Lady of Milkweed Manor (29 page)

Amelia Tilney studied the stern face of her brother-in-law. He had moved on from tea to port, though she knew he was not given to drink. She felt only mildly guilty for driving him to its solace this day. “Gareth, I must say your coldness surprises me most unhappily.”

“Madam. There are consequences to be reckoned with, and certainly we are all aware that there is no happy outcome in such a situation.”

Amelia leaned forward and adjusted the framed miniature of her sister on the table. She said softly, “You are a man of God, Gareth. You of all men should know that God is forgiving, a God of mercy-“

“He is also a God of wrath. And of consequences.”

“But must Charlotte pay such a dear price-the loss of her entire family? She has already suffered greatly. She was a mere shadow of herself when last I saw her.”

“Was she?” He seemed to contemplate this. “Is she repentant? Sorry?”

“Oh, a sorrier girl I have never seen.”

“And is she being well provided for by your aunt?”

“Well, there is not much money for coal or meat, but she has a nice kitchen garden and preserves all she can for winter. I am afraid Margaret’s son is a mean sort who provides little for her upkeep. My husband and I send what we can. If you would but allow us, we would do more, now that Charlotte is there.”

“No. You have done enough. I must ask you to do nothing further. And to speak no more of this.”

“You may depend upon my discretion. I only speak now because I feel Charlotte’s plight so keenly-“

He halted the rest of her sentence with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Yes, yes.” He rose. “Now I really must bid you good day.

Amelia rose as well. Though stung by her brother-in-law’s rudeness, she believed him not quite as unmoved as he appeared.

A week later, the bell jingled as Margaret Dunweedy pushed open the butcher shop door. The gust of wind that accompanied her sent the hanging fowl and sides of meat to swaying on their hooks. The smells of sausages, strong English cheeses, and meat-pie pastries greeted her, as did the cheery butcher with his ready smile and crisp apron. “A good day to you, Missus Dunweedy.”

“And to you, Mr. Doughty. What have you today for sixpence per pound?”

“No need for soup bones today, ma’am. Not with your account bulging with a good two pounds to spend.”

“Two pounds-you are surely mistaken, Mr. Doughty. On my account?”

“No, ma’am. No mistakin’ it.” He winked at her. “You’ve got yourself a secret admirer, I’d say.”

“Don’t talk foolishness, man. At my age.”

“Not foolishness at all. Well, then, what will it be. A fine leg of lamb? Or perhaps a stuffed goose? A roast of beef?”

“You are quite sure?”

“Sure I’m sure.”

Margaret Dunweedy would have liked to believe the gift from her son, Roger. But she knew better. She guessed the two pounds had more to do with her lodger than with her, but she was grateful to be able to provide the sweet lass something finer than the stews and soups she’d been preparing.

“I haven’t had a roast of beef since I don’t know when,” she admitted.

“Roasted with potatoes and onions …” The butcher closed his eyes, savoring the thought.

“The roast it is, Mr. Doughty.”

“Excellent choice, ma’am. Excellent choice.” He wrote himself a note.

She raised a brow at the paper he scribbled upon.

“I’m to account for how the pounds is spent, ma’am. Seems your admirer has more generosity than trust in an old scuff like me. Afraid I might take your two quid and leave you none the wiser.”

“Then he doesn’t know you, Mr. Doughty. A more trustworthy butcher I’ve never known.”

“Thank you, ma’am. And here you are. You enjoy that, now.” He handed her the wrapped package.

“Indeed we shall.”

“You’ve company, then?”

“Oh, just my niece come to call.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

It didn’t. Not fully, Margaret knew. But she was wise enough to know the village butcher didn’t need to know her great-niece’s troubles. He might not cheat on the fair weight of meat, but he wasn’t above handing out juicy gossip along with his chops.

Tibbets announced Lady Katherine’s arrival and her father stood. Bea merely laid aside the book she had been reading. Her cousin strode into the room, looking-Bea noted begrudgingly-elegant in a feathered hat and a full pelisse that did not quite conceal her figure, still somewhat rounded from her confinement last autumn.

“Lady Katherine. Niece!” Father boomed.

“Good day, Uncle. You’re looking … well, rather tired, actually. Are you not well?”

“I am not getting any younger. But I cannot complain.”

“And Beatrice. How nice to see you again.”

Beatrice merely nodded.

Her father smiled in her stead. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Is it unexpected? Surely you heard that we were returning to Fawnwell.”

