Lady of Milkweed Manor

by Julie Klassen

  . . . I am trusting Dr. Taylor, who seems to know your whereabouts better than anyone, to get this to you. Goodness, Charlotte, why on earth did you not write to me sooner? I had grown concerned. I called round at Margaret Dunweedy’s on Whitsunday, but she could not—or would not—tell me where you had gone. She said something about you being off on holiday, but of course, given your situation, I did not believe it.

  Katherine went on to write several blunt questions.

  Governess? Could be worse, I suppose. In whose employ are you? Do I know the family? I certainly hope they allow Anne to stay with you. Where in the world am I to write you should the need arise? Do not be foolish, Charlotte. Send me your directions by return post.

  Did Katherine guess she had been with Dr. Taylor all along? Was that why she was so certain he could contact her? But then, why hadn’t she acquired Dr. Taylor’s home address—it would certainly not be difficult to discover, since he had a fairly well-known medical practice. In any case, Charlotte knew she could not put her cousin off any longer. And so, with no small trepidation, Charlotte wrote back:

  I am in the employ of Dr. Daniel Taylor, with whom you are some acquainted. I am content in my post, and the Taylors are kind and generous employers, though Dr. Taylor is away a great deal with his work as a physician. And, yes, Anne is here and enjoying excellent health. I do hope the same is true for your family. . . .

  After this, Charlotte and her cousin Katherine began exchanging brief, occasional letters. Charlotte found it a mixed blessing of pleasure and deprivation to read Katherine’s chatty reports of Edmund’s growth and antics and “how dear Charles dotes on the boy.” Still, Katherine had not suggested paying a call, and Charlotte had not offered.

  And let this feeble body fail,

  And let it faint or die;

  My soul shall quit this mournful vale,

  And soar to worlds on high.

  —CHARLES WESLEY, F UNERAL H YMNS

  CHAPTER 32

  The Doddington churchyard was quiet in the late afternoon sun. White willow trees hung low in perpetual sorrow, paying homage to the departed. Field maples, whose leaves were just beginning to turn at the edges, shone orange-red. Blood-red too.

  Charles Harris walked slowly through the churchyard, past the ancient yew tree and mottled graves whose inscriptions were worn unreadable, to a row of newer graves along the far wall.

  Stepping over fallen leaves and yew needles, he stopped before a small grave. A child’s grave. It was marked by a simple, hand-hewn cross. There was no inscription to give away the identity of the one buried there. But he knew who it was and mourned. Kneeling before the small marker, he reached out a trembling hand and gently touched the wooden surface, wondering again who had made it, who had placed it there, knowing such graves rarely had a marker of any kind.

  Tears began flowing down his face, as they often did when in this place. When confronted with this loss.

  “I shall never forget you,” he whispered, then rose.

  A door creaked open somewhere not far off. Charles turned sharply, startled. From around the corner of the church came Ben Higgins with a shovel over one shoulder and a bunch of chrysanthemums in his other hand.

  The young man paused when he saw Charles Harris standing there.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Ben Higgins said. “I didn’t know anyone was about the place.”

  “Nor I. Did you put that cross there—on that grave?”

  Charles pointed and the young man looked in the direction he indicated.

  Ben nodded sheepishly. “That I did, sir. But on my own time.”

  “I am not reprimanding you. Merely asking.”

  Ben nodded again, standing there awkwardly, flowers drooping from his hand.

  “Well, go about your work. Do not let me hinder you.”

  Still the young man hesitated.

  Realization dawned, and Charles nodded toward the flowers.

  “Are those . . . for that grave?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ben admitted, still clearly uncomfortable.

  Charles nodded, biting his lip. “You are a kind soul, Ben Higgins.”

  Charlotte opened her eyes in the dim light and was surprised to see Dr. Taylor leaning over her bed. He held a candle lamp and wore his dressing gown. Startled, she instinctively pulled the blankets higher on her neck.

  Daniel winced. “Forgive me. I had hoped not to wake you. I wanted to check on Anne.”

  Only then did she recall that little Anne was in bed beside her. “Oh. Of course.” She remembered now. Anne’s fitfulness, the

  burning skin—too hot to merely signal the emergence of more teeth.

  “She cried so in her cradle,” Charlotte whispered. “I finally brought her into bed with me.”

  Dr. Taylor pulled the baby blanket lower and tenderly felt Anne’s forehead, cheeks, and chest.

  “She is still warm. Too warm.”

  “I shall go fetch cloths . . .”

  “Shh . . . stay as you are. Let Anne sleep. I shall fetch them.”

  He returned in a few minutes with a small ceramic basin and several face cloths. Gently he dipped one in the water, wrung it out, and laid it over his daughter’s forehead.

  “I’m afraid I shall get your sheets damp. I should have brought something to lay underneath her.”

  “I don’t mind. I can do that if you like.”

  “Allow me. How many nights am I at the Manor and you must tend to her alone?”

  “It is my responsibility.”

  “I’d say it is mine as well.” He continued his ministrations, whispering more to sleeping Anne than to her, “What’s the use of having a physician for a father if he cannot care for his own child?”

