Lady of Milkweed Manor Read online

The man looked up, bleary-eyed and desolate. “Hello, Taylor.”

  “What’s wrong, man? You look dreadful.”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  Daniel shook his head.

  “Lost a patient.”

  “I am sorry. I know how that feels.”

  “It’s a double blow. I hate to be mercenary, but this will be death to my practice as well. It is always a gamble, having prominent patients.”

  “May I ask who?”

  His answer hit Daniel like a fist. The sensation a sickening combination of true grief and pity along with several self-centered emotions far less noble.

  “I am sorry,” Daniel mumbled again, and ducked out of the room before the man could respond.

  When he arrived home, Charlotte was there to greet him. “Happy birthday,” she said shyly, adding tentatively, “Daniel.”

  She was dressed in a lovely rose-colored gown with a flattering, feminine neckline. Her hair was arranged in a pretty crown of curls, several framing her face, now flushed and expectant. He did not miss the intentional use of his Christian name, her attention to her appearance, nor the blush in her cheeks. No, he had not misread the situation. Her feelings had changed and she wanted him to know it. He should be relieved and pleased, but he felt a nauseating ball of dread in his stomach instead. Why did such a thing have to happen now? When she was finally ready to receive his affection?

  It seemed to Daniel a cruel and ironic twist of fate.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, an empty sadness stealing over him.

  She smiled at his words, but her smile quickly faltered. “Is something wrong?”

  He opened his mouth to answer. Must he tell her? Now? Could he not wait until . . . until there was an understanding between them?

  “Happy birthday, Papa!” Anne shouted, running out to meet him, throwing her arms around his legs. “Doesn’t Missy look like a princess?”

  “Yes. She does. As do you.” He smiled at his daughter, touching her fancy, curled hair and taking in her bright blue frock. “Your new gown is almost as lovely as you are.”

  Anne giggled and pulled his hand, urging him to follow her into the dining room. “I helped make the cake, but I fear the icing is rather a mess.”

  Daniel breathed a silent sigh. A mess indeed.

  While Anne knelt on a chair at the dining room table, happily poking little sugar petals onto the icing of the cake, Charlotte joined Daniel in the sitting room. “Daniel, are you sure nothing is amiss?

  I hope I have not offended you.”

  “Offended me, how?”

  “Well, by my presumption, my familiarity in arranging this birthday celebration. If I have overstepped—”

  “I am the opposite of offended, Charlotte. I am pleased by your . . . familiarity, as you say. In my mind, you are part of this family already.”

  Even with her head bowed, he could see the pleasure in her pink cheeks and concealed smile.

  “Charlotte,” he said, suddenly intense, “my feelings for you, my intentions, remain unchanged.”

  Her head rose and she looked at him shyly, expectantly. How lovely she was, how fondly was she regarding him. Would it be so wrong to postpone the news that would wipe that look from her face forever?

  “If your feelings,” he added more gently, “were no longer hindered . . .”

  “They are no longer hindered, Daniel,” she whispered.

  “Then I would ask you . . . what I have longed to ask you . . .”

  She smiled warmly, her body leaning toward him ever so slightly.

  What agony this was. To be so close to her, to realize she was ready to accept him. But only because she remained in sweet ignorance.

  He winced, then said, “But I cannot.”

  Her smile fell. “What has happened? Have I done something to . . .?”

  “You have done nothing. Nothing but make us all completely devoted to you. You have not only become beloved mother to my daughter, but beloved daughter to my father as well.”

  “But you do not share their . . . affliction?”

  “Oh, I am indeed afflicted, Charlotte. But…”

  “But?”

  “I am afraid I have dreadful news. I thought to wait until after . . .” He waved his hand in direction of the dining room but guessed they both knew he included much more than the festivities in his statement. “But I find in good conscience that I cannot keep it from you a moment longer.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your cousin Katherine is dead.”

  Charlotte gasped.

  “She died in childbirth, her infant with her.”

  Charlotte sat, stunned, her hand covering her mouth.

