Lady of Milkweed Manor

by Julie Klassen

  Georgiana attempted a smile. What a lovely, gentle expression she had. Charlotte liked Georgiana Henshaw very much, felt nearly as maternal toward her as she did toward little Crispin. Her husband, however—she’d prefer to have as few dealings with him as possible.

  “My own mother is gone, I’m afraid,” Georgiana said wistfully.

  “As is mine.”

  “I have one sister. But she is far off in Newcastle. Have you a sister?”

  “Yes. But she is far away from me as well.”

  [Milkweed] has also been used in ancient times

  to poison arrows. It also induces vomiting in birds

  that eat the Monarch butterfly.

  —JACK SANDERS, T HE S ECRETS OF W ILDFLOWERS

  CHAPTER 28

  His wife vomited daintily into the basin, then wiped her mouth with a lace handkerchief. It was a graceful act, nearly ladylike. At least until she swore.

  “What is wrong?” Daniel asked.

  “Nothing. I am only sick of this foul English food.”

  “Are you all right now?”

  “Oui—maintenant. Why will Mrs. Beebe not allow Marie to cook our meals? If I must eat that wretched cabbage fried in mutton fat one more time, I shall spew out my soul.”

  He chuckled and helped her to her feet.

  “This is not funny. C’est terrible.”

  “It isn’t that bad.”

  “Not for you. You are here only at the week end. She saves the tripe mash and greasy cabbage until you are gone to London.”

  He smiled. “Why do we not go to the inn in the village tomorrow. Kendall said the food there is fine.”

  “I doubt they have anything that resembles cuisine in that little fishing village.”

  “Well, let us venture there and find out, shall we?”

  “I do not know if I shall feel up to it, Daniel. Let us see what tomorrow brings.”

  “Dr. Taylor?”

  He opened his eyes. Mrs. Beebe stood in the parlor doorway.

  “Hmm?” He had fallen asleep in a chair, tired from the coach trip and the long nights at the Manor before. He glanced at the mantel clock. He’d been asleep for nearly an hour.

  “I thought you should know—the missus has gone out in the rain.”

  “What?” He looked toward the window. The rain that had been pouring down all afternoon had slowed to a steady drizzle.

  “When?”

  “A quarter hour or more.”

  “Did she say—?”

  Mrs. Beebe shook her head. “Didn’t say a word. I thought of sending Mr. Beebe, but after the way your missus chewed my ears after supper, he isn’t feeling too charitable toward her—if you know what I mean.”

  “I understand. And I am sorry for it. I will go. Do not trouble yourself further. Mrs. Taylor has always liked the rain.”

  This was not true, and he felt guilty for the lie as well as the motive behind it. He didn’t want others to realize—didn’t want to realize it himself. It is happening again. . . .

  He found his wife sitting on the bench overlooking the sea.

  She sat perfectly still, her hair, dress, and face thoroughly soaked.

  “Lizette, my love, what are you doing?”

  “Trying to see France. Smell France. And, after that wretched supper, taste France. I cannot see it by day with this country’s ever-present fog and rain . . .”

  “The channel is too wide here. I wish I could take you, but things are still too volatile—”

  “But tonight I saw a light,” she said urgently, as if he hadn’t spoken. “On the horizon. I thought, voilà! Bien sûr! At night I can see France. I watched the light for a long time. It did not move. Just winked at me, called to me. I felt so happy. But then the light moved. Sailed closer and away down the coast. Just another stinking fishing boat. Bringing more stinking cod for your Mrs. Beebe to fry in her mutton fat.”

  “You might have spoken more kindly to her.”

  “I should repay with kindness the poison she feeds me? I can feel it, Daniel, filling my bowels and flowing through my veins. Poisoning me. Changing me. I used to be so . . . so different. So alive, so lovely.”

  He knelt beside her. “You are still.”

  “I used to be so happy too—remember?”

