Lady of Milkweed Manor

LADY of
IBM] I L K W E E D
MANOR

a novel

JULIE KLASSEN

BETHANY HOUSE PUBLISHERS
Minneapolis, Minnesota

Lady of Milkweed Manor Copyright O 2008 Julie Klassen Cover design by Jennifer Parker Cover photography: Mike Habermann Photography, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews. Published by Bethany House Publishers 11400 Hampshire Avenue South Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Pubishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan. Printed in the United States of America Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Klassen, Julie. Lady of Milkweed Manor / Julie Klassen. p. cm. ISBN 978-0-7642-0479-1 (pbk.) 1. Children of clergy Fiction. 2. Physicians Fiction. 3. London (England) Fiction. I. Title. PS3611.L37L33 2008 813’.6-dc22 2007034144

To my dear parents, whose unconditional love paved the way.

To the Milkweed

NONE call thee flower! I will not so malign
The satin softness of thy plumed seed,
Nor so profane thee as to call thee weed,
Thou tuft of ermine down,
Fit to entwine about a queen …
… Ah me! Could he who sings,
On such adventurous and aerial wings
Far over lands and undiscovered seas
Waft the dark seeds of his imaginings,
That, flowering, men might say, Lo! look on these
Wild Weeds of Song not all ungracious things!

SONNETS BY LLOYD MIFFLIN

PROLOGUE

-hen first I knew her, I thought her an amusing scrap of girl, silly and a bit grubby from her mornings spent in the gardens. When not pottering about out of doors, she seemed always to be reading some poetic nonsense or other and loved nothing more than to pose the most disturbing questions. Still, I liked her even then and, I think, she admired me. But her father took notice and pronounced me unsuitable, effectively pruning our young friendship before it could grow into anything. I soon forgot about Miss Charlotte Lamb. Or so I convinced myself.

Years passed, and when I saw her again she was altogether changed. Not only her situation, which had changed from privileged to piteous, but also her very substance. At least it seemed so to me.

Others would look at her with much different eyes. They would see, perhaps, a fallen woman at the deepest point of humiliation. A woman to be flicked off one’s sleeve like a disgusting worm. Or an insect to be tormented. Cruel, overgrown schoolchildren that many are, they seem to delight in ripping off one wing, then another, watching in morbid glee as she falls helpless to the ground.

To the gentler observer, she is a creature to be scorned at worst, ignored at best, but certainly not one to watch in hopeful anticipation. Day by day to witness her transformation amid the grime and cloying weight of her surroundings, not to wither nor shrink, but to unfurl, to become all that is sun and wind and flower and grace.

I, of course, can only watch from a safe distance-safe for us both. For me, now a married man, a physician of some note, a man of standing in town. And for her, whose reputation I am determined will suffer no more-not if it is in my power to prevent it.

Yet, as I watch her there among the milkweeds, I confess all these thoughts fade away. I think only of her.

How lovely she looks. Not abstractly beautiful, but perfectly fitted to the landscape, etched into a painting of purest golden glow above, and mad, overgrown garden below-gold, green, purpleheaven and earth. And there at the center, her still figure, looking not at me but at the distant horizon, where the sun is spilling its first fingers over the milkweed, over her milky skin, her hair, her gown.

The light moves toward me and I am stilled, speechless. A sharp barb of waiting fills my chest and I can barely breathe. If I don’t move, the light will touch me, the painting encompass me. If I step away, retreat into the shadows, I will be safe, but I won’t be there to see her when she finally flies away…

Dear God. Please guard my steps. And somehow bless Miss Charlotte Lamb.

That exquisite thing, the seed of milkweed, furnished abundant playthings. The plant was sternly exterminated in our garden, but sallies into a neighboring field provided supplies for fairy cradles with tiny pillows of silvery silk.

-ALICE MORSE EARLE, OLD-TIME GARDENS

Alas! And did my Saviour bleed,
And did my Sovereign die?
Would he devote that sacred head
For such a worm as I?

-ISAAC WATTS

The common milkweed needs no introduction. Its pretty pods are familiar to every child, who treasures them until the time comes when the place in which they are stowed away is one mass of bewildering, unmanageable fluff.

19TH CENTURY NATURALIST, F. SCHUYLER MATHEWS

CHAPTER I

rlwenty-year-old Charlotte Lamb laid her finest gowns into the trunk, pausing to feel the silken weight of the sky blue ball gown, her favorite -a gift from dear Aunt Tilney. With one last caress, she packed it carefully atop the others. Then came her promenade dresses, evening dresses, and gayer day dresses. Next were the coordinating capes, hats, and hair ornaments. Finally the long gloves, petticoats, and the new boned corset. Definitely the corset.