  After a few silent moments, Daniel rose. Charlotte still sat there, unmoving. She did not ask him to stay, nor assure him the news had no bearing. He knew too well that it had changed everything.

  Although society did not expect women to attend funerals, Charlotte knew Katherine would expect her to be there. So, dressed in black, her face concealed behind a veiled hat and umbrella, Charlotte walked slowly past ranks of rain-speckled headstones, toward her cousin’s gravesite. She watched from a distance as four black horses with black feathers on their heads brought the hearse into the churchyard, followed by a long procession of mourners. Six strapping men, William Bentley among them, carried the lacquered coffin to its final resting place. Charlotte slowly joined the rear of the congregation. In front of her, the mourners wore black—the few other women in black gowns and mantles and swarms of men bearing black armbands and gloves.

  There were so many people in attendance that she barely caught a glimpse of Charles through the crowd and didn’t see Edmund at all. The church bells tolled their sharp death knell, and with each clang, Charlotte felt her heart bang against her ribs. Poor lamb, she thought, the epitaph seeming to fit not only Edmund but Charles, and even Katherine as well. Her cousin wouldn’t be there to nurture the little boy she loved, nor see him grow to manhood. And being so young, how much would Edmund even remember of the woman he’d called mother—a year from now? Five years hence? Charlotte’s mother-heart grieved for Katherine’s loss as well as that of Charles and Edmund.

  The same priest who’d conducted Katherine’s churching only a few years ago now officiated over her funeral. From her place in the back, Charlotte could not make out much of anything he said. A talented soprano sang a hymn so beautiful and haunting that the mourners wept more under its power than the cleric’s words preceding it.

  Why do we mourn departing friends?

  Or shake at death’s alarms?

  ’Tis but the voice that Jesus sends,

  To call them to His arms. . . .

  Charlotte wept as well.

  She had not planned to go to Katherine’s home in Manchester Square with the honored gentry, close friends, and family members who were traditionally invited to do so after the ceremony, to partake of a cold supper and a “cheerful glass.” But she felt oddly compelled to do so. She was family, after all, a close cousin to Katherine. Tradition would expect her to wear black mourning clothes for six weeks for a first cousin; would it not expect her to pay her respects in person as well? Frankly, she was surprised she had the courage to ring the bell.

  She certainly had no intention of approaching Charles. In fact her hands shook at the thought of it. She did not want him to think she was “waiting in the wings” nor expecting anything from him. She merely felt it was her duty, and yes, her right, to attend, if only for a few moments. Knowing her cousin as she had, she knew Katherine would be affronted beyond words if Charlotte did not at least make an appearance.

  So with trembling hands she handed the butler her wrap and umbrella but kept on her veiled hat and followed the man up the stairs. Still holding her things, he said apologetically, “I’m afraid we’ve an overflow of coats, m’um. I shall have to put your things there, behind that screen, with the others. If you need help finding them again upon departure, I shall endeavor to aid you
in your search.”

  “Thank you.”

  The drawing room was already filled with people huddled in small groups, some talking soberly and others less so, clearly enjoying the promised glass of cheer. Charlotte sat in a row of chairs near the door, content to observe the gathering. She did not see Charles or Edmund. They were perhaps in the adjoining sitting room. Nor did she see her father, which she found puzzling. She wondered if he was ill—could not imagine another reason why he would not attend. She recognized several people, but no one it seemed had recognized her. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  Relaxing a bit, she allowed her head to swivel as she surveyed the remainder of the large room. Her heart pounded. There was her sister, Bea, holding Charles’ arm as the two walked into the room. And there, his head barely visible through the assembled throng, was Edmund. Several mourners clustered around Charles as he entered, clearly offering condolences. Even from this distance, Charlotte could see there was a terrible pall over his features.

  Bea leaned close to Edmund, her arm resting across his shoulders as she whispered some confidence. Her sister comforting her son? For some reason the idea of it—the reality of it—made her feel queasy. Edmund ran off suddenly, disappearing through the crowd, and Bea returned her attentions to Charles.

