Lady of Milkweed Manor (7 page)

“Colder,” she added helpfully. “More aloof.”

“There are worse things.” He looked directly at her, and Charlotte ducked her head.

“Miss Lamb, I did not mean … I was not referring to you, to your condition.”

And there he was again. The Mr. Taylor of old, teasing but reassuring, comforting her.

Charlotte kept her eyes lowered. “I confess when I first saw you here, I was quite mortified.”

“I can imagine.”

“I think now the worst of the shock has passed, I shall be glad to have a friendly face about.”

“A cold face, you mean.”

“One that improves upon acquaintance. Or in our case, reacquaintance.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

Charlotte suddenly had the disquieting thought that he might think her forward, so she asked, “Might I have the privilege of meeting Mrs. Taylor sometime?”

“Well, I … I don’t think …”

“Of course. Forgive me. I am in no position to be introduced to anyone. How foolish of me.”

“Miss Lamb, I-“

“It is Miss Smith for now. Good night, Dr. Taylor.”

She left the office and walked quickly down the passageway, embarrassment burning at her ears. Stupid girl, she remonstrated herself. She imagined Dr. Taylor saying to his wife, My dear, please meet the ruined Miss Charlotte Lamb. Can you believe I once admired her?

If the milk of a wet nurse could give a child a loud laugh or a secretive disposition, what kind of influence would be derived from the milk of a goat or a cow?

JANET GOLDEN, A SOCIAL HISTORY OF WET NURSING IN AMERICA

CHAPTER 5

he next few weeks passed slowly and Charlotte grew weary of stitching. She stood before the matron’s desk, feeling like a wayward schoolgirl.

“Mrs. Moorling. I wonder,” she began, “might I help in the foundling ward?”

The matron’s eyes narrowed with near suspicion. “Why?”

“Well, I … I am sure sewing is no doubt beneficial. It is only that I thought … well, with my own child on the way, some experience with infants might do me good.”

Still the woman stared at her.

“I might enjoy it, actually.”

Mrs. Moorling shook her head, an odd bleakness in her eyes. “I would not plan on it.”

“Then I may not-?”

“You may. I only meant that you should not plan to enjoy it. You really are naive, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so. Still I see no harm….”

“Go on with you, then. Use the entrance through the scullery. Be sure the door latches behind you.”

“But what shall I do once I get there?”

“Just ask for Mrs. Krebs. She oversees the foundlings and is always in need of another pair of arms.”

Charlotte thanked the matron, then walked through the dining room and down the scullery passage. The large white door with an old-fashioned swing bolt stood at attention, its X-shaped cross boards reminding Charlotte of a guard with his arms crossed, barring the way. She swallowed back the silly notion and reached for the bolt, only to have the door swing open in her face. Charlotte stepped back quickly as Sally and another girl came through the door, Sally balancing a tray of used plates and teacups in her hands.

“Oh, Miss Charlotte! Sorry, love, nearly ran you down.”

“Hello, Sally.” Charlotte looked up at her. She had never known such a tall woman.

“You’re not thinking of goin’ in, are you?”

“Yes. I was.”

“Well, I suppose Mrs. Krebs might need some mending done, or some cleaning.”

“Could I not help with the children? I have never been around babies and I should like to learn.”

Sally stood silently a moment, studying Charlotte seriously. Then swiftly, she swiveled and placed the tea tray in the other girl’s hands. “Take this into the kitchen for me, Martha. There’s a love.”

The girl disappeared and Sally was still staring down at Charlotte, her frequent smile noticeably absent.

“If you’re set on it, I had better go in with you.”

‘All right … thank you,” Charlotte murmured, but she was confused.

Sally took Charlotte by the arm and led her through the doorway, latching the door firmly behind her. Then she escorted Charlotte down a whitewashed passage, through a small galley, and into an entry hall.

“This is where the babies first come in. Admitted, they calls it.” She pointed to an odd revolving shelf built into the outer wall. “See that turn there?”

“Yes. It looks like one we had at home between the galley and kitchen. The servants used it to pass through dirty dishes.”

“‘Tisn’t dirty dishes passing through there. ‘Tis babies what no one wants. This way the poor mother don’t even need to show her face. She puts her baby on the shelf and rings the bell. Then Mrs. Krebs turns the shelf and the baby comes inside.”

“Poor things.”

“Yes. ‘Tis a desperate girl who abandons her baby.”

Charlotte had meant the babies left behind were the “poor things,” but she didn’t argue.

“Sometimes mothers what’s starving leave their babies in the turn, then come to the front door soon after, asking for work as a wet nurse, hoping to feed their own babe and get food and some small pay in the bargain.”

“But why would they do that?”

“‘Cause they’s starvin’ or have no place to live, no money, no job. How can they work with a newborn to feed every few hours?”

“Oh.”

“Come on.”

