Lady of Milkweed Manor (28 page)

Katherine turned around.

“… to somehow come into contact with this person. Can you tell me, what exactly is the money for? Is it … in payment for … something?”

“Payment? Goodness, it isn’t payment for anything. I simply want to help her and never imagined I would have so much trouble doing so.”

Dr. Taylor again studied the floor. Katherine closed the distance between them.

“It is clear you know more than you let on. I know-I will give

you a … donation. If you can get it to Charlotte, wonderful. If you cannot, use it for the worthiest cause … or woman … you know. Surely you cannot reject such an offer.”

“It is indeed generous and there are many needs.”

She pressed the wrapped bills into his hand.

“I trust you to help her, if you can.”

Wanted, a child to wet nurse. A healthy young English woman having abundance of milk, wishes to take a child to wet nurse at her own house every attention will be paid to the comfort of the child, as she is living in a quiet and healthy house….

PHILADELPHIA PUBLIC LEDGER, 1837

CHAPTER 19

“-‘1 harlotte and young Anne were established in Margaret i Dunweedy’s snug cottage in the village of Crawley, not far from The George Inn -a midway stop on the coach route between London and Brighton.

Margaret Dunweedy, Charlotte’s great-aunt, was a small, wiry woman with surprising vitality for one of her advanced years. Her hair was white and twisted around the crown of her head in a long plait. Her eyes were the color of cornflowers, as were many of the veins around her eyes, making her irises appear even bluer. She was rarely still. She received Charlotte and the baby with great warmth and enthusiasm, bustling about, making tea, bringing extra blankets, exclaiming over the joys of having someone sharing the old place again. Her husband had been gone twenty years, and her son, Roger, was living in Manchester and too busy with his post to visit very often.

Margaret Dunweedy’s sole fault, Charlotte soon surmised, was her inability to cease speaking. The cheerful woman seemed never to run out of things to say. For the first few weeks, this was quite a pleasant relief, for Mrs. Dunweedy felt no need to question Charlotte, happy to simply relay countless tales of her own life. But as the long months of winter wore on, Charlotte began to grow weary of the constant chatter.

Otherwise, the winter passed in relative ease and comfort. Dr. Taylor visited his daughter every fortnight or so, as his schedule and road conditions allowed. His wife was somewhat improved, he’d reported, but was still suffering.

Anne began sleeping through the night, and so did Charlotte. She was amazed at how much better she felt, how much lighter the anguish, the pressing weight of her grief. It was still there, of course, like a hooded cloak about her head and shoulders. The cloak had at first been fashioned of barbed chain mail that threatened to knock her to her knees. Over the winter months, it had become a cloak of heavy grey wool, its hood falling over her eyes and blocking out the light, encasing her in darkness, suffocating her. But as winter gave way to spring, so too the cloak lightened as if to a dense velvet or thick damask. She could still feel it with every fiber of her skin, her being, but now it let in the light and allowed her, finally, to breathe. Even so, there was not a waking hour in which she didn’t think of Edmund. And rare was the night when she did not dream of trying to find him, or of him about to fall from some dangerous precipice. How she tried to get to him, but he was always out of reach.

As soon as the weather allowed, she took to bundling up Anne and taking the baby outside with her in the untidy remains of last year’s garden and beyond, to the damp fallow field behind the cottage, parroting her mother’s wisdom about the benefits of “fresh air and exercise.” She closed her eyes and breathed in the loam, the wilted sage, the rare silence.

On one such day in March, she noticed a carriage coming to a halt on the road on the far side of the meadow. Something about the horse and rig seemed familiar, but at such a distance she could not see the driver. As the carriage sat there on the open road, Charlotte saw a glint of light, as off glass. Strange, Charlotte thought. Was someone watching her?

On the first day of April, Gareth Lamb, her brother-in-law, stared at her incredulously over his teacup. “Are you suggesting she might yet be recovered?”

Amelia Tilney nodded, taken aback by his sharp tone.

Across from Amelia, her eldest niece said between clenched teeth, “I suggest we discuss this no further.”

“Beatrice, please,” Amelia began. “I have reason to believe she’s lost the child.”

“Must we speak of it! The indecency …”

“The babe lives,” Gareth Lamb said flatly.

“What?” Amelia asked, stunned.

“I saw them with my own eyes.”

Amelia’s heart began to beat painfully within her. “You did? When?”

“I was in Crawley for a clerical meeting Monday last. Drove by your aunt’s cottage, and there she was in the back garden, babe in arms.

“Will my mortification never end!” Bea flopped herself down on the settee in a most unladylike manner.

