Lady of Milkweed Manor

by Julie Klassen

  “Does Mrs. Taylor know?”

  “She knows I am acquainted with Miss Lamb and her family from my time in Kent.”

  “But not how you felt about her?”

  “I saw no need. It’s years ago now.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. Kendall, I am devoted to my wife.”

  “Of course you are. I did not mean to imply anything untoward. It is the irony of this situation—do you not recognize it? You have Charlotte Lamb in your service, living under your roof, nursing your child, looking as lovely as ever I imagined from your descriptions—”

  “And what is your point?” Daniel asked in growing irritation.

  “I am only pondering. I take it the bloke responsible has offered no marriage, no arrangement?”

  “No. He is married.” Daniel took a sip. “As am I.”

  “Yes, yes. And Mrs. Taylor is very beautiful, I grant you.”

  Kendall shook his head. “Here I am a year your elder with no woman in my life and you have two.”

  “I do not have two women!” Daniel heard the anger mounting in his own voice.

  “Look, I know you to be a man of honor and all that. Always have been. But you know, Daniel, these things are done. It is nearly respectable these days to support a beautiful lady in such a situation. Though I suppose the word lady must now be applied rather loosely.”

  “Richard. You know not of what you speak. I have been and shall remain faithful to Lizette. I took vows. Sacred vows. And, well even if I had not. I am devoted to my wife!”

  “Yes, so you have said.”

  Daniel turned away, on the verge of ordering this man from the house. He forced himself to relax his fisted hands flat against his trouser legs and take several deep breaths.

  “Forgive me,” Kendall said. “I have clearly overstepped and misspoken. You are not the only one who disgraces himself socially, you see.” Kendall sighed. “I shall see myself out. Do thank Mrs. Taylor again for the excellent meal.”

  Daniel nodded stiffly without turning.

  Later, when they were preparing to retire, Lizette smiled at herself in the dressing mirror as she let down her hair.

  “Your friend could barely keep his eyes from me all evening.”

  “I noticed.”

  She glanced at him. “You do not seem afflicted with such difficulties.”

  “My dear. You know I consider you absolutely beautiful.”

  “So you say.”

  “You do not believe me?”

  “You do not prove your words. I do not feel that you find me desirable or irresistible. Nor understand why you should want to resist.”

  “It is only out of consideration for your . . . health.”

  “Unless,” she went on as if she had not heard, “some other woman has captured your attention?”

  “Of course not, Lizette. You know better. You have been my only lover.”

  She stepped close to him. “But we do not live as lovers. I need to feel that you desire me. I need to feel you . . .”

  She pressed herself against him, her breath hot on his neck, and he found he could resist no longer.

  Daniel sat in the study in the cottage, refolded the letter, and laid it on the desk. He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.

  Replacing them again, he saw Charlotte walking past his door.

  “Miss Lamb? Might I have a word?”

  “Of course.” She stepped into the study and stood before his desk. “What is it?”

  “I’ve had a letter from Charles Harris.”

  “Yes?” Worry stretched itself across her features.

  “Your . . . the family is all well. He wrote to tell us that he’s had to let Sally Mitchell go.”

  “Go? Why?”

  “It seems she was given laudanum by a neighboring nurse—meant to drug the child—”

  “Dear God, no . . .”

  “Put yourself at ease. Edmund is fine. There is every indication that she did not give him any, but it appears the neighboring nurse administered a fatal dose to the infant in her care.”

  “Merciful heavens.”

  “He says, given that I personally recommended Sally, and considering the continuing health of his child, he is prepared to believe her innocent of all but considering the act. But that is enough that his wife cannot bear the thought of keeping the child in Sally’s care. She has hired a—” he briefly consulted the letter again—“a Mrs. Mead from the village to replace her.”

  “I know her. A kind, honest woman from what I remember. But still, poor Sally—what must she have been thinking?”

  “That is at least one purpose for Harris’s letter. To alert me to the fact that the nurses coming from the Manor may be under the misapprehension that the drug is suitable for such purposes. It is clear that I have some reeducating to do when I return. I can rest, at least, in the knowledge that the neighboring nurse was not a resident of our institution.”

