Lady of Milkweed Manor

by Julie Klassen

“I stumbled upon a patch of milkweed and wanted to bring some back, but I fear they proved too stubborn.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, the roots as you may know are very strong and run very deep, so I settled on bringing back the one.”

  “No. I meant why would you want to bring this back. This weed?”

  “The milkweed has medicinal qualities, as you are no doubt aware. I thought Dr. Taylor might find it useful, having none in the garden here.”

  Mrs. Taylor continued to look at her, her gaze scrutinizing. So Charlotte continued, “I have always loved a garden, but I confess I thought milkweed a mere nuisance. But then I saw your husband’s garden in London—all the varieties of plants for this medicinal purpose and that.” The more Charlotte prattled on, the less she recognized her own voice. She realized too late that Mrs.

  Taylor knew how to use silence to her advantage. That by saying nothing, Charlotte felt compelled to blather on, chipping away at her own dignity with each word. “Quite the man of science, your husband.”

  “Indeed? Well, here is the man of science now.”

  “Hmm?” Daniel looked up from the post in his hand to smile amiably at his wife and then at Charlotte. “What have I missed?”

  “My dear, tell me, where did we find such a nurse?” Her voice sounded pleasant enough, but Charlotte detected suspicion in Mrs.

  Taylor’s tone.

  “From the Manor, as I believe I told you. But I knew Miss Lamb’s family a long time ago as well.”

  Her rather thick eyebrows rose. “And how were you acquainted with this woman’s family?”

  “It was during my apprenticeship in Kent. I called often on her mother with Dr. Webb.”

  Mrs. Taylor turned again to Charlotte. “And your mother, how is she now?”

  “I’m afraid she died. Many years ago now.”

  “And how is it you came to be a nurse? I don’t mean . . . the particulars. I mean, where is your own child?”

  Charlotte swallowed. “I’m afraid he . . . he is gone as well. I had him but a few days.”

  Mrs. Taylor looked at her husband, eyes wide under tented brows.

  “And this is the fit woman you would have nurse my child?”

  “Lizette. You have no cause for concern. I can attest to Miss Lamb’s character and her health. She has cared for Anne these many months while you were . . . indisposed.”

  “If madame prefers, I can leave on the morrow,” Charlotte quietly interjected.

  She could feel the woman’s stare on the top of her bowed head.

  Charlotte was mortified, but if she wasn’t wanted, she would leave.

  Even if it meant saying good-bye to Anne.

  “No, do not be foolish. I meant no offense, Miss Lamb. I am simply a mother concerned for her child. You understand, non?” Suddenly the woman’s face brightened. “Of course you must stay. Clearly my daughter needs you, and who knows how long it would take to find another suitable nurse? Please. Consider this your home. For as long as Annette needs you.”

  She said it graciously, but Charlotte did not miss the message. Accented or not, her English was skilled . . . and pointed.

  And every one knowes how hard a thing it is,

  to finde a good [nurse], because they have been

  so often beguiled, and deceived therein.

  —JAMES GUILLEMEAU, C HILDBIRTH OR

  T HE H APPY D ELIVERIE OF W OMEN

  CHAPTER 23

  Sitting in the nursery at Fawnwell, Sally held little Edmund close, studying the shape of his nose, his brows, his mouth. “The image of yer mum, you are,” she cooed, running a finger over his smooth cheek.

  “What did you say?”

  Sally looked up, startled. She hadn’t heard the mistress, but there she stood, looking sternly down at her.

  “Nothing, m’lady,” Sally said, panicked. Had she broken her promise so quickly? What would become of her little charge . . . of herself?

  “I heard you. Repeat what you said,” Lady Katherine demanded imperiously.

  “I . . . I only meant . . .” Sally stammered.

  “You said he looked like his mother,” Lady Katherine supplied.

  Sally lowered her head, waiting for the hot words to rain down.

  Instead the mistress took a step closer. “Between you and me, I quite agree.”

  Sally looked up at her, trying to discern the meaning, the mood behind Lady Katherine’s pensive expression.

