Dr. Taylor clearly had no idea how inappropriate his offer was, but she knew he offered with the best intentions.
“I thank you anyway, Dr. Taylor, but you have a wife and your own child to think of.”
Charlotte looked down at Edmund’s small face, which had instantly become so precious to her. Sobs overtook her again. “Must I decide right now? I cannot. I cannot.”
She held her tiny son close and glared up at the men. “Can you both please excuse me? I need a few moments alone. I cannot think with the two of you staring at me.”
Charles looked at his pocket watch. “But—”
“Of course,” Daniel overrode him, leading the other man from the room. “We shall return directly.”
When the door closed behind them, Charlotte got up, one hand on Edmund to keep him safe, and fell to her knees beside the bed. Tears dripped from her face onto the blanket she’d embroidered as she looked down at her bundled son. I cannot do it, Lord, I cannot. When I prayed for you to provide a way for him, this is not what I meant! This is too hard. Too cruel. Is it truly the right course? Your way out of this muddle? If so, you will have to help me. I cannot do this alone. . . .
Her prayers turned to thoughts of her son, and she whispered through her tears, “Oh, my little one, you will never remember me. But I will always remember you. Always love you. Never think I did not love you . . . or want you. Oh, God, it is too hard. . . .”
Charlotte Lamb laid her head down on the bed beside her son and cried, knowing she must somehow do an impossible thing.
The milkweed pods are breaking,
And the bits of silken down
Float off upon the autumn breeze
Across the meadows brown.
—CECIL CAVENDISH, T HE M ILKWEED
CHAPTER 15
Daniel left his carriage in the lane and walked across the Doddington churchyard just as dusk was falling the next eve. Two men were digging a grave beneath a yew tree near the cemetery wall.
He called out as he approached, “I am looking for a Ben Higgins.”
The younger of the two men looked his way without ceasing his labors.
“You found him. Though folks call me Digger.”
Not very original, Daniel thought grimly. “Might I speak with you?”
Digger straightened. “Well, I am a bit busy, man. What’s on yer mind?”
Daniel didn’t answer, but still the young man laid his shovel aside and climbed from the hole. He walked forward, removing his floppy hat as he came, revealing a mop of chestnut hair in need of cutting.
“You’re that doctor’s boy,” Digger said. “Apprentice, rather.”
“Yes, I was.” Daniel walked back toward the carriage, where the horse was tied to a post. Digger followed.
“Haven’t seen you ’ere since I was a lad.”
“I am relieved you remember me.”
“And why is that?”
Daniel turned toward the wooden box on the carriage floor, and Digger followed his gaze. The young man’s eyes became wary and his mouth pursed.
“Oy, if that’s what I’m thinkin’ it is, you best move along. I’d be losin’ me job if I was caught doin’ any buryin’ not approved by the vicar.”
“I am not asking for myself.” Daniel pulled the sealed note from his pocket and handed it to the young man. He took it reluctantly.
“I am told you can read.”
“And who told you that?”
Daniel didn’t answer.
The young man read and his eyes widened. “Miss Charlotte . . . merciful heavens. Miss Charlotte’s own wee one. We did wonder what become of her. The vicar won’t even speak her name.”
“Which is why no one must ever hear of this.”
“I’ll take it to the grave with me. . . . Oh, sorry. Fault of the trade.”
Daniel reached over with a wad of folded bank notes. But Digger waved it away, then swiped at his eyes with the same hand.
“You tell Miss Charlotte for me. You tell her rest easy. Ben Higgins will take care of her wee one. A boy was it?”
He nodded.
“You tell her Ben Higgins will watch over her little lad. Never fear. You tell Miss Charlotte that for me, will you?”
“Yes, thank you. I certainly shall.”
My dear Aunt,
I know I should not write to you, but I feel I must. You have long been my most trusted confidante. As you have been asked not to correspond with me, I will not expect an answer. But still, I must tell you. Must share this awful weight or I fear I shall go mad.