  “What will become of Sally?”

  “They are not pursuing legal redress. Though I’m afraid the other nurse will not be as fortunate. I suppose Sally will be free to return to her own home, her own child.”

  “But how will she support herself and her son?”

  He sighed. “I do not know. That continues to be a problem for many.”

  The moral character of the future man may be influenced by the treatment

  he receives at the breast and in the cradle.

  —ALMIRA PHELPS, G ODEY ’ S L ADY ’ S B OOK , 1839

  CHAPTER 25

  After Sunday services a few weeks later, Thomas Cox caught up with Charlotte as she stepped through the churchyard gates into a fine summer’s day.

  “Good morning.”

  Charlotte smiled up at him. “Hello. How fare the lambs?”

  “Very well, and how fares Miss Lamb?”

  “Very well, I thank you.”

  “I noticed Mrs. Beebe took pity on your poor shoulder this morning.”

  “Yes. I was careful to refill her teacup twice at breakfast.”

  He chuckled and they walked on.

  “Miss Lamb!”

  She was surprised to hear Mrs. Taylor call out to her. Lizette Taylor gestured for her to stay where she was and, taking her husband’s arm, all but pulled the man over to where Charlotte and Thomas waited.

  When they drew near, Mrs. Taylor smiled brightly from Charlotte to Thomas. “Miss Lamb, you must introduce us to your new friend.”

  “Of course. This is Thomas Cox. My employers, Dr. and Madame Taylor. And you know Anne.”

  “Yes, of course. How do you do?” Thomas gave an awkward bow and a charming smile.

  “Dr. Taylor is a physician, as I mentioned,” Charlotte said to him, then turned to Dr. Taylor. “Mr. Cox is very interested in your uses of milkweed.”

  Thomas quickly added, “Oh, that and other plants as well, sir.”

  “Mr. Cox is known as quite the local healer,” Charlotte explained.

  “No, no,” he demurred, “purely amateur. I do what I can for my family. But I am interested in learning more.”

  She noticed Dr. Taylor look from her to Thomas, then back again.

  “Well, then, you must come by the cottage this afternoon and take tea with us. I shall tell you all I know, and you shall be left with the better part of that hour to enjoy Mrs. Beebe’s cakes.”

  “Thank you, sir. But I should not like to intrude on your holiday.”

  “No bother at all, Mr. Cox,” Dr. Taylor said.

  “Of course you must come,” Mrs. Taylor added cheerfully.

  Charlotte had hoped to arrange such a meeting but was a bit bewildered at how it had all come about so quickly. And with so much enthusiasm on the part of Mrs. Taylor.

  Since Marie took her half-day on Sunday, Charlotte sat at the work table with Mrs. Beebe that afternoon, helping her arrange buns, biscuits, and small cakes on a silver plate. Thomas, still wearing his Sunday suit, knocked on the kitchen door, hat in hand. Rising, Mrs.
Beebe wiped her hands on her apron and opened the door for him.

  “Hello there, Thomas.”

  “Mrs. Beebe.”

  “I half expected you to come ’round to the front door.”

  “And when have I ever?”

  She returned to her work, tsking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Taking tea with the tenants. My, aren’t we rising in the world.”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Beebe, you know I am only here for your apple tart.”

  Mr. Beebe, drinking tea at the three-legged chop block, winked at him. “I figgered that was the way of it. Any time to help me with the hedges this week?”

  “Would Tuesday suit?”

  “That it would. Any time before two or after three.”

  Mrs. Beebe shook her head. “Heaven forbid you should interrupt the old man’s nap.” She smiled begrudgingly at her husband, then nodded to Thomas. “Well, then, off with you into the parlor. But don’t expect me to call you ‘sir.’”

  “I wouldn’t know who you were addressin’ if you did.”

  Mrs. Beebe took his hat from him, then swatted his backside with it as he passed through the kitchen door.