  Tears filled his eyes. “I remember,” he said quietly. He laid his hands on her knees. The hot tears trailed down his cheeks, mingling with the cool raindrops on his face. “You will be happy again, my love. We will be happy again.”

  The following afternoon, Marie brought in a tray of tea things, but Lizette waved the servant away. She picked up the book, glanced at a single line, and tossed it down again. She rose from the settee and stalked about the room, as restless as a creature caged.

  Daniel lowered his own book. “Shall we go for a walk, my dear? Some exercise might do us both good.”

  “What is the use?”

  “We’ll take Anne. She always seems to enjoy a stroll in Mr. Beebe’s carriage.”

  “Sally and Thomas Cox have already taken her for a walk.”

  “Well, have you thought any more about having the neighbors over for tea?”

  She expelled a dry laugh and rolled her eyes.

  “Kendall assures me Mrs. Dillard and her lot are the worst of the village snobs. Our neighbors would be far kinder.”

  “Why would they accept an invitation from me? I am nobody.”

  “That is not true. You are a fine woman—you are my wife.”

  “You are nobody as well.”

  “Granted.”

  “And you leave for London tomorrow, again, leaving me caged up in this strange house.”

  “I shall stay if you prefer.” He paused. “One of my patients is expecting twins and I fear it shall be a difficult birth, but I am sure Preston can manage it.”

  “That man is not fit to deliver goats. No, go. Go and do what you must.”

  Five days later, the front door of Richard Kendall’s offices opened and in strode Lizette Taylor, beautifully turned out in crimson gown and feathered hat.

  “Bonjour, Dr. Kendall.”

  “Mrs. Taylor. This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you by?”

  “Are we not well enough acquainted that I might visit without an appointment?”

  “But of course we are. Is there something I might help you with?”

  She looked at him, opened her mouth, hesitated, and then said, “Yes, there is. It is silly, really, a trifling complaint, but if you would not mind . . .?”

  “Of course not.”

  She glanced toward the old man sitting near the door. “Should we not step into your private office?”

  He followed her gaze. “Of course.” Then more loudly, to the man, he said, “I shall be with you shortly, Mr. Dumfries.”

  He showed her into his office. “Now, what seems to be the problem? Are you not feeling well?”

  “Do I not look well?”

  “You look very well indeed. As usual.”

  “You are very gallant to say so.” She lowered her dress from one shoulder. “There. Do you see?”

  “Ah . . . what am I looking at?”

  “I am usually more modest, but I suppose, being a physician, you are unmoved by the sight of the female form?”

  He swallowed. “Usually, yes.”

  She stroked the exposed skin below her clavicle. “This patch of skin—does it not look red to you?”

  He stepped closer, peering down at the spot. He cleared his throat. “What has Daniel said about it?”

  “I have not asked him. He is away in London again at that precious lying-in hovel of his.”

  “I hear the old Manor Home is quite well run.”

  “Manor indeed.”

  “How would you describe the irritation? Does the area itch? Burn?”

  “Yes, I burn . . .”

  He looked from the mild rash up to her face, into her smoldering eyes.

  “Do I not feel warm to you?” She let her dress fall farther
down her shoulder, exposing a hint of cleavage.

  He hesitated, feeling beguiled and perplexed. He forced his gaze away and focused again on her face. This time he saw that, indeed, her complexion looked flushed, her eyes nearly fevered. He looked once more at her lovely neck and shoulders. He reached out and pressed his fingers to the side of her throat. Then he lowered his hand across her bodice, to her abdomen, resting there, kneading, exploring. She shivered.

  Again he cleared his throat and stepped back. “Yes, well, I believe I have all the information I need. You may do up your frock now.”

  He turned his back to her and picked up a pen and prescription booklet.

  “That is all?” Her tone was bitter.

  “Yes. I shall write up a prescription for some salve that should help.” He ripped the script from its binding and turned to hand it to her. “I am sure the chemist will have this in supply.”

