Lady of Milkweed Manor

by Julie Klassen

  “I never knew.”

  “I did not wish to spread my sorrow.”

  “Yes, but we might have shared the burden with you.”

  “Yes, well. That is why I am biting my puritanical tongue and having this conversation with you. I would share this sorrow with you, if you would allow me.”

  “Of course. You have done so much for me already.”

  “Tosh. I have done nothing. Would that I could take you into my own home had your father not forbidden me. But do you not see how this situation in a man’s home could open your family to more talk and scandal?”

  “Dr. Taylor is not much out in society. He certainly does not entertain in his home, where people might see me. But I do see your point.”

  “Do you? Then you do feel some . . . unease about the man?”

  “No. Not about Dr. Taylor. I believe his intentions are honorable. But still there is something . . . a discomfort at the thought of living in his house.”

  “You fear he would not treat you well?”

  “No. I think he would treat me very well. As he does here. But you see, Dr. Taylor is some acquainted with our family. He attended Mother during her illness.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes. Dr. Webb was mother’s physician, but Dr. Taylor was one of his apprentices before he went to university.”

  “So he is a young man, then?”

  “I suppose he is but five or six years older than myself.”

  “All the more reason.”

  “Dr. Taylor holds nothing but respect for me—even after everything he has learned about me. Do not look at me so. I mean only that he treats me like a gentleman’s daughter—a lady—even after I have proven otherwise. Still, I see the wisdom in what you say…. Do you think your old aunt would still welcome me if I brought a baby not my own?”

  “Oh yes, I am sure of it! She wrote back directly to assure me of her pleasure in having you and the babe come, and I do not think this will sway her, once I explain . . . I know you will not wish to lie to her. Nor do I, but perhaps the villagers need not be told that the babe is not your own.”

  “Better for them to think me an unmarried mother than a wet nurse?”

  “Yes. I am afraid so. Others might insist you pass yourself off as a recent widow, but I will not suggest such a ruse. We shall hope the distance from Doddington and my aunt’s solitary life will provide all the shield you require. I shall write to her directly and apprise her of the situation.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Still, I must beseech you one last time. Let me call for the matron. She will find another fine woman to suckle this child, and I shall take you to Crawley in my own carriage.”

  “Aunt, I appreciate your concern. And I am sorry to disappoint you. But I could no more give up this child than my own, had I to do it over again.”

  “But you did not give him up—the good Lord took that situation out of your hands. He has something else in store for your future. He knows what is best.”

  “I do feel Him, somehow. A bit of comfort amid this . . . broken glass slicing at my heart. I am clinging to the hope that He is in this. That He will redeem this, me, my son.”

  “Of course He will. Your son is with his loving father right now.”

  “Yes.” Charlotte nodded. “Yes, he is.”

  After Aunt Tilney left, Charlotte found Dr. Taylor in the foundling ward. Together they walked to the far end of the entry hall—out of earshot of the other nurses.

  Charlotte began quietly, “It would not be appropriate for me to live in your house without your wife present.”

  Dr. Taylor lowered his head. “Of course you are right. I had not considered that. My father does live with us, but still . . . I understand.” He nodded, resigned.

  “I could take Anne with me to Crawley,” Charlotte continued, knowing she sounded too eager, “and nurse her there for as long as you need. My aunt assures me we would both be welcome.”

  Daniel’s face brightened. “You know, it was very common until recent times for infants to be sent to the country for a year or so. It was believed the fresh air away from London would benefit the children, and some families still hold to this practice. Would you really be willing to take her with you? To care for her?”

  Charlotte nodded. “Unless, of course, you cannot bear to be apart from her. . . .”

  “Crawley is not so far off, you know,” he said. “If I might visit Anne from time to time, I should think it an excellent plan. I wonder I did not think of it.” He tapped his thumb against his lip as he thought. “I would ask that you postpone departure for a fortnight. Give both you and Anne time to gain strength for the journey. The roads can be treacherous at times.”

  “Very well.”

  “You are quite certain you are willing?”

  “Yes. I will care for her as if she were my own. Until your wife is recovered, of course.”

  “You do not know what this means to me, Miss Lamb. You will be recompensed well and have my eternal gratitude.”

  Charlotte smiled weakly. Now if only I shall be able to bear another parting. . . .

  The Hospital Foundling came out of they Brains

  To encourage the Progress of vulgar Amours,

  The breeding of Rogues and the increasing of Whores,

  While the Children of honest good Husbands and Wives

  Stand expos’d to Oppression and Want all their lives.

  —PORCUPINUS PELAGIOUS, T HE S CANDALIZADE , 1750

  CHAPTER 17

  Miss Lamb.” Dr. Taylor stopped her in the corridor the following week. “May I ask how Anne is faring?”

  “Fine. I have just come from her. She is sated and sleeping peacefully.”

  “I am glad of it.” He hesitated. “I don’t suppose . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s just that I am in a bit of a bind. I need to make a brief call on a patient, one who is quite adamant about needing a female chaperone, and neither Gibbs nor Mrs. Krebs can get away at present. I have just come from Mrs. Moorling’s office, though it would have been quite presumptuous to ask her such a thing, but she is out for the evening.”

