“Thank you. Perhaps you might come again. Are you staying with your uncle long?”
“I’m not sure. A few days at least.”
“Then please do call again.” It wasn’t Charlotte’s place to invite him, she knew, and she could feel Bea’s silent censure from across the room.
But the young man smiled brightly. “Thank you. I shall.”
He bowed to Charlotte and she smiled at him. Bea glared at her over the man’s bent head. Charlotte simply shrugged, then left the room.
Charlotte sat down in the entry hall, on the bench between the drawing room and the outside door. She leaned down to remove her slippers and begin the arduous task of fastening all the buttons on her calfskin gardening boots. From the nearby drawing room doors, she heard Bea run her fingers experimentally over a few keys.
“Please excuse my sister, Mr. Bentley,” Bea said. “I don’t know what she could be thinking, leaving on account of a tree.”
Charlotte started. She had not realized she would be able to hear their conversation from here. Evidently Bea did not realize it either.
“What is so important about this tree?” Mr. Bentley asked.
“Oh, some tree she wants to plant by our mother’s grave.”
“That is very sentimental of her.”
“I suppose.” Bea began playing a cheerful quadrille.
William Bentley spoke more loudly to be heard over the music. “You know, my uncle has often described what a lovely girl Miss Charlotte Lamb has become. So, when I first entered the room, I thought you must be she.”
A sour note, a half step off-key, reverberated through the doors as Bea abruptly stopped playing. “Mr. Harris finds Charlotte . . . lovely?”
In the hall, Charlotte froze mid-button.
“I suppose that’s what he meant, a lovely girl, a lovely young girl. But you, Miss Lamb, are a beautiful woman.”
Charlotte expelled the breath she’d been holding. She could imagine Bea’s reaction, the red-cheeked pleasure that must be coloring her face.
“I believe Uncle is quite fond of your sister,” Mr. Bentley continued, “though it must be tedious for a man of his age to always be warding off the infatuation of one so young.”
Humiliation filled Charlotte, and she quickly pulled on her other boot without bothering to finish buttoning the first.
“Did he say that?” Bea sounded as appalled as Charlotte felt.
“No, no, heavens no. I am only reading between the worry lines as it were. Fret not, beautiful Beatrice, Uncle holds you all in great affection.”
Charlotte did not wait to hear more. She made her way quietly out of the vicarage and strode across the narrow lane to the churchyard. Ben Higgins, a lad of fifteen who assisted his father with grave digging and upkeep of the church, was waiting for her. He had already maneuvered the young tree, its roots bound in a ball of dirt, to a spot near her mother’s grave. Charlotte picked up a shovel and thrust it into the ground with more vehemence than necessary.
A few minutes later, William Bentley came walking across the churchyard. “Your workman desert you, Miss Lamb?” he called.
Charlotte looked up at him from the hole she was digging. She paused in her work, leaning on the shovel with one hand and pushing a stray hair from her face with the other, though she did not realize until later that her muddy glove had left a smear of dirt on her forehead. Nor why Mr. Bentley had bit back a smile as he drew near.
“I sent him to ask our gardener for some manure. He shall return directly.”
“Manure? Lovely. You could wait and let him do that, you know.”
“I do not mind a bit of work. Do you?”
“I confess I am not really the digging-in-the-dirt type.”
She grinned. “I cannot say I’m surprised.”
“Really?”
At his feigned chagrin, she felt her smile widen.
His eyes danced with pleasure. “You do indeed have a lovely smile, Miss Lamb.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded toward the sapling resting beside the hole. “What sort of tree is that?”
“A French lilac. Syringa vulgaris.”
“Looks like a stick to me.”
“I suppose it does. But in year or two, it will boast the most fragrant lilac blossoms.”
“Your mother. She’s been gone—?”
“Two years.” She felt her smile fade.
“Forgive me. I’m sorry.”
