Lady of Milkweed Manor

by Julie Klassen

  “Miss Lamb, I—”

  “It is Miss Smith for now. Good night, Dr. Taylor.”

  She left the office and walked quickly down the passageway, embarrassment burning at her ears. Stupid girl, she remonstrated herself. She imagined Dr. Taylor saying to his wife, My dear, please meet the ruined Miss Charlotte Lamb. Can you believe I once admired her?

  If the milk of a wet nurse could give a child a loud laugh

  or a secretive disposition, what kind of influence

  would be derived from the milk of a goat or a cow?

  —JANET GOLDEN, A S OCIAL H ISTORY OF W ET N URSING IN A MERICA

  CHAPTER 5

  The next few weeks passed slowly and Charlotte grew weary of stitching. She stood before the matron’s desk, feeling like a wayward schoolgirl.

  “Mrs. Moorling. I wonder,” she began, “might I help in the foundling ward?”

  The matron’s eyes narrowed with near suspicion. “Why?”

  “Well, I . . . I am sure sewing is no doubt beneficial. It is only that I thought . . . well, with my own child on the way, some experience with infants might do me good.”

  Still the woman stared at her.

  “I might enjoy it, actually.”

  Mrs. Moorling shook her head, an odd bleakness in her eyes. “I would not plan on it.”

  “Then I may not—?”

  “You may. I only meant that you should not plan to enjoy it. You really are naïve, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose so. Still I see no harm. . . .”

  “Go on with you, then. Use the entrance through the scullery.

  Be sure the door latches behind you.”

  “But what shall I do once I get there?”

  “Just ask for Mrs. Krebs. She oversees the foundlings and is always in need of another pair of arms.”

  Charlotte thanked the matron, then walked through the dining room and down the scullery passage. The large white door with an old-fashioned swing bolt stood at attention, its X-shaped cross boards reminding Charlotte of a guard with his arms crossed, barring the way. She swallowed back the silly notion and reached for the bolt, only to have the door swing open in her face. Charlotte stepped back quickly as Sally and another girl came through the door, Sally balancing a tray of used plates and teacups in her hands.

  “Oh, Miss Charlotte! Sorry, love, nearly ran you down.”

  “Hello, Sally.” Charlotte looked up at her. She had never known such a tall woman.

  “You’re not thinking of goin’ in, are you?”

  “Yes. I was.”

  “Well, I suppose Mrs. Krebs might need some mending done, or some cleaning.”

  “Could I not help with the children? I have never been around babies and I should like to learn.”

  Sally stood silently a moment, studying Charlotte seriously. Then swiftly, she swiveled and placed the tea tray in the other girl’s hands. “Take this into the kitchen for me, Martha. There’s a love.”

  The girl disappeared and Sally was still staring down at Charlotte, her frequent smile noticeably absent.

  “If you’re set on it, I had better go in with you.”

  “All right . . . thank you,” Charlotte murmured, but she was confused.

  Sally took Charlotte by the arm and led her through the doorway, latching the door firmly behind her. Then she escorted Charlotte down a whitewashed passage, through a small galley, and into an entry hall.

  “This is where the babies first come in. Admitted, they calls it.” She pointed to an odd revolving shelf built into the outer wall. “See that turn there?”

  “Yes. It looks like one we had at home between the galley and kitchen. The servants used it to pass through dirty dishes.”

  “’Tisn’t dirty dishes passing through there. ’Tis babies what no one wants. This way the poor mother don’t even need to show her face. She puts her baby on the shelf and rings the bell. Then Mrs. Krebs turns the shelf and the baby comes inside.”

  “Poor things.”

  “Yes. ’Tis a desperate girl who abandons her baby.”

  Charlotte had meant the babies left behind were the “poor things,” but she didn’t argue.

  “Sometimes mothers what’s starving leave their babies in the turn, then come to the front door soon after, asking for work as a wet nurse, hoping to feed their own babe and get food and some small pay in the bargain.”

  “But why would they do that?”

  “’Cause they’s starvin’ or have no place to live, no money, no job. How can they work with a newborn to feed every few hours?”

