Lady of Milkweed Manor

by Julie Klassen

  She turned around to face him.

  “He needs you.”

  Her heart ached at the words.

  He stepped closer. “And not only Edmund. I—”

  The sitting room door opened and Daniel strode in, pulling on a glove. “Charlotte, have you seen my other—Oh . . .” He glanced up and stopped abruptly, looking from Mr. Harris to Charlotte and back again.

  When he said nothing for several awkward seconds, Mr. Harris said, “Hello, Taylor.”

  Daniel paused, breathed in and exhaled before responding.

  “Harris.”

  “Forgive the intrusion, old boy.” Mr. Harris smiled and added lightly, “I have just been trying to persuade Miss Lamb here to make young Edmund and I the two happiest males on earth.”

  His smile faded, and it was his turn to look from Charlotte to the other man. “That is, unless you . . .” He swung his gaze back to Charlotte. “You two are not . . . You have worked for him so long with no word, I just assumed . . . But . . . is there an understanding between you?”

  Charlotte’s face burned. She found it difficult to breathe. She could hardly raise her head, let alone meet the gaze of either man.

  It was not her right to speak first. But Daniel remained silent. Finally, she lifted her eyes to meet his. He looked at her a moment, his chest rising and falling in exaggerated effort. And although he answered Mr. Harris’s question, his eyes remained fixed on hers when he said, “No. There is no understanding.”

  They stared at one another a moment longer. Then Daniel nodded curtly to Harris, said dully, “I wish you both the best,” and quickly bowed and left the room.

  Once he was gone, Charles said, “Forgive me. I did not intend to put you on the spot in that manner. I fear there is something between you after all.”

  “There is a great deal between us.” Charlotte sighed, stepping to the window and watching as Dr. Taylor appeared on the street below and strode away. “We have been friends for nearly as long as you and I have been. I was there when his wife died, and I have nursed and cared for his daughter for more than three years. But he spoke the truth. There is no understanding between us.”

  “But there might be, someday?”

  She hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”

  “Well, then, Charlotte. You have a choice to make. I am proposing marriage now, today. I am asking you to be my wife and Edmund’s mother.”

  She looked at him.

  “I suppose that last bit is quite ironic, since you have always been his mother.”

  “No. That was Katherine’s privilege, in every way that counts.

  To Edmund, in any case.”

  “Yes. About that. I’m afraid I would have to ask you to keep the true nature of your relationship with Edmund a secret.”

  The statement felt like a blade between her ribs, but of course he was right.

  “I am not saying we can never tell him, but . . . out of loyalty to Katherine’s memory and sensitivity to Edmund’s reputation and feelings . . .”

  “Of course. I understand completely. I won’t pretend it is not a painful mandate, but you know I want whatever is best for Edmund.”

  “Yes, I do know that. You have proven that over and over again.

  If only Bea could see—”

  “Bea?”

  “Yes. She, too, has taken quite an interest in Edmund. Though I am not convinced her motives are purely maternal.”

  “I take it she would not be pleased to know that you are here.”

  “You are quite right. She does not know I am here, but she does know . . . about us.”

  “She does?”

  “Yes. I was quite tired of hearing her disparaging remarks about you, and the slanderous suppositions about the ill-bred scoundrel that must have ruined you. I confessed I was that man. Scoundrel, perhaps, but ill-bred on no account.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  “Is that why you are here? Did she refuse you?”

  “Bea refuse me? I asked nothing of her. It is you I am asking, Charlotte. You.”

  “Did you did tell her . . . everything?”

  “I did not tell her about Edmund, for obvious reasons. She still believes your child passed on.”

  She touched his arm. “When it was your own son who died—yours and Katherine’s—it must have been difficult for you, having to grieve in secret. Alone.”

  He nodded. “You know a great deal about that.” He grasped her elbows. “Let us put an end to it, Charlotte. Let us neither one be alone anymore.”

  She looked up into the long-held-dear face of Charles Harris.