Amelia realized her hand was over her heart. “I confess I am speechless …”

Gareth gave her a knowing look. “I am sure you are.”

“Did Charlotte see you?”

“No. I was too far off. I-” He shifted uncomfortably. “I happened to have an opera glass with me.”

“Well, she cannot return here,” Bea stressed. “Really, Father, it is too much.”

“If only the man would do his duty,” Mr. Lamb shook his head somberly. “Plenty of other children have come into the world in such a manner. Many have been granted educations and gone on to marry well. Some have even been given titles …”

“Father. I doubt this father has any title to bestow beyond that of assistant gravedigger.”

“Beatrice!” Amelia gasped.

“Have you another theory, Aunt? Another explanation?”

“She assures me the man in question is a gentleman of good repute.”

“How can that be?”

“She declines to blame him, but it seems clear that he must have chosen to marry another.”

“She said so?”

“Not directly, but I gathered this from her certainty that there was no way to bring him around.”

“I have another theory,” Gareth Lamb said with a frown. “Perhaps the bounder has intentions for her sister and refuses to yield.”

It was Bea’s turn to gasp. “Father! I forbid you to speak so of Mr. Bentley! It’s slanderous!”

“Well, the young man has yet to ask for your hand. Has all but disappeared. Have you another explanation?”

Bea raised her chin. “If it has anything to do with Charlotte, it is that our family’s disgrace has somehow come to his attention.”

Bea flounced out of the room, more for escape than out of any true emotion. She was off to meet her friend Althea. They were to attend a reading together in the bustling market town of Faversham. Buxley was already waiting for her outside with the carriage as she had requested.

Arriving in Faversham a quarter hour ahead of schedule, Bea asked Buxley to let her down near the town center. She would walk to the library from there. It was a market day and vendors filled the streets surrounding the old guildhall, their carts, baskets, and makeshift tables overflowing with sausages, cheeses, bread, fish, and fruit. Taking her time, she strolled past the booths, then paused to look at the hats displayed in the milliner’s window, noting with disdain that they were terribly out of fashion. She sighed. It was too bad they did not live closer to London town.

Ahead she saw a tearoom. Outside its doors, several tables stood beneath a striped awning. She noticed two couples enjoying refreshment al fresco, taking advantage of the unseasonably warm spring day.

“Mr. Bentley!” Bea called before the scene fully registered. Then her breath caught and she nearly stumbled. There was no mistaking the smile William was giving the young lady across the table from him, how close he was leaning … that light in his eyes. Bea had seen all these before. She knew. It was either slink away, ashamed, and hope he had not heard nor seen her, or mount an offensive. Beatrice Lamb had never slunk away from anything in her life, and she decided not to start now. She wouldn’t give him-or her-that satisfaction. She squared her shoulders and waved a handkerchief. His handkerchief.

He saw her and quickly excused himself from the redhead. Squire Litchfield’s daughter, if she was not mistaken. Pretty, yes. Dumb as a mule. That her father had more money than hers, there was no doubt.

Did she imagine the slight sheepish expression, the flush of his fair cheeks? The awkward smile now as he approached? Surely she had, for the man clearly had no shame.

She summoned her most confident smile and stood tall. “How fortuitous to happen upon you, Mr. Bentley.”

“Yes. Miss Lamb, um, how good to see you again. How do you fare?”

“Wonderfully well, I thank you. And so relieved to see you out enjoying yourself on such a fine afternoon.”

“Yes?”

“I have been hoping for an appropriate time to return this to you. Trite thing, this, but how glad I am to happen upon you in a public place. There you are. Now I am relieved of that obligation. I do thank you, sir. And wish you well.”

She turned to leave, smile stiff but resilient. If only she could manage not to trip and disgrace herself on her departure.

“Bea!”

She started, which she hoped he did not notice, and forced herself to turn around slowly at his unexpected call.

“Yes, Mr. Bentley?” she began, but fearing she sounded too hopeful, added breezily, “Did I forget something? Oh, forgive me, please do give my regards to your companion. I must hurry to a reading with a friend or I would adore meeting her.”

“You must know her. It is Amanda Litchfield.”

“Oh, one of the Litchfields. Do say hello for me.”

“Bea … Miss Lamb. Are you certain you are all right?”

“Of course I am.”

“And … your family?”

“Better than ever, I thank you. Now I really must fly.”

He looked at her, clearly perplexed. There was a speculative look in his eyes that told her he might suspect her act but wasn’t quite sure what to believe. It would have to be enough.