“That is all right.” She sighed. “I went traveling with my aunt in the spring, as I often do. Our carriage passed a long stand of lilacs in full bloom, and I remembered how much Mother loved their fragrance. But this variety doesn’t spread like the more common English lilacs. I ordered this all the way from Limoges.”
“That’s a very dear gesture.”
Charlotte shrugged. “She was very dear to me.”
Resuming her work, her shovel clanged against something solid, and Charlotte bent low to pick a large stone out of the hole. As she did, she had the discomfiting realization that William Bentley enjoyed a lingering look down the bodice of her dress.
“Mr. Harris speaks very highly of you, Miss Lamb. I know I said the same of your father, but in all truth I think my uncle holds you in the highest regard of all.”
“I’m sure you are mistaken,” Charlotte replied, straightening. “Mr. Harris has long been a friend to our entire family. Even Mother was fond of him.”
“And you, I think, are not indifferent to him either.”
Remembering what Mr. Bentley had said to Bea, Charlotte could not hide her embarrassment. “Of course not. Mr. Harris has always been very kind, the best of neighbors, almost like a son to Father.”
“A son? I shouldn’t think so. That would make you brother and sister, and I don’t think either of you should like that.”
“Mr. Bentley, please don’t speak so. It isn’t fitting.”
He appeared genuinely chastised. “You are quite right, Miss Lamb. Forgive me.”
“If you are implying what I think you are, you are quite mistaken.”
“Am I? Then I confess myself relieved.”
“Relieved? Why so?”
“Well, it is just that I should be disappointed were you already spoken for.”
“I am not spoken for, Mr. Bentley. I am only seventeen.”
“Seventeen. And my uncle is, what? Five and thirty?”
“Not so old as that, I don’t think.”
He studied her face, and her discomfort grew under his close scrutiny.
“In any case,” she hurried on, “I’ve no thought of marriage. My sister is two years older and has no thought of it either.”
William looked up at the vicarage window and Charlotte followed his gaze. She saw Beatrice standing there frowning down at them. When she saw them look up, she spun away.
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Charlotte,” Mr. Bentley said, then lowered his eyes back to her. “May I call you Charlotte?”
“Yes, please do.”
“And you must call me Mr. Bentley.”
She looked at him dumbly, taken aback.
He smiled, reached out, and rubbed an immaculate gloved finger across her forehead. She allowed him to do so, standing like a submissive schoolgirl. Then he showed her the dirt-stained glove. “Dirt doesn’t suit you, Charlotte. You should remain unsullied by the earth you love.”
In the manor garden, Charlotte stooped awkwardly over her rounded middle to pick up a stone. She wondered briefly where William Bentley was now and if he truly planned to marry her sister. Had his intentions ever been honorable? Rising gingerly, she hurled the stone into the mossy pond, where it landed with a dull plop.
Unsullied indeed.
That very afternoon, Charles Harris rode his horse from his estate toward the Doddington vicarage.
A young lad herded a dozen sheep across the pasture path, so he had to slow his horse to allow them to pass. The boy tipped his hat to him, but Charles Harris only gave a ter
se nod in return. In no mood to be hindered, Charles pulled the reins up short and urged his horse up the embankment and around the walled churchyard.
He was irritated to see his nephew’s grey gelding in front of the vicarage, old Buxley attempting to hold the jittery horse by its bridle. What is that boy up to now?
Here William came in his green coat and cravat and fine hat, his smile decidedly self-satisfied.
“Hello, Uncle. Sorry I cannot stay and chat. Pressing business calls.”
The young man was a dandy and a conniver. Charles should have discouraged his visits to the vicarage, but it was too late now.
Astride the horse now, William turned in the saddle and said with seeming innocence, “Miss Charlotte seems to have disappeared utterly. You haven’t any idea what that’s about, do you?”
Charles stared, dumbfounded at the boy’s insolence. He opened his mouth to fashion some feeble reply, but the young man was already spurring his mount down the lane.
