Lady of Milkweed Manor (43 page)

“Milk flow is excellent,” he called over his shoulder. “The … everything … looks quite perfect.”

He returned his gaze to her face. Although Charlotte was relieved beyond words not to have to expose herself fully, she was still too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

“You may redo your things, Miss Lamb. I apologize for the „ inconvenience.

Charlotte quickly repositioned her gown. “Why do I not nurse him right now?” she said, attempting to regain her composure. “Have you another room I might use?”

“Yes, of course.”

Charlotte sat in a chair in a small examination room, nursing the babe who suckled with desperate voracity. The sensation was both relieving and slightly painful. She hoped he would be gentler in subsequent feedings.

The young wife watched with eyes wide, not averted as politeness might have dictated. “You are perfect,” she breathed.

Charlotte did not know how to respond to such a shocking remark. The young woman clearly realized what she had said, for her face flushed pink. “I only meant, compared to me …”

“I’m sure you are fine.”

“No. I am not.”

When Charlotte next glanced up from Crispin’s fuzz-covered head, she was stunned to see that Mrs. Henshaw had unfastened the nursing panel of her gown. Charlotte glimpsed dark purple bruises before the young woman closed the panel again. Charlotte’s shock was replaced by compassion.

“Oh, you poor dear! No wonder you cannot nurse Crispin. How painful that must be!”

“The physician thinks I may have some infection. All I know is that I cry out in pain when I try to nurse my son. Crispin starts crying then, too, and Mr. Henshaw starts shouting.”

Charlotte shook her head in pity.

“I do not blame him,” Mrs. Henshaw said. “What kind of woman cannot nurse her own child? He says his own mother nursed him, and he would not have his son farmed out to some crude, greedy peasant. Oh! Forgive me, I did not mean you-“

“It’s all right. I have heard such opinions before. You know, you are not the only woman to have trouble, Mrs. Henshaw.”

“Please. Call me Georgiana.”

“Very well, Georgiana. And you may call me Charlotte.”

“Thank you.”

“I have seen that once before. At the lying-in hospital.”

“You have? Is it curable?”

“Of course it is. I shall nurse Crispin for you for a few days while you heal. It appears that he has not been latching on properly.” Georgiana lowered her head and Charlotte hastened to add, “But how would you know if no one showed you? I realize women have been doing this since creation, but it does not always come as naturally as one might think.”

Georgiana attempted a smile. What a lovely, gentle expression she had. Charlotte liked Georgiana Henshaw very much, felt nearly as maternal toward her as she did toward little Crispin. Her husband, however-she’d prefer to have as few dealings with him as possible.

“My own mother is gone, I’m afraid,” Georgiana said wistfully.

“As is mine.”

“I have one sister. But she is far off in Newcastle. Have you a sister?”

“Yes. But she is far away from me as well.”

[Milkweed] has also been used in ancient times to poison arrows. It also induces vomiting in birds that eat the Monarch butterfly.

JACK SANDERS, THE SECRETS OF WILDFLOWERS

CHAPTER 28

is wife vomited daintily into the basin, then wiped her mouth with a lace handkerchief. It was a graceful act, nearly ladylike. At least until she swore.

“What is wrong?” Daniel asked.

“Nothing. I am only sick of this foul English food.”

“Are you all right now?”

“Oui maintenant. Why will Mrs. Beebe not allow Marie to cook our meals? If I must eat that wretched cabbage fried in mutton fat one more time, I shall spew out my soul.”

He chuckled and helped her to her feet.

“This is not funny. C’est terrible.”

“It isn’t that bad.”

“Not for you. You are here only at the week end. She saves the tripe mash and greasy cabbage until you are gone to London.”

He smiled. “Why do we not go to the inn in the village tomorrow. Kendall said the food there is fine.”

“I doubt they have anything that resembles cuisine in that little fishing village.”

“Well, let us venture there and find out, shall we?”

“I do not know if I shall feel up to it, Daniel. Let us see what tomorrow brings.”

“Dr. Taylor?”

He opened his eyes. Mrs. Beebe stood in the parlor doorway.

