Lady of Milkweed Manor (9 page)

“If you are implying what I think you are, you are quite mistaken.”

“Am I? Then I confess myself relieved.”

“Relieved? Why so?”

“Well, it is just that I should be disappointed were you already spoken for.”

“I am not spoken for, Mr. Bentley. I am only seventeen.”

“Seventeen. And my uncle is, what? Five and thirty?”

“Not so old as that, I don’t think.”

He studied her face, and her discomfort grew under his close scrutiny.

“In any case,” she hurried on, “I’ve no thought of marriage. My sister is two years older and has no thought of it either.”

William looked up at the vicarage window and Charlotte followed his gaze. She saw Beatrice standing there frowning down at them. When she saw them look up, she spun away.

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Charlotte,” Mr. Bentley said, then lowered his eyes back to her. “May I call you Charlotte?”

“Yes, please do.”

“And you must call me Mr. Bentley.”

She looked at him dumbly, taken aback.

He smiled, reached out, and rubbed an immaculate gloved finger across her forehead. She allowed him to do so, standing like a submissive schoolgirl. Then he showed her the dirt-stained glove. “Dirt doesn’t suit you, Charlotte. You should remain unsullied by the earth you love.”

In the manor garden, Charlotte stooped awkwardly over her rounded middle to pick up a stone. She wondered briefly where William Bentley was now and if he truly planned to marry her sister. Had his intentions ever been honorable? Rising gingerly, she hurled the stone into the mossy pond, where it landed with a dull plop.

Unsullied indeed.

That very afternoon, Charles Harris rode his horse from his estate toward the Doddington vicarage.

A young lad herded a dozen sheep across the pasture path, so he had to slow his horse to allow them to pass. The boy tipped his hat to him, but Charles Harris only gave a terse nod in return. In no mood to be hindered, Charles pulled the reins up short and urged his horse up the embankment and around the walled churchyard. He was irritated to see his nephew’s grey gelding in front of the vicarage, old Buxley attempting to hold the jittery horse by its bridle. What is that boy up to now?

Here William came in his green coat and cravat and fine hat, his smile decidedly self-satisfied.

“Hello, Uncle. Sorry I cannot stay and chat. Pressing business calls.”

The young man was a dandy and a conniver. Charles should have discouraged his visits to the vicarage, but it was too late now.

Astride the horse now, William turned in the saddle and said with seeming innocence, “Miss Charlotte seems to have disappeared utterly. You haven’t any idea what that’s about, do you?”

Charles stared, dumbfounded at the boy’s insolence. He opened his mouth to fashion some feeble reply, but the young man was already spurring his mount down the lane.

Buxley took his horse with a “Good day to you, Mr. Harris.” Charles entered the vicarage and Tibbets took his hat and showed him into the drawing room. Gareth Lamb sat on one of the satin settees, staring off into space while his elder daughter, Beatrice, picked at tinny melodies on the pianoforte.

“There you are, Charles,” the vicar greeted him gloomily. “We despaired of ever seeing you again.”

“Yes … Katherine prefers town to country living, I’m afraid. I’ve just come round to check on the place and visit my mother and all of you.”

“Do come and sit down.”

But Charles hesitated, looking around the room for some clue that what he had heard was true. Beatrice looked up at him with a brief nod.

“Good day, Beatrice.”

“Mr. Harris.” She played on, seemingly unconcerned with or unaware of his agitated state or her father’s pale stupor.

“And … where is Charlotte this fine day?” He attempted a weak smile.

“Who?” Mr. Lamb asked, his expression blank.

“What do you mean, who? Your younger daughter, of course.”

“I have only one daughter, and here she sits.” The Reverend Mr. Lamb waved vaguely in Bea’s direction.

“I am speaking of Charlotte.”

“She is lost to me. It pains me to speak of it.”

“I beg you forgive me. But if you could only speak a bit more and tell me where she has gone … I only want to help.”

“I know not.”

“You … don’t know where Charlotte is?” he asked in disbelief.

A discordant clang shuddered through the pianoforte, and Bea glared at him over the fading notes. “We do not wish to speak of it, Mr. Harris. I believe Father made that quite clear. And pray do us the kindness of not speaking of her to others either. Charlotte is off “-she waved her hand with dramatic flair “visiting friends. Gone to Brighton, I believe. Or was it Bath? In any case, we don’t expect her anytime soon.” She began playing again.

“That young man who was just here,” Gareth began, frowning. “I know he is your nephew, but I have to say, I do not trust him.”

“Father!” Bea exclaimed.

“I am sorry, my dear, but I cannot help but think he had something to do with the whole infernal affair.”

Bea stood quickly. “Mr. Bentley is a perfectly amiable gentleman, and I will not sit by and hear him maligned in my presence.” She flounced out of the room, and Charles was relieved to see her go.

“She’s pinned her hopes on him.” Mr. Lamb shook his head, his eyes still on the open door though Bea was no longer visible. “I know I should encourage it, but something does not sit right with me. You do not think Bentley had anything to do with … Charlotte’s leaving?”