  Charlotte realized she could walk right up to Charles and say a few kind words. If she could manage to ignore her sister’s inevitable icy glare, she might even accomplish the feat with her emotions under rein. She sighed. Even if Bea were not standing guard at Charles’ side, Charlotte knew she would not have the courage.

  She rose from her chair and turned to leave. As she stepped briskly into the passage, she nearly ran right into Edmund. He looked at her, head cocked to one side.

  “You’re Cousin Charlotte.”

  She lifted her veil off her face. “That’s right. What a wonderful memory you have.”

  “My mother died,” he said somberly.

  She nodded. “Yes, I know. I am very sorry.”

  “That’s what everybody says.”

  Charlotte lowered herself to his eye level, sitting on her heels. “But even though she is gone, you are not alone.”

  “I know. I still have Father.”

  “Yes, and there are others, too, who love you.”

  “Do you mean Bea?”

  Charlotte swallowed. “Bea?”

  He shrugged and said matter-of-factly, “Mummy lives in heaven now.”

  “That’s right. What a smart little boy you are.”

  “I am not little.”

  “All right, Edmund. You are very big. And far too wise.”

  “Haven’t you any children?”

  “I . . . not at present, no.”

  “You’re crying.”

  “Am I?”

  “Father cries sometimes. I do too.”

  “Of course you do.”

  She smiled at the boy through her tears and allowed herself to reach out and briefly touch his head. Then she retrieved her hand and stepped back.

  She watched as Edmund walked through the doorway she had just exited—then realized he was heading directly toward his father and Bea. Charlotte quickly stepped behind the door. Out of sight but not out of earshot.

  “Cousin Charlotte is here, Father,” she heard Edmund say.

  “Charlotte? Where?”

  “Oh . . . I don’t see her anymore.”

  “What did she say to you?” Charles asked.

  She could not make out Edmund’s reply.

  Charlotte risked a glance back into the room and saw Charles bent over Edmund, his hand lying on his son’s head, much as hers had done. When she saw Charles look abruptly in her direction, she instinctively ducked from view. Moving quickly to the temporary “coatroom” to retrieve her wrap, she stepped behind the oriental screen flanked by potted palms that served to conceal the untidy pile of coats from view. It concealed her as well.

  Hearing footsteps nearby, she peeked from between the slats in the screen. From her hiding place, she watched Charles stride quickly into the passage and look in both directions. How foolish she felt behind the screen. Should she step out and offer her condolences?

  But then Beatrice appeared beside him and took his arm. “Do not trouble yourself, Charles. I suppose she had the right to come and pay her respects, but I do wish she might have stayed away and not sullied the day for you. At least she had the decency to be unobtrusive. Though I wonder what she was thinking, speaking to Edmund?”

  Charles stood still, alert without moving, as though trying to hear her . . . to sense her presence. Was he angry she had come? Threatened that she would speak to his son? Afraid or furious she would dare make herself known to Edmund, and at such a vulnerable time?

  I told him nothing, she thought defensively.

  “Come, Charles. Come back in. There is no harm done. Forget about her.”

  He turned and gave Bea a brief smile, patting her hand, which was placed on his arm. “I am sure you are right. How good you are to us.”

  Yes, Charlotte thought. Mr. Harris seems to have no problem following Bea’s advice. No doubt I am long forgotten.

  She wondered if her sister would finally have what she’d always wanted. The thought depressed her. I would not have chosen you to mother my son, but I have lost my say in the matter. You will do your best by him, I know—for Charles’ sake, if nothing else. What would you say if you knew? Will Charles tell you, if he marries you? If he never told Katherine, I doubt he will. Probably best that way. You were never especially fond of me.

  Waiting a moment more, Charlotte stepped away from the screen and toward the stairs—just as William Bentley reached the landing.

  “Miss Lamb!”

  “Mr. Bentley,” she answered, heart pounding dully. She wished she had remembered to reposition her veil.

