Lady of Milkweed Manor Page 4

  Understanding dawned on the man’s kind face and he, too, smiled gently at her. “Come here, if you like, Charlotte. Would you like to listen to your mother’s heart?”

  She nodded, all seriousness, and walked to the bed. She sat beside Dr. Webb and laid her ear on her mother’s bosom.

  “A bit higher—there. Do you hear it?”

  Charlotte had closed her eyes and listened, and there, a dull ta-toom, ta-toom, ta-toom. “I hear it!” she’d declared proudly, relieved in more ways than one.

  As delightful as the memory was, when Charlotte imagined Dr. Taylor pressing his head to her chest, her palms began sweating.

  From his case, he extracted a wooden tube, a device she had never seen before.

  “A physician friend of my wife’s made this. He’s still working to perfect the design. Still, it’s amazing how much better I can hear with this simple tube than I can with my ear alone.”

  He stepped closer and bent near. He looked into her face. “It also lends a bit of propriety, which patients seem to appreciate.” He lifted one side of his mouth in an awkward grin, then bent to his task. Charlotte took a deep breath and held it, aware of his nearness, aware of the strangeness of the situation—to be alone with Daniel Taylor, unchaperoned, so close to him—all of which would be highly inappropriate in any other setting. She felt the tube press against her chest, just above her left breast, and she involuntarily started. The device was not terribly long, so he had to bring his head to within six or seven inches of her body to listen. She released a ragged breath and drew in a shallow one in return, finding it difficult to breathe.

  “Fine. Now I will attempt to hear the heart of the fetus as well. Has the babe been active?”

  “Yes, quite.”

  He pressed the tube with firm pressure against her abdomen and listened intently. He repositioned it slightly and listened again. “There he is.” He listened a moment longer. “Strong and steady.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Do you call all unborn babes ‘he’?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t think so.”

  “I do think it is a boy. Just a feeling I have. I suppose all ladies in confinement say such things?”

  “Yes, and they are often right.”

  “Are they?”

  He grinned. “About half of the time.” Then his grin faded. “Well, next I would normally palpate the”—he waved his hands over her abdomen—“uh . . . area. And examine . . . other areas as well.” He swallowed, “However, I think, considering your general health and the quickening of the babe, that this has been sufficient for today.” He stepped back, and Charlotte slumped a bit on the table, relieved.

  A soft knock sounded at the door, and Dr. Taylor leapt eagerly to answer it. Charlotte couldn’t see whom he spoke with through the partially opened door, but she could hear much of the muted conversation.

  “You’re wanted above stairs.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “I’m afraid . . . quite upset.”

  “I see. I shall be up directly.”

  He shut the door and looked back at Charlotte. “I’m wanted elsewhere, Miss Lamb—excuse me, Miss Smith.”

  Charlotte lowered herself from the table.

  “Gibbs will alert you to our next appointment.”

  She nodded.

  “Good day,” he said, and turned to leave.

  “Good day,” she answered, but he was already gone.

  The poor collect milkweed down and with it fill their beds,

  especially their children’s, instead of feathers.

  —PETER KALM, 1772

  CHAPTER 4

  Charlotte read the letter in the garden, which, mess though it was, offered her a bit of privacy—something sorely lacking within the manor itself. Gibbs had handed it to her with a simple, “Letter, miss.” And while Charlotte should have been pleased to receive it, especially because the fine, feminine handwriting was clearly her aunt’s, she trembled as she carefully peeled it open. Somehow she knew it bore ill tidings. What else could she expect at present? Surely her father hadn’t forgiven her, asking through Aunt Tilney for Charlotte to come home. She knew this, and still her hands trembled as she read.

  My dear niece,

  It is with deep sadness that I write to you today. Your father has asked that I sever all connection with you, something I am loathe to do. You know I hold you in the highest esteem and dearest affection, positions unaffected by recent revelations. I hope you will in time learn to forgive your father. He has always held the good opinion of others too dearly, as you well know, and I fear this has laid him very low.

