Lady of Milkweed Manor

by Julie Klassen

  “Not safe to walk this neighborhood with one’s purse dangling in plain sight,” she said.

  Gibbs gave her a rare grin. “It’s good to see you, Miss Charlotte. Sally’s expecting you.”

  “Charlotte. There you are,” Sally called, coming down the corridor. “Right on time.”

  “Missy!” Anne Taylor shouted gleefully. The little girl, now nearly three years old, broke away from Sally’s side to rush up and throw her arms around Charlotte’s legs.

  Charlotte bent to embrace her. “Goodness, I’ve only been gone an hour.” She glanced up at her friend. “Thank you for watching her for me.”

  “I was pleased to.”

  “How is that new girl getting on?”

  “The ginger-haired girl?”

  “Yes—Meg.”

  “Oh, she has the way of it, she does. Nursin’ her wee one like an old hand. Says you are a fine teacher.”

  “Good. I shall visit her tomorrow.”

  “And how did you fare shopping?” Sally asked.

  “I found some fine new things for a girl who’s growing far too fast.”

  “Let me see!” Anne cried.

  “You shall, but let’s wait until we get you home, all right?”

  “Is Grandfather home?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Then let us go, do!”

  “In a moment . . .”

  “That’s all right, Miss Charlotte—you go on ahead. Thomas is off duty in a few minutes and we’re to walk home together.”

  “How is Thomas?”

  Sally smiled, her eyes glowing. “Wonderful, as you well know. Adores working for Dr. Taylor. Adores me.” She sighed. “Never thought I’d have such a man for my husband—or any husband for that matter. And such a fine father he is to Dickie.”

  “I am so happy for you, Sally.”

  “As I always say, it’s you I have to thank for it.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “I only introduced you.”

  “Still, I cannot help feeling guilty, Miss Charlotte. Should have been you before me. I cannot help thinking—”

  “Go on, Sally. Do not worry about me.”

  Anne reached her hands high, wanting to be picked up.

  “I am fine. We are fine.” Charlotte held one of Anne’s hands and put her other on top of the girl’s head. “Is that not right, moppet?”

  In the dining room of the Taylors’ townhouse, Charlotte reigned over breakfast.

  “Now, now, Mr. Taylor, sit down and have your porridge,” Charlotte urged.

  “Aw, Miss Charlotte,” John Taylor said, “I haven’t any appetite this morning.”

  “Breakfast is important, as you well know, being one of the most renowned surgeons in London. . . .”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “And becoming so again, to hear Mrs. Krebs tell it. Now, please sit with us and eat. We’d like that, Anne, would we not?”

  “Yes, Grandfather. Eat! Eat!”

  “Oh, very well. I cannot disappoint two such lovely girls.”

  Just as the three of them sat down to porridge and tea, Daniel Taylor walked in, rumpled and red-eyed from a long night of duty at the Manor Home.

  “Good morning, Dr. Taylor,” Charlotte said. “Did you have a pleasant evening?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I am sorry to hear it.”

  “Finances at the Manor improving any?” his father asked.

  “The pressure has let up some, yes.”

  “Capital!”

  “I should not go that far.”

  “Here. Sit down.” Charlotte spooned out another bowl of porridge. “Have some breakfast.”

  Dr. Taylor sat down with a grateful smile.

  “Are you working in the foundling ward today, Father?”

  “Yes. And Mrs. Moorling has asked me to look in on one of the new patients as well. Poor thing is frightened to death of Dr. Preston.”

  Shaking his head, Daniel Taylor shared a knowing look with Charlotte. Then he turned to his daughter. “And what will you two do today?” he asked, spooning treacle into his bowl.

  “We’re going to the moo-zeeum.”

  He chuckled. “How marvelous.”

  “I know she is too young to enjoy it,” Charlotte explained. “But I have been longing to see the Egyptian exhibit.”

  “I hear it is impressive indeed.”

  “And we’re to have cherry ices after. Do come with us, Papa!”