  “Oh.”

  “Come on.”

  They walked down the long passageway, past a dim room on the left filled with cribs and another room filled with rocking chairs. On nearly every one sat a woman nursing an infant, sometimes two babes at once. Charlotte had never seen a woman do such a thing, and though most were fairly well covered with blanket or babe, Charlotte felt her cheeks redden at the intimate sight.

  “And see them doors on the other side of the passage? That’s where we nurses take turns sleepin’.”

  “Sally! Good, you’re back. I need your help.” An older woman in her late fifties stepped forward, her ash-grey hair in a loose knot at the back of her neck and a large stained apron over her ample figure in a simple black dress.

  “Mrs. Krebs, this is Miss Charlotte Smith.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Krebs.” Charlotte stepped forward, offering her hand. “I would like to help too, if I might.”

  Glancing back down the passage, the woman didn’t seem to notice her hand. “Well, you’re just in time to help with the goats.”

  “Goats?”

  “Yes, yes, follow me.”

  Charlotte looked at Sally, who sighed and nodded and followed Mrs. Krebs, who was already marching purposefully toward the end of the passageway.

  “You were brought up on a farm, weren’t you, Sally?” Mrs. Krebs asked over her shoulder.

  “Aye.”

  “And you, Miss Smith?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “No matter, a pair of willing hands is always welcome.” She stopped at a small table beside a closed door. “But do put on these masks and gloves. Dr. Taylor’s orders.”

  Sally began pulling tight leather gloves onto her long fingers and explained, “This is the syphilis ward, Miss Charlotte. All these babies have syphilis and must be kept away from the rest.”

  Mrs. Krebs handed Charlotte another pair of gloves and began tying a cotton mask over her own nose and mouth.

  Charlotte hesitated.

  “Is it safe? For my own baby, I mean.”

  “Dr. Taylor assures me the nasty business is only transmitted by direct contact with the sores,” Mrs. Krebs said. “’Course these poor lambs caught it from their own mothers afore they was even born.”

  Mrs. Krebs pushed open the door and walked in. Sally and Charlotte paused at the threshold, taking in the scene.

  Cribs filled the room and cries filled the air. In one corner, a nun was standing hunched over a crib, trying to get an infant to suckle from some sort of tube. Dr. Taylor stood beside her, arms behind his back, quietly instructing the woman. He looked up when the door opened. His eyes narrowed for a moment when they lit on her.

  A knock came on a wide, stable-like door on the other side of the room.

  “That’s Rob now, I wager.”

  Old Mrs. Krebs strode with impressively youthful vigor past the cribs with their pitiful infants. She opened the door and a young man came in with two goats, one black and one white, at his heels.

  “What are they doing with the goats?” Charlotte whispered.

  “You’ll see,” Sally said and stepped into the room.

  Charlotte, still concerned, stood in the doorway and watched a sight she would never forget. The goats pranced with seeming eagerness into the room, bleating as they came. The black one trotted down one row of beds, the white down the other. Suddenly, the white goat jumped nimbly up on top
of the first cot and gingerly straddled the infant. Charlotte gasped. Sally stepped forward and helped lift and position the waiting infant onto the goat’s teat. The hungry babe latched on and began nursing. Charlotte was stunned, horrified, yet fascinated at the same time. She stepped forward tentatively and stood behind Sally, peering over her bent back.

  “Why in the world . . .?” Charlotte began.

  “No one will nurse these poor souls. The syphilis is catching that way. They try to feed the babes by hand, but it ain’t natural like. This ain’t either, but it seems to work a bit better.”

  Mrs. Krebs, who was helping another swaddled infant suckle the black goat, said from her position a few strides away, “I was as stunned as you no doubt are, Miss Smith, when Dr. Taylor first suggested it. Thought he was off his bean. Said the Frenchies do it all the time and it might be worth a go here as well.”

  As Charlotte watched, the white goat jumped down and moved to a cot at the end of the row and eagerly hopped up again. Sally followed, again helping the waiting babe reach the goat’s teat with her gloved hands.