Buxley took his horse with a “Good day to you, Mr. Harris.” Charles entered the vicarage and Tibbets took his hat and showed him into the drawing room. Gareth Lamb sat on one of the satin settees, staring off into space while his elder daughter, Beatrice, picked at tinny melodies on the pianoforte.
“There you are, Charles,” the vicar greeted him gloomily. “We despaired of ever seeing you again.”
“Yes . . . Katherine prefers town to country living, I’m afraid.
I’ve just come round to check on the place and visit my mother and all of you.”
“Do come and sit down.”
But Charles hesitated, looking around the room for some clue that what he had heard was true. Beatrice looked up at him with a brief nod.
“Good day, Beatrice.”
“Mr. Harris.” She played on, seemingly unconcerned with or unaware of his agitated state or her father’s pale stupor.
“And . . . where is Charlotte this fine day?” He attempted a weak smile.
“Who?” Mr. Lamb asked, his expression blank.
“What do you mean, who? Your younger daughter, of course.”
“I have only one daughter, and here she sits.” The Reverend Mr. Lamb waved vaguely in Bea’s direction.
“I am speaking of Charlotte.”
“She is lost to me. It pains me to speak of it.”
“I beg you forgive me. But if you could only speak a bit more and tell me where she has gone . . . I only want to help.”
“I know not.”
“You . . . don’t know where Charlotte is?” he asked in disbelief.
A discordant clang shuddered through the pianoforte, and Bea glared at him over the fading notes. “We do not wish to speak of it, Mr. Harris. I believe Father made that quite clear. And pray do us the kindness of not speaking of her to others either. Charlotte is off”—she waved her hand with dramatic flair—“visiting friends. Gone to Brighton, I believe. Or was it Bath? In any case, we don’t expect her anytime soon.” She began playing again.
“That young man who was just here,” Gareth began, frowning. “I know he is your nephew, but I have to say, I do not trust him.”
“Father!” Bea exclaimed.
“I am sorry, my dear, but I cannot help but think he had something to do with the whole infernal affair.”
Bea stood quickly. “Mr. Bentley is a perfectly amiable gentleman, and I will not sit by and hear him maligned in my presence.” She flounced out of the room, and Charles was relieved to see her go.
“She’s pinned her hopes on him.” Mr. Lamb shook his head, his eyes still on the open door though Bea was no longer visible. “I know I should encourage it, but something does not sit right with me. You do not think Bentley had anything to do with . . . Charlotte’s leaving?”
“I . . . I shouldn’t think so. Did you ask him?”
“Not in so many words, but yes, I did inquire of his dealings with her.”
“And how did he respond?”
“Perhaps I had better not repeat it. . . .”
“I insist. What did he say?”
“It shames me to speak of it.” Still, the older man went on. “He said he was not altogether surprised at Charlotte’s ‘troubles,’ that he saw her being very familiar with more than one man on several occasions.”
“He said that?”
“Well, you know how he talks, all hints and innuendo and you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Insolent fool!”
“You do not think it the truth? The evidence certainly bears him out.”
“I am afraid my nephew has motives of his own that no doubt colored his report.”
“Have you never seen her cavorting with men?”
Charles hesitated, and the old man set his face bitterly.
“No, my friend,” Charles hurried on. “You mustn’t think the worst of Charlotte. I have never seen her act in any untoward manner with anyone.”
“Then who was it, man? Have you any idea?”
Charles sighed and shook his head. “I am so sorry. If there was anything I could do, I would do it. You know I would.”
“Of course, of course. You have your own future to think of. You don’t suppose there is any hope of convincing young Bentley to redirect . . .”
“I am afraid not. Not any longer. Has he . . . made any offer that you know of?”
“No. Though Beatrice seems nearly to be holding her breath in hopes of one.”
The name of the Milkweed, Asclepias, comes from the
Greek god Aeskulap, the god of healing.
—FLOWER ESSENCE SOCIETY
CHAPTER 7
Through a grated window in the foundling ward door, Daniel Taylor watched Miss Lamb. She was standing alone in the tangled garden behind the manor, and he couldn’t help but remember her in a garden far more grand. She had often been there when he’d come with Dr. Webb to call on her mother.
