Lady of Milkweed Manor, Page 3

  “’Course he has,” Mae said.

  “Can’t tell it the way he turned red as a robin when he looked me over last month.” Bess crossed her arms smugly.

  Mae ignored this. “But if you get the other, Dr. Preston, I’m afraid you’re in for it,” she said. “He seems to like dressing us girls down.”

  “Undressing us down, you mean.”

  Just then Charlotte recognized young Becky as she walked quickly through the room, head down, face flushed red, shawl and arms pulled tight across her bosom like a shield of wool and adolescent muscle. Sally followed Charlotte’s gaze and clucked sympathetically.

  “Becky, poor girl, come sit with us,” Sally called. “Can I pour you a cup o’ tea?”

  But the girl only shook her head swiftly, eyes on the floor, as she walked past them and out the other door.

  “Whatever is the matter?” Charlotte asked. “Is she ill?”

  “She was right as rain before her appointment,” Mae said.

  Gibbs reappeared in the doorway and Charlotte’s heart began thudding in her chest. The needle slipped in her sweating hands and she set her work down, wiping her palms across her lap. If this man did not conduct himself properly, she would give him a piece of her mind. Just because she had made one mistake did not mean she would make another. She took a deep breath. Still she could not calm herself. She felt so vulnerable, so removed from those who would protect her.

  Gibbs walked toward her, and Charlotte took another deep breath. The woman’s face was a mask of somber efficiency, but Charlotte thought she glimpsed some darker emotion there as well. Anger? Annoyance? Had Charlotte done something wrong? When Gibbs stopped at the table Charlotte rose from her chair.

  “You may return to your work, Miss Smith. Dr. Preston has been . . . called away suddenly and cannot see you this morning after all. We shall reschedule for tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I see.” Charlotte exhaled. “Thank you.”

  Gibbs turned on her heel and strode back toward the offices. Charlotte sank back into her chair, feeling foolishly relieved. Across the table, Sally winked at her.

  Charlotte returned to her stitching but found herself thinking about her mother, who had spent a great deal of time in the company of surgeons and physicians in the final years of her life. Her mother had enjoyed a friendly camaraderie with her physicians and never feared their presence. Portly Dr. Webb, a respected and kindhearted doctor, had called on her so often as to become nearly a friend to the family. The only thing Charlotte had feared from him was a final diagnosis for her mother.

  Dr. Webb had brought to the Doddington vicarage a succession of colleagues and apprentices. The colleagues were stuffy older men—Cambridge professors or renowned London physicians come to offer their opinion on her mother’s condition. These men offered benign greetings to Charlotte in passing. The apprentices were young men who seemed determined to prove themselves, so most rarely condescended to speak with a young girl, and of course, Charlotte was never examined by any of them. Actually, Charlotte had been such a healthy girl that she had rarely been treated by anyone. Her mother had cared for her minor ailments, and she had never broken a bone. The only time she had seen a surgeon was when she had fallen into a fox hole while running through the sheep pasture behind the churchyard. Her parents had feared her ankle broken, but the surgeon—she didn’t recall his name—declared it only sprained.

  There was one apprentice who did speak with Charlotte, though granted, he was a bit older than most of Dr. Webb’s apprentices. Daniel Taylor was his name. He was tall and very thin, with –reddish-blond hair and the palest of skin. She could not think of him without both a smile and a painful wedge of guilt pressing against her stomach. She always seemed to say the wrong thing, and inevitably his boyish face would blush a deep apple red, a brighter hue than his rust-colored hair. But still, he must have admired her. She was certain he did, at least until her father made his disapproval so mercilessly clear. Mr. Taylor left Kent with barely a good-bye and, she feared, the impression that her own opinion of him matched her father’s. Something the vicar had no doubt implied.

  Charlotte pricked her finger with the needle and gasped. Eyes from around the table rose up in question. She held up her finger, the spot of blood growing big as a beetle. She smiled dolefully at the others. “One should never daydream with sharp implements in one’s hand.”