  Dr. Taylor came to stand next to Charlotte. “It’s as if the goats actually know and remember which babes are hers to nurse. The white one always feeds these and the black the others. Even if we put the babe in a different crib, the goat finds her own to feed.”

  “Amazing.”

  “It is, isn’t it? Still, it’s a pity. Most of these children have little hope of seeing the month through.”

  “Really?” Charlotte felt herself take a step back even before she realized what she was doing.

  “It’s a sad business. But we try.”

  Charlotte’s cheery visions of singing lullabies to healthy pink babies seemed foolish now. She felt as though she might be ill.

  “Can nothing be done?” she asked.

  “Well. Pray, of course. And thank God for goats.”

  The [milkweed] root, which is the only part used, is a counter-poison,

  both against the bad effects of poisonous herbs

  and the bites and stings of venomous creatures.

  —NICHOLAS CULPEPPER, 17TH CENTURY HERBALIST

  CHAPTER 6

  A few hours later, Daniel was standing in the manor hall directing the flow of volunteers bearing crates and bundles of donated supplies. He looked up and saw Charlotte walking toward him, coming from the direction of the foundling ward. He immediately stepped forward, hoping to shield her from view.

  “Miss Smith,” he said, keeping his voice low, “might I suggest a sojourn in the back garden? A horde of ladies-aid types are swarming about the place, and I understand several are from Kent.”

  Her eyes widened as she glanced at the hall beyond him, expression sober.

  “Thank you, I shall.”

  She turned at once and quickly retreated the way she had come. But not quite quickly enough.

  Daniel turned and nearly collided with a thin-faced socialite in burgundy velvet and plumed hat.

  “That woman you were just speaking with—that was Charlotte Lamb, was it not?” She craned her neck to see past him.

  “Lamb? I do not believe we have anyone here by that name.”

  “Yes, yes, that was Charlotte. I am sure of it.”

  He shrugged. “There are so many here today, with your group, as well as our staff and volunteers . . .”

  “But you were just speaking with her.”

  “Was I? I believe the last lady I spoke with was a volunteer, donating blankets. She is not with you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, we are blessed to have so many generous souls such as yourselves come to visit. I cannot keep track.”

  She opened her mouth to speak again, her expression clearly skeptical. But instead of questioning him further, her mouth curved in a feline smile. “I know what I saw. Or shall we say, whom.” She turned on her heel and swept across the hall.

  Charlotte walked through the manor’s garden, breathing in the outdoor air, forcing away the images she had seen in the syphilis ward. Reaching into her dress pocket, she ran her fingers over the letter from her aunt, which she carried with her as a comfort, a sort of lifeline. She knew whom her aunt was referring to in her veiled reference to Bea’s “gentleman” suitor.

  Charlotte remembered well the first time she had met William Bentley. That is, the first time in many years. She had seen him on several occasions when they were young children, but not for a number of years since, when he unexpectedly appeared at their drawing room door three or four years ago.

  “Mr. William Bentley,” Tibbets had announced and then backed from the room, pulling the doors closed as she went.

  The young man who stood before them was slight and not much taller than the maid who had shown him in. He was about eighteen, Charlotte estimated, a year above her own age at the time, though he bore the confidence of someone far older.

  “How do you do?” he asked, hat in hand. Tibbets had forgotten to take it. Charlotte glanced at Bea, saw from the frown line between her brows that she had no idea who the young man was. Charlotte glanced next at her father, whose place it was to greet the man and make introductions, but he wore an expression that would have been comically similar to his daughter’s, were not the situation so awkward.

  “Bentley . . . Bentley . . .” he began, obviously trying to place the mildly familiar name.

  “You remember, Father,” Charlotte offered. “Mr. Bentley is nephew to Mr. Harris.”

  “Is he now? Oh, yes, I think I remember hearing something of a nephew. Let’s see, Harris has an older brother . . .”

  “Sister, actually, Father. Mrs. Eliza Bentley. Of Oxford.”

  “That’s right, thank you.” The young man smiled at Charlotte.