  He smiled at his daughter’s enthusiasm. “Not this time, I’m afraid. I did not manage much sleep last night. I am in great need of a nap before I see patients this afternoon.”

  “Missy says naps are good for you.”

  He smiled at Charlotte over Anne’s head. “She is quite right.”

  One afternoon in late September, Charlotte was playing backgammon with John Taylor during Anne’s nap, when Marie handed her a letter from the day’s post. From the return address, she saw it was from her cousin Katherine. She opened the letter and read it slowly. Then she glanced up and saw John Taylor looking at her with concern in his hound-dog eyes.

  “Not bad news, I hope?”

  “No. An invitation, actually.”

  “To a hanging?”

  “No.” She sighed. “To a birthday party.”

  “Well, then, that’s cause for a smile, my dear, not a frown. Where is the party to be?”

  “Manchester Square.” What had prompted this sudden inclusion? Why had Charles not convinced Katherine to exclude her from the invitation list? Did he think that would rouse suspicion, after all this time? He certainly could not want her to attend.

  “Worried about Anne, are you?” John Taylor asked. “Do not be. I shall watch over her myself.”

  “You are very kind.”

  What would it be like to see Edmund after all this time? Could she go and satisfy herself with a glimpse or two, or would the seeing only reignite the burning desire for more contact with him?

  Perhaps it was better to stay away.

  “You have not had any entertainment in far too long, Miss Charlotte. You go and enjoy yourself. I shall pay for the hansom myself. I insist upon it.” He beamed at her, and she felt she had little choice but to agree.

  “When is the party to be?” he asked.

  She looked again at the invitation. The date read Friday the 7th.

  “On Saturday,” she answered.

  When Charlotte arrived, Katherine was reclining on the settee, one hand on her forehead, the other on her rounded abdomen. She glanced over at her guest before again closing her eyes.

  “The party was yesterday, Charlotte,” she said dully.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Forgive me for not standing to greet you. I am perfectly exhausted. I overdid yesterday—Charles is quite put out with me for it. This time is worse than the last. I suppose that means it is a girl. How was your lying-in with Anne?”

  “Actually, Anne is not—”

  “I am sorry you could not attend the party, Charlotte,” Katherine interrupted. “What a to-do it was. Edmund was quite beside himself. Too many presents and too much cake. Went to bed with a tummy ache. And he’s to have a pony when we return to Fawn-well besides.”

  “How exciting.”

  “Mrs. Harris came to town for the party, but she looked very ill indeed. What a wretched hat she wore. Oh, and William was here with his new wife—Amanda or Althea or something. I forget.

  Had you heard he married? I had thought he would marry you or your sister, and here neither one of you has wed. I must say Bea looked positively grim-faced upon seeing the two of them here together.”

  “Bea was here?”

  “Yes. I suppose I hoped to throw the two of you together—force a reconciliation. Is that why you did not come—had you gotten word Bea planned to attend? I suppose your Aunt Tilney let it slip. . . .”

  “I had not heard, actually.”

  Katherine rang a little bell beside her. “Celia!” she called. �
�Do bring me some ice, would you?” Then to Charlotte she explained, “It seems to help my headaches.”

  “Is . . . Edmund here?” Charlotte asked, palms damp. “I have a gift I hoped to give him.”

  “Oh . . .” Katherine waved her hand vaguely in the air before returning it to her forehead. “He’s about the place somewhere. Do be a dear and find him, will you? My physician says I should keep off my feet as much as possible.”

  “Of course. I hope you feel better soon.”

  Charlotte walked out of the sitting room just as a maid was rushing up the stairs with an ice bucket.

  “Have you seen Edmund?” she asked the girl.

  “No, ma’am. But you might try the nursery upstairs.”

  “Thank you.”

  Charlotte trotted up the stairs to the third floor. As she looked in both directions, trying to decide which corridor to try first, she saw a red ball roll from an open doorway to her right.

  The ball came to a stop beside a Greek statue, and Charlotte stooped to pick it up.

