Lady of Milkweed Manor

by Julie Klassen

  The letter went on to explain that after her recent visit to the manor, Aunt Tilney had instructed her driver to take her directly to Crawley to speak with her aunt personally, and yes, Margaret Dunweedy was still perfectly happy and willing to receive Charlotte and the child. But Charlotte’s mind was focused on the news of the churching to be held not so very far from the manor.

  Charlotte arrived at St. George’s early, passed between the columns of the portico, and entered the grand church through a side door as discreetly as possible. She tiptoed through the entry hall, hoping to diminish the echo of her boots on the stone paving, and climbed the curved rear staircase to the upper gallery. Selecting a box to the rear, where she could see but hopefully remain unseen, she quietly opened its latch and sat on the bench. Below her, she saw a portly cleric lighting candles near the front altar, but otherwise there seemed to be no one about.

  A quarter of an hour later, the center doors opened and a small group of gaily-dressed women entered, chattering and laughing like a clutch of hens. Charlotte recognized one of Katherine’s friends but none of the other regal ladies. There was Katherine in the center of them, wearing a pale blue walking dress and a fur-trimmed cape. A blue hat ornamented with feathers crowned her head. In her arms, she held a babe . . . Charlotte’s babe, gowned even more lavishly than his attendants, in flowing white satin. As the women chatted amongst themselves, Charlotte heard bits of their plans to visit an elegant tearoom after the churching.

  An Anglican priest in flowing robes entered and the women hushed. He directed them to a small chapel beside the chancel, its size conducive to the intimate gathering. There Katherine kneeled, as directed by the Book of Common Prayer, and the service began. Having grown up a vicar’s daughter, Charlotte knew the service was formally named the “Thanksgiving of Women after Childbirth.”

  “‘For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of His goodness to give you safe deliverance, and hath preserved you in the great danger of childbirth: you shall therefore give hearty thanks unto God,’” the priest intoned.

  Katherine responded, “‘I am well pleased that the Lord hath heard the voice of my prayer. The snares of death compassed me round: and the pains of hell got hold upon me.’”

  Charlotte unconsciously mouthed the familiar words along with her cousin. She was touched by the unexpected humility of Katherine’s audible response. She had long known Katherine to be cynical of religion, but her declaration seemed wholly sincere.

  “‘Oh, Almighty God,’” the priest continued, “‘which hast delivered this woman thy servant from the great pain and peril of childbirth: Grant, we beseech thee, most merciful Father, that she through thy help, may both faithfully live and walk in her vocation, according to thy will in this life present . . .’”

  This part of the service did not apply to her, Charlotte realized with a dull ache. Katherine was being exhorted to remain faithful to her husband and to bear other heirs for him. Charlotte swallowed back remaining dregs of bitterness.

  “‘. . . and also may be partaker of everlasting glory in the life to come: through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’”

  Would Katherine bear more children? Even though she was older and had experienced such a difficult childbirth? Katherine believed a healthy child had resulted from the ordeal . . . so would Edmund yet have a brother or sister? Or would he grow up an only child?

  “‘Children,’” continued the priest as he delivered the liturgy, “‘are an heritage and gift that cometh of the Lord. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.’”

  Charlotte sat and waited as Katherine’s friends filed cheerfully from the church, their heels and laughter echoing in the lofty space. Katherine paused to thank the cleric, then turned and followed after the others. Charlotte watched until Katherine and Edmund disappeared from view beneath the gallery railing.

  Then her tear-filled gaze fled to a carving of Mary holding the infant Jesus and, above, the magnificent painting of Jesus at the Last Supper. She stared at the images as Katherine’s footsteps faded away below. Charlotte felt her lips part and her chest tighten. She had spent her life in a church not unlike this one, but this was the first time she had been so deeply struck by the immensity of what God had done in giving up His only Son. How did you do it? she breathed, tears running down her cheeks. Of course she knew the situations were beyond compare. God’s sacrifice had saved countless multitudes. Hers, only one precious child.

  A few days after the churching, Katherine pulled the long-forgotten handkerchief from beneath the sachet in her drawer. How long had it lain there, concealed? The smell of musty lilac was heavy on the material, its folds now permanent creases. She turned it over and there it was. The unusual flower, the pod, the curve of the leaf resembling the letter C. Yes . . . this was a C and now she remembered. This was Charlotte’s signature. Cousin Charlotte, who detested needlework but had nevertheless made a pretty handkerchief for Katherine as a gift for some birthday or Christmas many years ago now.

  Clutching the handkerchief, Katherine marched up the stairs to the nursery.

  Sally jumped when she entered.

  “Where is that blanket? The embroidered one?”

  “I . . . I’m not . . .”

  “Did you dispose of it as I asked?”

  “Well, I . . . I meant to put it out with the children’s aid donation. But let me see . . .”

  Sally lifted the lid of the chest and flipped through the linens.

  “There ’tis.”

  “I knew it.” Katherine snatched the blanket from her and walked to the window, comparing the two items in the light.

  “Do forgive me, m’lady.”

  “Look. They are so similar, are they not?”