  Mrs. Taylor insisted that Charlotte join them for tea, which was a first. In many ways, Charlotte would have preferred to stay in the kitchen with the Beebes. But Anne was still napping and she had no excuse to decline. Besides, she would enjoy the time with Thomas and looked forward to witnessing his discussion with Dr. Taylor firsthand.

  As she had imagined, the two had a great deal to talk about. Dr. Taylor gladly told him all about the medical uses for milkweed—as well as costmary, foxglove, wood sorrel, comfrey, candytuft, and several other plants.

  Thomas asked question after question, and Dr. Taylor never seemed to tire of answering. Mrs. Taylor, however, tired of the conversation and soon rose and excused herself, saying not to get up, she would just go check on Anne.

  Charlotte relaxed in Mrs. Taylor’s absence, knowing how closely the woman had been observing her and Thomas during the afternoon.

  At one point, Charlotte interjected, “Tell Dr. Taylor about the poultices you made for your mother.”

  Thomas reddened, embarrassed, but described the herbs and method he had used.

  “Very well done,” Dr. Taylor said. “I could not have prescribed better.”

  Thomas beamed with pleasure.

  Two hours later, the men parted, shaking hands. Under his arm, Thomas carried two books that Dr. Taylor insisted he borrow.

  “That’s quite a young man,” he said to Charlotte as the two stood near one another, watching from the window as Thomas walked away down the path.

  “Yes,” Charlotte agreed.

  Feeling his gaze on her profile, she added, “Though not so young, really. Only four years or so younger than you yourself.”

  “Really? Feels like more. Some days I feel quite ancient.”

  At week’s end, Lizette Taylor insisted Charlotte take the morning off—walk into the village or visit that “très grand friend of yours.” She smiled meaningfully and Charlotte felt the need to correct her.

  “He is not my particular friend.”

  “Non? Tant pis.”

  Too bad, she had said, though Charlotte had the distinct impression it was Mrs. Taylor herself who was disappointed. Charlotte admired Thomas and enjoyed his friendship, his easy acceptance, and their shared love of growing things—but friendship was all she felt for him. Wasn’t it?

  “Are you certain you want me to go? You will be all right?”

  “I do know how to care for my own child.”

  “Of course you do. I only meant . . . Well, she has been fed, so you should be fine.”

  Thomas had mentioned he would be visiting cousins this day, so Charlotte didn’t take the sea path but instead walked into the village. There, she walked from shop to shop, idly taking in the displays in the windows. She planned to stay away from the end of the street where Dr. Kendall kept his offices.

  Turning, she walked right into the man.

  “Oh! Dr. Kendall, you startled me.”

  “Miss Lamb.” He bowed. “Do forgive me.”

  She dipped her head. “Good day, Dr. Kendall.” She turned her face back toward the milliner’s window, effectively dismissing him, allowing him to walk on without appearing rude. She felt his gaze on her, but feigned interest in the bonnets, hats, and hair ornaments on display. He stepped past her. After their last awkward encounter, he was no doubt relieved to have this unexpected meeting done with as quickly as possible.

  His footsteps halted. “I say, Miss Lamb?”

  Surprised, she turned toward him as he retraced his steps to stand before her.

  “I am on my way to take tea at the little shop on the corner. I do not suppose you would care to join me?”

  She pursed her lips, but her brain didn’t know quite what words to form. Finally, she managed, “Why?”

  “I know things may be a bit awkward between us at present, but I see no need for us to continue so. Your current . . . station . . . in life might be somewhat of a shock to a proper Londoner, I suppose. But here, in this small village, well, such things are quite ordinary and need not form a barrier between us.”

  She looked down at her hands, clasped before her.

  “Come now, Miss Lamb. Have we not a dear friend in common? Are we not two educated gentlepeople, free to take tea together in a public place?”

  “I wonder you did not miss your calling, Dr. Kendall. Politics would have suited you.” She could not keep a hint of a smile from softening her words.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Very well.”

  He grinned.

  But before they had taken four steps, a young voice called out, “Dr. Kendall! Dr. Kendall!”