  He was still so very handsome. And he was, finally, offering his name, his protection. Perhaps even his love. She realized he hadn’t mentioned that. But what did she expect? Outpourings of romance and devotion when his wife was not long in her grave?

  She knew he cared for her on some level. He always had. And oh! to be near Edmund. Her own son. To be his mother, whether he knew it or not.

  But what about Daniel? She admired and respected him. Perhaps even loved him, his daughter as well. True, they had as yet no formal understanding, but he had made his desires clear enough.

  At least before today. Why had he not spoken? She could guess why. He knew how deeply she longed to be with Edmund.

  Could she forego a future with Daniel in order to be stepmother to her own son?

  But the alternative seemed even more difficult to conceive.

  For to refuse Mr. Harris would mean giving up Edmund all over again.

  Oh, poor little butterfly, bound by so many fetters,

  which prevent you from flying whithersoever you will!

  Have pity on her, my God…so that she may be able

  to fulfill her desires to Thy honour and glory.

  —S T . T ERESA OF A VILA

  CHAPTER 36

  Time passed quickly, as time is wont to do.

  Daniel Taylor worked alone in his garden in Doddington, thinking back yet again to that day fifteen years ago when Charles Harris had come to his London home and changed his life forever.

  Daniel had been aware, of course, of Charlotte’s long affection for Harris, and knowing how she longed to be with her son, Daniel had despondently guessed which man she would choose. Loving her as he did, and wanting her much-deserved happiness, he had excused himself from the situation. He did not come home from the Manor all that day. He slept, albeit poorly, in his rooms there, knowing his absence would make things easier for Charlotte. And hopefully, less painful for him. He placed an ad in the newspaper for a new governess, confident Marie would suffice until one could be found. And he wrote to Dr. Webb, agreeing to take over his practice. He knew he might come into contact with the Harrises in Doddington, but since he surmised Charles would still be splitting his time between London and Fawnwell, he did not think it would be too often to be borne. He was ready to leave London and its memories behind. He would leave the Manor in the care of Thomas and his fine, understanding father.

  Voices disturbed Daniel’s memories, and he looked up to see a group of Doddington school children running onto the lawn nearby, kicking a ball. He hoped they would not trample his prized specimens nor his entire garden with it. He recognized most of the children and knew several by name. With the numbers of children scampering about the village these days, his practice stayed busy indeed.

  He was on his knees beside a swamp milkweed plant, searching each leaf, when the ball flew over the low garden wall and landed with a puff of dust beside his patch of sciatic cress. A girl—his favorite among the village children—leapt the wall neatly and went in search of the ball. Watching her, he could not help but be reminded of Charlotte Lamb as a girl.

  “Near the sciatic cress, Lucy,” he said, returning to his examination of the chrysalis he had just found.

  “The what?” she asked, bent low.

  “The candytuft. There.” He pointed toward the small bushy plants with clusters of flat white fl
owers.

  “Voila!” The girl held up the ball triumphantly and tossed it back over the wall to her friends. But instead of clambering back over the wall herself, she came and squatted on her haunches near him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Examining this chrysalis.” After a moment he glanced at her.

  “Do you not wish to rejoin your chums?”

  She shrugged. “Not especially.” She knelt there beside him amid the milkweeds.

  Now, close up, he thought Lucy reminded him a bit of Anne at that age, but Anne was all grown up now.

  “You do know about milkweed, do you not?” he asked.

  “I know Mr. Jarvis wishes you’d pull it from your garden.”

  “That’s only because he doesn’t understand how important milkweeds are. Besides a whole host of medicinal uses, monarch butterflies lay their eggs on milkweeds, which is the only plant the larva eat.”

  Lucy looked at him blankly, clearly not impressed.

  “Monarchs are not native to England. But once in a while—every decade or so—they are sighted. Blown here by powerful winds.”

  “From where?”

  “The Canary Islands, or even as far away as the Americas, where they are as common as black flies.”