“I … I shouldn’t think so. Did you ask him?”

“Not in so many words, but yes, I did inquire of his dealings with her.”

“And how did he respond?”

“Perhaps I had better not repeat it….”

“I insist. What did he say?”

“It shames me to speak of it.” Still, the older man went on. “He said he was not altogether surprised at Charlotte’s `troubles,’ that he saw her being very familiar with more than one man on several occasions.

“He said that?”

“Well, you know how he talks, all hints and innuendo and you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Insolent fool!”

“You do not think it the truth? The evidence certainly bears him out.”

“I am afraid my nephew has motives of his own that no doubt colored his report.”

“Have you never seen her cavorting with men?”

Charles hesitated, and the old man set his face bitterly.

“No, my friend,” Charles hurried on. “You mustn’t think the worst of Charlotte. I have never seen her act in any untoward manner with anyone.”

“Then who was it, man? Have you any idea?”

Charles sighed and shook his head. “I am so sorry. If there was anything I could do, I would do it. You know I would.”

“Of course, of course. You have your own future to think of. You don’t suppose there is any hope of convincing young Bentley to redirect …”

“I am afraid not. Not any longer. Has he … made any offer that you know of?”

“No. Though Beatrice seems nearly to be holding her breath in hopes of one.”

The name of the Milkweed, Asclepias, comes from the Greek god Aeskulap, the god of healing.

-FLOWER ESSENCE SOCIETY

CHAPTER 7

hrough a grated window in the foundling ward door, Daniel Taylor watched Miss Lamb. She was standing alone in the tangled garden behind the manor, and he couldn’t help but remember her in a garden far more grand. She had often been there when he’d come with Dr. Webb to call on her mother.

He had spent a few years in Doddington as an apprentice to Dr. Webb before he’d gone off to the University of Edinburgh to complete his studies. He’d enjoyed his time in Kent and had a great deal of respect for Dr. Webb, who seemed never to tire of visiting patients, consoling families, and doling out physic and other remedies as needed.

Mrs. Lillian Lamb was one of the patients he visited most frequently. In truth there seemed little the good man could do for her, though Webb never said as much. Mrs. Lamb was a lovely, serene woman who seemed more concerned with making them welcome and comfortable than with her own prognosis. It was the Reverend Mr. Lamb who insisted on such regular visits. He seemed quite convinced his wife would “be her bonny old self one day soon, now that you’re here.” Daniel had both admired and feared his optimism.

As was often the case with female patients, Dr. Webb shooed his apprentice from the room soon after the preliminary pleasantries were dispatched and the physical examination commenced. Dismissed and with nothing to occupy him, Daniel would poke through the many books in the vicarage library or wander through the modest grounds or even into the more sprawling expanse of the great estate abutting the churchyard. Fawnwell, he believed the estate was called. But for its more modest size, the Lambs’ garden was among the finest he’d seen, and he knew from his pleasantries with Mrs. Lamb that gardening was her dearest pastime. Evidently her younger daughter shared this enthusiasm.

On one of these occasions Charlotte, who must have been fourteen or fifteen at the time, hailed him from where she stood in the garden. Dropping the shears into her basket, she ran toward him, hand atop her bonnet to keep it in place.

“Mr. Taylor,” she panted, out of breath, “there you are. And how fares my mother today?”

“Better, I think. And you? I trust you are well?”

“Yes, very, I thank you.” Charlotte searched the lawn behind him. “And where is Dr. Webb?”

“Still in with your mother.”

“I see.” Though from her wrinkled brow it was clear she did not. “Then why are you not with him?”

“It seems Dr. Webb feels that it would be more discreet, more comfortable for your mother, were I absent.”

“I am sure Mother said no such thing.”

“Of course not. It is assumed, I suppose. I gather the examination was of a delicate nature.”

“Delicate?”

Daniel had felt the blood heat his cheeks and silently cursed his tendency to blush.

“Your mother’s ailment is of a … feminine nature, and being a man…

“Dr. Webb is a man.”

“Yes, but I am young.”

“Not so young. I understand his last apprentice was much younger.

“Be that as it may, I must bow to Dr. Webb’s greater „ experience.

“But however are you to gain such experience wandering about my mother’s garden?”

“An excellent question, Miss Lamb. Most perceptive.”

“I can only hope Dr. Webb is not away should I need a physician.”

“Yes, well…”

“Forgive me. I meant no offense.”

“Of course. I understand.”

Daniel smiled grimly at the memory. Indeed, Charlotte would soon need a physician and Dr. Webb was nowhere near. He pushed through the foundling ward door and walked out into the garden, in time to see Charlotte bend over and begin pulling on a milkweed with great effort.

“Careful there, Miss Lamb. Do not overtax yourself.”

“Dr. Taylor, do please try to remember to call me Miss Smith.”

“I shall try, but we are alone here, so I thought it would be all right. May I ask what you are doing?”