Lady of Milkweed Manor Page 7

  “I read an article about them in one of Mother’s journals. It said French people actually plant them in their gardens. But I think most people do their best to eradicate them.”

  “Yes, you look here and see a patch of pestiferous weeds—is that right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yet I look here and see a plethora of elixirs and natural healing compounds that aid my work and soothe my patients.”

  “Really?” Charlotte looked back at the milkweeds with skepticism.

  “Really. The down of the seed can be used to dress wounds, and the milky sap creates an instant bandage that can be applied to various skin eruptions. A good root tea serves as a diuretic, expectorant, and a treatment for any number of medical conditions—including respiratory ailments, joint pain, and digestive problems. It serves as an invigorating tonic and helps with stomach problems, headaches, uterine pains, influenza, typhoid fever, and inflammation of the lungs. The sap can even heal warts with topical application.”

  “You have memorized that entire list?”

  He smiled. “You are not the first to question my garden.”

  “I would imagine not.” She smiled back at him.

  “Come, I will show you how to harvest the root.”

  They had dug up only one plant, Dr. Taylor on his haunches to show her where to sever root from stalk, when Sally bolted out the foundling ward door waving her arms.

  “Dr. Taylor, do come quick!”

  Charlotte noticed he did not question Sally. The urgency in her tone was enough for him to leap to his feet and run toward her. Charlotte followed, though more slowly, the uprooted plant hanging limply in her hand.

  Once inside, she heard a woman crying out and shrieking, and old Mrs. Krebs giving orders in her lower-pitched tones.

  “What’s happened?” Charlotte asked a white-faced Sally.

  “Her baby’s died.”

  “Oh no.”

  They tiptoed forward and saw Mrs. Krebs trying to console a distraught young woman Charlotte had never seen before.

  “Who is she?”

  “She came to the door last night, asking to be a nurse,” Sally began earnestly. “But both Mrs. Krebs and Mrs. Moorling was out for the evening, and Gibbs told her she’d need to come back in the morning. I thought she looked desperate-like, even offered to work without wages, but Gibbs wouldn’t hear of it and sent her on her way. Well, this morning she comes back first thing and Mrs. Krebs takes pity on her and lets her start right away. I was helping handfeed, you know, and I watched her. I seen how she went from crib to crib, looking not at the babes’ faces but at their feet! Mrs. Krebs comes and puts a baby in her arms and points to the first rocking chair, and the poor dear sits down and starts to nurse the little one, and I see her work the wee one’s foot out of its bundling and look close-like at the heel. That’s when I figgered it.”

  “Figured what?”

  Dr. Taylor reappeared and gave the woman a dose of laudanum.

  “Just this morning I had to wrap up a babe what died in the night,” Sally continued. “And for some reason, I found myself looking at the little angel’s perfect wee hands and perfect wee feet. That’s when I seen the little black mark on ’er heel. Tar, most like.

  Marked by its mama, so she could find her own again.”

  Charlotte watched as Dr. Taylor and Mrs. Krebs ushered the woman, still weeping and moaning, into one of the small sleeping rooms down the passageway.

  “I shouldna told her, Charlotte. I should’ve found some tar or coal and marked some other poor babe’s heel. She wouldna known and the both of them be better off now.”

  “It’s not your fault, Sally. You did what you thought best.”

  Sally swiped at a tear and shook her head, clearly not convinced.

  Charlotte had difficulty sleeping that night. She turned slowly and heavily in the swaybacked bed, trying in vain to find a comfortable position and to lure the sweet spiral of sleep.

  She heard a muffled call from somewhere in the manor, followed by running footsteps down the corridor. Thinking again of the poor babe who died in the night, Charlotte arose from bed, lit a candle, and made her way to the foundling ward. As soon as she opened the heavy door, the sound of crying reached out to her. She stepped in quickly, shutting the door behind her.

  Was this the crying she had heard those other nights? Not likely this far from her room. She moved to the first room of sleeping infants. One was crying, and another awoke to join the first, the cries mingling in an ear-piercing refrain. Charlotte stepped back into the hall and saw a mobcapped Mrs. Krebs struggling to fix a feeding tube with sleep-smeared eyes. “Go and fetch Ruthie for me, will you, Charlotte? It’s her turn. Second door on the right.”