  “You need me to accompany you?”

  “I know it is difficult for you to get away . .”

  “Anne will most likely sleep for another two or three hours. I am sure Mae would be happy to listen and tend her should she awaken. How long would we be?”

  “Only an hour or so. But I don’t want to impose on you. And while we are both aware of how insensitive I can be on points of propriety, I realize it would not be proper to ask you to ride alone with me in the carriage.”

  “Is it urgent?”

  “Not really. Some stitches I need to attend to, make sure no infection sets in. I promised I would be by tonight and the night is nearly gone. It really should not wait until tomorrow. But perhaps she will forgive me arriving on my own this once. When I explain.”

  “She lives alone, then?”

  “Well, not alone exactly. She has three children in her care. Two are her own, one she wet-nurses for hire.”

  “I see.”

  “Well, I must away. Pardon me for speaking before I thought through the notion.”

  He bowed and walked past her, setting his hat upon his head and lacing his arms through the sleeves of his coat.

  Charlotte turned and watched him go.

  “Might I have a moment to collect my wrap and speak to Mae?” she called after him.

  He turned and looked at her, his face weary. “Of course. If you are certain you do not mind.”

  She shrugged and smiled blithely. “I shall wear my most concealing bonnet.”

  And she did.

  They rode through the cobbled streets of London in relative silence.

  “Do you often make calls at this late hour?” Charlotte asked lightly. She was unprepared for the thick silence which answered her question. She glanced over and saw Dr. Taylor’s eyes narrow. He took a corner rather more sharply
than needed and urged the horse forward with a click of his tongue.

  “No,” he answered dully.

  She nodded but kept her eyes forward. His tone invited no further inquiry. She did wonder, though, what was special about this particular patient to bring him out for a call this late in the evening—and having to bring someone with him too. The patient was a wet nurse, was she not? No genteel nor wealthy lady that she should have such influence over a physician.

  When they halted in front of a worn three-story tenement and Dr. Taylor did not even offer his hand in helping her descend, Charlotte knew his mind was preoccupied and the task ahead an unpleasant one. She lifted her skirts a bit more than she would have liked, but managed to step down to the filthy street without mishap.

  “Dr. Taylor!” She was obliged to call, for he was already inside the doorway without her, as if he had forgotten she was behind him.

  He looked back, winced, and then held the door open for her as she stepped through. He stopped at the first door on the left.

  “You needn’t say anything,” he whispered. “Just stay near the door.”

  She nodded in feigned understanding. She was dumbfounded when he extracted a key from his breast pocket and, after but a slight knock on the door, unlocked and opened it. He stepped in and indicated that she ought to follow and stand in the small cramped entry.

  “That you, Taylor?” a husky female voice called.

  “It is,” he answered, setting his hat on a cluttered bench.

  “Mrs. Krebs with you?” the voice called again.

  “A nurse tonight.”

  “Pity, that.”

  With a nod to Charlotte, Dr. Taylor disappeared into a room a few feet away.

  “Let’s check those stitches, then,” she heard him say.

  “Let me get a look at her you brought first,” the woman said.

  After a pause, Daniel called, “Miss Smith, would you mind stepping in here a moment? Miss Marsden would like to meet you.”

  Charlotte stepped forward and paused in the doorway. An attractive though fleshy woman of thirty or so years lay in bed, propped up with pillows and a mobcap over her blond curls. An infant suckled each breast and a toddler lay asleep, curled up peacefully at her side. The woman somehow managed a free hand, from which she was feeding herself a biscuit.

  Mouth full, the woman said, “Hoy . . . a pretty one. And young.”

  “That will be all, Miss Smith.”

  Charlotte took a step back, but the woman’s voice stopped her. “Wait on. What’s your hurry.” She turned a calculated gaze on him. “Does she know?”

  He began to form what must certainly be the word “no,” for what other answer could he utter, but instead he closed his mouth, then tried again. “Miss Smith has… She knows my father, yes.”

  Charlotte felt a smile touch her face at the thought of Daniel’s gentle father. “Yes, he delivered my own babe.”

  But instead of the answering smile and empathetic chat she expected, the woman’s face fell into a coarse scowl.

  “Oh, did he? And just when was that?”

  Before Charlotte could reply, Daniel cut her off. “Only because Miss Smith is a family friend. I have known her since she was a girl. Is that not so, Miss Smith?”

  “Oh yes!” she said, grasping the plea in his voice, though not entirely sure how to answer. “Since I was quite young. Dr. Taylor has long been a friend of the family.”

  “Just so,” he said, clearly relieved. “His sole patient. Now, then, please let us proceed. I want to make sure all is healing nicely.”

  “’Course you do.” the woman said superciliously. And Charlotte wondered at the sarcasm in her tone.

  Back in the carriage a quarter of an hour later, Charlotte could not keep herself from asking, “Has that woman some sort of hold on you?”

  Daniel stared straight ahead, his face bleak. “Yes.”

  This was all he said, but his grim expression, and what she had seen this night, told her much more.

  She nodded, and the two fell into silence.

