Lady of Milkweed Manor

by Julie Klassen

  She shrugged. “Pleasant enough.”

  She seemed pensive, her eyes far away on the grey water, the distant gulls and beyond. “If I could go anywhere I liked, I suppose I would return to Doddington. Though I am no longer welcome in my own home. Still, I would steal back to that dear place if I could. I was just imagining that very thing: strolling through the village and up the lane, past the churchyard and into my mother’s garden.”

  “Your family would not approve of such a visit?”

  She shook her head. “My father would not likely see me, spending so much time in his library as he does. Beatrice, my sister, is so often at her pianoforte, or lost in the pages of a book, that the world outside the vicarage windows holds little appeal and she would not likely see me either.”

  “What would you do there?”

  “I would walk along the garden paths, pausing at every flower bed and ornamental tree, taking in which have flourished, which are languishing, and which have died. I should no doubt cry foolish tears over their loss. And feel just the slightest satisfaction that my absence has left some small mark on the place. Then, when no one was about I would find dear Buxley, our gardener, and see if he could, with every kindness and attention, save those suffering from neglect. And perhaps even coax the lost to return once again.”

  She paused to toss the stick of driftwood into the sea. “But, as that is not a real possibility, I suppose my second choice would be to return to the home of my aunt and uncle in Hertfordshire. I have spent many happy hours in their company and would find much solace in doing so again. Of course, I doubt my uncle would see fit to have me out in society, but even confined to their home, I believe I should be happy. My aunt has the most comforting way about her. Everyone who meets her says so.”

  Charlotte stopped and turned toward him, hand over her mouth. “Do forgive me! I have used a week’s worth of words on your poor ears.”

  He grinned. “Think nothing of it.”

  “I suppose it’s due to spending so little time in adult company.”

  “I am happy to oblige.” They continued walking. “So—why not away to Hertfordshire, then?”

  She sighed. “My father has forbidden my aunt and uncle to shelter me. So”—she straightened her shoulders—“I shall return to Crawley. I am sure I shall enjoy it.”

  “You did enjoy your time here—before recent conflicts, that is?”

  “Yes indeed. I am sorry to leave such a beautiful place and such fine company.”

  “I am happy to hear you say so. I had thought of a possible solution to your dilemma, if I may be so bold as to make a suggestion?”

  “Of course.”

  “I had thought that I might offer another alternative.”

  “Yes?” She turned to look at him and they stopped walking.

  “Yes. That is . . . Please forgive my presumption. I realize we are not so well acquainted, but it did occur to me that you and I enjoy one another’s company.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, but her brow began to wrinkle in growing confusion.

  “As a physician, I have some means—not an overly grand income but sufficient, I believe, to offer you a comfortable living here.”

  Her eyes lit, as if with pleasure, but, just as quickly, the hint of a smile evaporated and her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

  “For a moment I thought you were offering me a post.” Her chuckle held no mirth.

  He shifted on his feet and cleared his throat. “Well, in a manner of speaking . . .”

  “As a midwife. Or monthly nurse . . .”

  “Oh . . .”

  “I suppose I should be flattered. Or offended.”

  He laughed nervously. “So, which is it to be?”

  “Both, actually. I’m afraid you have rather stunned me.”

  He found the blush in her cheeks charming. He asked timidly, “But you do not find the idea . . . totally repugnant?”

  She swallowed, looked at him and then away. “I do not find you repugnant, Dr. Kendall. But the nature of the offer . . . yes, I’m afraid I do.”

  “Well,” he said, and looked down at his boots. He forced himself to swallow the sting of her rejection, relieved for her manner of delivering it, the concession to his person. “Then, do forgive me. It was not my intention to offend you, though I cannot say I am overly surprised at your response.”

  An awkward silence ensued.

  “I do not suppose there is any hope of your forgetting the former portion of this conversation and allowing me to begin anew?”

  She smiled tentatively. “If you like.”

