Lady of Milkweed Manor (26 page)

“Good evening, m’lady,” Sally said quickly.

“And how is my son this evening?” Lady Katherine asked, eyes only for her boy.

“His belly is full and his dreams sweet.”

Lady Katherine slanted a wry glance at Sally. “And how would you know the content of his dreams?”

“Oh, just look at him, m’lady. He’s got the look of peace about him. He sleeps the sleep of one with no worries. No twitchin’, no moamn.

“Well, let us hope he is this quiet during the churching tomorrow.”

Sally lifted the boy gently from her lap, offering him up to his mother. “Would you like to hold him?”

“Not tonight, I fear. We’re off to a small dinner party and I haven’t time to clean spittle-or worse-from my gown. You understand.”

“0’ course.”

Katherine turned and stepped back to the door, then paused. “Just listen to that wind. It will ruin my hair. Do find Edmund an extra blanket for the night. This house is so drafty when the wind blows.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

The townhouse was drafty, especially up on the higher floors. It was tall and narrow, like those adjoining it. Sally guessed their interiors were similar too, though she had little to base this on, as she had barely been out of the house since hiring on as Edmund’s nurse.

The warmest room in the house was the kitchen below stairs. Its high windows looked out onto a small herb garden, ruined this late in autumn. The dining room was on the main level, with large windows facing the street. On the first floor up were the drawing room, sitting room, and library; and on the second, the master and mistress’s bedchambers and dressing rooms. Above that were the nursery and two other bedrooms, and on the top level, the servant’s quarters. It had taken Sally weeks to get used to all the climbing of stairs. Her appetite since coming here had grown, and she’d overheard the cook grumbling more than once about how much she ate. ‘Tisn’t my fault, Sally thought, what with the milk I must give and all this added exercise.

Sally laid the sleeping child in his cradle and went searching for another blanket as her mistress had bid. This child already had more belongings than Sally herself had owned in her entire life. She dug through the wardrobe, then lifted the cover of the cedar chest behind the settee. She soon discovered a thick wool tartan and a small satin quilt. She ran her hands over each for the sheer pleasure of feeling the fine materials and textures. The silky ivory quilt felt cool to her touch, the wool scratchy but substantial. Surely the poor thing would sweat under either of those.

She dug farther. Near the bottom, she found a small blanket rolled up like a sausage. Curious, she pulled it from beneath the layers and unrolled it. The material was coarse-ordinary unbleached cotton. Just like the material the girls at Milkweed Manor used to stitch up blankets and nappies. She was surprised to see such a homely article in this chest of treasures. Had some poor relative given it as a gift, only for the thing to be stuffed to the bottom of the heap, with no hope of touching Edmund Harris’s delicate skin? She felt embarrassed for the foolish pauper, whoever she was.

But then the lamplight fell on the corner of the blanket and Sally’s fingers flew to trace the unusual stitching. She lifted the corner and inspected it closely. Why, she recognized this embroidery, this flower and pod. This was Charlotte’s work, surely. Wasn’t that the faintest hint of her initial C in the leaf of the flower? But how had Charlotte’s blanket … the one she had stitched for her very own child … ended up here, at the bottom of Lady Katherine’s cedar chest?

The door creaked open and Sally jerked awake. She had fallen asleep rocking Edmund. Lady Katherine and Mr. Harris stepped into the nursery, no doubt to check on their son after their evening out.

“What is that?” Censure obvious in her tone, Katherine stood beside the chair, looking down her nose at Sally.

“What?” Sally looked down at herself, then at Edmund, asleep in her arms.

“That filthy thing you’ve wrapped him in?”

“‘Tisn’t filthy, m’lady. Only plain.”

“Wherever did it come from?”

Mr. Harris stepped closer, quickly looking from the blanket, to Sally, to his wife, and then back to Sally. His face was somber.

“Perhaps Nurse brought it with her,” he suggested.

“No, sir, I found it in the chest.”

The father shrugged. “It might be from the hospital. It was cold that night, and I believe the physician might have sent Edmund home bundled up in an extra blanket or two.”

“The hospital? Well, get it off him, then. Who knows how filthy the thing is.”

“I’m sure it’s been laundered,” Mr. Harris assured her. “During „ your recovery.

“Still … we have all these fine lovely blankets,” Katherine walked to the cedar chest herself and lifted its lid. “Please use these.”

“Yes, m’lady.” Sally bobbed her head.

Lady Katherine selected the ivory satin quilt, and realizing her mistress meant now, Sally quickly unwound the hospital blanket from the infant. Lady Katherine handed her the quilt and took the embroidered blanket from her with two fingers held far from her body. She furrowed her brow and brought it closer to her face. “That’s odd …”

“What is?” Mr. Harris asked.

“This stitching. I have seen something very like it before.”

“All stitching’s alike to me. It’s late-come to bed.”

“Very well. Dispose of this for me, please.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

Sally folded up the offending blanket but could not bring herself to discard it. After her employers left the room, she shoved it back down into the bottom of the chest.

Charlotte hired a hansom using the few bank notes her aunt had slipped into her hand prior to her recent departure. She knew she should not go. But she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Once more leaving Anne in Mae’s capable hands and donning her large brimmed bonnet, she stepped into the hansom and gave the driver the simple directions.