  A little boy stepped into the corridor, then hesitated, clearly surprised to see her there.

  “Hello,” she said, suddenly breathless. “Could this be what you are looking for?” She held out the ball with a smile.

  “Yes, thank you.” He took the ball, then looked up at her with his father’s brown eyes framed by a tousle of dark curly hair so like her own.

  “You are very welcome, Edmund.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Who are you?”

  “I am your . . . your mother’s cousin Charlotte.”

  “Cousin Charlotte?”

  “Yes. And you are the birthday boy.” She pulled a small wrapped rectangle from her reticule. “I have a gift for you.”

  “I know what that is—it’s a book.”

  “Yes, and you probably already have it.”

  She stooped down, sitting on her heels, so that she was at eye level with him as he ripped open the paper and looked at the cover.

  “Yes.” He shrugged. “I do have it.”

  “Well, it is such a good book, it won’t hurt to have another.”

  He looked up at her, little brows crinkling up—so like his father.

  “Why are you sad?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose it is because I cannot believe you are already three years old. It is silly, really. Birthdays are to be happy times, and you are a very happy boy, are you not?”

  Again he shrugged. “Yes.”

  “I am so glad.”

  He lifted the book. “Read to me?” he asked.

  Her heart fisted hard within her, and she bit her lip to hold back bittersweet tears. She opened her mouth to answer when a woman’s voice called down the corridor, “Come now, master Edmund, your father will be home any moment.” A prim-faced young woman in grey dress appeared, shaking out a miniature frock coat before her.

  “Time to dress.”

  Charlotte stood and the woman paused.

  “Oh, pardon me I did not know Edmund had a guest.”

  “That’s all right. I was just leaving.”

  The woman passed by them and into Edmund’s room.

  She felt Edmund tug at her sleeve. “Father is taking me to the circus.”

  “How nice.”

  “But you can read to me first.”

  She smiled at him. “I would love nothing more, but I am afraid I must take my leave.”

  “Oh. Then Papa shall read it. It’s his favorite.”

  “Yes, I know,” Charlotte said softly. She reached a tentative hand toward him and touched his shoulder briefly. “Happy birthday, dear Edmund.”

  Charlotte could not sleep. She turned over yet again. Her stomach growled. She should have eaten more at supper. Giving up, she reached for her dressing gown at the foot of her bed but could not find it. She must have kicked it to the floor with all her tossing and turning. Oh well. She wouldn’t light a candle to find it and risk waking Anne. Besides, the house was warm and there was no one to see her at this time of night.

  She tiptoed out of her room in her nightdress. In the corridor, she could hear John Taylor’s soft snore as she passed his room. She picked up the candle lamp on the landing table and used it to guide her down the many stairs and into the kitchen. There, she set the lamp down and opened the icebox. She retrieved the bottle of milk and set about lighting a fire in the stove and pouring some milk into a pan to warm. Then she selected an apple from the vegetable bin. Taking it to the work table, she slid a sharp knife from its slot and set to work slicing off a few wedges of fruit.

  The door opened behind her and Charlotte started. The knife sliced into her left index finger. She gave a little cry, more from fright than pain. She half-turned from the table, surprised and relieved to see Dr. Taylor standing there, medical bag in hand.

  “You frightened me.”

  “Forgive me. I did not expect to find anyone up.”

  Charlotte became aware of throbbing in her finger. She put it to her mouth, tasting blood.

  “I’ve cut myself.”

  “How badly?”

  She stepped closer to the candle lamp and he did as well. Her relief that the late-night intruder was Dr. Taylor now faded as she remembered she wore nothing but a thin nightdress.

  “Let me see it.”

  “I am sure it is nothing.”

  He took her left hand in his, her palm forward. With his free hand, he gently examined her index finger. Her heart pounded in time with its throbbing.

  “Here, let’s clean that.” From his bag, he deftly retrieved a bottle of antiseptic. He held her hand over the basin, released her only long enough to open the bottle, then poured antiseptic over the wound. The stuff stung, and she wrinkled her nose at its smell.