  They turned and watched a young boy running toward them at full speed, panic evident in his features. “Mrs. Henning says come quick! She needs you something awful.”

  Kendall’s expression grew grim. He turned briefly. “The midwife. Forgive me, Miss Lamb—perhaps another time.”

  “Of course you must go.”

  “Would you mind coming with me? I may need an extra pair of hands.”

  “Of course.”

  “Mrs. Collins, is it?” Dr. Kendall called out to the boy, who was already turning back.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bring this lady along, if you please.” And to Charlotte he said, “I’ll run on ahead.”

  She nodded, but he was already jogging up the street.

  “This way, miss,” the boy said.

  They arrived at a small tidy cottage with thatched roof. The boy went in first, leaving the door open for her. When she stepped in, she was stunned to see Thomas there, holding a swaddled infant in his large hands. She thought instantly of the lambs.

  “Bring another blanket, Freddie,” he said. “We’ve got to get your sister here warmed up.”

  Thomas looked at the boy—her escort—then his gaze rose to her. “Miss Charlotte?”

  “Dr. Kendall asked me to come along.”

  “He’s in there with her now.” He shook his head, clearly worried. “She’s strugglin’, I’m afraid.”

  “The mother?”

  He nodded. “Twins. Seems they’re having a terrible time with the second one. Mrs. Henning handed this one to me and told me to keep her warm.”

  Freddie jogged back into the room holding a wool blanket.

  “Here, let me help.” Charlotte took it from the boy and helped Thomas wrap the blanket around the tiny baby.

  She said, “I thought you were off visiting cousins today.”

  “Betsy is my cousin.”

  “Miss Lamb?” Dr. Kendall appeared in the doorway, rolling up his sleeves. “Please, if you will.”

  She gave Thomas a look of empathy before following Dr. Kendall into the bedroom. In the bed, Betsy Collins looked exhausted. The midwife standing nearby did as well.

  “Mrs. Henning. Do rest yourself,” Dr. Kendall adm
onished.

  “But—” The grey-haired woman paused in her mopping of the patient’s brow and shoulders.

  “You cannot help if you faint on me.” He turned to Charlotte. “Miss Lamb, please.”

  Charlotte gently took the bowl and rag from the elderly midwife and began wiping Betsy’s forehead. She was sweat-soaked and clearly weak. Charlotte smiled at the woman, who was close to her own age. “I saw your new daughter in the parlor. What a beauty she is.”

  “Is she?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Betsy smiled faintly.

  “I shall have to attempt to reposition the baby,” Dr. Kendall announced sternly.

  Betsy grimaced and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Take her hand, there, Miss Lamb,” he instructed.

  Mrs. Henning had already risen from her stool to take the other.

  He pushed and strained against the woman’s abdomen, sweat pouring off his forehead. “I cannot . . . quite . . .”

  “Thomas can help,” Charlotte said. “Thomas!” she called without thinking.

  Thomas strode into the room, babe in arms.

  “Give her to me,” she ordered. “The doctor needs your help.”

  When Dr. Kendall looked at Thomas and hesitated, Mrs. Henning said, “He’s good, he is. He can help.”

  “Just tell me what to do,” Thomas said.

  “You push on her abdomen, here, when I tell you.”

  Together the two men struggled and Betsy cried out and moaned.

  “Hang on, Betsy,” Thomas said, looking pale as he glanced at his cousin’s contorted face.

  Dr. Kendall looked again beneath the sheets. He swore beneath his breath. “I shall have to use the forceps.”

  “No! Please, no . . .” Betsy moaned and began sobbing. They all knew the dangers for both mother and child with the dreaded instrument.

  “Mrs. Henning . . .?” Betsy beseeched.

  The older woman shook her head grimly. “Nothing else I can do, love.”

  Betsy turned her head toward her cousin. “Thomas, please. Do something,” she begged.

  Thomas nodded and said to Dr. Kendall, “May I try?”

  Before Dr. Kendall could answer, Thomas was already moving into position at the foot of the bed, leaving Kendall little choice but to step aside.