She had received her aunt’s note just yesterday. Knowing now that her niece had an ally in Dr. Taylor, Amelia Tilney had sent him a brief letter of gratitude, thanking him for alerting her to Charlotte’s situation and within that note, enclosed another addressed to Charlotte herself. Her aunt had thought to cheer her, Charlotte supposed, with her news. But she had not.

My Dear Charlotte,

I thought it might please you to know that two you have long held dear are celebrating the joyful occasion of the birth of a son. We all feared how your cousin Katherine would do, considering her somewhat advanced age and the discomfort she experienced late in her lying-in. But I know you will be happy to hear that all is well and Charles and Katherine have a little son they have named Edmund. I understand Katherine is to be churched this Wednesday at St. George’s Hanover Square. They have even graciously included your uncle and I in their plans for a christening dinner in honor of the occasion. Our old friend Lord Elton will also attend, so it will no doubt be a grand celebration. I am sure if things were different, you would have been invited as well. But let us think only on the joy of such news, in hopes that you will glean hope that life indeed goes on. It was a difficult lesson for me, but I hope to ease your way a little if I might. So please take this news with the happiness intended….

The letter went on to explain that after her recent visit to the manor, Aunt Tilney had instructed her driver to take her directly to Crawley to speak with her aunt personally, and yes, Margaret Dunweedy was still perfectly happy and willing to receive Charlotte and the child. But Charlotte’s mind was focused on the news of the churching to be held not so very far from the manor.

Charlotte arrived at St. George’s early, passed between the columns of the portico, and entered the grand church through a side door as discreetly as possible. She tiptoed through the entry hall, hoping to diminish the echo of her boots on the stone paving, and climbed the curved rear staircase to the upper gallery. Selecting a box to the rear, where she could see but hopefully remain unseen, she quietly opened its latch and sat on the bench. Below her, she saw a portly cleric lighting candles near the front altar, but otherwise there seemed to be no one about.

A quarter of an hour later, the center doors opened and a small group of gaily-dressed women entered, chattering and laughing like a clutch of hens. Charlotte recognized one of Katherine’s friends but none of the other regal ladies. There was Katherine in the center of them, wearing a pale blue walking dress and a fur-trimmed cape. A blue hat ornamented with feathers crowned her head. In her arms, she held a babe … Charlotte’s babe, gowned even more lavishly than his attendants, in flowing white satin. As the women chatted amongst themselves, Charlotte heard bits of their plans to visit an elegant tearoom after the churching.

An Anglican priest in flowing robes entered and the women hushed. He directed them to a small chapel beside the chancel, its size conducive to the intimate gathering. There Katherine kneeled, as directed by the Book of Common Prayer, and the service began. Having grown up a vicar’s daughter, Charlotte knew the service was formally named the “Thanksgiving of Women after Childbirth.”

“‘For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of His goodness to give you safe deliverance, and hath preserved you in the great danger of childbirth: you shall therefore give hearty thanks unto God,”’ the priest intoned.

Katherine responded, “‘I am well pleased that the Lord hath heard the voice of my prayer. The snares of death compassed me round: and the pains of hell got hold upon me.”’

Charlotte unconsciously mouthed the familiar words along with her cousin. She was touched by the unexpected humility of Katherine’s audible response. She had long known Katherine to be cynical of religion, but her declaration seemed wholly sincere.

“`Oh, Almighty God,”’ the priest continued, “`which hast delivered this woman thy servant from the great pain and peril of childbirth: Grant, we beseech thee, most merciful Father, that she through thy help, may both faithfully live and walk in her vocation, according to thy will in this life present …”’

This part of the service did not apply to her, Charlotte realized with a dull ache. Katherine was being exhorted to remain faithful to her husband and to bear other heirs for him. Charlotte swallowed back remaining dregs of bitterness.

” `… and also may be partaker of everlasting glory in the life to come: through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”’

Would Katherine bear more children? Even though she was older and had experienced such a difficult childbirth? Katherine believed a healthy child had resulted from the ordeal … so would Edmund yet have a brother or sister? Or would he grow up an only child?

“`Children,”’ continued the priest as he delivered the liturgy, ” are an heritage and gift that cometh of the Lord. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.”’

Charlotte sat and waited as Katherine’s friends filed cheerfully from the church, their heels and laughter echoing in the lofty space. Katherine paused to thank the cleric, then turned and followed after the others. Charlotte watched until Katherine and Edmund disappeared from view beneath the gallery railing.

Then her tear-filled gaze fled to a carving of Mary holding the infant Jesus and, above, the magnificent painting of Jesus at the Last Supper. She stared at the images as Katherine’s footsteps faded away below. Charlotte felt her lips part and her chest tighten. She had spent her life in a church not unlike this one, but this was the first time she had been so deeply struck by the immensity of what God had done in giving up His only Son. How did you do it? she breathed, tears running down her cheeks. Of course she knew the situations were beyond compare. God’s sacrifice had saved countless multitudes. Hers, only one precious child.

A few days after the churching, Katherine pulled the longforgotten handkerchief from beneath the sachet in her drawer. How long had it lain there, concealed? The smell of musty lilac was heavy on the material, its folds now permanent creases. She turned it over and there it was. The unusual flower, the pod, the curve of the leaf resembling the letter C. Yes … this was a C and now she remembered. This was Charlotte’s signature. Cousin Charlotte, who detested needlework but had nevertheless made a pretty handkerchief for Katherine as a gift for some birthday or Christmas many years ago now.