They walked down the long passageway, past a dim room on the left filled with cribs and another room filled with rocking chairs. On nearly every one sat a woman nursing an infant, sometimes two babes at once. Charlotte had never seen a woman do such a thing, and though most were fairly well covered with blanket or babe, Charlotte felt her cheeks redden at the intimate sight.

“And see them doors on the other side of the passage? That’s where we nurses take turns sleepin’.”

“Sally! Good, you’re back. I need your help.” An older woman in her late fifties stepped forward, her ash-grey hair in a loose knot at the back of her neck and a large stained apron over her ample figure in a simple black dress.

“Mrs. Krebs, this is Miss Charlotte Smith.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Krebs.” Charlotte stepped forward, offering her hand. “I would like to help too, if I might.”

Glancing back down the passage, the woman didn’t seem to notice her hand. “Well, you’re just in time to help with the goats.”

“Goats?”

“Yes, yes, follow me.”

Charlotte looked at Sally, who sighed and nodded and followed Mrs. Krebs, who was already marching purposefully toward the end of the passageway.

“You were brought up on a farm, weren’t you, Sally?” Mrs. Krebs asked over her shoulder.

“Aye. “

“And you, Miss Smith?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“No matter, a pair of willing hands is always welcome.” She stopped at a small table beside a closed door. “But do put on these masks and gloves. Dr. Taylor’s orders.”

Sally began pulling tight leather gloves onto her long fingers and explained, “This is the syphilis ward, Miss Charlotte. All these babies have syphilis and must be kept away from the rest.”

Mrs. Krebs handed Charlotte another pair of gloves and began tying a cotton mask over her own nose and mouth.

Charlotte hesitated.

“Is it safe? For my own baby, I mean.”

“Dr. Taylor assures me the nasty business is only transmitted by direct contact with the sores,” Mrs. Krebs said. “‘Course these poor lambs caught it from their own mothers afore they was even born.”

Mrs. Krebs pushed open the door and walked in. Sally and Charlotte paused at the threshold, taking in the scene.

Cribs filled the room and cries filled the air. In one corner, a nun was standing hunched over a crib, trying to get an infant to suckle from some sort of tube. Dr. Taylor stood beside her, arms behind his back, quietly instructing the woman. He looked up when the door opened. His eyes narrowed for a moment when they lit on her.

A knock came on a wide, stable-like door on the other side of the room.

“That’s Rob now, I wager.”

Old Mrs. Krebs strode with impressively youthful vigor past the cribs with their pitiful infants. She opened the door and a young man came in with two goats, one black and one white, at his heels.

“What are they doing with the goats?” Charlotte whispered.

“You’ll see,” Sally said and stepped into the room.

Charlotte, still concerned, stood in the doorway and watched a sight she would never forget. The goats pranced with seeming eagerness into the room, bleating as they came. The black one trotted down one row of beds, the white down the other. Suddenly, the white goat jumped nimbly up on top of the first cot and gingerly straddled the infant. Charlotte gasped. Sally stepped forward and helped lift and position the waiting infant onto the goat’s teat. The hungry babe latched on and began nursing. Charlotte was stunned, horrified, yet fascinated at the same time. She stepped forward tentatively and stood behind Sally, peering over her bent back.

“Why in the world … ?” Charlotte began.

“No one will nurse these poor souls. The syphilis is catching that way. They try to feed the babes by hand, but it ain’t natural like. This ain’t either, but it seems to work a bit better.”

Mrs. Krebs, who was helping another swaddled infant suckle the black goat, said from her position a few strides away, “I was as stunned as you no doubt are, Miss Smith, when Dr. Taylor first suggested it. Thought he was off his bean. Said the Frenchies do it all the time and it might be worth a go here as well.”

As Charlotte watched, the white goat jumped down and moved to a cot at the end of the row and eagerly hopped up again. Sally followed, again helping the waiting babe reach the goat’s teat with her gloved hands.

Dr. Taylor came to stand next to Charlotte. “It’s as if the goats actually know and remember which babes are hers to nurse. The white one always feeds these and the black the others. Even if we put the babe in a different crib, the goat finds her own to feed.”

“Amazing.”

“It is, isn’t it? Still, it’s a pity. Most of these children have little hope of seeing the month through.”

“Really?” Charlotte felt herself take a step back even before she realized what she was doing.

“It’s a sad business. But we try.”

Charlotte’s cheery visions of singing lullabies to healthy pink babies seemed foolish now. She felt as though she might be ill.

“Can nothing be done?” she asked.

“Well. Pray, of course. And thank God for goats.”

The [milkweed] root, which is the only part used, is a counter-poison, both against the bad effects of poisonous herbs and the bites and stings of venomous creatures.

NICHOLAS CULPEPPER, 17TH CENTURY HERBALIST

CHAPTER 6

few hours later, Daniel was standing in the manor hall directing -the flow of volunteers bearing crates and bundles of donated supplies. He looked up and saw Charlotte walking toward him, coming from the direction of the foundling ward. He immediately stepped forward, hoping to shield her from view.