  Charlotte soon returned with the sleepy red-haired woman, who sat down and began nursing the two crying infants. Charlotte walked down the row of cribs and saw another infant lying awake, a boy according to the small card with the child’s sex and date of admission pinned to the side of the crib. Occasionally a card contained a name, if the child had been given one, but it was rare. This little boy lay on his back, looking around the room peacefully, taking in the commotion with calm ease. Charlotte paused, looking down at the child, his eyes bright in the candlelight.

  Mrs. Krebs sighed. “Fixed the feeder up for nothing, looks like. Usually when one cries a whole choir wake with it. But only two so far, and Ruthie can manage a pair on her own.”

  “Would you mind if I fed this one?” Charlotte asked quietly.

  “Isn’t fussing.”

  “I know, but he’s awake and so am I.”

  “Suit yourself.” Mrs. Krebs set the feeding tube on the table and left the room.

  Charlotte picked up the swaddled infant, who seemed light as a kitten in her arms. She sat with him in the rocking chair nearest the table, and he immediately turned toward her, molding himself to her body. At first she pulled away, back pressed hard against the chair, feeling embarrassed as the infant rooted against her nightdress. She looked around, feeling guilty, though of what she wasn’t sure. But no one was watching. Ruthie was facing the other direction and seemed to have nodded off even while she nursed, and Mrs. Krebs had taken herself back to bed.

  Charlotte relaxed and allowed herself to draw the infant close. She felt a sharp longing, and wished she could nurse this little one. She ran a finger along his smooth cheek and he turned toward it, taking its tip between his lips. The force of the suction was surprisingly strong. He took her finger farther in until she felt the wet ridges of the roof of his mouth and his tongue tugging along the underside of her finger. She wondered how it would feel, if it would hurt or be pleasant, when she finally nursed her own child.

  “You’ll have to settle for goat’s milk tonight,” Charlotte whispered. She pulled her finger from his mouth with a slick popping noise and picked up the feeding tube from the nearby table. She adjusted it, lowering the open end toward the baby’s mouth.

  “Here you are,” she murmured and smiled when the little one began drinking the milk in earnest.

  “If you were my handsome boy, I would not let you out of my sight.” She closed her eyes as she fed the baby. Dear God in heaven, she silently prayed, please watch over this dear, helpless child.

  Daniel Taylor stood in the darkness, watching Charlotte. Unable to return to sleep after a trying day and worse evening, he had roamed the manor’s corridors. As he passed through the quiet ward, he had been surprised to see her there, especially at this hour. Aware of his hasty dress and need of a wash and shave, he did not make his presence known. He had seen many women hand feed or nurse infants over the years—from beautiful young girls to ancient nuns—why did he feel so oddly transfixed by the sight of Charlotte Lamb feeding a foundling?

  Milkweeds are considered field pests, hard to eradicate and a threat to

  stock. But many people would just as soon have a patch of milkweed. . . .

  The French, in fact, imported them to their gardens in t
he 19th century.

  —JACK SANDERS, T HE S ECRETS OF W ILDFLOWERS

  CHAPTER 8

  Daniel Taylor helped his father into his Sunday coat, dusting off, then smoothing the shoulders and sleeves. His hands lingered a moment on his father’s upper arms. When had he become so slight? He felt the tremor running through the older man’s body and bit his lip. Today was no day for lectures.

  “Come now, Father. Wash a bit and then we’ll go.”

  John Taylor appeared far older than his fifty-five years as he hobbled over to the washbasin and bent low to wash his hands and face.

  “Give your mouth a rinse as well.”

  His father paused in his ablutions, then did as he was bid. When he finished he said quietly, “Perhaps I ought to stay in this morning.”

  “No, Father. You know the service does you good.”

  “I’m not sure I’m feeling up to it.”