  Sally approached cautiously and leaned close. “Seems so.”

  “Do you know who made this?”

  The nurse hesitated. “Well, I . . .”

  “My cousin Charlotte, that’s who.”

  “Charlotte?”

  “Yes, Charlotte Lamb, my young cousin. I’ve been wondering where’s she gone to.”

  “Charlotte Lamb?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  Katherine strode from the nursery, both pieces in hand. She found Charles in the library.

  “I knew it. Look.”

  “What am I looking at? Not the confounded blanket again.”

  “Yes . . . and the handkerchief. See—they were made by the same person.”

  “I do not see that they are so alike.”

  “I asked and asked, and no one would tell me. I detest secrets! I have had my suspicions, but I did not want to believe—”

  “Katherine,” he said sternly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Charlotte Lamb, of course.”

  “What of her?”

  “She made this blanket, just as she made this for me years ago. That could only mean one thing.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “You said you got this from a hospital. Which hospital?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Was it a lying-in hospital? The Manor Home? Queen Charlotte’s?”

  “I had my mind on other things. The physician directed the driver to the nearest facility . . .”

  “Yes, yes. Which was it?”

  “Why do you need to know?”

  “Because Charlotte is there . . . or was. And I have the proof of it.” She lifted the blanket.

  “You have nothing of the kind. All sorts of ladies aid societies make blankets for hospitals and foundling wards and other worthy charities. If, and I repeat if, Charlotte Lamb stitched that blanket, that by no means proves anything other than her stitching hasn’t improved.”

  “Can you imagine Charlotte sitting around stitching with some ladies aid society? And with such cheap material? I for one cannot.”

  “For a good cause . . .”

  “Yes, for a very good cause—her own. I tell you she has disappeared, and my uncle will not speak her name nor hint
at her whereabouts. Neither will her trying sister.”

  She suddenly looked at him, staring baldly at him, daring him to lie. “You do not know where she is, do you, Charles? Tell me honestly.”

  He replied levelly. “I do not know where she is.”

  “I should ask Amelia Tilney. She would know if anyone would.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Why do you think? So we can help her.”

  “Even if what you are suggesting is true . . . that she’s had a child out of wedlock?”

  “Yes. Not publicly, of course. But if she’s been left to fend for herself, there must be something we can do.”

  “That is very kind of you, Katherine.”

  “Do look into it for me, won’t you, Charles?”

  “Very well. If it’s important to you, I shall.”

  Daniel’s father, John Taylor, looked at him sadly from across the table. “But to send your child away . . .?”

  “What would you have me do?” Daniel asked.

  “I could help care for her. Have the nurse stay here.”

  “What sort of woman would live alone with two men?”

  “Plenty would.”

  “Not the sort I want nursing my daughter.”

  “Anne is my grandchild.”

  “And my daughter. Do you not think I shall miss her as well?”

  “But Lizette will want her near . . . once she is sufficiently recovered.”

  “I pray that will be so.”

  “May I ask what—” his father hesitated—“what course of treatment you will try next?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Allow me to help you, Daniel.”

  “You are not to practice, if you’ll remember.”

  “It was one mistake. And even then both child and mother survived.”

  “Yes, I thank God I happened by.”

  “She was not expected to deliver for a fortnight at least. If I’d had any indication her time might come sooner, that I might be called into duty, I should never have allowed myself to . . . to . . .”

  “Get drunk?”

  His father winced.

  “Forgive me,” Daniel said. “That was uncalled for.”

  “I have not taken a drink since,” his father said quietly. “But if I’m not allowed to work, to help people . . . I do not know . . .”

  “Perhaps in time, Father. Once that episode is forgotten. Do not forget Miss Marsden threatened to go to the courts with her charges if she caught wind of you practicing.”

  “I have not forgotten. Still, I might be of use to my own granddaughter or daughter-in-law. . . .”

  “You saw how Lizette was while she was still here with us. You would barely know her now. The mania is completely out of control. If you have some idea . . .”

  “I confess I have never treated a case so severe.”

  “Nor I, Father. Nor I.”

  The following week, Katherine again raised the topic of Charlotte’s whereabouts. “I was speaking with my accoucheur and he remembers a physician by the name of Taylor being on hand the night of Edmund’s birth.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Well, where does he practice? Have you contacted him?”

  “What do you plan to do once you know?”

  “To inquire after Charlotte, of course.”

  “I’m sure such information is confidential. For obvious reasons.”

  “Oh, I have my ways—as you well know.” She smiled at him.

  “Have you considered for a moment, my dear, that if Charlotte were in such a place, she might not like the fact to be discovered?”

  “Bah. I am sure it is only that preening vicar-father of hers that sent her into exile. Charlotte has always been very fond of me. I am sure she would be happy to see me, once she knows where my sympathies lie.”

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Harris.” The matron, a Mrs. Moorling, was either ignorant or refused to address her properly. “But I cannot divulge the name of any of our girls—neither current nor past residents. Surely you understand.”

  “Normally, yes. But I assure you this instance is different. I only want to help my cousin.”

  “Very noble, I’m sure.”