“We did hear that the repairs were nearing completion, but not that you-“

“Yes. I’ve shut up my London home for the season. We’re doing everything quite the wrong way round this year. Now that most of our friends have left their country homes and are returned to London, we have quit town to stay here for the spring and summer. I detest the thought of missing the London season, but Charles believes the country air will be so much better for Edmund. Oh! You must meet him.” She turned to the servant. “Do ask the nurse in as soon as she’s done changing the child.”

“Yes, m’lady.” Tibbets curtsied and left the room.

“Won’t you sit down?” Beatrice offered coolly.

“Thank you. That gown … Rather severe, is it not? Yet it fits you somehow.”

“I think so.” Bea liked the high-necked frock in a color she thought of as storm grey.

“I would have called sooner,” Katherine chatted on, filling the silence. “But first I had my recovery, of course, and then this dreadful winter. Did you not find it so? I do detest traveling in inclement weather. The roads get so rough and rutted. How glad I am that spring is here at last and I can be out calling again.”

Tibbets returned a moment later with a tall horse-faced woman holding a chubby baby in a satin gown. The nurse bobbed a curtsy, then carried the child to his mother and placed him in her outstretched arms.

Katherine, smile bright, turned the baby around to face them.

“This is our Edmund. Is he not the image of Mr. Harris?”

Bea stared. For a fleeting moment, she saw Charlotte in the child’s features, his upturned nose and fine brows above large brown eyes. Was she really feeling so guilty about her? Or missing her so keenly? The little boy smiled a toothless grin in Bea’s direction. She did not return the gesture.

“He looks like Charlotte,” her father said dully, staring too. He’d said her name, as he’d vowed not to.

“You mean Charles, Father, surely,” Bea rushed to correct.

“Oh, yes, yes. Charles. The names are so very similar. I meant to name my son Charles if I’d had one.”

Katherine’s brows were furrowed as she looked from one to the other.

From the corner of her eye, Bea noticed the ungainly nurse staring at her from across the room, where she stood in wait behind her mistress. Why had Katherine even brought the sorry creature?

“Speaking of Charlotte …” Katherine began.

“We were not,” Bea said. “In fact we prefer other subjects.”

“Yes, do tell us about Fawnwell,” Father added. “Is all as it once was? Before the fire, I mean.”

Katherine stilled, only her eyes moving between them, scrutinizing. She opened her mouth, closed it, and changed tack.

“Beatrice, Charles and I are thinking of hosting a house party this summer to celebrate the restoration of Fawnwell, and of course, to introduce Edmund. We are considering inviting many of our London friends down, many eligible … persons you might enjoy meeting. Has that any appeal for you?”

Beatrice shrugged. “Perhaps.” Why is that nurse still staring at me?

“And you, Uncle, certainly you would not mind a little variety in society? A chance to debate theology with like-minded men of rank?”

Bea did not miss the patronizing choice of words, but Father did, and beamed.

“I should not mind at all. Sounds grand. When is it to be?”

“Why, just as soon as you tell me what I wish to know.”

Wet nurses are unfortunately a necessary evil. Without them the children of the better classes … would suffer very materially.

T. C. HADEN, ON THE MANAGEMENT AND DISEASES OF CHILDREN, 1827

CHAPTER 20

he had no warning.

Charlotte was pacing Mrs. Dunweedy’s small parlor with Anne in her arms, hoping to lull the child to sleep, when she heard the familiar sound of a carriage on the street outside. It was pulled by a team of at least four horses, she judged, by the thunderous beating of hooves. Being this close to the High Street, that sound did not alarm her-in fact it barely registered. It was the sound of the hooves slowing, the coachman shouting “Whoa” to his horses that caused Charlotte to walk to the window. She shifted Anne to her left arm and parted the curtains with her right hand. Her heart began pounding, faster and faster even as the pounding hooves slowed, then ceased. A fine carriage indeed. Tall and enclosed. A carriage made for traveling some distance in speed and comfort. Lady Katherine’s carriage.

Oh, God, help me…. The breathed prayer was automatic. What else could she do? She couldn’t flee. How had her cousin found out where she was? Had Aunt Tilney told her? No, she would never do such a thing, loathe as she was for anyone in the family, or in their general acquaintance, to discover Charlotte’s position as a wet nurse. Then who? And how was she to honor her aunt’s fervent plea and keep that fact hidden?

The coachman helped her cousin alight. There she was in fine, full-length cape and plumed hat. Had she-Oh, dear Lord-had Katherine brought her son? Her Edmund? How would she hide her feelings?

Behind Katherine, a second woman alighted on the coachman’s hand. This one far taller and more simply attired. Sally! Sally-here, now? Charlotte was elated and dread-filled all at once.