  Daniel sighed quietly. He was torn between the temptation to feel relieved and go alone, knowing his association with his father would not help him build a thriving practice—at least not among those who could pay—and, of course, guilt at such a thought. He looked at his father, sitting on the edge of his bed now, and felt a combination of feelings too complicated to separate: mild revulsion, pity, anger, protectiveness, love.

  “Let’s see,” Daniel began softly, stepping close to his father and lifting his chin gently, looking into his aging face. His eyes, though tired, were not bloodshot. He then laid his wrist against his father’s creased forehead. Warm but not feverish. From this angle above him, he noticed how thin his father’s hair was becoming on top and how several white tufts stood in disarray. Carefully, he smoothed down the errant hair, as methodically as if he were performing some important medical procedure.

  “There now. The picture of health and decorum.”

  John Taylor’s grin was bleak. “If only that were true, eh, my boy?”

  “Come now, Father, we do not wish to be late.”

  Daniel and his father sat on the high-backed bench in a box near the middle of the church—a box generously shared with them by the widow Mrs. Wilkins, originally with the evident purpose of introducing her grown daughter to an eligible physician. She had been too polite to rescind the invitation once she learned Daniel was already married. An easy mistake to make, he realized, considering no one in that church had ever seen his wife.

  As the man in black began his sermon, Daniel’s attention wandered, as it usually did. If asked, he would likely acknowledge that he attended church because that was what respectable people did, and what a respectable physician was expected to do. His spirit received little nurture—nor conviction—from the lofty sermons and formal hymns. He did not blame the Church of England. He knew the problem lay within his own soul.

  As he sat there, his father listening attentively beside him, the hard bench digging into his spine, the man’s deep baritone took him to another church, another time.

  How long ago was it? Five years, perhaps. He had just come from seeing Mrs. Lamb. Dr. Webb, eager to return home in time for tea, hurried on but urged him to take his time. He no doubt guessed Daniel was feeling low—first from having been called by a teary-eyed lad to a dismal thatched cottage just that morning, only to find the grandmother already dead, and now the disappointing visit with Mrs. Lamb. Daniel was grateful to the older man and, indeed, felt the need for some solitude.

  Walking away from the vicarage, Daniel passed the church and, on impulse, walked inside the empty, echoing old building. The age of the place continued to astound him—sections dated back to the twelfth century. He never tired of gazing upon the unique ornaments of the otherwise humble church—chancel arch, double squint, mullioned windows, wall paintings of St. Francis and Henry the Third outlined in red ochre. He had attended services there the past Sunday and for a moment imagined he could still hear Mr. Lamb’s booming baritone reverberating within the stone walls as he delivered his sermon from the raised pulpit. But no, the place was utterly silent but for the crisp turning of a page. He turned his head and there, in a rear pew of the nave, in a spot clearly chosen for its wide swath of sunlight, sat a teenaged Charlotte Lamb.

  “Miss Lamb.”

  “Hello, Mr. Taylor. How fares my mother?”

  “A bit weaker than usual, I’m afraid. But she seems in good spirits.”

  “Mother always is. I only wish her health were as good as her spirits.”

  Knowing it was not his place to reveal Dr. Webb’s prognosis, he changed the subject, nodding to the black book the girl held against her chest. “May I ask what you are reading so intently?”

  “Well, it’s the Bible, as you see.”

  “And do you like reading it?”

  “Yes, of course. Don’t you?”

  “I’m afraid I find some of it rather dusty, but there are parts I am quite fond of.”

  “Which parts?”

  “Oh, I like the Gospels, the Proverbs, and some of David’s Psalms—the desperate ones. And of course in secret . . .”

  “Secret . . .?”

  He felt his face heat and knew he was blushing, “I was going to say the Song of Solomon, but I should not say it to you.”

  “But you have already said it.”

  “Forgive me.”

  She turned to scan the south chapel, then looked back at him and whispered, “You have told me a secret. Now I shall tell you one. Shall I show you what I am truly reading?” She pulled out several folded pages that had been tucked into the Bible. “I am supposed to be reading the book of Numbers, but instead I am reading this letter over and over again.”

  “It must be a very interesting letter.”

  “More interesting than Numbers at any rate.”

  “Is it . . . a love letter?”