  There is some small hope, I believe, that your sister may secure the affection of a certain gentleman, whom you well know, before news reaches the ears of those who would compel him to withdraw any connection with your family. Your sister, especially, longs to conceal the unhappy truth as long as possible.

  It pains me to write so plainly, but there it is. Your father bids me to beseech you to confine yourself away from the public eye, and to conceal your identity until an engagement is secure. It is too much to hope this could extend past a longed-for wedding date, but all put every confidence that the gentleman’s long association with your sister might withstand, nay, even overshadow, other less happy events.

  Do not give up hope, my dear. There is goodness in your father, and I will fervently pray that he will soften toward you in time. For now, I have little choice but to abide his edict. Perhaps if your dear uncle stood with me, but alas, he feels it is not our place to come between father and child. You know he would do all he could to assist you were he only allowed to do so.

  Still, I cannot rest without at least offering this olive branch. Likely you have been too upset to think too far into the future, but I am plagued with worry over your situation. I offer you this—while not grand nor fashionable, it will at least assure a roof and bed and food to eat once your time in London is at an end.

  As you may recall, I have in Crawley an elderly aunt. You can well imagine how old she is if I, your aunt, describe her thusly. Still, she lives in a snug cottage a short distance from the village proper on Crawley’s High Street. I have not seen her these many months, but at Michaelmas she was in good health and spirits. I have every confidence she would welcome you and that the two of you would get on well together. I daresay she would be quite happy for some companionship. Her own grown son lives in Manchester and, as I understand, rarely visits. I shall write her directly and introduce you.

  If some impediment to this arrangement arises, I shall find some way to let you know. Otherwise, my dear, this must be my last letter, at least for the foreseeable future. My heart aches to think of it. Rest assured, you shall never be far from my thoughts or prayers.

  Your Loving Aunt

  Charlotte wiped at the tears with her free hand, then quickly refolded the letter and tucked it into her dress pocket. She strode back inside the manor and into the workroom, determinedly putting on a cheerful face.

  “What is that you’re working on, Becky?” she asked, sitting beside the young girl at a fabric-strewn table.

  “’Tis a swaddling blanket, mum.”

  She eyed the square of coarse cotton. “How nice. Will you have it done in time, do you think?”

  “Oh! ’Tisn’t for my own babe. Least I don’t think ’tis.”

  “Oh?”

  “Same as your mending stockings for the girls here, I’m stitchin’ blankets for the foundlings next door.”

  Charlotte looked in the direction of the girl’s nod.

  “You didn’t know about the foundling ward?” Becky asked.

  Charlotte shook her head. “I did wonder what was in the other wing.”

  “Sure and what did you think happened to all the babes born here?” Bess asked brusquely, coming to the table with a teacup in her hand.

  “I don’t know. I had not thought . . .”

  “They just keep infants here ’til they’re weaned,” Becky explained. �
��Then they’re moved to the big foundling hospital up on Guildford Street.”

  “Don’t some girls take their infants home with them?”

  “Is that what you’re going to do?” Bess asked skeptically, sitting down across from her.

  “No. Not home. I am not . . . quite sure where yet.”

  Two other girls walked to the table together, tall flaxen-haired Sally towering over petite auburn-haired Mae. They sat down on either side of Charlotte.

  “Well, I know where I’ll be,” Becky said. “Back in the workhouse soon as my time’s up.”

  “But . . . what about . . .”

  Bess broke in, “Don’t you be judging her or any of us.”

  “I did not mean to. I am only surprised.”

  “Some of us haven’t any choice,” Sally said quietly, eyes on her tea.

  “But . . . to leave one’s child in the care of strangers. It is something I could never do.”

  “Oh, don’t be too sure,” Bess said. “Never can tell what a body might do for love or money.”

  “Or to keep body and soul together,” Mae added.

  “My mum can barely feed my brothers and sisters,” Becky said.