  He untied his daughter’s nightdress and laid another cool cloth across her chest. The little girl tossed her head, whining at the intrusion.

  “If this doesn’t work, we shall have to set her in a tub of cool water. She shall like that far less, I fear.”

  “What do you think is wrong?”

  “Hard to tell at this point. Stomach is relaxed—no distension. Has she been pulling on her ears at all?”

  “No.”

  “There is quite a lot of sickness going around. Hopefully nothing serious, just something that must run its course.”

  Charlotte watched him continue to touch a third cloth to his daughter’s face and arms.

  He looked at her suddenly. “How are you feeling, Miss Lamb? I do hope you are well.”

  “Yes, I think so. A bit tired, but that is to be expected.”

  He reached his hand toward her, then, seeing her surprise, hesitated, hand midair. “May I?”

  “Oh, of course.”

  He gently touched her forehead, his fingers tracing down her cheeks before returning to the basin. “You feel fine. I never stopped to think Anne might have something contagious. Perhaps I ought to take her to my room.”

  “I do not think that necessary. And I am quite certain that if Anne has anything catching I should already have caught it in any case. Or perhaps even passed something along to her.”

  “I doubt that. You are so rarely out alone. When would you have occasion to come into contact with some ill person?”

  “At the park or market, I suppose, though Anne is always with me. Or church. No, she goes with me there as well . . .”

  “No wonder you are tired. It’s amazing you are not exhausted.”

  “It is nothing compared to your days and nights. You so rarely sleep in your own bed, or at all for that matter.”

  “I usually find at least a few hours of sleep at the Manor. My own bed holds little appeal for me these days.”

  Charlotte could feel a blush warm her cheeks at the implication of his words. An awkward silence hung between them.

  “Forgive me. I’m tired. I did not think. . . .”

  “It is understandable,” she whispered. “You miss Lizette, and no wonder.”

  “Perhaps. Still . . .” He shook his head.
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  Trying to lighten the tension, she said, “For my part, I rarely slept the night through at the Manor. All the noise and having to share my bed so.”

  “You—” he hesitated, eyes on his task—“object to sharing your bed?”

  Her cheeks burned more furiously, and she was relieved he kept his gaze on his daughter.

  “Not on principle, no. But before I moved to a private room, I slept with five others.”

  He looked up. “Five? Surely not as bad as all that?”

  She smiled, “Two other women and three unborn children.”

  “Ah . . . crowded indeed.” He returned her smile before again lowering his gaze. “At least here you have your own bed. Except when my daughter shares it with you. She has no idea how fortunate she is. . . .” He looked up, startled at his own words. “I mean, to have you care for her so. . . .”

  She could not meet his eyes, nor stop the slight lift of her lips. “I know what you meant,” she whispered.

  Walking with Anne through nearby Russell Square on a fine autumn afternoon, Charlotte almost collided with a young boy running past, pulling a Chinese-dragon kite behind him. “Regardez-moi! Regardez-moi!” the boy yelled in perfect French accent.

  “Très bien, Jonathan.”

  Charlotte glanced over and saw an elegantly dressed young woman sitting on a park bench, her gaze fixed on the running boy.

  Two finely dressed ladies walking together approached from the other direction. They, too, seemed to be watching the elegant young lady and her charge.

  “I have contracted with an agency in Piccadilly to arrange for a French governess for Henry.”

  “I know you will be pleased. I would never go back to an English governess. They are so dour, and usually not as well educated as the French girls who come over.”

  Charlotte looked more closely at the elegant young woman. She had dark hair in a fashionable coil, and her dress seemed as fine as those the English ladies wore. As Charlotte passed by she looked at the woman’s face more closely. She was reminded of Lizette Taylor.

  The next morning, as Charlotte sat at the kitchen table enjoying a cup of coffee and the quiet of a morning in which she had arisen before Anne, Marie dropped a section of newspaper before her.

  “Voilà,” the woman said, the paper slapping the tabletop. She had already turned back to the blood sausage and tomatoes she was frying before Charlotte could respond.

  She looked at the paper. Folded in quarters as it was, she could not miss the bold print Marie wanted her to see.

  French Governesses. Highest education.

  Excellent references. Qualified to teach

  literature, music, French, and etiquette.

  Paris Agency, 212 George-court, Piccadilly

  Charlotte knocked on Dr. Taylor’s study door.

  “Enter.”

  As she pushed the door open, he looked up from the thick book he was reading. “Hello, Miss Lamb.”

  “Have you a moment?”

  “Of course.” He closed his book, and as he did, she noticed it was a Bible.

  Inclining her chin toward the volume, she asked, “Old Testament or New?”

  He grinned. “Old. Someone once told me I should read it more often.”

  She smiled and then bit her lip, remembering her mission. “Dr.

  Taylor. It has come to my attention that many English families are hiring French governesses to care for their children.”

  He looked at her blankly.

  “It seems the fashion now,” Charlotte added.

  “I care little for fashion, as you know.”

  “Yes. But I was thinking you might desire a French education for Anne.”

  He looked at her, clearly perplexed.