My child is gone . . . lost to me. But it is I who feels lost. The pain, the self-recrimination presses on me until I cannot breathe. I cannot bear it. I must away. I feel the loss too keenly in this dreadful place. The milkweed pods have all broken, the soft white down flown away. Only empty wombs and dry stalks remain.
I feel I must soon depart for the place you offered me. Might I prevail upon you to see me one more time before I go? I so desperately need the comfort and counsel only you can give.
But no, I do not want you to risk condemnation from my father. Did he not threaten to prune you from the family tree along with me? One of us cut off is more than sufficient . . . .
Seeing Charlotte’s door ajar, Daniel looked in and saw her writing furiously at the little desk in the corner. She laid down the quill only long enough to swipe at the tears on her cheeks, then picked up the pen and dipped it again. In truth, he was surprised to see her out of bed. When he had last seen her the day before, she had seemed almost incapable of movement, of thought beyond her grief. It reminded him pitiably of his own dear Lizette, and the thought of Charlotte sinking in similar fashion made him feel physically ill. He wondered to whom she was writing. Had Charlotte already changed her mind—was she writing to Mr. Harris?
Suddenly, Charlotte dropped her quill and sat very still. He was just about to make his presence known and step in to speak with her when she picked up the single sheet and crumpled it into a small ball. Her expression was bleak. She laid her head on her arms on the desk and gave way to great shoulder-shaking sobs. He longed to rush to her, to comfort her, but he knew that such an action would be not only inappropriate but also futile. No man could ease a pain as tormenting as this. Only time and only God. Still, he wished there was something he might do.
At that moment, the tall nurse, Sally Mitchell, walked into the passage and he gestured her over. He nodded his head toward the room and Sally followed his gaze. Pausing only long enough to give him a grim nod, she hurried into the room.
“There, there, love . . .” he heard her murmur.
Daniel decided then and there, if ever he could do some good for Sally Mitchell, he would.
After Charlotte had finally cried herself into a grief-exhausted slumber that night, she was awakened by screaming from down the corridor. The screams were familiar and yet different. Dr. Taylor’s French wife, yes, but this time crying out with the regularity of labour pains. Charlotte turned over in bed, feeling aware but dulled in her senses. She couldn’t bear to give too much thought to another baby at the moment.
Then she heard the matron barking orders and people rushing about in the corridor. Feeling a sudden pull, Charlotte rolled back over and climbed out of bed. She put on her dressing gown and stockings and opened her door, peering out. Lamps were lit and shadows and echoes danced off the walls as people ran past on their way above stairs.
Gibbs marched past, clean linens in her arms.
“Gibbs, what is happening?”
The normally aloof, efficient assistant had been unusually warm and consolatory toward Charlotte since the news of Charlotte’s loss.
“The doctor’s got hisself a little girl,” Gibbs said matter-of-factly. “But the missus . . . Oh, Miss Smith, she is utterly changed. I wouldn’t have known her! I best get back up there. Go to sleep, Miss Smith. Nothing you can do.”
Of course there was nothing she could do. Even so, and not knowing why she did, Charlotte
made her way to the servants’ stairway at the end of the corridor, as she had on those other nights that now seemed so long ago. She walked as one sleeping, without aid or need of a light, knowing the way well enough by now. She felt her way up the stairs and cautiously pushed the top door open.
From here, the screaming was even louder. And now came the clamor of things being thrown and smashed as well.
Charlotte winced.
“Take eet away from me!” the woman cried in her accented English.
Charlotte took a few tentative steps down the corridor. Mrs. Moorling suddenly emerged from Mrs. Taylor’s room, a bundle in her arms. Someone inside the room slammed the door shut behind her.
Charlotte walked closer and, by the light of the oil lamp, saw a long angry scratch on the matron’s cheek. Her brown hair had come all but loosed from its knot.
“Mrs. Moorling?”
“Oh, Charlotte!”
“Are you all right?”
“I will be.”
From behind the closed door, Dr. Taylor barked out, “Bring the restraining device—hurry!”
