Lady of Milkweed Manor (10 page)

“This garden is overrun with milkweeds, as you can well see. I understand gardening is not a priority in such a place, but-“

“You are quite mistaken, Miss Lamb. This garden is one of my priorities indeed.”

“There is little evidence of that.”

“Ahh … that is only because you are looking at it with the „ wrong eyes.

“Wrong eyes?”

“Yes, the eyes of a formal English gardener who adores box hedges and lilies and other lovely useless things.”

She opened her mouth, but he lifted a hand to ward off her rebuttal.

“Wait until you have heard me out. What do you know of milkweeds, Miss Lamb?”

“I read an article about them in one of Mother’s journals. It said French people actually plant them in their gardens. But I think most people do their best to eradicate them.”

“Yes, you look here and see a patch of pestiferous weeds-is that right?”

“Of course.”

“Yet I look here and see a plethora of elixirs and natural healing compounds that aid my work and soothe my patients.”

“Really?” Charlotte looked back at the milkweeds with skepticism.

“Really. The down of the seed can be used to dress wounds, and the milky sap creates an instant bandage that can be applied to various skin eruptions. A good root tea serves as a diuretic, expectorant, and a treatment for any number of medical conditions-including respiratory ailments, joint pain, and digestive problems. It serves as an invigorating tonic and helps with stomach problems, headaches, uterine pains, influenza, typhoid fever, and inflammation of the lungs. The sap can even heal warts with topical application.”

“You have memorized that entire list?”

He smiled. “You are not the first to question my garden.”

“I would imagine not.” She smiled back at him.

“Come, I will show you how to harvest the root.”

They had dug up only one plant, Dr. Taylor on his haunches to show her where to sever root from stalk, when Sally bolted out the foundling ward door waving her arms.

“Dr. Taylor, do come quick!”

Charlotte noticed he did not question Sally. The urgency in her tone was enough for him to leap to his feet and run toward her. Charlotte followed, though more slowly, the uprooted plant hanging limply in her hand.

Once inside, she heard a woman crying out and shrieking, and old Mrs. Krebs giving orders in her lower-pitched tones.

“What’s happened?” Charlotte asked a white-faced Sally.

“Her baby’s died.”

“Oh no.”

They tiptoed forward and saw Mrs. Krebs trying to console a distraught young woman Charlotte had never seen before.

“Who is she?”

“She came to the door last night, asking to be a nurse,” Sally began earnestly. “But both Mrs. Krebs and Mrs. Moorling was out for the evening, and Gibbs told her she’d need to come back in the morning. I thought she looked desperate-like, even offered to work without wages, but Gibbs wouldn’t hear of it and sent her on her way. Well, this morning she comes back first thing and Mrs. Krebs takes pity on her and lets her start right away. I was helping handfeed, you know, and I watched her. I seen how she went from crib to crib, looking not at the babes’ faces but at their feet! Mrs. Krebs comes and puts a baby in her arms and points to the first rocking chair, and the poor dear sits down and starts to nurse the little one, and I see her work the wee one’s foot out of its bundling and look close-like at the heel. That’s when I figgered it.”

“Figured what?”

Dr. Taylor reappeared and gave the woman a dose of laudanum.

“Just this morning I had to wrap up a babe what died in the night,” Sally continued. “And for some reason, I found myself looking at the little angel’s perfect wee hands and perfect wee feet. That’s when I seen the little black mark on ‘er heel. Tar, most like. Marked by its mama, so she could find her own again.”

Charlotte watched as Dr. Taylor and Mrs. Krebs ushered the woman, still weeping and moaning, into one of the small sleeping rooms down the passageway.

“I shouldna told her, Charlotte. I should’ve found some tar or coal and marked some other poor babe’s heel. She wouldna known and the both of them be better off now.”

“It’s not your fault, Sally. You did what you thought best.”

Sally swiped at a tear and shook her head, clearly not convinced.

Charlotte had difficulty sleeping that night. She turned slowly and heavily in the swaybacked bed, trying in vain to find a comfortable position and to lure the sweet spiral of sleep.

She heard a muffled call from somewhere in the manor, followed by running footsteps down the corridor. Thinking again of the poor babe who died in the night, Charlotte arose from bed, lit a candle, and made her way to the foundling ward. As soon as she opened the heavy door, the sound of crying reached out to her. She stepped in quickly, shutting the door behind her.

Was this the crying she had heard those other nights? Not likely this far from her room. She moved to the first room of sleeping infants. One was crying, and another awoke to join the first, the cries mingling in an ear-piercing refrain. Charlotte stepped back into the hall and saw a mobcapped Mrs. Krebs struggling to fix a feeding tube with sleep-smeared eyes. “Go and fetch Ruthie for me, will you, Charlotte? It’s her turn. Second door on the right.”