  “Do you?” she asked weakly.

  “Yes. I always make a point to say how much he resembles his father—I think it wise to offer such comments to build a man’s esteem, his bond with his offspring.”

  “Oh . . .” Sally whispered, still not at all sure what the woman was saying.

  “Still, I do see hints of myself in his features. The arch of his brows, the coloring of his fair skin . . .”

  “Aye . . .” Sally murmured, slipping back to a word Charlotte had advised her not to use. Still, she thought Charlotte would not mind, considering her secret, it appeared, was still safe.

  Sally looked with wide eyes around Chequers, Doddington’s crowded, noisy inn. Through the haze of smoke from many pipes and the inn’s fireplace, she took in the tables ringed by men drinking ale and laughing. She felt out of place, sitting there with her new friend, the two of them the only women in the place, save for the innkeeper’s wife.

  She’d met Mary Poole when she’d been out walking with Edmund. Mary worked as a nurse for the Whiteman family down the road, in a house that lay between her master’s estate and the village itself.

  “Your first night out?” Mary said, aghast. “Sally girl, you must make your conditions known.”

  “Conditions?”

  “Conditions of employment. ’Tisn’t right they shouldn’t give you a night out each week.”

  “But I need to be on hand to nurse the child. ’Tisn’t anyone else to do it.”

  “Aw, he’s not going to starve in a few hours, now, is he?”

  “I suppose not.”

  From over her cup, Mary slanted a look across the room. “My, my—two gents are looking this way.”

  Sally followed her gaze and saw two men near their own ages standing at the bar.

  “Sit up straight,” Mary whispered sternly, “and do close your mouth.”

  Sally only then realized she was staring at the men, mouth drooping open. She hurried to close it and sat up straighter on the bench.

  “The fair one’s mine,” Mary whispered through smiling lips.

  But it soon became obvious that the fair one had set his sights on Sally.

  The slight, wiry man with light hair and dark eyes was handsome indeed. He smiled boldly at Sally as he walked over, and she felt her face, already warm from the ale, burn red.

  “Name’s Davey. And my mate here is George. Mind if we sit with you lovelies?”

  Mary giggled coyly and scooted over on her bench. Sally still stared dumbly at the man named Davey.

  “I’m Mary and this is Sally,” Mary said and kicked her under the table. Sally again closed her mouth and followed Mary’s lead in making room on her bench. Davey sat down right next to her.

  “Evenin’, Miss Sally. Yer a sight for these weary eyes, I can tell ye.”

  Sally looked away from his admiring stare, biting on her lip to keep from smiling too broadly.

  As the evening wore on, Sally’s cheeks glowed warmly from Davey’s many compliments and the second glass of ale he bought for her. Not since Dickie’s father had a man given her such admiring attention. And Sally drank it in.

  Sighing, Mary gave up and turned her focus to the bearded, dark-haired man named George.

  A week later, Sally and Mary met out in the lane as planned, each with their respective charges.

  “You’re coming out again tonight, I trust,” Mary said, bouncing little Colin Whiteman in her arms.

  “I cannot. They only gave me the night out last week because it was my birthday.”

 
“I’m surprised the new missus gave you that much.”

  “Well, it was the master who did it. I let the day slip in his hearing.”

  “Very clever.”

  “I suppose I was desperate for some time away.”

  “’Course you were. And the way Georgie tells it, Davey is very desperate indeed to see you again.”

  Sally tried to close her lips around her teeth, but she could not help the smile that overtook her.

  “Is he?”

  “Yes. Says you are the handsomest girl he’s ever seen.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “He did.”

  “Must have had too much ale that night, then.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Sally. You have very pretty . . . hair. Just—well, try to keep your mouth closed. And don’t stand up quite so . . . tall.”

  Sally bit her lip. “I shall try.”

  “Well, then, meet me here tonight at nine o’clock and we’ll walk into the village together.”

  “I don’t know. The master and missus are going out for the evening. I don’t know who could look in on Edmund for me.”