Mrs. Moorling’s flushed face grew even more strained. She took a step closer to Charlotte and thrust the baby toward her. Charlotte shrank back and opened her mouth to protest. Then she caught a glimpse of the little face, clearly resembling Daniel, just as her own son resembled his father. Had God planned it thusly—designed to garner paternal support? She accepted the baby into her arms and Mrs. Moorling ran toward the main stairs.
Charlotte stood there, staring down at the tiny infant whose eyes were wide open, looking at her. Then the babe began nuzzling her, instinctively looking to nurse. Charlotte’s pent-up milk let down in response. She looked down at the front of her wet dressing gown in growing horror. Then another voice startled her. Mobcapped Mrs. Krebs had come up the stairs and was striding toward her in the same militant style of Mrs. Moorling.
“The babe, is she all right?”
“Yes. Mrs. Moorling gave her to me. Here.” Charlotte started to hand the baby over to Mrs. Krebs but then pulled the infant back against herself to cover the mortifying stains.
“I am . . . forgive me. I did not mean to . . .” Charlotte stammered. “She cried and it just happened.”
“Perfectly natural. Do nurse her for me. There’s a love. I’ve got me hands full now.”
“But . . . I cannot. I should not.”
“Come now, you know how it’s done.”
“Yes, but this is Dr. Taylor’s baby. His wife might . . .”
“His wife’s a raving loony at the moment, dearie. Best thing for that wee one is to be as far away from her as possible for now. Go on, nurse the wee one. Nurse your own grievin’ heart as well.”
Charlotte saw the compassion, the understanding in the older woman’s eyes, and her own eyes filled with tears.
“If you think it would help her,” she whispered.
Mrs. Krebs smiled a sad smile and squeezed Charlotte’s arm. “It will help, Charlotte.”
Using the better-lit main stairs, Charlotte returned carefully to her room. She sat in her chair and loosened her gown and offered her heavy breast to the baby. After a few awkward tries, the little girl latched on and began nursing. Charlotte wept the whole while. Blood and tears and milk were flowing out of her at such a rapid rate that Charlotte felt as though her very life were being drained from her . . . yet returned to her at the same time.
Daniel Taylor shuffled through the corridor, exhausted and defeated. His wife was worse than ever. The delivery had sent the puerperal mania to new heights. Or was it depths? His poor little daughter! Would she ever know the bright, loving woman he’d married?
Mrs. Krebs came out of the infant ward, closing the door behind her.
“Mrs. Krebs. Have you found someone to nurse the baby?”
“Aye.”
He headed toward the foundling ward.
“She isn’t in there. I asked Miss Smith to nurse ’er.”
“Miss Smith? Why on earth?”
“I have me reasons.”
“And she agreed?”
“That she did.”
“Where is she?”
“Told her she could take the wee one back to her room. Poor lamb—never seen a girl so modest-like.”
He walked quietly back through the manor to Charlotte’s room. The door was closed. Through it, he could hear Charlotte Lamb singing to his infant daughter in a tear-cracked voice. It was not a lullaby she was singing. He recognized the tremulous melody of a hymn:
“. . .To thee in my distress, to thee,
A worm of earth, I cry;
A half-awakened child of man,
An heir of endless bliss or pain,
A sinner born to die. . . .”
He leaned his forehead against the smooth wooden door, to absorb the sound, the sadness . . . if he could.
PART II
It has long been customary to provide facilities for ladies requiring wet nurses to obtain them at the Hospital on payment of a small fee. Many ladies are accommodated with wet nurses in the course of the year, and the Hospital is, in this way, a great convenience.
—T. RYAN, Q UEEN C HARLOTTE ’ S L YING - IN H OSPITAL FROM ITS
F OUNDATION IN 1752 TO THE P RESENT T IME (LONDON 1885)
No object, however beautiful or interesting, gives pleasure to their eye, no music charms their ear, no taste gratifies their appetite, no sleep refreshes their wearied limbs or wretched imaginations; nor can they be comforted by the conversation or kindest attention of their friends. With the loss of every sentiment which might at present make life tolerable, they are destitute of hope which might render the future desirable.