  Katherine sighed. “Very well, I shall leave my card.” Katherine handed one across the desk. “Perhaps you might deliver it to her and ask her to contact me, if that would be more suitable.”

  “I told you, there is nothing I can do.” Mrs. Moorling rose. “I trust Sally Mitchell has proven herself a suitable nurse?”

  Katherine had little choice but to rise as well. “Yes. Quite suitable, thank you.”

  Unaccustomed as she was to being refused anything, Lady Katherine’s departing smile was quite false.

  As she left Mrs. Moorling’s office, she saw a thin, plain, officious woman with a sheaf of papers in hand.

  Katherine smiled at her. “You look a very knowledgeable, helpful sort.”

  “I do?” The plain woman curtsied. “Thank you, mum.”

  “I would be ever so obliged if you could help me. I am looking for my dearest cousin, sent here by her tyrant of a father. Poor dear thinks she hasn’t a friend in the world, when here I am ready to offer hearth and home.”

  “’Tis good of you.”

  “So. If you could just direct me to Charlotte’s room . . .” She took a tentative step toward the stairs.

  “Charlotte?” the young woman asked.

  “Yes, Miss Charlotte Lamb.” Katherine paused on the first step.

  “Oh . . . I’m afraid we haven’t anyone by that name. We did have a Charlotte not so long ago by another surname. But I’m afraid she’s left and I know not where. Poor soul.”

  Katherine arched a brow.

  “Lost her wee babe, she did.”

  “How dreadful.”

  “Yes, mum. A finer young woman I’ve never known.”

  “But not . . . a Miss Lamb?”

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  Discouraged, Katherine was just leaving the manor when she heard a voice call out a familiar name. “Afternoon, Taylor. Any new patients I should know of?”

  Katherine whirled around. Two men stood talking in low tones on the other side of the hall. Both looked up as she approached, her shoes clicking on the marble floor. One was handsome—dark hair brushed back from his forehead with a touch of silver in his sideburns. The other man was taller, but thin and pale.

  “Dr. Taylor?” she asked.

  The thin one inclined his chin and answered, “Yes?”

  She introduced herself. “Lady Katherine Harris.”

  Before Taylor could respond, the handsome man bowed. “Lady Katherine . . . a pleasure. Allow me to introduce myself. Jeffrey Preston, esteemed physician. May I be of service?”

  “Actually I’d like to speak to Dr. Taylor.” She turned to him.

  “That is, if you have a moment?”

  “Of course. Excuse us, Preston.”

  Dr. Preston bowed curtly before turning on his heel and stalking away.

  “You must forgive me,” Katherine began once they were alone.

  “I am told you were on hand the night my son was born, but I am afraid I don’t remember meeting you . . . or little else for that matter. I was not myself that night.”

  “Perfectly understandable. It is a pleasure to see you looking so well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And how does young Edmund fare?”

  “Very well.” She beamed. “I am surprised you remember my little son’s name.” Then her pleasure transformed into a question.

  “But how do you know his name, I wonder? We had not yet decided what to call him.”

  “Oh. I don’t know. Someone told me. Your husband, perhaps.

  I’ve seen him by chance a time or two since.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Have you really?”

  “Only in passing.”

  She looked at him closely, opened her mouth as if to say more, then closed it again. She
smiled. “I have not thanked you for everything you did for my son that night.”

  “You needn’t thank me.”

  “Of course I do. You saved his life.”

  “Well . . .” Dr. Taylor looked down at the floor, clearly uncomfortable.

  “Let me tell you why I’m here,” she began. She told him of her quest and the man’s discomfiture only seemed to increase.

  “I am afraid I cannot help you. The Manor Home has strict policies—”

  “Yes, yes, your Mrs. Moorling has explained all that already. But I thought, perhaps since you are some acquainted with my family . . .”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She pulled a small paper-wrapped bundle from her reticule. “I have funds here I was hoping would help my cousin. Shall I be forced to roam the corridors, calling her name?”

  “No. That will not be necessary. You have my word that Char . . . that no one by that name is in residence.”

  “But she was here.”

  “I cannot say.”

  Katherine sighed in frustration, then forced a smile. “Very well.”

  She returned the bundle to her bag and turned to leave.

  Dr. Taylor called after her. “If I were to . . .”

  Katherine turned around.

  “. . . to somehow come into contact with this person. Can you tell me, what exactly is the money for? Is it . . . in payment for . . . something?”

  “Payment? Goodness, it isn’t payment for anything. I simply want to help her and never imagined I would have so much trouble doing so.”

  Dr. Taylor again studied the floor. Katherine closed the distance between them.

  “It is clear you know more than you let on. I know—I will give you a . . . donation. If you can get it to Charlotte, wonderful. If you cannot, use it for the worthiest cause . . . or woman . . . you know. Surely you cannot reject such an offer.”

  “It is indeed generous and there are many needs.”

  She pressed the money into his hand.

  “I trust you to help her, if you can.”

  Wanted, a child to wet nurse.

  A healthy young English woman having abundance of milk,

  wishes to take a child to wet nurse at her own house—every attention will

  be paid to the comfort of the child, as she is living