  “She sure don’t need another mouth to feed.”

  “How old are you, Becky?” Charlotte asked.

  “Fourteen.”

  “So young.”

  Becky shrugged. “About my mum’s age when she had me.”

  “And you, Sally,” Charlotte asked, “what will you do?”

  “I already had me boy two months ago now. I’m a wet nurse in the foundling ward. Didn’t you know?”

  “No, I . . .”

  “Guess I haven’t me figure back if you thought me still in my lying-in! I best lay off those jam tarts.”

  Bess and Mae laughed.

  “Forgive me, Sally.”

  “Never you mind, Miss Charlotte. I’ve been a big girl me whole life—I’m used to such.”

  “Your boy, is he . . .?”

  “I’m blessed to have a sister who looks after my wee lamb. I’m nursing here until I find a better post.”

  “A post?”

  “Wet nurse, o’ course. Pays good, sleepin’ in the nice warm nursery of some fine house. Yes, that’s the life for me.”

  “But who nurses your own child?”

  “I told you. Me own sister. She’s always breeding and has a little ankle-biter right now what’s got her milk flowin’ but good. ’Tis no bother to her to nurse another.”

  “You’re lucky,” Mae said. “My sister had to put her child out to take a wet nurse post. One of them baby farms, like, where the nurse had three or four others to feed. Poor thing near starved to death.”

  “Then why would she do it? Why leave her own child to nurse a stranger?”

  “A bit daft this one,” Bess murmured under her breath—but loud enough for all to hear.

  “The money, dearie,” Sally explained. “If she don’t work, she starves—and her own child with her.”

  “I’m sorry. I suppose I have never known that depth of want. I could never do that, leave my own to nurse someone else’s baby.”

  “Careful what you say, Charlotte,” Sally warned gently. “I’ll wager a year ago you never thought you’d find yourself in a place like this either.”

  “You are quite right.”

  “How . . . did . . . you end up here, Charlotte?”

  “Same way as everyone else I suppose.” But she could feel her face heat with a fierce blush.

  “Somehow I doubt that,” Mae said. “Who was the bloke? A baron, was it? Some scheming lord what promised you a wedding?”

  “Maybe she fell in love with the footman and her father forbade them marry,” Becky said wistfully.

  “Girls, don’t tease Charlotte so,” Sally urged. “You can see plain as anything she’s a lady.”

  Bess snorted. “Was a lady more like.”

  Sally put her hand over Charlotte’s. “Don’t listen to her, Charlotte. You’re still a lady in my eyes. All your handsome words and polite ways . . .”

  “Handsome words and polite ways won’t get her very far ’round here,” Mae said.

  “Won’t make a bit o’ difference when her time comes neither. I can just hear her now.” Bess began imitating an upper-crust accent. “I say, Dr. Preston, would you be so kind as to remove this melon from my middle?”

  Mae joined in. “Pardon me, but the pain is such that I fear I must yell my fool head off.”

  The others laughed good-naturedly, and Charlotte couldn’t take offense. She did continue to blush, however. And the first prickling of fear for the delivery itself began to work its way through her being.

  Charlotte was just about to blow out the bedside candle that night when the sound of a scream snaked beneath the door. Beside her, Mae groaned and young Becky slept on. Pulling her dressing gown around herself, Charlotte arose and stepped tentatively out into the passageway, holding the candle before her. She paused, listening. The draft in the old manor led the flame in an erratic, swaying dance. She heard no more screams, but she did hear footsteps approaching. She hesitated. Should she duck back into her room? How foolish! She was doing nothing wrong. No doubt some girl was in the pains of labour somewhere in the manor. Dr. Taylor appeared at the end of the passage his face drawn, rust-stubbled and weary.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “Miss Lamb. You startled me.”

  “Forgive me. . . . I thought I heard someone crying out.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes. Is someone delivering?”

  “Um . . . no. False alarm as it turns out.”