  “I am surprised to see you,” he said with a knowing smile.

  “Why should you be? Katherine was my cousin, as you must recall.”

  “Yes. And my uncle’s wife.” He cleared his throat. “You are here alone?”

  “I am.”

  “Beatrice did not come?”

  “She is inside. With your uncle.”

  “Ah, offering comfort. How good of her. I would have thought you—”

  “I came only to pay my respects, Mr. Bentley. And now if you will excuse me.” She quickly began to descend the stairs.

  “Miss Lamb, forgive me. I did not mean . . .”

  She turned back to face him. “Oh yes, Mr. Bentley. You most certainly did.” With that, she smiled as knowingly as he had, she hoped, and walked sprightly away.

  Charles watched his nephew stride toward him, eyes bright with some new trouble.

  “I was surprised to see Charlotte Lamb here.”

  “You saw her?”

  “Yes, she was leaving as I came in. First in line to offer comfort, I suppose?”

  “William. I am tired of your innuendo and disrespect. Miss Lamb—Charlotte—did not even speak to me. I did not even know she had been here until Edmund mentioned it.”

  “Edmund knows her?”

  “Apparently Katherine and Charlotte kept in contact over the last few years.”

  “I did not realize. And certainly I meant no disrespect to anyone. Especially at such a time. But do be warned, Uncle. The spinsters and widows are already lining up, ready to offer the grieving widower solace and care for his poor orphaned son.”

  “Edmund isn’t an orphan.”

  “Motherless, then.”

  “You are a fool, William.”

  “Mr. Bentley.” Beatrice came and stood at Charles’ side, making her familiarity evident by her proximity and proprietary air. “How kind of you to come.”

  He bowed stiffly. “Beatrice . . . Miss Lamb. How pleasant to see you again.”

  “And what are you two gentlemen discussing?”

  “Your sister, actually,” his nephew said, clearly relishing her disapproval.

  “Really.�
�

  “Yes, I have just seen her, and I must confess, I have never seen her looking lovelier. A bit tired perhaps—black doesn’t really suit her. But still, as handsome as ever.”

  “Yes, well,” Bea said briskly. “I must check on Edmund. Poor dear is exhausted with grief and attention.”

  She dipped her chin. “Mr. Bentley. Charles.”

  Both men bowed briefly as she walked away.

  “My, my. That did not take long.”

  “William, please. Bea is like family.”

  “Or very much wished to be.”

  “Do shut up, William.”

  Grant us the pow’r of quick’ning grace,

  To fit our souls to fly;

  Then, when we drop this dying flesh,

  We’ll rise above the sky.

  —ISAAC WATTS, A F UNERAL T HOUGHT

  CHAPTER 35

  Months passed as Charles and Edmund grieved. They spent the Christmas holidays at Fawnwell before returning to London to begin the depressing task of going through Katherine’s things and disposing of all but the most meaningful mementos. When they next visited Fawnwell in the spring, Charles brought several trunks of clothing to donate to Doddington Church for distribution to the poor. Leaving Edmund in the care of the boy’s grandmother, Charles and his man drove over to the churchyard in a horse-drawn wagon.

  Beatrice met him in the south porch of the church and in her sober and industrious fashion, helped direct the unloading. “This is very kind of you, Charles. I shall see to it that every piece is put to good use.”

  While his driver went back to the wagon for another load, Charles set a second trunk on top of the first. Bea opened the lid and pulled out several gowns—one with an expandable laced-vent bodice, and two others with billowing waistlines.

  “These must be the gowns Katherine wore during her confinement.”

  “Yes, well . . . perhaps I will leave you to it.”

  “Of course, Charles. This is hard on you. Come to the vicarage for tea. I can do this later. Father, I know, will want to see you.”

  “Very well. Thank you.”

  He paused to direct his man to finish the unloading, then followed her across the churchyard and into the vicarage. There was no sign of Gareth Lamb. “I do not know where he has gotten to. I shall have Tibbets ask him to join us when he arrives.”