Lady of Milkweed Manor (11 page)

As he sat there, his father listening attentively beside him, the hard bench digging into his spine, the man’s deep baritone took him to another church, another time.

How long ago was it? Five years, perhaps. He had just come from seeing Mrs. Lamb. Dr. Webb, eager to return home in time for tea, hurried on but urged him to take his time. He no doubt guessed Daniel was feeling low first from having been called by a teary-eyed lad to a dismal thatched cottage just that morning, only to find the grandmother already dead, and now the disappointing visit with Mrs. Lamb. Daniel was grateful to the older man and, indeed, felt the need for some solitude.

Walking away from the vicarage, Daniel passed the church and, on impulse, walked inside the empty, echoing old building. The age of the place continued to astound him-sections dated back to the twelfth century. He never tired of gazing upon the unique ornaments of the otherwise humble church chancel arch, double squint, mullioned windows, wall paintings of St. Francis and Henry the Third outlined in red ochre. He had attended services there the past Sunday and for a moment imagined he could still hear Mr. Lamb’s booming baritone reverberating within the stone walls as he delivered his sermon from the raised pulpit. But no, the place was utterly silent but for the crisp turning of a page. He turned his head and there, in a rear pew of the nave, in a spot clearly chosen for its wide swath of sunlight, sat a teenaged Charlotte Lamb.

“Miss Lamb.”

“Hello, Mr. Taylor. How fares my mother?”

“A bit weaker than usual, I’m afraid. But she seems in good spirits.”

“Mother always is. I only wish her health were as good as her spirits.”

Knowing it was not his place to reveal Dr. Webb’s prognosis, he changed the subject, nodding to the black book the girl held against her chest. “May I ask what you are reading so intently?”

“Well, it’s the Bible, as you see.”

“And do you like reading it?”

“Yes, of course. Don’t you?”

“I’m afraid I find some of it rather dusty, but there are parts I am quite fond of.”

“Which parts?”

“Oh, I like the Gospels, the Proverbs, and some of David’s Psalms-the desperate ones. And of course in secret …”

“Secret … ?”

He felt his face heat and knew he was blushing, “I was going to say the Song of Solomon, but I should not say it to you.”

“But you have already said it.”

“Forgive me.”

She turned to scan the south chapel, then looked back at him and whispered, “You have told me a secret. Now I shall tell you one. Shall I show you what I am truly reading?” She pulled out several folded pages that had been tucked into the Bible. “I am supposed to be reading the book of Numbers, but instead I am reading this letter over and over again.”

“It must be a very interesting letter.”

“More interesting than Numbers at any rate.”

“Is it … a love letter?”

“A love letter?” She ducked her head. “No. Not at all.”

“But you do … receive love letters … from time to time?”

“No. I have never.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for? I am only fifteen years old.”

“Quite right. Those should wait until you are at least …”

“Sixteen.”

“I quite agree.”

“This is only a letter from my dear aunt. I’m to stay with her the month of August, and I long for it. I am reading what she says we shall do and whom we shall likely see … all the while pretending to read this to please my father. Do you think me very wicked?”

“Never, Miss Lamb.”

“Father would. He says if we are all very good, and pray hard, Mother will get better. Do you think it true?”

“It’s certainly not fair.”

“Fair?”

“For your father to put that responsibility on you. Forgive me, I mean no disrespect, but do you really think God works that way? If we do the things we ought, He’ll preserve those we hold dear, but if we forget or neglect our duty, He’ll bring down calamity upon us and those we love?”

“I think perhaps you need to read the Old Testament more often.”

“Perhaps you are right. But I prefer the New.”

“Except for the Proverbs and most desperate of Psalms?”

He smiled, “And that other book, which shall remain nameless.”

Now Daniel became aware of the congregation standing around him and quickly joined them, glad to rise from the hard bench. He felt himself smile again at the memory, a smile quite out of place with the serious benediction.

That night, Charlotte dreamt that Dr. Webb was again listening to her mother’s heart. And, as she remembered him doing before, he asked her if she would like to listen as well. Smiling, Charlotte climbed up onto the bed, returning her mother’s serene smile, and laid her head against her mother’s chest. But her mother’s smile soon faded. Try as she might, Charlotte could not hear the heartbeat.

“Do you not hear it?” Dr. Webb demanded sternly.

“No,” Charlotte cried. “I cannot.”

It was her fault. If only she could position her head correctly, find the right spot to listen, if only she could hear it … but she could not, and so it beat no longer.

Charlotte awoke, her own heart pounding, a nauseous dread filling her body as the images and cloak of guilt filled her mind. The images soon faded, but that familiar, nauseating guilt remained. It expanded, accompanied now by new pressure in her abdomen, a pressure which soon grew into pain.

Charlotte rose gingerly and removed her nightclothes to dress for the day-and that was when she saw the small, dark red stain.

On shaky legs, she made her way to breakfast, ate little, and was soon sitting at the table with the other women, attempting to finish the blanket she was embroidering for her child. She found it difficult to concentrate. Then a second wave of pain struck.

At the urging of the other women, Charlotte made her way carefully to Mrs. Moorling’s office. When she had confided to the matron about the pains and the slight but frightful bleeding, Mrs. Moorling had immediately gone off in search of a physician to see her.

By now, Charlotte had been sitting in the office for a quarter hour or more, shifting on the hard chair, trying to get comfortable, rubbing her abdomen, hoping to somehow ease the tightness, the strange new pains.

Gibbs appeared in the doorway. “Dr. Preston has just arrived. He will see you directly.”

“Dr. Preston? Perhaps I could wait … see how I feel tomorrow.”

“Miss Smith. If you are bleeding, you had better not waste time.”

“Is it so serious?”

The woman shrugged. “Can be.”