  “Oh, I see. Are you quite all right, Mr.—excuse me—Dr. Taylor. I’m afraid that will take some getting used to.”

  “That’s all right. And . . . yes, I am well, thank you. And you?”

  She nodded. “Are you always here this late?”

  “Yes. Though not always awake, thankfully. I keep a small apartment above stairs here. Makes night duty less interminable.”

  “You are very dedicated.”

  He looked at her sharply, as though weighing the sincerity of her statement.

  “Truly.” She smiled to reassure him. “It is a comfort to know there’s a physician about the place.”

  He smiled then too. “Even if the physician is me?”

  “Yes. I have heard some things about the other man that are not comforting in the least.” She said it lightly but saw his eyes widen and his mouth set in a hard line.

  “What are you implying? Wait. Let us step into Mrs. Moorling’s office, where we won’t disturb anyone.”

  “Very well.” She followed him to the matron’s office beyond the workroom.

  “You were saying?” he prompted.

  “Well, from the sound of it, the girls here do not trust him, in fact they are quite frightened of him.”

  “Frightened? That is absurd. He isn’t perfect, I realize, but is certainly not as bad as all that.”

  “I’m sorry, I am only repeating what I’ve been told.”

  “Well, in the future I suggest you don’t besmirch a man’s reputation based on rumor alone.”

  She looked at him, stung. His reaction seemed too strong, and she wondered if there was more at play here than collegial loyalty. “You are quite right. But I had no reason not to believe them. In fact, I saw one young girl shaking when she took leave of Dr. Preston.”

  “Preston?” he asked, clearly surprised.

  “Yes.” Who did he think I was referring to?

  He hesitated, seeming to study his shoes.

  Charlotte felt compelled to continue. “Forgive me—are the two of you friends?”

  “Colleagues certainly. Are you implying that he behaves . . . inappropriately with his patients?”

  “Yes, or at the very least humiliates them.”

  “Well, humiliation is no crime. It’s difficult to maintain modesty in such situations. As far as the other . . . well, I’d w
ager it’s just gossip, but if you personally have any difficulty whatsoever with Dr. Preston, please let me know immediately.”

  “Thank you. I shall.”

  The tension in his face faded, and they stood there for a moment in mildly awkward silence, Charlotte trying to think of a way to excuse herself, when she saw the side of his mouth lift in a boyish smirk.

  “And what do they say about me?”

  She smiled at him, then said imperiously, “Oh, you are the worst of the lot. Ice, they say. Distant. Impersonal. One girl compared your bedside manner to that of a man gutting fish.”

  His brows rose. “Dreadfully sorry I asked.”

  She regarded him a moment, then said tentatively, “You do seem changed. Though I suppose that is only natural after so many years.”

  His expression became somber indeed. “If you had seen the things I have—death, piteous creatures, loved ones lost . . .” He hesitated, seemingly adrift in thoughts too bleak to share. She guessed he was speaking of more than his medical duties alone, of losses infinitely more personal.

  “Yes,” he continued, “perhaps I have distanced myself. Become harder.”

  “Colder,” she added helpfully. “More aloof.”

  “There are worse things.” He looked directly at her, and Charlotte ducked her head.

  “Miss Lamb, I did not mean . . . I was not referring to you, to your condition.”

  And there he was again. The Mr. Taylor of old, teasing but reassuring, comforting her.

  Charlotte kept her eyes lowered. “I confess when I first saw you here, I was quite mortified.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I think now the worst of the shock has passed, I shall be glad to have a friendly face about.”

  “A cold face, you mean.”

  “One that improves upon acquaintance. Or in our case, reacquaintance.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  Charlotte suddenly had the disquieting thought that he might think her forward, so she asked, “Might I have the privilege of meeting Mrs. Taylor sometime?”

  “Well, I . . . I don’t think . . .”

  “Of course. Forgive me. I am in no position to be introduced to anyone. How foolish of me.”