  Bess rolled her eyes and the others returned to their work, but Charlotte found herself morbidly fascinated with the mounding blood. She lifted her finger and watched the blood run down into her palm. Life-giving liquid, she thought oddly. God’s milk.

  Poor woman! how can she honestly be breeding again?

  —JANE AUSTEN, LETTER TO HER SISTER, 1808

  CHAPTER 3

  The next morning Charlotte awoke before either Mae or Becky, driven by nerves to prepare herself for the visit with the dreaded Dr. Preston. Would he really require her to remove her clothing? She shuddered. Worse yet, would he question her about how she came to be in this place?

  She bathed herself with a rough cloth and cold water from the washbasin, cleaned her teeth, and brushed and pinned her hair. It crossed her mind that she should attempt to make herself appear as unattractive as possible, considering the girls’ comments about Dr. Preston’s character. But she doubted anyone could find her attractive in her present condition. Rather, she felt the need to arm herself with good grooming and her best dress, as though to show the man that she was not just another poor, uneducated girl he could manipulate. The thought pricked her conscience as surely as the needle had pricked her finger. Did she feel herself above the other girls? Yes, she admitted to herself, she did—even as she acknowledged the hypocrisy of the thought. Forgive me. Wasn’t she just another poor—though not uneducated, certainly naïve—girl, alone in the world and at men’s mercy? She shook off the unsettling thought. Please protect me, almighty God.

  After breakfast, Charlotte again joined the other women at the sewing table. She glanced around nervously and was relieved when she didn’t see Gibbs anywhere about. Perhaps the doctor was still indisposed. But no sooner had she begun her second stocking than Gibbs and her ledger appeared before Charlotte.

  “The doctor will see you first this morning.” Gibbs glanced at the clock on the mantel. “He is expected directly. I will let you know the moment he’s ready.”

  Charlotte swallowed and nodded.

  Bess and Mae exchanged knowing looks. Bess snorted and Mae covered a giggle with her freckled hand.

  “Hush, now,” Sally admonished gently. “Dr. Preston is gentlemanlike most of the time. If you ask me, ’tis that other doctor what gives me the shivers.”

  “The old one or Dr. Young?”

  “Young. He looks at you with those cold eyes and ’tis as if they’ve got no feelin’ in them. Ice like. Like he’s . . . gutting fish instead of tending people.”

  “Better cold eyes than warm, roamin’ hands,” Bess muttered.

  “Here he comes,” Mae whispered.

  “Which one is it?” Bess shifted in her seat to try to see past Sally.

  “Young,” Mae supplied.

  Charlotte turned her head with dread to look at the man entering. She took in a tall, thin man in coat and hat, with hard, pointed features and somber expression, neither much softened by the small round spectacles he wore. Even before she could get a good look at his face, something about his demeanor made her stomach clench. He removed his hat just as he pulled open a door partway down the passageway. When the sunlight from a nearby window shone on his rust-blond hair, a jolt of recognition stunned her. Mr. Taylor. It had to be. Mr. Taylor, here? Now? To examine her? It could not be! She pressed her fingers to her brow and groaned as he swept out of view.

  Sally leaned close. “Did I not tell you? Ice.”

  “At least it’s not Preston,” Mae said.

  “I cannot,” Charlotte whispered.

  “You ’ave to, love,” Sally soothed.

  “But I
. . . know him.”

  “Know him?” Bess asked sharply. “Biblically-speakin’, you mean?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I thought you said you hadn’t been here before,” Mae said.

  “I haven’t.”

  “Then how’d you know him?”

  An inner plea for caution rose up in Charlotte and she changed tack. “Perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps I do not know him.” Perhaps her eyes had played tricks with her mind. After all, no one had actually mentioned the name Taylor.