  “She could grow up speaking both English and French,” Charlotte continued. “Mrs. Taylor would have liked that.”

  He shrugged. “True. But you speak French.”

  “Very ill. My accent is far from authentic.”

  He stared at her, clearly unsure of her meaning.

  “I understand there is an agency in Piccadilly for French governesses.”

  “Miss Lamb, I don’t understand. Are you suggesting I replace you?”

  “I am only thinking of Anne, what is best for her.”

  “What is best for her . . . or you?”

  The implication stung.

  He sighed. “I am only saying that if you wish to leave us, come out and say so.”

  “I do not wish to, but nor do I wish for you to feel obligated. You must think of Anne’s future. Do what is in her best interests.”

  “I have. I believe you, Miss Lamb, are in Anne’s best interests.”

  She lowered her head. “Thank you.”

  “But—”

  She looked up. He was regarding her with an intensity that made her want to look away again. “There is another position I would offer you. If you were willing.”

  As she took in the longing, the trepidation, even the passion in his eyes, realization dawned. She had been a fool these last few months. He did want her, in every way a man wants a woman.

  He rose and walked around his desk. Reaching past her, he shut the door quietly behind her. That done, he did not move away but stood close to her.

  “You could become my wife.”

  For Anne’s sake, for hers, for his own even, he would marry her. Even though he was not through mourning his wife. She ought to be relieved, she ought to be happy, but she was not. As the dread, the sudden irrational urge to turn and flee washed over her, she saw the reason clearly.

  “What is it?” he asked, obviously not seeing the reaction he’d hoped for in her expression. “Have you no regard for me? Or is your father’s approval still so important to you?”

  “Of course not. I long ago gave up hope of winning Father’s approval. As far as my regard for you, it is of the highest order.”

  “Then why do you hesitate? I realize it is too soon for me to make a proper offer, but I thought, in the circumstances—”

  “You do me a great honor, Dr. Taylor. But—” And here she paused, taking a deep breath. “You see, as long as I can tell myself that I am in no suitable state to raise my son, then I can bear his absence. I can console myself with the wisdom that he is better off where he is, that I can barely provide for myself, let alone another. But if my situation were to suddenly change . . . if I were in a position where I could reasonably provide for him . . . and still . . . still I could not have him with me . . . that I could not bear. Do you understand? Does that make any sense at all?”

  “I don’t think . . . Are you saying that you must remain alone in order to bear his loss?”

  She swallowed. “Yes.”

  “But would not the support of another make the loss more bearable? Or the possibility of another child someday?”

  “I cannot think of that. He can never be replaced.”

  “Of course not. Still, the loneliness would be abated, would it not?”

  “Perhaps. But I will always want him back. Always long for him.”

  “Perhaps there is something we can do. Your uncle is a solicitor.

  Perhaps—”

  “No. I gave my word.”

  “Yes, but you were distraught, desperate. You thought you had no other choice, but now you do.”

  “Even if my circumstances change, I have not.”

  “But you have. You had just recently given birth. Changes occur in a mother’s psyche, in her nerves, her mind, as I know all too well.”

  “But I knew what I was doing. Terrible as it was.”

  “Yes—then. But now—”

  “I gave my word.”

  He opened his mouth as if to argue further, then closed it again.

  Frustration was evident in his stance and features.

  “In any case, I could not do it to Edmund. How confusing and cruel it would be to rip his world, his very concept of himself, asunder. I cannot do it. I won’t.”

  “But still . . . wil
l you not reconsider . . .?”

  She looked at Daniel and felt tears filling her eyes. Slowly, she shook her head. “I cannot.”

  Was she making a terrible mistake? She remembered bemoaning the realization that she had let circumstances and the will of others set her course on many occasions. But now she had made a decision of her own, rejecting the only offer of marriage she had ever received, or was likely ever to receive. But she had made the only decision she could at present. She had chosen to stay her present course.

  She could only hope fate would concur in the months and years ahead.

  PART III

  Surely ’tis better, when summer is over

  To die when all fair things are fading away.

  —THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY, I’ D B E A B UTTERFLY

  Monarch butterflies are not native to Great Britain,

  but individuals are found in the south each year.

  . . . blown there by strong winds.

  —JOURNEY NORTH

  The butterfly is at the center of numerous superstitions the world over,

  and in some parts of Germany it is called “milk thief.”

  —ANATOLY LIBERMAN, T HE O XFORD E TYMOLOGIST

  CHAPTER 33

  Two years had passed since Charlotte returned to London with the Taylors.

  She walked slowly up the cobbled street toward the old Manor Home on Store Street. Milkweed Manor, she thought wryly of the moniker by which the place was infamously known. She could hardly believe it had been more than three years since she had first walked this way, carrying her child within her. This being autumn, the day was colder, and beneath Charlotte’s wool cape, a bulge was mildly noticeable, much as it had been then.

  She did not knock on the front door of the manor, but instead went around the back and let herself in the garden door. Gibbs looked up from her desk as she entered, then looked down at her rounded middle in question.

  From beneath her cape, Charlotte retrieved her bulging reticule.