  “One of the other servants?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Listen, love. You’re not the first nurse to find herself in this fix.

  But if your charge sleeps till you get back, who’s to be the wiser?”

  “Oh, but Edmund will want his eleven o’clock feeding. If he wakes the whole house, I shall have the devil to pay by morning.”

  “Well, what if you could make sure he sleeps quiet as a mouse right through the night?”

  Sally laughed dryly. “By what magic?”

  Her new friend’s eye lit up with a mischievous gleam. “By this.”

  She pulled from her skirt pocket a small corked bottle.

  Sally felt her eyes widen. “What is it?”

  “Just a bit of laudanum.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “Does it make babes sleep?”

  “Aye. Surgeons use it all the time—it’s quite safe.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, I’ve used it several times myself.”

  “Really?” Sally’s eyes seemed fixed on the small vial.

  Mary held it out to her. “Go on, then.”

  “But—how do I . . .?

  “Just put a bit into his mouth before you nurse him.”

  “How do I know how much to give him?”

  “Oh, I’d say half a teaspoon ought to do it.”

  “You sure it shan’t harm him?”

  “’Course I’m sure. When did sleep ever harm anybody?” Sally looked at her friend’s earnest face and back to the bottle.

  “Here, take it.” Mary pressed the vial into her hand.

  Sally gingerly took hold of it.

  “Go on, then, and meet me back here at nine. Wear that pretty blue frock of yours.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes, your eyes look so blue when you wear it. I am quite sure Davey shan’t be able to look away from you.”

  Sally had not been asking about the dress but did not correct her. “I did so like Davey.”

  “’Course you did. Any girl would be a fool not to. Quite a looker, he is.”

  “Aye . . .”

  “Well, then, see you back here tonight.”

  “All right.”

  Sally turned to go, then turned back. “Wait. Won’t you be needing some o’ this yourself?” She held the vial aloft.

  “I have another in my room.” She grinned archly. “My last employer was a surgeon.”

  For some reason, the face of Dr. Taylor appeared in her mind. Unsmiling, soft-spoken Dr. Taylor. He was a physician. She had often assisted him in the ward. Had he ever used the stuff? Yes, she believed he had on one or two occasions, when an infant had been inconsolable in pain or had arrived in the turn injured.

  Would it be all right, even though Edmund was quite healthy?

  Mrs. Taylor requested a morning alone with her daughter, and Charlotte gladly obliged, offering to go into the village to do a bit of shopping and pick up a spool of wicking Mrs. Beebe wanted from the chandler’s. Daniel said he was going in, as well, and would give her a lift in the carriage.

  “Thank you, but actually, I long for a walk,” Charlotte said.

  “As you like.”

  But instead of harnessing the horse, Mr. Taylor caught up with Charlotte on the road, medical bag in hand. “I’ve decided to walk in as well. Exercise is good medicine, and I have taken too little of late. Do you mind?”

  She shook her head, supposing it was appropriate to share a public road with her employer but still hoping neither Marie nor Mrs. Taylor was looking out a rear window.

  They walked more than the proper distance apart, she with her hands behind her back and he switching his bag from hand to hand as his arm tired.

  After walking in silence for several minutes, he asked, “And how do you like the coast?”

  “Very well indeed.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He cleared his throat. “I hope things are not too . . . strained . . . between you and Mrs. Taylor?”

  She faltered, “Umm, no. Not really.”

  “She is still not quite herself. I wish you could know her as I do, happy and loving and full of life—”

  “But how improved she is!” Charlotte interrupted. “That is something to be thankful for.”

  “I am. Still, I had hoped the two of you might become friends.”

  “Dr. Taylor, you and she are my employers. I do not expect friendship.” Charlotte hurried to change the subject. “Are you leaving for London again this week?”

  “Yes. I shall put in a few days at the Manor and visit my father.”

  “Do greet him for me.”

  “I shall.”