  “You seem to know the family quite well, Miss—?”

  “Charlotte Lamb.”

  “Of course.” He nodded, his eyes widened in a knowing expression that left her feeling unsettled.

  Her father stood at that moment, casting a disapproving glance at her. “I am the Reverend Mr. Gareth Lamb, Vicar of the Parish Church of Doddington, Dedicated to the Beheading of St. John the Baptist.”

  Mr. Bentley’s eyebrows rose. “How unusual.” A hint of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth, but her father did not seem to notice.

  “Yes, it is. One of the rarest dedications in England, shared only with the Church of Trimmingham in Norfolk.”

  “Ahh . . .” Mr. Bentley uttered the universal sound of the duly impressed. When her father’s grave expression remained fixed, Mr. Bentley continued, “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. My uncle speaks highly of you, sir.”

  “As I do of him. And may I present my elder daughter, Miss Lamb.”

  Beatrice merely dipped her head.

  “And Charlotte has already introduced herself,” her father added as he reclaimed his seat. He tossed a sour smile toward Charlotte but did not quite look at her. “Do sit down, Mr. Bentley.”

  “I thank you.”

  “Of Oxford, sir?” her father asked. “The university or environs?”

  “Both, of late.”

  “You must know my friend Lord Elton, then. He is quite the patron of Pembroke.”

  Charlotte winced at her father’s boast. Lord Elton was Uncle Tilney’s friend, not his.

  “Who has not heard of him? His son is also quite well-known.

  I have not had the pleasure of meeting either man, I’m afraid. My studies keep me quite occupied.”

  “Excellent. And what will you take up?”

  He hesitated, then oddly looked at Charlotte, then Beatrice. “I have yet to make up my mind, sir.”

  “The church is as noble a profession as you might aspire to, sir, if you have a taste for servitude and humility.”

  William Bentley smiled, clearly amused, then straightened his expression into sobriety. “I’m afraid I haven’t your fortitude, good sir. Nor your modesty.”

  “Well, you are yet young.” Her father sighed. “I’m afra
id the church calls to me even now.” He pushed himself cumbrously to his feet. “I’m to meet the churchwardens to discuss repairs to the south chapel and nave. If you will excuse me.”

  Mr. Bentley rose.

  “No need to get up on my account. Do stay and have your visit with the ladies. Beatrice, perhaps you could play something for Mr. Bentley?”

  “It seems a bit early in the day . . .”

  “Oh, would you, Miss Lamb? I’d be delighted to hear it.”

  Bea looked at Mr. Bentley as if gauging his sincerity. “Very well.”

  Their father left and Bea walked slowly across the room and sat at the pianoforte. She flipped through some pages of music on its ledge and began playing a moody piece, the somber tone darkening her already stern countenance. Then, seeming to remember her guest, she stopped.

  “Forgive me, that’s not quite fitting.”

  “Quite powerful though,” Mr. Bentley said, his eyes full of admiration.

  Tibbets knocked once and entered. “Begging your pardon, Miss Charlotte, but Digger says it’s time.”

  Charlotte rose, but Bea answered for her. “Tibbets, we have a guest, as you know. Tell him to wait.”

  “Actually, I will go,” Charlotte said gently. “Thank you, Tibbets. Tell young Higgins I shall be out directly.”

  “Very good, miss.”

  Bea shook her head in disapproval. She spoke to Mr. Bentley but her gaze remained narrowed on her sister. “Charlotte seems to love nothing better than playing with dirt and plants all day. She spends more time out of doors than in.”

  “Your grounds here are lovely,” Mr. Bentley allowed. “But why go out of doors when there is so much beauty to appreciate within?” He smiled significantly at Bea.

  Charlotte bit back a wry smile of her own. “I am sorry, Bea, but I did ask Ben Higgins to fetch me just as soon as the tree arrived for the churchyard. Forgive me, Mr. Bentley. You must think us terribly rude, first Father rushing off, and now me.”

  “Think nothing of it, Miss Charlotte. My visit was unplanned, after all.”