Charlotte felt sick. “Very well.”

Gibbs led her down the corridor, through the workroom, and to the examination room. She opened the door and announced without expression, “Miss Smith,” before stepping out and letting the door shut Charlotte into the room. Charlotte saw Dr. Preston straightening from a slouched position in the desk chair. He was a very handsome man, she could not deny. His clothes were rumpled, however, as was his hair-even though it was but midmorning. Had he slept in those clothes? She saw him lift the lid of a Smith & Co. tin and pop a “curiously strong” mint into his mouth. Charlotte found it ironic. She, who had grown up in a home that abstained from strong drink, might very well not have identified the odor, but the cure he had taken for it was a telltale sign. He smoothed down each side of his moustache before rising. It was not a dandy’s gesture, she judged, merely a very tired-looking man trying to smooth on a professional facade. His next words, however, dispelled the image before it could fully form.

“Remove your frock, if you please.”

She felt her mouth drop open. “I beg your pardon.”

“Your frock. Remove it. Come, come. I haven’t all day.”

“But is that really quite necessary?”

“There’s no need to feign modesty with me, Miss Smith.”

“I am feigning nothing …”

“I am a physician, Miss Smith. I assure you the female form holds no mysteries for me.”

No mystery she could well believe, but still!

“Perhaps I only imagined the pains. Really. I feel quite, quite well now.”

“Do not flatter yourself, Miss Smith. A female body in this distended shape does more to repulse a man than entice him, I „ assure you.

Now she felt shame heaped atop her embarrassment and irritation. Did he really think she thought he might be interested in her as a woman?

He went on, “I have a beautiful wife at home with blond curls and an eighteen-inch waist.” Here he paused. “Of course she also has a tongue to rival King Arthur’s sword.”

“The two often go together, I find,” Charlotte murmured, thinking of Beatrice. She did not move but felt his eyes studying her.

“Do I know you, Miss Smith?”

“I do not believe so.”

“You seem familiar somehow. Where do you come from?”

“I …” What had she told Mrs. Moorling? She realized he could check her file. “I am lately of Hertfordshire.”

“Hertfordshire? Hmm … and we have not met before?”

“I do not believe so, no.,,

“Ah well, it will come to me. Now, do you wish to know if your babe is all right or not?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing. “Oh, very well.” She reached around and began unfastening her buttons. Of all days to wear a frock that buttoned down the back.

“Here, here.” He walked up behind her and impatiently began working the buttons. “I’ll miss my hunt at this rate.”

At that moment, the door burst open and Dr. Taylor strode in. He stopped suddenly, clearly startled to see the room occupied. His bespectacled gaze went from Preston to Charlotte and back again. He frowned.

“What’s all this, then?”

“I should ask the same of you, barging in here.”

“Mrs. Moorling sent for me. Said you had yet to make it in.”

“Well, clearly she was mistaken. For here I am, seeing a patient.”

Dr. Taylor opened his mouth, then apparently thought better of what he was going to say. Instead, he tossed his case casually on the desk and said lightly, “I thought you were off hunting grouse today.”

“I depart this afternoon.”

“Well, why not leave early. Make a day of it.”

“But I have women to see. Patients.”

“I’ll see them for you. My day is already spoiled. No point in both of us being indoors on such a fine day as this.”

“Well, I-“

“Off with you, man. I’ll see to Miss Smith myself. I saw her when she first arrived.”

“I’ll wager you did.”

“Go on. Before I change my mind.”

“I shall. Before I change mine.”

Dr. Preston grabbed his bag from the desk, his coat from the back of the chair, and strode from the room without so much as a glance her way. The slamming door punctuated the tension in the room, which didn’t fade as quickly as the sound. Charlotte felt unaccountably guilty, awkwardly trying to reach around herself and refasten her frock.

Dr. Taylor stood there, staring at the desk. Then he looked at her, evidently unaware of her struggle.

“Why were you seeing Preston? I saw you only last week.”

“Mrs. Moorling insisted. I am having pains.”

Instantly his strained demeanor snapped into professional concern. “What sort of pains?”

“Cramping pains, here. And I … I am …” She could barely make herself say the word aloud to him.

“Any bleeding?”

She nodded, relieved to have it out. “A bit.”

“And the babe, when was the last time you felt movement?”

Charlotte felt tears fill her eyes. “Not once all day.”

“Do not be alarmed, probably just enjoying a bit of slumber. Still, I ought to give another listen.”

He again retrieved the wooden tube from his bag, and Charlotte sat on the table as she had before, but this time she was praying. Please, God, please, God, please, God….

He pressed the tube to the center of her abdomen and stared blindly in concentration. Then he repositioned the tube to one side … and the other. Charlotte studied his expression with growing trepidation.

“Do you hear anything?”

He moved the tube lower.

“Can you not hear it?” she tried again.

“Not with you talking.”

He moved the tube again.

“I suppose some would say I ought to be relieved, but I am not.”

“Of course not. Shh.”

Charlotte bit her lip. “Do you suppose this is God’s punishment?”

“Charlotte, please lie down on the table.” He ignored her question. “I need to listen lower, but it’s difficult with you sitting up.” When she complied, he pressed the tube very low indeed, where the underside of her rounded belly nearly met with her hipbones. He listened intently, his face growing, she concluded, terribly grim. Tears fell down Charlotte’s temples and into her hair. He moved the tube above the opposite hip bone and pressed it in deep, nearly painfully so. This time he closed his eyes as if to focus on his sense of hearing alone. Or perhaps he was wincing, realizing the painful truth.

“Well, hello there.”

“What?”

“I hear your little lad a’way down here.”

“You do?”

He nodded, set his tube down, and lifted his hands above her abdomen. “May I?”