  “That is all you great physicians are good for. You write your orders like a housekeeper with a list for the greengrocer.” She held up the paper and crumpled it into a ball. “But you do nothing.” She let the wad fall to the floor.

  Stepping nearer, she grabbed a handful of his coat in one fist and pushed her face close to his. “You do not help us. You do not give us what we need.”

  Swallowing hard, he stepped back, pulling his coat loose from her grasp. “You must excuse me, Mrs. Taylor. I have another patient waiting.”

  He turned, opened the door, and stopped abruptly. Daniel Taylor stood waiting, hat in hand.

  “Taylor! How good to see you,” Kendall enthused rather falsely, though his relief at his friend’s sudden appearance was genuine enough. “We thought you were in London. That is, Mrs. Taylor here was just telling me that you were. But how could you be, for here you are.”

  Daniel’s pleasant expression faded and his brow furrowed. Kendall self-consciously smoothed down his coat. Glancing over his shoulder, he noted that Mrs. Taylor had shrugged her gown up higher on her shoulder, but it was still not properly done up.

  “I’ve only just returned by the afternoon coach,” Daniel said flatly.

  “How fortuitous. You are just in time to offer a second opinion on my diagnosis. Mrs. Taylor has a skin irritation she was just pointing out to me.”

  Daniel looked at him a moment longer, than swung his gaze to his wife, to her exposed shoulder.

  “You have not mentioned this to me,” he said, stepping into the office. “Is this a new affliction?”

  She looked at him pointedly. “I have suffered for some time.”

  “You knew I was on my way. Could you not wait?”

  Lizette Taylor narrowed her eyes. “You have shown little interest in my skin of late, Dr. Taylor.”

  Daniel glanced up and Kendall shook his head slightly, forcing himself to meet his friend’s stare. He had done nothing wrong, whatever fleeting thoughts had flitted across his mind. He hoped Daniel would believe him.

  Dr. Kendall asked Lizette to wait in his office while he spoke to Daniel in the other room. Mr. Dumfries took himself home, saying he would return on the morrow.

  Once they were alone, Kendall began somberly, “I believe it is as you feared.”

  Daniel stared at the man without seeing him, dread filling his gut. “Are you sure?”

  “No. But she has symptoms—accelerated pulse, itching, and, um, certain uncharacteristic behaviors. . . .”

  “It’s true she has not been herself—demonstrated again this afternoon by the looks of it.”

  “Daniel, I hope you do not think—”

  “I don’t know what to think. Why now? Our child is more than seven months old. Lizette seemed so recovered from the postnatal mania. Yes, she’s been melancholy, but not nearly as out of control as she was before.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Well, I did only a preliminary examination, but I do believe your wife is pregnant.”

  Daniel squeezed his eyes shut as if to block out the truth. He had been so determined to avoid intimacy with Lizette that he had barely allowed himself to look at her nor touch her for months, save that one time. The signs he had noticed, he had tried to ignore or explain away. Not morning sickness, surely—merely Mrs. Beebe’s greasy food....

  His friend must think him an idiot.

  “The symptoms of puerperal insanity often start with conception,” Kendall said. “Whereas for other women, it doesn’t make itself known until after delivery. Did it strike her during her first lying-in?”

  Daniel nodded, the fear beginning to grow.

  “Good heavens, man, how bad was it?”

  He looked at Richard, too devastated to lie. “Very.”

  “Did she try to harm herself?”

  Daniel nodded.

  “How did you treat her?”

  “Herbs, purgatives, blisters…. Nothing worked. When she became violent I resorted to laudanum for a time and finally had to institutionalize her.”

  Richard stared at him, horror and pity a terrible pall on his face. “I am sorry, Daniel.”

  “As am I.”

  “What will you do?”

  “The best I can. For now, she is melancholy and restless but has yet to become violent. I will find someone to cover for me in London. I will stay with her and keep her here as long as I can.”

  “If I hear of anything . . . any new developments or treatments . . .”

  “Thank you, Kendall.”