  Several minutes later, Charlotte realized they were taking a different route on the return trip. Suddenly Dr. Taylor pulled the reins up sharply.

  “Dear me,” he said. “I turned on the very street I meant to avoid. Or my horse took the way she knows best without consulting me.”

  “What is the matter?”

  “Carriages ahead. We’ve just crossed into Pentonville.” He leaned over to try to see past the fine tall carriage in front of them. “There are a couple of grand manor houses ahead. One of them must have something going on tonight.”

  “Awfully late in the season for a ball,” Charlotte mused. “Must be someone’s birthday.”

  The carriage ahead of them pulled forward. “There we go.” They rode alongside the broad stone manse just in time to see a finely clad couple allowed entrance by a black-suited butler.

  “Just the one carriage holding up traffic. Good. Latecomers by the looks of it.”

  “Could we stop for a moment?”

  She knew he looked at her in surprise, but Charlotte’s gaze was focused on the manor and the golden light streaming from the windows.

  “I have been here before.”

  He reined the horse to the right and halted the rig along the side of the street.

  “Yes, I was here with my cousin Katherine during my first season. I cannot recall the family name. But I remember something she said, about the place being ‘on the very edge of decent society.’” Charlotte began parroting an upper-crust accent. “‘If the building were one street over, we should have declined the invitation. But since the family throws the most lavish balls in town—perhaps to make up for their lack of pristine location—we shall condescend to taste their fine meal and dance with their handsome guests.’” Charlotte chuckled dryly. “I had no real idea where I was at the time, or how true her words.”

  She stared off, remembering. “Please. I’d like to get closer. Just for a moment.”

  “But—”

  She half rose from her seat, giving Dr. Taylor little choice but to step down from the carriage, pausing only to tie down the reins. Before he could step around to her side to help her down, she was already lowering herself from his side. He offered his hand and she accepted it.

  She preceded him across the street, quiet now. She was aware of his footsteps behind her. Then he caught up and walked by her side.

  She did not go up the steps to the door but instead daintily lifted her skirts and stepped up over the brick gutter and onto the lawn. She took a few steps closer to the facade, then paused. She looked up, and side to side. The windows were like moving paintings in gold-leaf frames. The light spilling from the windows pooled close to where she had paused, but she did not step into that light. Instead she stood at a distance and watched. Across one window passed couples dancing, swirling gowns of every color flowing by, men in black-and-white smiling solicitously to partners pink-cheeked with pleasure. In another window, people mingled, drinking tea and punch, talking and laughing with one another as though they hadn’t a care in the world beyond the quality of the musicians, the strength of the tea, or the quantity of sugar buns.

  Though her view was limited, Charlotte was relieved to see no one she knew. No sign of Bea or William, Charles or Katherine—though Katherine, no doubt adhering to the prescribed month of bed rest, would surely not be in attendance. Charlotte’s breath caught at the sight of Theo Bolger and Kitty Wells. Kitty had always been an attentive friend, and Theo had never failed to seek out Charlotte for a dance. Now, the two danced on without her. She was on the outside, separated forever by glass, by choices.

  “Charlotte . . .?” Daniel began.

  “Let us leave,” she said, turning abruptly and brushing past him without meeting his eyes.

  A couple was coming up the street, arm in arm. The man hailed her. “I say, is that Charlotte Lamb?”

  Charlotte glanced over and was chagrined to see William Bentley
with a girl she did not recognize. Mr. Bentley’s smile was wide in obvious surprise and inebriation.

  “It is Charlotte Lamb, and looking . . . well, quite herself. But I thought—”

  “You thought wrong,” Dr. Taylor said brusquely and gently took Charlotte’s arm, leading her across the street. She stole a glance back over her shoulder.

  “Not going so soon, I hope? I hadn’t even one dance with you . . .” He tripped and the girl caught his arm. “’Course I am a bit unstable on my feet at present.”

  Behind them, the girl laughed. “You’ll be a danger on the dance floor tonight, that’s for certain.”

  He must be drunk indeed to not notice neither Charlotte nor her companion was dressed for dinner, let alone dancing.

  As he helped Charlotte back into the carriage and urged the horse down the dim street, Daniel recalled the last time he had seen William Bentley.

  It was at a ball held at Sharsted Court in Doddington more than three years ago now. Daniel had been standing awkwardly in an archway, drinking tea, when two young ladies passed and he thought he heard his name. He stepped back into the shadows, hoping to avoid blatant humiliation.

  “I do not see why he’s here,” Beatrice Lamb was saying, her lip curled. “A bone and blood man at a ball—it’s revolting. What were our hosts thinking?”

  “The man is not a surgeon, Beatrice,” the friend consoled, “he’s a physician, or plans to be.”

  “Still, it turns one’s thoughts in a most gloomy direction, seeing him.”

  “He’s treated their little nephew, I believe, to most satisfactory results.”

  “Well, send him home with an extra guinea, then, but don’t dress him in tails and expect me to dance with him. Just imagine what those hands have touched.”

  The two girls passed out of earshot, and Daniel stepped forward, embarrassed and contemplating the quickest route to claim his coat and make his exit when a more pleasing voice called to him.