—THOMAS DENMAN, CELEBRATED MAN-MIDWIFE,
DESCRIBING MELANCHOLIA FOLLOWING CHILDBIRTH, 1810
Now, in chusing of a Nurse, there are sixe things to be considered:
Her birth and Parentage: her person: her behavior:
her mind: her milke: and her child.
—JAMES GUILLEMEAU, C HILDBIRTH OR
T HE H APPY D ELIVERIE OF W OMEN
CHAPTER 16
A few days after the birth of little Anne Taylor, a knock sounded on the door of Charlotte’s bedchamber. She rose gingerly from bed and opened it.
“Hello, Dr. Taylor.”
“You needn’t have gotten up.”
“I do not mind.”
“Most physicians insist on a full month’s recovery. But I see it as a good sign that you are up and about already.”
She nodded, briefly attempting a smile. “I suppose you are wanting your daughter?” Charlotte retreated back into the room toward the cradle. “Let me bring her to you. Mrs. Krebs asked me to nurse her or I should never have presumed . . .”
“Nonsense. I am most grateful.”
“Your wife. She is . . .?”
“No better, I’m afraid. I regret you had to see her in that state. But that is not why I am here.”
Charlotte lifted wide eyes and waited.
“I thought you would like to know. Mrs. Harris wants a wet nurse for your . . . for the newborn child.”
A swell of hope rose within Charlotte, which she immediately realized was vain and foolish. She could not apply to nurse her own son. Katherine would know the truth at once.
“Mr. Harris has asked me to recommend someone,” Dr. Taylor continued. “Have you a preference?”
She smiled gratefully. “Indeed I do.”
There was comfort, at least, in choosing someone to care for Edmund.
“Oh, no, Miss Charlotte,” Sally protested. “I’d never get hired in such a great house, not the likes of me.”
“But you have the kindest heart of anyone I know, Sally. If I were choosing a nurse, you would be my very first choice.”
“Thank you, miss. But them likes the pretty, genteel girls, not some big baggage like me.”
“Nonsense. I shall help you. I shall show you exactly what to say and how to act. Please, you must at least try! It wou
ld mean the world to me to know you were there, looking out for him.”
“Are they family to you, miss?”
Charlotte swallowed. “Only distantly . . . but if I could help them, I would.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Dr. Taylor has a list of qualifications for a wet nurse. He will let us borrow the pamphlet and we shall have you ready in no time.”
“Oh, very well, Miss Charlotte.” Sally smiled, her front teeth protruding as always. “I’m afraid I’m a beetle-headed burdock, but I shall give it me best try.”
Charlotte stood outside the door to Mrs. Moorling’s office, waiting while the matron made the introductions inside.
“Well, I shall leave you to it,” she heard Mrs. Moorling conclude. Then she exited the room. Seeing Charlotte there, Mrs. Moorling left the door ajar. She knew Charlotte had helped Sally prepare for this interview but not the reason why. Charlotte smiled her gratitude and took up sentry at the narrow opening, watching the proceedings with nervous hope.
Katherine Harris sat with perfect posture, her back to the door. Charlotte could see her profile as she turned to whisper something to her husband seated beside her. Charles Harris nodded stiffly and shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. Before them stood Sally, petrified into stony stillness. She was dressed in one of Charlotte’s gowns, its hem lengthened with six inches of material taken from forgotten curtains in the unused room at the end of the corridor. Hugh Palmer, the man-midwife, stood beside Sally, facing the Harrises. In his hand, he carried a small booklet, which he held open, referring to it as he spoke.
“First, concerning lineage,” Hugh Palmer began, in his somewhat nasally voice. “Have any of your kindred, whether it be parents, grandfather, or grandmother, ever been stained, or spotted, either in body or mind?”
Sally silently shook her head no.
“And what is your age?”
“Five and twenty.”
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