  “From so far?”

  “Yes. But look here—this is really amazing.” He lifted another leaf, exposing a beautifully luminous jade-green pod. “I do believe this is a monarch chrysalis. Right here in my garden. If I am correct, some monarch stopped here long enough to lay her eggs on my milkweed. The caterpillars hatched, ate this bitter weed to grow—and for protection from those who would destroy them.

  Then hid themselves away.”

  “In a cocoon, right?”

  “Yes, that is the common term.”

  “Is there really something growing in there?”

  “Oh yes. It might appear lifeless or trapped, but only for a time.

  Inside it is secretly growing and changing until it will emerge strong enough to live in the world and ride the wind.”

  A magnificent black and orange butterfly alighted on a neighboring plant, and Lucy gasped in admiration.

  “Is that a monarch?”

  “Yes,” he said, equally awed, and watched as it fluttered and rose in the air. They both looked up, following its flight. Over the girl’s head, Daniel saw Charlotte, the former Miss Lamb, in the distance, walking down the lane from the direction of Fawnwell.

  Out paying calls, no doubt. Watching her, he said wistfully, “See how beautiful she is when she emerges.”

  Gaze still on the butterfly, Lucy asked, “How do you know it’s a girl?”

  Daniel shrugged, not shifting his focus. “She is a survivor. Strong and beautiful. A creature reborn.”

  Someone called out to Charlotte, and Daniel saw her pause and lift her hand in greeting. Eighteen-year-old Edmund Harris came trotting down the lane, smiling as he caught up with her.

  Even from a distance, Daniel saw the way she looked at her son, her brilliant joy that they were together at last, and he thought his chest might break for the flood of gratitude and pain he felt.

  At that very moment, Charlotte looked across the garden at him. Though they were far apart, they shared a knowing look filled with wistfulness and poignant understanding.

  Daniel was happy for her. Truly happy. But with the happiness came the sting, the awareness of all Charlotte had sacrificed. How had she done it? Why?

  He knew the why, but sometimes he still struggled to believe it.

  Charlotte, too, was thinking of that long ago day when Charles Harris had proposed to her. On this day of days, how could she not?

  She still remembered Mr. Harris’s earnest face as he awaited her answer. She remembered the surprise she had felt upon realizing her girlhood infatuation with him had faded. She had become too aware of his weaknesses, his previous, though regretted, betrayal. Still, she considered accepting Mr. Harris for Edmund’s sake, if not her own.

  When Daniel did not return home all that day, Charlotte realized he already supposed she had accepted Mr. Harris. After putting Anne to bed, Charlotte sat in the sitting room, waiting for him. At nine o’clock the door opened below and she heard footsteps on the stairs. She rose and went to the sitting room door.

  But it was John Taylor who ascended. “Oh. Hello, my dear.”

  “You worked late.” She forced a smile. “Was Daniel there?”

  “Yes, shut away in his office.”

  “Do you know if he plans to remain at the manor all night?”

  “No. I am afraid I don’t know.” He looked as though he might say something more, but did not. His weary face rose in a brief, sympathetic smile. “Well, good night, my dear.”

  “Good night.”

  She sat back in the armchair nearest the door.

  Sometime later, she awoke suddenly. Dim light shone through the sitting room windows. The clock showed half past five. She heard cautious footsteps on the stairs, and with each step her heart seemed to beat faster. She rose and walked to the door, her hand on her stomach in an attempt to ease her nerves.

  Daniel, drawn and tired, stepped onto the landing, loosening his cravat. When he looked up and saw her there, he hesitated. “Oh. Forgive me. I did not expect you up this early. I need only a clean shirt and I shall be gone again.” He paused. “Tell me you have not been sitting there all night?”

  She touched her hair self-consciously. “When you did not return, I grew anxious.”

  Daniel crossed his arms over his chest, his face wooden, eyes averted. “Is there something you needed to tell me?”