  “Let me wrap that for you,” he said quietly.

  He retrieved a small rolled bandage from his bag and then stood again before her. He guided her hand closer to the light and leaned near. She realized she was breathing in shallow, rapid breaths as he skillfully and gently wound the bandage around her finger and secured it. Still, the process seemed to take quite a long time, as he reexamined his work, still holding her hand in one of his. She hoped he did not guess how affected she was by his nearness.

  Without releasing her hand, he looked up from her finger to her face. His eyes shone with intensity, his pupils large in the dim light.

  Did she alone feel this tension, this delicious, terrifying ache?

  To dispel it, she said shakily, “Who is minding the Manor?”

  “Thomas is filling in. Said I looked dead on my feet.”

  She smiled and said awkwardly, “You do not . . . look so to me.”

  His eyes roamed over her features. “Nor you.”

  She swallowed and said needlessly, “I could not sleep.”

  He looked down at her hand again, as though just realizing he still held it.

  “Will the patient live?” she asked lightly.

  He did not smile. Instead he turned her hand over and lifted it to his cheek. He pressed his lips to the back of her hand and looked into her eyes. Charlotte could hardly breathe.

  Without warning the kitchen door again opened, and they both turned to see John Taylor standing there, candlestick in hand. Charlotte took a sheepish step away from Daniel.

  John Taylor looked from one to the other, a speculative gleam in his eyes. “I thought I smelled something burning,” he said.

  Charlotte turned. The milk was boiling out onto the stove.

  Right after emergence from its chrysalis,

  the Monarch is extremely vulnerable to predators

  because it is not yet able to fly.

  —JOURNEY NORTH

  CHAPTER 34

  At the breakfast table one morning in November, Charlotte announced to Dr. Taylor and his father, “Anne and I are planning quite the celebration tonight, and you are both invited.”

  “What is the occasion?” Dr. Taylor asked.

  “Your birthday, silly!�
� Anne laughed.

  “Today is your birthday, is it not?” Charlotte asked tentatively.

  “Well, I guess it is. I had quite forgotten.”

  “I hope neither of you will have to work late tonight.”

  “I’m going to help make a cake!” Anne announced proudly. “Just like the one Missy made for my birthday!”

  “How nice. I shall look forward to it.”

  “As will I,” John Taylor said. “Though I’m afraid I haven’t a gift for you, my boy. Unless you’d like a new ear horn or scalpel?” He winked.

  “Do not trouble yourself, Father. You and I have gotten out of the habit of celebrating birthdays.”

  John Taylor folded his napkin and stood. “Well, I’m off. I promised Mrs. Krebs I’d be in early this morning.”

  His son turned his head to watch him leave. “If I did not know better, I would think he was taken with her.” He looked at Charlotte and smiled self-consciously. “And I would recognize the symptoms.”

  Charlotte bit back a smile. “Do finish your breakfast, Anne, so we can begin our preparations.”

  Porridge dripped off Anne’s chin as she said eagerly, “We are to wear our new gowns, and you must wear your green coat, Papa.”

  “Try not to speak with your mouth full, dear,” Charlotte admonished.

  Daniel bowed his head toward his daughter. “As my lady wishes.”

  “Do you not think Papa most handsome when he wears his green coat?”

  Charlotte smiled, clearly embarrassed. “I . . . yes, quite handsome.”

  “Well, then”—he held her gaze—“your wish is my command.”

  How differently it all might have gone had he not stopped by the club on his way home. He had left the Manor sufficiently early, leaving Thomas and his father on duty, and only dropped by in hopes of finding Preston, who had not shown up to relieve them as scheduled. His father had insisted Daniel go home and not miss his own birthday celebration. He would stay until Preston arrived. Not seeing his colleague in the club, Daniel turned to leave. That’s when he saw Lester Dawes. He might not have stopped at all, had his old acquaintance not looked so miserable, hands holding up his head, several empty tumblers before him.

  “Dawes?”