  “Dr. Taylor will see you now, Charlotte.” The matron, Mrs. Moorling, appeared and her no-nonsense voice dampened Charlotte’s spirit yet pulled her to her feet. “Dr. Preston has yet to appear this morning—I’ve sent Gibbs to find him. Come, come, we haven’t all day.” The woman should command armies rather than this sorry gaggle of expecting females. Hurrying to catch up, Charlotte followed the older woman down the passageway.

  “Mrs. Moorling. I am sorry,” Charlotte said, struggling to keep pace, “I don’t mean to be difficult, but I really cannot be examined by Mr. Taylor. . . .”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I . . .” She hesitated. What would be gained by telling the matron that she knew Daniel Taylor? Would that somehow risk her anonymity? Would the matron ask more questions than Charlotte wanted to answer?

  “It does not seem, well, proper. He is so young, and I . . .”

  “Miss Smith. Dr. Taylor may look young, but I assure you he’s well educated—more than most. He is also a married man and completely respectable. Again, more than most.” Her voice carried a hard edge.

  But Charlotte was still striving to grasp what the matron had just said. Mr. Taylor was married. Somehow that both troubled her and eased her mind greatly, for the present predicament as well as the past.

  “If it were another physician, I might offer to stay in the room with you, but I have a long list of duties that require my attention and, I assure you, you are in perfectly good hands.”

  Terrifying choice of words, Charlotte thought.

  Mrs. Moorling opened the office door for her, and taking a deep breath, Charlotte stepped inside.

  He was sitting at a plain but large desk, reading some documents on its surface. She took a few steps forward, then stood silently before the desk, waiting for him to address her. He squinted at the paper before him and did not look up.

  “Miss Smith, is it?”

  “Ah . . . um . . .”

  “Miss Charlotte . . .” He glanced up at her then, and his lips parted slightly. “. . . Smith?” The question in his tone was obvious, and in that moment in which he sat there, unmoving, staring at her, she saw the ice of his expressionless blue-green eyes melt and then freeze over again.

  “Miss Smith. Do sit down.” His eyes fell back to the papers, and he picked up his pen and dipped it into the ink.

  She sat and primly folded her hands in her lap. Did he not recognize her after all? She felt relieved yet mildly hurt at the thought. Was she so changed in the years since they had last seen each other? He had changed but was clearly the man she had once known. His hair was a bit thinner at his forehead, the rust-brown stubble on his cheeks more noticeable, the shoulders broader, but his face was still as angular as ever. What had changed most were his eyes. Gone was that teasing spark she remembered so fondly, and all warmth with it, or so it seemed.

  “Age . . . twenty?”

  She found her voice. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “And this is your first pregnancy?”

  She cringed with shame at the baldness of his words. “Yes.”

  “When was your last monthly flow?”

  Never had a man broached such a topic with her! Never had a woman, for that matter. Such things were not spoken of. She was too stunned to speak.

  At her obvious hesitancy, he rose to his feet, but his eyes seemed trained beyond her. “Look here, I heard your little conversation with Mrs. Moorling. If you’d rather wait and see Dr. Preston, that is perfectly all right by me. I shall tell Mrs. Moorling myself.”

  “No!” The urgency with which she spoke surprised them both, and he silently sat back down. Embarrassed by her outburst as well as the whole mortifying situation, Charlotte sat staring at her hands, yet felt the man’s silent scrutiny.

  She took a deep breath and whispered, “The second of January.”

  She heard the scratching of his quill.

  “And Smith. That is your . . . married . . . name?”

  She swallowed, completely humiliated. This man who, she believed, had once admired her was now—if he recognized her at all—thanking the Lord above that her father had so thoroughly discouraged him. And she couldn’t blame him. “I am . . . not married.”

  Dr. Taylor hesitated, eyes on the paper, then put down his pen. He looked up at her, his professional facade gone, his expression earnest.

  “Good heavens, Charlotte, what on earth are you doing here?”

  Charlotte sighed. “I should think that painfully obvious.”

  He winced. “Forgive me. I only meant this is not a place for you, a girl with your family, your connections.”