  “Daniel,” she began gently, moving closer. “If you are avoiding me because you think I shall marry Mr. Harris, then you are mistaken. I do not wish to marry him.” How could she, when she loved Daniel, as well as Anne, so deeply?

  Daniel stood frozen, clearly as stunned as Mr. Harris had been at her refusal. But though disappointed, Mr. Harris had wished her every happiness and assured her they parted friends.

  Daniel’s brow furrowed. “But . . . Edmund . . .”

  “I know.” She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. “But it cannot be helped. I cannot have him and you both.” She smiled tentatively. “And I want you.”

  When Daniel did not respond, she reached out and touched a button on his waistcoat, giving it a gentle tug. He released a long, jagged breath. “Charlotte . . . are you quite certain?”

  She nodded.

  Shaking his head in wonder, he slowly reached out and cradled her face with his long, sensitive fingers. He leaned close, his blue-green eyes wide through his spectacles. He whispered, “I am afraid to believe it.”

  She looked into those eyes and urged, “Believe.”

  His gaze melded with hers for a long moment before lowering to her mouth. His eyes drifted closed behind a curtain of golden eyelashes and he kissed her gently. Then more deeply.

  Then again.

  They were married by special license a mere fortnight later. Daniel’s father was there with them, of course, proud and happy, Mrs. Krebs at his side. Aunt and Uncle Tilney also attended, as did Thomas and Sally, who smiled and wept throughout the entire ceremony.

  Though invited, the Reverend Mr. Lamb did not attend, nor did Beatrice. Charlotte felt their absence, but not too keenly. She was busy embracing all the joy and passion of her wedding day and married life.

  Even so, Charlotte regretted that she was never able to reconcile with her father. The Reverend, as distant and unforgiving as ever, died shortly after she and Daniel moved to Doddington. A kindly new vicar took his place and gladly welcomed Charlotte back into the church of her childhood.

  Beatrice also remained distant. Through Mr. Harris, Charlotte learned that Bea married a naval officer many years her senior and resided in London. Bea did send a brief note one Christmas, enclosing their mother’s butterfly brooch. Charlotte’s thank-you note and other letters remained unanswered.

  Charl
es Harris did not remarry. His mother, Mrs. Harris, rallied and provided Edmund a healthy regimen of maternal influence and nurturing over the years. Edmund spent a good deal of time with his grandmother in Doddington, and Charlotte was able to see him at village events or on the rare occasion Daniel was called upon to treat some childhood ailment or other.

  Edmund had even played with Anne now and then when they were young and seemed to enjoy the company of Daniel and Charlotte as well. If he ever wondered at the reason for their heightened interest and many kindnesses, he never voiced the question.

  He remained, of course, completely unaware of his relationship to Charlotte. Hearing her son call her merely “Mrs. Taylor” was always bittersweet, but she resigned herself to living with that particular ache for the rest of her days.

  Charlotte’s close relationship with Anne did a great deal to soothe that ache. Daniel’s daughter knew about Lizette but had recently confided that Charlotte had always been mother to her, even before she and her father had married. At Daniel’s encouragement, Anne had long ago stopped using the endearment “Missy” and began calling Charlotte “Mother.” Every time she heard it, she paused to savor the sound and think, What a lovely word.

  EPILOGUE

  When Edmund Harris found me in my office and asked permission to marry my daughter Anne, I was at first astounded, then utterly amazed. The poor lad took my expression as hesitance and looked quite miserable. For one flicker of a moment I saw Charles Harris in the young man’s face and thought of disappointing him in some sort of belated revenge for the obstacles his father had placed between Charlotte and me. But I quickly banished the petty thought. Thinking instead of Charlotte, as well as Anne, I warmly assured him of my blessing.

  I follow behind now as Edmund goes to find Charlotte to tell her the news himself. I want to witness this moment from afar, so as not to intrude on their reunion.

  I see them in the garden, standing close in conversation. Stepping nearer, I am just in time to hear Edmund’s words to Charlotte.