  They had just crossed the wooden bridge over the river and were on the path leading into Old Shoreham when a well-dressed man approached from the opposite direction. His head was tilted down as he walked, evidently preoccupied. Blond curls shown from beneath his hat. Charlotte fell behind Dr. Taylor to make way for the other man to pass.

  Ahead of her on the path, Dr. Taylor stopped short.

  “Kendall? Richard Kendall?”

  The man with the golden hair looked up. His heart-shaped boyish face broke into a wide smile.

  “Taylor! Is it really you?” The two men strode toward one another, shook hands vigorously and slapped one another’s shoulders. Charlotte stood to the side, off the path, where she could observe without intruding.

  She had rarely seen Daniel Taylor smile so warmly, with such genuine delight. She felt unexpected tears prick her eyes at the happy sight of good friends reunited. And perhaps the slightest twinge of envy.

  Two workmen were walking toward the bridge now, crates of fish on their shoulders. One looked at her boldly. Unconsciously, she took a step closer to Dr. Taylor.

  “I thought you were practicing in London,” Dr. Kendall said.

  “I am.”

  “What brings you to our fair village, then?”

  “My wife and I let a seaside cottage not far from here.”

  “Well, do introduce me.”

  Following his friend’s gaze, Dr. Taylor looked over his shoulder in her direction. “Oh, no this isn’t my . . . That is, Mrs. Taylor is at the cottage with our daughter. This is Miss Charlotte Lamb.

  Our . . . friend of the family.”

  “Miss Lamb.” The man’s smile was guileless, which Charlotte found both relieving and charming. He bowed, then looked up at Daniel, brows raised.

  “Oh!” Daniel started. “Forgive me. Miss Lamb, may I present Dr. Richard Kendall, physician and friend.”

  “How do you do, sir.” Charlotte curtsied.

  “Very well indeed. Pleased beyond reason to run into old Taylor here. We were at university together, did you know?”

  Charlotte shook her head.

  “Miss Lamb, you never saw poorer, sorrier excuse
s for candidates, I can tell you.”

  “None poorer, I assure you,” Daniel agreed.

  “Miss Lamb . . .” Kendall eyes lighted as he repeated her name.

  “Not the Miss Lamb, surely.”

  Charlotte cocked her head to one side, uncertain. “I am not sure . . .”

  “Of Kent. Doddington, was it?” He looked at Daniel, whose face began to redden.

  “Yes,” Charlotte said, uneasy.

  “Taylor here spoke quite highly of you at Edinburgh, I can tell you.”

  Daniel cleared his throat. “You have quite the memory, Kendall.”

  “Yes. Helps me sort out my many patients and their various complaints.”

  “I’m sure you do so admirably.”

  “I try. Now do tell me exactly where you are staying. I probably know the place. Probably set a bone there or bled somebody nearby.” He smiled teasingly at Charlotte.

  “It’s an old stone cottage west of here. Owned by the Lloyds.”

  “Lloyd Lodge? On a cliff overlooking the sea? Yes, I know it!

  Well, Taylor, you must be doing well for yourself.”

  “I am afraid not. I treated the Lloyd’s granddaughter, and in lieu of payment they let us have the cottage for the season.”

  “Generous.”

  “I suppose. Though by the looks of the place, it is evident they don’t use it much anymore. It has seen better days.”

  “Haven’t we all? Still, when my patients are low on quid, I get mutton and codfish. I would say a seaside cottage is not too shabby—even if it is.”

  Dr. Taylor smiled. “Well, come see for yourself, then. Yes, come for dinner, Kendall. You must.”

  “I should be delighted. Just name the date.”

  “Would Saturday week suit? That should give Lizette time to prepare.”

  “Lizette . . .?”

  “Yes. I hope you are not opposed to French cuisine, nor French wives.”

  “If she is your wife, I have no doubt she is all a lady should be.”

  “Indeed, she is very lovely,” Charlotte felt compelled to say.

  “And will you be there, Miss Lamb? Or will your holiday conclude by then?”

  “I . . . that is . . . I shall be there . . .” But not at a formal dinner! She looked at Daniel for help, but he was still smiling at his old friend.