  He returned her smile and straightened. They began walking back toward the cottage. “I am sorry I had not thought to offer you a more, shall we say, traditional post. In all truth, the midwives and nurses I know are older, work-hardened women with little education—very different from my perception of you. Still, I have no doubt you are more than capable, should such a position truly appeal to you.”

  “I should never have guessed so until recently. Though I suppose a position of governess or lady’s companion is more in keeping with my upbringing.”

  “I’m afraid I have no need of either at present.” He smiled wryly. “I also have a quite competent monthly nurse at the moment. And there is a local midwife as well—Mrs. Henning, whom you met—though she is getting up in years. Perhaps I might call on you in the future, should the need arise?”

  “Indeed you may. Though I would have much to learn.”

  “As do we all, Miss Lamb. But I have no doubt you would be a most able student. Have we an understanding, then?”

  She nodded. “We do.”

  “And may we . . . part as friends?”

  She smiled. “We may.”

  Daniel watched the discussion from afar. The exchange took longer than he would have thought and she did not strike Kendall nor stalk off as he’d guessed she would—hoped she would. And now there was no mistaking the nod of her head, the slight bow the two exchanged, the smile on his friend’s face. She had agreed. Daniel did not wish to think about what it would mean . . . or to ponder why his chest felt like it might cave in on itself.

  You will suckle your infant your self if you can;

  be not such an ostrich as to decline it, merely because

  you would be one of the careless women, living at ease.

  —COTTON MATHER, O RNAMENTS FOR THE D AUGHTERS OF Z ION , 1692

  (NOTE: MATHER’S OWN CHILDREN WERE WET-NURSED.)

  CHAPTER 27

  Before the assembled family and staff, Charlotte bid Mr. and Mrs. Taylor a formal, somewhat stiff farewell. She was careful to only glance briefly in Sally and Anne’s direction, lest she give too much away. She had sat up rocking the little girl half the night, so those farewells had already been endured. Ignoring Marie’s smirk, she smiled at Mrs. Beebe, who had earlier that morning embraced her in the kitchen and stuffed a bundle of food and jingling coin into her reticule, brooking no objection. Now Charlotte bit her lip to keep it from trembling, turned, and left the cottage, reticule in hand and heart in her throat.

  Thomas walked with her into Old Shoreham this time, carrying her bags as though they weighed nothing.

  As they crested the bridge, a family approached from the other side—father with child in arms, mother holding a little boy’s hand—and she and Thomas stepped close to the rail to allow them to pass. When they had, Charlotte walked on but quickly noticed Thomas stayed where he was.

  Retracing her steps, she looked at him questioningly. “What is it?”

  He stood stiffly, and in a voice nearly petulant said, “I wish there was something I could do.”

  She studied his face, so unusually somber. “Thomas,” she soothed, “there are some things even you cannot fix.” She smiled gently. “It’s all right.”

  He turned and gripped the bridge rail, still refusing to go farther.

  She stood at the rail beside him, an arm’s length away. Staring at the river below, she sensed his
agitation, his deliberation.

  But what could he do? She knew any money he made went to help his mother provide for his many siblings. Even if he began working as an apprentice, he would have little money of his own for several years. He was surely not yet thinking of taking a wife—not her, in any case. Was he?

  Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, realizing that if she did not speak, he would. Without turning to face him she said cheerfully, “I told Sally how it was, between us.”

  She heard him move a step closer to her. His voice was uncertain. “Did you?”

  She stole a glance at him before returning her gaze to the water. “Yes, I told her that you could never think of me the way I do you.”

  “Charlotte—”

  She went on quickly, “For you already have four sisters, but I have never had a brother.”

  Turning toward him, she self-consciously lifted her gaze to his. “And I have always longed for one.”

  His eyes glimmered. He lowered his head, bringing his face close to hers. “I should be honored to be yours.”

  They stood that way for a moment, in a silence heavy with unspoken things.