He had spent a few years in Doddington as an apprentice to Dr. Webb before he’d gone off to the University of Edinburgh to complete his studies. He’d enjoyed his time in Kent and had a great deal of respect for Dr. Webb, who seemed never to tire of visiting patients, consoling families, and doling out physic and other remedies as needed.
Mrs. Lillian Lamb was one of the patients he visited most frequently. In truth there seemed little the good man could do for her, though Webb never said as much. Mrs. Lamb was a lovely, serene woman who seemed more concerned with making them welcome and comfortable than with her own prognosis. It was the Reverend Mr. Lamb who insisted on such regular visits. He seemed quite convinced his wife would “be her bonny old self one day soon, now that you’re here.” Daniel had both admired and feared his optimism.
As was often the case with female patients, Dr. Webb shooed his apprentice from the room soon after the preliminary pleasantries were dispatched and the physical examination commenced. Dismissed and with nothing to occupy him, Daniel would poke through the many books in the vicarage library or wander through the modest grounds or even into the more sprawling expanse of the great estate abutting the churchyard. Fawnwell, he believed the estate was called. But for its more modest size, the Lambs’ garden was among the finest he’d seen, and he knew from his pleasantries with Mrs. Lamb that gardening was her dearest pastime. Evidently her younger daughter shared this enthusiasm.
On one of these occasions Charlotte, who must have been fourteen or fifteen at the time, hailed him from where she stood in the garden. Dropping the shears into her basket, she ran toward him, hand atop her bonnet to keep it in place.
“Mr. Taylor,” she panted, out of breath, “there you are. And how fares my mother today?”
“Better, I think. And you? I trust you are well?”
“Yes, very, I thank you.” Charlotte searched the lawn behind him. “And where is Dr. Webb?”
“Still in with your mother.”
“I see.” Though from her wrinkled brow it was clear she did not. “Then why are you not with him?”
“It seems Dr. Webb
feels that it would be more discreet, more comfortable for your mother, were I absent.”
“I am sure Mother said no such thing.”
“Of course not. It is assumed, I suppose. I gather the examination was of a delicate nature.”
“Delicate?”
Daniel had felt the blood heat his cheeks and silently cursed his tendency to blush.
“Your mother’s ailment is of a . . . feminine nature, and being a man . . .”
“Dr. Webb is a man.”
“Yes, but I am young.”
“Not so young. I understand his last apprentice was much younger.”
“Be that as it may, I must bow to Dr. Webb’s greater experience.”
“But however are you to gain such experience wandering about my mother’s garden?”
“An excellent question, Miss Lamb. Most perceptive.”
“I can only hope Dr. Webb is not away should I need a physician.”
“Yes, well . . .”
“Forgive me. I meant no offense.”
“Of course. I understand.”
Daniel smiled grimly at the memory. Indeed, Charlotte would soon need a physician and Dr. Webb was nowhere near. He pushed through the foundling ward door and walked out into the garden, in time to see Charlotte bend over and begin pulling on a milkweed with great effort.
“Careful there, Miss Lamb. Do not overtax yourself.”
“Dr. Taylor, do please try to remember to call me Miss Smith.”
“I shall try, but we are alone here, so I thought it would be all right. May I ask what you are doing?”
“This garden is overrun with milkweeds, as you can well see. I understand gardening is not a priority in such a place, but—”
“You are quite mistaken, Miss Lamb. This garden is one of my priorities indeed.”
“There is little evidence of that.”
“Ahh . . . that is only because you are looking at it with the wrong eyes.”
“Wrong eyes?”
“Yes, the eyes of a formal English gardener who adores box hedges and lilies and other lovely useless things.”
She opened her mouth, but he lifted a hand to ward off her rebuttal.
“Wait until you have heard me out. What do you know of milkweeds, Miss Lamb?”
Lady of Milkweed Manor Page 6