . .”

  “To be my what?” he said defensively.

  “Do not make me say it.”

  “Say what?” He looked nearly angry now. “What is it that is so odious to you?”

  “Dr. Taylor!”

  “No, tell me. Be my what?”

  She frowned, looked about her, then whispered tersely, “Mistress.”

  The man looked stricken. “Oh, Miss Lamb. Forgive me. No wonder you looked so ill. Certainly you know by now how highly I think of you. I would never make such a proposition to anyone, least of all to you.”

  She knew he meant it as a compliment; still, it hurt her feminine pride. She was not the sort of woman he would want for himself.

  At least, not anymore.

  “Your friend Kendall had no such scruples, so I feared . . .” She let the mortifying words drift away.

  “Yes, I am sorry for that. And I see why you might think—” He rose to his feet. “Miss Lamb, Charlotte, forgive me. I am handling this very poorly.”

  “No need to apologize. You are distraught. You still mourn your wife, and you have a young daughter to raise alone.”

  “Yes. But none of that changes the fact that I want you to stay.

  Anne and I would be adrift without you.”

  “As . . .?”

  He sighed. “I suppose I prefer the term nursery-governess.

  For now.”

  Though she dreaded the possible repercussions, Charlotte decided she was obligated to write to apprise her cousin Katherine of her change in situation. She did not like the though
t of placing Mrs. Dunweedy in an awkward predicament should Katherine write or call there. So she wrote a rather brief note to let her cousin know that she had taken a position as governess and was no longer residing in Crawley. She did not inform Katherine that she was in the employ of Daniel Taylor, for several reasons. She had seen the speculative gleam in Katherine’s eyes when she had seen him arrive at her great-aunt’s cottage. Though she might have imagined that. Worse, she had foolishly passed off Anne as her own daughter. If Katherine were to inquire—or heaven forbid, take it upon herself to call upon the Taylor home—how would she explain that Anne was, after all, Dr. Taylor’s daughter and not her own? Katherine’s shock and censure would be too awful to imagine.

  So Charlotte had omitted the name of her employer and his address on the first letter, only to be mortified when Daniel Taylor delivered a return letter from Katherine the following week.

  “Lady Katherine asked me to give this to you when I saw you next,” he said. “She came by the Manor today.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes, she seemed certain I would know how to find you.”

  “Did you tell her . . .?”

  “I told her nothing. Knowing my shortcomings in the tact and discretion department, I thought it best.”

  “But she must know something, to ask you to deliver this to me.”

  “True. She did not seem surprised when I agreed to the task. I suppose she remembers that I had delivered that . . . other . . . parcel for her when last I was in Crawley.”

  Charlotte knew he was referring to the money he had long ago delivered to her on Katherine’s behalf—most of which Charlotte had given to Margaret Dunweedy to cover her living expenses.

  “She did mention she had stopped by the Manor on two other occasions with the intention of asking me to get some message to you, only to be told the first time that I was away on holiday, and on the second, that I had taken leave and no one knew when I would return. Must have been while we were on the coast.”

  She knew he did not like to recall that grim time. None of them did. Quietly, she thanked him for the letter and slipped up to her room before opening it. She held her breath as she read Katherine’s curt reply.