  Charlotte took a deep breath. “Sally is dear to me, as you know. I hope you . . . and Lizzy . . . will be kind to her.” She put her fist to her heart. “It will please me if you show her every attention.”

  Quietly, he asked, “Will it?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  He straightened but continued to peer down at her for a long moment without speaking. He reached out his hand toward her. It was not customary, to say the least, but Charlotte understood the impulse behind it. Some culmination of feeling must occur. It was either shake hands or embrace. But that, of course, would be inappropriate and foolish and unfair to them all. So instead, she gripped his hand with her smaller one and felt his answering squeeze. She held tight a moment longer, then let go.

  Charlotte sipped her tea in the dining room of the inn, waiting for her coach to be announced. She had insisted that Thomas return to his work, that he need not wait with her. He had gone, though reluctantly.

  Dr. Kendall came in, hat in hand and out of breath. “Miss Lamb. I am so glad I found you before you left. I wonder if I might trespass on your kindness for some time longer?”

  “Of course. Please, do have a seat, Dr. Kendall.”

  “Thank you.” He sat down and leaned across the table to speak in confidential tones. “A couple has come to me in dire need of a nurse for their infant son. The young mother is unable to nurse him properly, and the father fears his son will suffer.”

  “What is the problem?”

  “Well, that is rather delicate to discuss here. But if you could come to my offices and meet them . . .”

  “But my coach—”

  “They pass through for London with stops in Crawley twice each day, Miss Lamb. If you could postpone at least until the afternoon’s coach, or tomorrow’s, I am sure the couple would pay for your lodgings. Or I shall, if you would allow me.”

  “I had not thought to continue on as a nurse.”

  “This would only be a temporary position. I am certain the mother will, in time, be able to nurse her son herself as she desires to do.”

  He leaned closer yet. “You are still . . . able, do you think?”

  She looked at the table, self-consciously slouching a bit to diminish her swollen breasts. She nodded.

  “If you could relieve the child’s distress and hunger even for a few hours, I am sure the couple would be most grateful.”

  Charlotte had no real desire to wet-nurse another child. But neither could she stand the thought of an infant suffering hunger when she could help. “I shall come.”

  “Thank you. I have already told them about you. In fact, they are waiting on us as we speak. If you would not mind . . .?”

  “My bags . . .”

  “I shall ask the innkeeper to stow them for you. Until you decide?”

  “Thank you.”

  They walked quickly through town to Dr. Kendall’s offices, where he lost no time in making introductions. “Mr. and Mrs. Henshaw, may I present Miss Charlotte Lamb.”

  Charlotte curtsied.

  Mr. Henshaw was older than she would have imagined, in his early fifties, perhaps. He was well dressed with craggy features and light brown hair combed to one side. He remained seated, legs crossed, impatiently bouncing his knee. His wife was young indeed. No more than seventeen or eighteen, Charlotte guessed. She was a lovely, dainty girl, with fair hair pulled into a fashionable coil and wide, pale blue eyes—eyes which looked terribly concerned. In her arms, she held a baby, wriggling and red-faced. Yet he made no loud cry, merely whined in high-pitched bursts of protest every half minute or so.

  “Poor dear. How old is he?” Charlotte asked.

  “A week tomorrow,” Mrs. Henshaw answered quietly.

  “If he lives that long,” Mr. Henshaw snapped. “Now, let’s not waste time, Kendall. You’ve found us this nurse in haste. How do we know she even has sufficient milk to nurse my son?”

  “I can attest to the robust health of her last charge.”

  “She might have dried up since then.”

  Charlotte recoiled at the man’s bald words.

  “No, sir. She left my friend’s employ only this morning.”

  “Why was she sacked?”

  “It was nothing of the kind. I can vouch for her character and dependability, sir. Rest assured.”

  “Well, have you examined her yourself?”

  “Examined? Not in so many words.”

  “Then do your job, man, and let’s be done. If she’s fit, I want her to nurse little Crispin here before he starves.”

  Charlotte felt the blood rushing to her face and neck.