  She opened her mouth, but the words “I no longer have either” wouldn’t form over the hot coal lodged in her chest and the tears pooling in her eyes. She bit her lip to try to gain control over herself.

  She would not seek pity.

  “As bad as all that, then?”

  She bit her lip again but only nodded.

  “I am very sorry to hear it. I suppose your father, being a clergyman, took it very hard.”

  Again, she nodded.

  “Still, there’s not a one of us who hasn’t made some foul error or other. All like sheep astray and all that.”

  She could only look at him, speechless.

  “I’ve had a taste of your father’s rejection, if you remember. I mean no disrespect, but I cannot say I’d wish that on anyone, much less you.”

  She managed a slight smile through her tears.

  “I don’t wish to insult you, but I assume that every attempt has been made to garner some arrangement, some responsibility or recompense?”

  “Please. There is nothing to be done, and even if there were, I should not like to pursue it.”

  “Still, there are legal actions in such cases, if the man—”

  She shook her head.

  “You claim no injury, then?”

  She closed her eyes against the shame her answer brought with it. “I cannot.”

  “Still, though you be a party to it, there remain courses of action to secure your support.”

  “Please. I do not wish to speak of it further. You can be assured that my father and my uncle, a solicitor himself, have discussed these matters with me thoroughly. Exhaustively.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Everyone has urged, even begged me to reveal the man so they might work on him.”

  “You have not told them who the man is?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Because it will do me and my child absolutely no good . . . and it will harm others.”

  “A married man, then?”

  She swallowed. “He is now.”

  “Miss Lamb. Charlotte. Have you considered—”

  “Mr. Taylor, excuse me, Dr. Taylor, I have already told you far more than I should. More than I’ve told anyone else.” She looked up at him, then back down at her hands. “You always did have that effect on me.”

  “Make you chatter on? I’d rather have had a different effect on young ladies in those days.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “Then let us speak of it no more. Though I do appreciate your concern.”

  “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “We have an examination to conduct.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, feeling her heart begin pounding again.

  “Well, first of all, I need to ask you a few questions about your medical history and the like.”

  �
�All right.”

  “If I remember correctly, you were a most healthy girl. Any medical problems since? Illnesses, serious injury?”

  She shook her head.

  “And, since your . . . condition. Any pain, light-headedness, swelling of extremities?”

  She thought of her ankles, not as thin as they once were. “Nothing to speak of.”

  “You have been seen by another physician prior to coming here?”

  “Only one time.”

  “Dr. Webb, was it?”

  She shook her head again. “Father wouldn’t hear of me seeing anyone local. He was sure word would get out. I saw a surgeon, a Mr. Thompkins, when I was in Hertfordshire with my aunt.”

  “And how long ago was this?”

  “Three…nearly four months now. He was brought in only to confirm that I was indeed, well, as I am.”

  “Well, here we examine patients weekly once they’re as far along as you are.”

  “I see.”

  “Now, I notice that you are showing surprisingly little for someone as progressed as you are.”

  “Which has been a blessing until now.”

  “Yes, I can understand that. But, have you had difficulty eating, keeping foods down?”

  “I haven’t much appetite lately, but I do try to eat.”

  “All right. Now I do need to do a physical exam. To start, I will auscultate you.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Sorry. Listen to your heart.”

  He tapped the tall table. “Please, have a seat here.”

  She complied and sat as straight as she could, rearranging her skirts around her, self-conscious of her bulging middle, her plain dress, her hair escaping its practical pinning. She had a sudden flash of memory, of peering through the keyhole as a young girl and seeing Dr. Webb lying over her mother’s body, head on her chest. Charlotte had been quite shocked and had burst into the room, ready to defend her mother’s honor.

  “What are you doing?” she’d cried, her affront ringing in the room. Dr. Webb sat up quickly, stunned at her outburst. But mother only smiled gently. “It’s all right, my dear. Dr. Webb is only listening to my heart, to see if the old thing is still working.”