“Hmm?” He had fallen asleep in a chair, tired from the coach trip and the long nights at the Manor before. He glanced at the mantel clock. He’d been asleep for nearly an hour.

“I thought you should know-the missus has gone out in the rain.

“What?” He looked toward the window. The rain that had been pouring down all afternoon had slowed to a steady drizzle. “When?”

“A quarter hour or more.”

“Did she say-?”

Mrs. Beebe shook her head. “Didn’t say a word. I thought of sending Mr. Beebe, but after the way your missus chewed my ears after supper, he isn’t feeling too charitable toward her-if you know what I mean.”

“I understand. And I am sorry for it. I will go. Do not trouble yourself further. Mrs. Taylor has always liked the rain.”

This was not true, and he felt guilty for the lie as well as the motive behind it. He didn’t want others to realize-didn’t want to realize it himself. It is happening again….

He found his wife sitting on the bench overlooking the sea.

She sat perfectly still, her hair, dress, and face thoroughly soaked.

“Lizette, my love, what are you doing?”

“Trying to see France. Smell France. And, after that wretched supper, taste France. I cannot see it by day with this country’s ever-present fog and rain …”

“The channel is too wide here. I wish I could take you, but things are still too volatile-“

“But tonight I saw a light,” she said urgently, as if he hadn’t spoken. “On the horizon. I thought, voila! Bien sur! At night I can see France. I watched the light for a long time. It did not move. Just winked at me, called to me. I felt so happy. But then the light moved. Sailed closer and away down the coast. Just another stinking fishing boat. Bringing more stinking cod for your Mrs. Beebe to fry in her mutton fat.”

“You might have spoken more kindly to her.”

“I should repay with kindness the poison she feeds me? I can feel it, Daniel, filling my bowels and flowing through my veins. Poisoning me. Changing me. I used to be so … so different. So alive, so lovely.”

He knelt beside her. “You are still.”

“I used to be so happy too-remember?”

Tears filled his eyes. “I remember,” he said quietly. He laid his hands on her knees. The hot tears trailed down his cheeks, mingling with the cool raindrops on his face. “You will be happy again, my love. We will be happy again.”

The following afternoon, Marie brought in a tray of tea things, but Lizette waved the servant away. She picked up the book, glanced at a single line, and tossed it down again. She rose from the settee and stalked about the room, as restless as a creature caged.

Daniel lowered his own book. “Shall we go for a walk, my dear? Some exercise might do us both good.”

“What is the use?”

“We’ll take Anne. She always seems to enjoy a stroll in Mr. Beebe’s carriage.”

“Sally and Thomas Cox have already taken her for a walk.”

“Well, have you thought any more about having the neighbors over for tea?”

She expelled a dry laugh and rolled her eyes.

“Kendall assures me Mrs. Dillard and her lot are the worst of the village snobs. Our neighbors would be far kinder.”

“Why would they accept an invitation from me? I am nobody.”

“That is not true. You are a fine woman-you are my wife.”

“You are nobody as well.”

“Granted.”

“And you leave for London tomorrow, again, leaving me caged up in this strange house.”

“I shall stay if you prefer.” He paused. “One of my patients is expecting twins and I fear it shall be a difficult birth, but I am sure Preston can manage it.”

“That man is not fit to deliver goats. No, go. Go and do what you must.”

Five days later, the front door of Richard Kendall’s offices opened and in strode Lizette Taylor, beautifully turned out in crimson gown and feathered hat.

“Bonjour, Dr. Kendall.”

“Mrs. Taylor. This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you by?”

“Are we not well enough acquainted that I might visit without an appointment?”

“But of course we are. Is there something I might help you with?”

She looked at him, opened her mouth, hesitated, and then said, “Yes, there is. It is silly, really, a trifling complaint, but if you would not mind … ?”

“Of course not.”

She glanced toward the old man sitting near the door. “Should we not step into your private office?”

He followed her gaze. “Of course.” Then more loudly, to the man, he said, “I shall be with you shortly, Mr. Dumfries.”

He showed her into his office. “Now, what seems to be the problem? Are you not feeling well?”