  “A love letter?” She ducked her head. “No. Not at all.”

  “But you do . . . receive love letters . . . from time to time?”

  “No. I have never.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever for? I am only fifteen years old.”

  “Quite right. Those should wait until you are at least . . .”

  “Sixteen.”

  “I quite agree.”

  “This is only a letter from my dear aunt. I’m to stay with her the month of August, and I long for it. I am reading what she says we shall do and whom we shall likely see . . . all the while pretending to read this to please my father. Do you think me very wicked?”

  “Never, Miss Lamb.”

  “Father would. He says if we are all very good, and pray hard, Mother will get better. Do you think it true?”

  “It’s certainly not fair.”

  “Fair?”

  “For your father to put that responsibility on you. Forgive me, I mean no disrespect, but do you really think God works that way? If we do the things we ought, He’ll preserve those we hold dear, but if we forget or neglect our duty, He’ll bring down calamity upon us and those we love?”

  “I think perhaps you need to read the Old Testament more often.”

  “Perhaps you are right. But I prefer the New.”

  “Except for the Proverbs and most desperate of Psalms?” He smiled, “And that other book, which shall remain nameless.”

  Now Daniel became aware of the congregation standing around him and quickly joined them, glad to rise from the hard bench. He felt himself smile again at the memory, a smile quite out of place with the serious benediction.

  That night, Charlotte dreamt that Dr. Webb was again listening to her mother’s heart. And, as she remembered him doing before, he asked her if she would like to listen as well. Smiling, Charlotte climbed up onto the bed, returning her mother’s serene smile, and laid her head against her mother’s chest. But her mother’s smile soon faded. Try as she might, Charlotte could not hear the heartbeat.

  “Do you not hear it?” Dr. Webb demanded sternly.

  “No,” Charlotte cried. “I cannot.”

  It was her fault. If
only she could position her head correctly, find the right spot to listen, if only she could hear it . . . but she could not, and so it beat no longer.

  Charlotte awoke, her own heart pounding, a nauseous dread filling her body as the images and cloak of guilt filled her mind. The images soon faded, but that familiar, nauseating guilt remained. It expanded, accompanied now by new pressure in her abdomen, a pressure which soon grew into pain.

  Charlotte rose gingerly and removed her nightclothes to dress for the day—and that was when she saw the small, dark red stain.

  On shaky legs, she made her way to breakfast, ate little, and was soon sitting at the table with the other women, attempting to finish the blanket she was embroidering for her child. She found it difficult to concentrate. Then a second wave of pain struck.

  At the urging of the other women, Charlotte made her way carefully to Mrs. Moorling’s office. When she had confided to the matron about the pains and the slight but frightful bleeding, Mrs. Moorling had immediately gone off in search of a physician to see her.

  By now, Charlotte had been sitting in the office for a quarter hour or more, shifting on the hard chair, trying to get comfortable, rubbing her abdomen, hoping to somehow ease the tightness, the strange new pains.

  Gibbs appeared in the doorway. “Dr. Preston has just arrived. He will see you directly.”

  “Dr. Preston? Perhaps I could wait . . . see how I feel tomorrow.”

  “Miss Smith. If you are bleeding, you had better not waste time.”

  “Is it so serious?”

  The woman shrugged. “Can be.”

  Charlotte felt sick. “Very well.”

  Gibbs led her down the corridor, through the workroom, and to the examination room. She opened the door and announced without expression, “Miss Smith,” before stepping out and letting the door shut Charlotte into the room. Charlotte saw Dr. Preston straightening from a slouched position in the desk chair. He was a very handsome man, she could not deny. His clothes were rumpled, however, as was his hair—even though it was but midmorning. Had he slept in those clothes? She saw him lift the lid of a Smith & Co. tin and pop a “curiously strong” mint into his mouth. Charlotte found it ironic. She, who had grown up in a home that abstained from strong drink, might very well not have identified the odor, but the cure he had taken for it was a telltale sign. He smoothed down each side of his moustache before rising. It was not a dandy’s gesture, she judged, merely a very tired-looking man trying to smooth on a professional facade. His next words, however, dispelled the image before it could fully form.