Lady of Milkweed Manor (5 page)

“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.”

Understanding dawned on the man’s kind face and he, too, smiled gently at her. “Come here, if you like, Charlotte. Would you like to listen to your mother’s heart?”

She nodded, all seriousness, and walked to the bed. She sat beside Dr. Webb and laid her ear on her mother’s bosom.

“A bit higher there. Do you hear it?”

Charlotte had closed her eyes and listened, and there, a dull ta-toom, ta-toom, ta-toom. “I hear it!” she’d declared proudly, relieved in more ways than one.

As delightful as the memory was, when Charlotte imagined Dr. Taylor pressing his head to her chest, her palms began sweating.

From his case, he extracted a wooden tube, a device she had never seen before.

“A physician friend of my wife’s made this. He’s still working to perfect the design. Still, it’s amazing how much better I can hear with this simple tube than I can with my ear alone.”

He stepped closer and bent near. He looked into her face. “It also lends a bit of propriety, which patients seem to appreciate.” He lifted one side of his mouth in an awkward grin, then bent to his task. Charlotte took a deep breath and held it, aware of his nearness, aware of the strangeness of the situation to be alone with Daniel Taylor, unchaperoned, so close to him-all of which would be highly inappropriate in any other setting. She felt the tube press against her chest, just above her left breast, and she involuntarily started. The device was not terribly long, so he had to bring his head to within six or seven inches of her body to listen. She released a ragged breath and drew in a shallow one in return, finding it difficult to breathe.

“Fine. Now I will attempt to hear the heart of the fetus as well. Has the babe been active?”

“Yes, quite.”

He pressed the tube with firm pressure against her abdomen and listened intently. He repositioned it slightly and listened again. “There he is.” He listened a moment longer. “Strong and steady.”

Charlotte smiled. “Do you call all unborn babes `he’?”

“I don’t know. Don’t think so.”

“I do think it is a boy. Just a feeling I have. I suppose all ladies in confinement say such things?”

“Yes, and they are often right.”

“Are they?”

He grinned. “About half of the time.” Then his grin faded. “Well, next I would normally palpate the” he waved his hands over her abdomen-“uh … area. And examine … other areas as well.” He swallowed, “However, I think, considering your general health and the quickening of the babe, that this has been sufficient for today.” He stepped back, and Charlotte slumped a bit on the table, relieved.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and Dr. Taylor leapt eagerly to answer it. Charlotte couldn’t see whom he spoke with through the partially opened door, but she could hear much of the muted conversation.

“You’re wanted above stairs.”

“Is there a problem?”

“I’m afraid … quite upset.”

“I see. I shall be up directly.”

He shut the door and looked back at Charlotte. “I’m wanted elsewhere, Miss Lamb-excuse me, Miss Smith.”

Charlotte lowered herself from the table.

“Gibbs will alert you to our next appointment.”

She nodded.

“Good day,” he said, and turned to leave.

“Good day,” she answered, but he was already gone.

The poor collect milkweed down and with it fill their beds, especially their children’s, instead of feathers.

PETER KALM, 1772

CHAPTER 4

harlotte read the letter in the garden, which, mess though it ► was, offered her a bit of privacy-something sorely lacking within the manor itself. Gibbs had handed it to her with a simple, “Letter, miss.” And while Charlotte should have been pleased to receive it, especially because the fine, feminine handwriting was clearly her aunt’s, she trembled as she carefully peeled it open. Somehow she knew it bore ill tidings. What else could she expect at present? Surely her father hadn’t forgiven her, asking through Aunt Tilney for Charlotte to come home. She knew this, and still her hands trembled as she read.