  Women turned against their husbands, neglected themselves and the

  household, bullied their servants, broke the china . . . displayed an overt

  sexuality, making vulgar and suggestive comments to complete strangers.

  Yet so common was this disorder . . . that it came to be seen as an almost

  anticipated accompaniment of the process of giving birth.

  —DR. HILARY MARLAND, D ANGEROUS M OTHERHOOD

  CHAPTER 29

  After dinner, Lizette began scratching her arm, then her neck. He watched calmly at first, but when she began scratching with great vigor, he rose to his feet and took her by the arms to still her. Already she bore long streaks of red down her white neck. “Come, I shall give you something for that.”

  “Nothing helps.”

  “I shall find something. Come.”

  Pausing to pick up his medical bag, he led her upstairs to their bedroom and closed the door. She flounced down on the bed while he set the bag on the dresser and began looking through its contents. “Here we are.”

  He sat on the bed beside her and began applying the ointment to her neck, lowering her gown from one shoulder to avoid getting the sticky medicine on the fine material. He smoothed the ointment onto her throat, then bent to kiss her bare shoulder. She had been trying to seduce him for weeks. Now, the damage done, why not enjoy his wife while he could? He kissed her clavicle and slid the gown off her other shoulder, his hand moving lower to stroke her exposed skin. His lips moved lower as well.

  “Non.”

  She shoved him with startling strength and he fell away from her. Stunned, he looked up at her, surprised to see tears streaming down her face.

  “Can you not see how I suffer? And yet you force yourself on me!”

  “I . . . I thought you wanted . . . I am sorry.”

  “Yes, you are sorry indeed.”

  The next night, Daniel found Lizette sitting alone in the dark parlor, weeping. He lit a lamp, forcing optimism into his voice. “Dr. Kendall sent this tea for you. He thinks it might help.”

  “There is no use in doing anything, as I shall die soon.”

  “Please do not say that. Think of Anne.”

  “Why? Is it not she who ruined my body and my mind?”

  “Lizette. It isn’t her fault.”

  “Nor is it mine! You behave as though it is all in my mind. As though I am insane!”

  “Shh . . . calm yourself. I know what ails you is real. And you are not the only woman to suffer from it.”

&
nbsp; “Do you think that helps me? Do you think that makes me want to live?”

  “No, you live for us, for Anne and for me and for the babe to come.”

  “I do not care about any of you.” She rubbed her forehead roughly. “I just want this to end.”

  “My dear. I think it’s time we thought about returning to London.”

  “Non! I will not go back to that place. That hospital, that dark little room.”

  “Only until the baby comes.”

  “Non! Please, Daniel, I beg you. I shall be fine. I will get better. I like it here by the sea. I can breathe here. I can smell France.”

  Daniel looked at her beautiful, pleading face. “Very well. For now. But you must try to calm down, to control yourself.”

  “Oui, mon amour. I shall.”

  But a few days later, Daniel heard Lizette and Marie shouting and swearing in French. He leapt up from his desk and sprinted into the parlor.

  His wife held a large brass candelabra in her hand and was about to strike the windowpane. Marie tried to wrest it from her.

  “Lizette! Put that down!” he shouted.

  “It will not open. I need air.”

  “Then ask me to help you.”

  “I can help myself.”

  “Allow me.” He took the candelabra from her and placed it on the table, then tried pulling and shoving at the old window. “It is painted shut.”

  Marie nodded, “Oui, monsieur. Zat is what I tell madame.”

  “I am trapped in this old ruin of a place,” Lizette cried. “I need air!”

  “Take hold of yourself! Calm down.”

  “I am so sick of those words—that patronizing way you speak to me! You are not my father. Do not speak to me as if I were a child.”

  “You are acting like one.”

  “Non. Having a child is making me this way. I cannot stand it. I want out of this body . . . this skin!”

  He gave up on the window and took hold of his wife’s elbows, motioning the maid out of the room with a lift of his chin. “Lizette.”