  “Miss Lamb is a naturally modest girl,” Kendall muttered, biting his lip.

  “Then use that screen there. I don’t know a thing about this girl.

  Is it not reasonable to want some proof of her health, that she isn’t ill or infected with some foul sores that would harm my boy?”

  Dr. Kendall opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked at Charlotte soberly.

  “Miss Lamb, would you mind stepping behind the screen? It won’t take but a moment.”

  Charlotte opened her mouth to protest further, but the infant’s whines grew into pitiful squeals that tore at Charlotte’s heart—and threatened to cause her milk to let down on its own.

  She stepped behind the screen and waited as Dr. Kendall adjusted it to enclose them more fully. He looked at her and mouthed the words Forgive me.

  He looked from her face down to the neckline of her gown meaningfully. Heart pounding, face burning, she looked away from him and worked her bodice down until it pooled at her waist. Then she lowered one strap of her chemise from her shoulder, then the other. She had forgotten she had bound her breasts with muslin, to alleviate the pain and swelling since she was still full of milk. She swallowed, then unpinned the cloth where she had fastened its end. As she began to unwind the long strip, she glanced surreptitiously at the doctor and saw that he endeavored to maintain a detached, officious expression.

  “Make sure her milk is still flowing,” the dreadful man called from the other side of the screen.

  Wincing, Charlotte paused. Would Dr. Kendall expect her to express milk in front of him? How mortifying.

  At that moment the infant began crying in earnest. As she had feared, her milk let down in response, wetting through the remaining layers of muslin before she could wrap her arms over herself. Dr. Kendall lifted a hand, silently motioning for her to cease unwinding.

  “Milk flow is excellent,” he called over his shoulder. “The . . . everything . . . looks quite perfect.”

  He returned his gaze to her face. Although Charlotte was relieved beyond words not to have to expose herself fully, she was still too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

  “You may redo your things, Miss Lamb. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  Charlotte
quickly repositioned her gown. “Why do I not nurse him right now?” she said, attempting to regain her composure.

  “Have you another room I might use?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Charlotte sat in a chair in a small examination room, nursing the babe who suckled with desperate voracity. The sensation was both relieving and slightly painful. She hoped he would be gentler in subsequent feedings.

  The young wife watched with eyes wide, not averted as politeness might have dictated. “You are perfect,” she breathed.

  Charlotte did not know how to respond to such a shocking remark. The young woman clearly realized what she had said, for her face flushed pink. “I only meant, compared to me . . .”

  “I’m sure you are fine.”

  “No. I am not.”

  When Charlotte next glanced up from Crispin’s fuzz-covered head, she was stunned to see that Mrs. Henshaw had unfastened the nursing panel of her gown. Charlotte glimpsed dark purple bruises before the young woman closed the panel again. Charlotte’s shock was replaced by compassion.

  “Oh, you poor dear! No wonder you cannot nurse Crispin. How painful that must be!”

  “The physician thinks I may have some infection. All I know is that I cry out in pain when I try to nurse my son. Crispin starts crying then, too, and Mr. Henshaw starts shouting.”

  Charlotte shook her head in pity.

  “I do not blame him,” Mrs. Henshaw said. “What kind of woman cannot nurse her own child? He says his own mother nursed him, and he would not have his son farmed out to some crude, greedy peasant. Oh! Forgive me, I did not mean you—”

  “It’s all right. I have heard such opinions before. You know, you are not the only woman to have trouble, Mrs. Henshaw.”

  “Please. Call me Georgiana.”

  “Very well, Georgiana. And you may call me Charlotte.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I have seen that once before. At the lying-in hospital.”

  “You have? Is it curable?”

  “Of course it is. I shall nurse Crispin for you for a few days while you heal. It appears that he has not been latching on properly.” Georgiana lowered her head and Charlotte hastened to add, “But how would you know if no one showed you? I realize women have been doing this since creation, but it does not always come as naturally as one might think.”