Charlotte soon returned with the sleepy red-haired woman, who sat down and began nursing the two crying infants. Charlotte walked down the row of cribs and saw another infant lying awake, a boy according to the small card with the child’s sex and date of admission pinned to the side of the crib. Occasionally a card contained a name, if the child had been given one, but it was rare. This little boy lay on his back, looking around the room peacefully, taking in the commotion with calm ease. Charlotte paused, looking down at the child, his eyes bright in the candlelight.

Mrs. Krebs sighed. “Fixed the feeder up for nothing, looks like. Usually when one cries a whole choir wake with it. But only two so far, and Ruthie can manage a pair on her own.”

“Would you mind if I fed this one?” Charlotte asked quietly.

“Isn’t fussing.”

“I know, but he’s awake and so am I.”

“Suit yourself.” Mrs. Krebs set the feeding tube on the table and left the room.

Charlotte picked up the swaddled infant, who seemed light as a kitten in her arms. She sat with him in the rocking chair nearest the table, and he immediately turned toward her, molding himself to her body. At first she pulled away, back pressed hard against the chair, feeling embarrassed as the infant rooted against her nightdress. She looked around, feeling guilty, though of what she wasn’t sure. But no one was watching. Ruthie was facing the other direction and seemed to have nodded off even while she nursed, and Mrs. Krebs had taken herself back to bed.

Charlotte relaxed and allowed herself to draw the infant close. She felt a sharp longing, and wished she could nurse this little one. She ran a finger along his smooth cheek and he turned toward it, taking its tip between his lips. The force of the suction was surprisingly strong. He took her finger farther in until she felt the wet ridges of the roof of his mouth and his tongue tugging along the underside of her finger. She wondered how it would feel, if it would hurt or be pleasant, when she finally nursed her own child.

“You’ll have to settle for goat’s milk tonight,” Charlotte whispered. She pulled her finger from his mouth with a slick popping noise and picked up the feeding tube from the nearby table. She adjusted it, lowering the open end toward the baby’s mouth.

“Here you are,” she murmured and smiled when the little one began drinking the milk in earnest.

“If you were my handsome boy, I would not let you out of my sight.” She closed her eyes as she fed the baby. Dear God in heaven, she silently prayed, please watch over this dear, helpless child.

Daniel Taylor stood in the darkness, watching Charlotte. Unable to return to sleep after a trying day and worse evening, he had roamed the manor’s corridors. As he passed through the quiet ward, he had been surprised to see her there, especially at this hour. Aware of his hasty dress and need of a wash and shave, he did not make his presence known. He had seen many women hand feed or nurse infants over the years from beautiful young girls to ancient nuns-why did he feel so oddly transfixed by the sight of Charlotte Lamb feeding a foundling?

Milkweeds are considered field pests, hard to eradicate and a threat to stock. But many people would just as soon have a patch of milkweed…. The French, in fact, imported them to their gardens in the 19th century.

JACK SANDERS, THE SECRETS OF WILDFLOWERS

CHAPTER 8

aniel Taylor helped his father into his Sunday coat, dusting off, then smoothing the shoulders and sleeves. His hands lingered a moment on his father’s upper arms. When had he become so slight? He felt the tremor running through the older man’s body and bit his lip. Today was no day for lectures.

“Come now, Father. Wash a bit and then we’ll go.”

John Taylor appeared far older than his fifty-five years as he hobbled over to the washbasin and bent low to wash his hands and face.

“Give your mouth a rinse as well.”

His father paused in his ablutions, then did as he was bid. When he finished he said quietly, “Perhaps I ought to stay in this morning.

“No, Father. You know the service does you good.”

“I’m not sure I’m feeling up to it.”

Daniel sighed quietly. He was torn between the temptation to feel relieved and go alone, knowing his association with his father would not help him build a thriving practice-at least not among those who could pay-and, of course, guilt at such a thought. He looked at his father, sitting on the edge of his bed now, and felt a combination of feelings too complicated to separate: mild revulsion, pity, anger, protectiveness, love.

“Let’s see,” Daniel began softly, stepping close to his father and lifting his chin gently, looking into his aging face. His eyes, though tired, were not bloodshot. He then laid his wrist against his father’s creased forehead. Warm but not feverish. From this angle above him, he noticed how thin his father’s hair was becoming on top and how several white tufts stood in disarray. Carefully, he smoothed down the errant hair, as methodically as if he were performing some important medical procedure.

“There now. The picture of health and decorum.”

John Taylor’s grin was bleak. “If only that were true, eh, my boy?”

“Come now, Father, we do not wish to be late.”

Daniel and his father sat on the high-backed bench in a box near the middle of the church -a box generously shared with them by the widow Mrs. Wilkins, originally with the evident purpose of introducing her grown daughter to an eligible physician. She had been too polite to rescind the invitation once she learned Daniel was already married. An easy mistake to make, he realized, considering no one in that church had ever seen his wife.

As the man in black began his sermon, Daniel’s attention wandered, as it usually did. If asked, he would likely acknowledge that he attended church because that was what respectable people did, and what a respectable physician was expected to do. His spirit received little nurture-nor conviction from the lofty sermons and formal hymns. He did not blame the Church of England. He knew the problem lay within his own soul.