Lady of Milkweed Manor (48 page)

Though she dreaded the possible repercussions, Charlotte decided she was obligated to write to apprise her cousin Katherine of her change in situation. She did not like the thought of placing Mrs. Dunweedy in an awkward predicament should Katherine write or call there. So she wrote a rather brief note to let her cousin know that she had taken a position as governess and was no longer residing in Crawley. She did not inform Katherine that she was in the employ of Daniel Taylor, for several reasons. She had seen the speculative gleam in Katherine’s eyes when she had seen him arrive at her great-aunt’s cottage. Though she might have imagined that. Worse, she had foolishly passed off Anne as her own daughter. If Katherine were to inquire-or heaven forbid, take it upon herself to call upon the Taylor home how would she explain that Anne was, after all, Dr. Taylor’s daughter and not her own? Katherine’s shock and censure would be too awful to imagine.

So Charlotte had omitted the name of her employer and his address on the first letter, only to be mortified when Daniel Taylor delivered a return letter from Katherine the following week.

“Lady Katherine asked me to give this to you when I saw you next,” he said. “She came by the Manor today.”

“She did?”

“Yes, she seemed certain I would know how to find you.”

“Did you tell her … ?”

“I told her nothing. Knowing my shortcomings in the tact and discretion department, I thought it best.”

“But she must know something, to ask you to deliver this to me.

“True. She did not seem surprised when I agreed to the task. I suppose she remembers that I had delivered that … other … parcel for her when last I was in Crawley.”

Charlotte knew he was referring to the money he had long ago delivered to her on Katherine’s behalf most of which Charlotte had given to Margaret Dunweedy to cover her living expenses.

“She did mention she had stopped by the Manor on two other occasions with the intention of asking me to get some message to you, only to be told the first time that I was away on holiday, and on the second, that I had taken leave and no one knew when I would return. Must have been while we were on the coast.”

She knew he did not like to recall that grim time. None of them did. Quietly, she thanked him for the letter and slipped up to her room before opening it. She held her breath as she read Katherine’s curt reply.

… I am trusting Dr. Taylor, who seems to know your whereabouts better than anyone, to get this to you. Goodness, Charlotte, why on earth did you not write to me sooner? I had grown con cerned. I called round at Margaret Dunweedy’s on Whitsunday, but she could not-or would not-tell me where you had gone. She said something about you being off on holiday, but of course, given your situation, I did not believe it.

Katherine went on to write several blunt questions.

Governess? Could be worse, I suppose. In whose employ are you? Do I know the family? I certainly hope they allow Anne to stay with you. Where in the world am Ito write you should the need arise? Do not be foolish, Charlotte. Send me your directions by return post.

Did Katherine guess she had been with Dr. Taylor all along? Was that why she was so certain he could contact her? But then, why hadn’t she acquired Dr. Taylor’s home address-it would certainly not be difficult to discover, since he had a fairly well-known medical practice. In any case, Charlotte knew she could not put her cousin off any longer. And so, with no small trepidation, Charlotte wrote back:

I am in the employ of Dr. Daniel Taylor, with whom you are some acquainted. I am content in my post, and the Taylors are kind and generous employers, though Dr. Taylor is away a great deal with his work as a physician. And, yes, Anne is here and enjoying excellent health. I do hope the same is true for your family….

After this, Charlotte and her cousin Katherine began exchanging brief, occasional letters. Charlotte found it a mixed blessing of pleasure and deprivation to read Katherine’s chatty reports of Edmund’s growth and antics and “how dear Charles dotes on the boy.” Still, Katherine had not suggested paying a call, and Charlotte had not offered.

And let this feeble body fail,
And let it faint or die;
My soul shall quit this mournful vale,
And soar to worlds on high.

CHARLES WESLEY, FUNERAL HYMNS

CHAPTER 3 2

he Doddington churchyard was quiet in the late afternoon sun. White willow trees hung low in perpetual sorrow, paying homage to the departed. Field maples, whose leaves were just beginning to turn at the edges, shone orange-red. Blood-red too.

Charles Harris walked slowly through the churchyard, past the ancient yew tree and mottled graves whose inscriptions were worn unreadable, to a row of newer graves along the far wall.

Stepping over fallen leaves and yew needles, he stopped before a small grave. A child’s grave. It was marked by a simple, handhewn cross. There was no inscription to give away the identity of the one buried there. But he knew who it was and mourned. Kneeling before the small marker, he reached out a trembling hand and gently touched the wooden surface, wondering again who had made it, who had placed it there, knowing such graves rarely had a marker of any kind.

Tears began flowing down his face, as they often did when in this place. When confronted with this loss.

“I shall never forget you,” he whispered, then rose.

A door creaked open somewhere not far off. Charles turned sharply, startled. From around the corner of the church came Ben Higgins with a shovel over one shoulder and a bunch of chrysanthemums in his other hand.

The young man paused when he saw Charles Harris standing there.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Ben Higgins said. “I didn’t know anyone was about the place.”

“Nor I. Did you put that cross there-on that grave?”

Charles pointed and the young man looked in the direction he indicated.

Ben nodded sheepishly. “That I did, sir. But on my own time.”

“I am not reprimanding you. Merely asking.”

Ben nodded again, standing there awkwardly, flowers drooping from his hand.

“Well, go about your work. Do not let me hinder you.”

Still the young man hesitated.

Realization dawned, and Charles nodded toward the flowers. “Are those … for that grave?”

“Yes, sir,” Ben admitted, still clearly uncomfortable.

Charles nodded, biting his lip. “You are a kind soul, Ben Higgins.”

Charlotte opened her eyes in the dim light and was surprised to see Dr. Taylor leaning over her bed. He held a candle lamp and wore his dressing gown. Startled, she instinctively pulled the blankets higher on her neck.

Daniel winced. “Forgive me. I had hoped not to wake you. I wanted to check on Anne.”

Only then did she recall that little Anne was in bed beside her. “Oh. Of course.” She remembered now. Anne’s fitfulness, the burning skin-too hot to merely signal the emergence of more teeth.

“She cried so in her cradle,” Charlotte whispered. “I finally brought her into bed with me.”

Dr. Taylor pulled the baby blanket lower and tenderly felt Anne’s forehead, cheeks, and chest.

“She is still warm. Too warm.”

“I shall go fetch cloths …”

“Shh … stay as you are. Let Anne sleep. I shall fetch them.”

He returned in a few minutes with a small ceramic basin and several face cloths. Gently he dipped one in the water, wrung it out, and laid it over his daughter’s forehead.

“I’m afraid I shall get your sheets damp. I should have brought something to lay underneath her.”

“I don’t mind. I can do that if you like.”

“Allow me. How many nights am I at the Manor and you must tend to her alone?”

“It is my responsibility.”

“I’d say it is mine as well.” He continued his ministrations, whispering more to sleeping Anne than to her, “What’s the use of having a physician for a father if he cannot care for his own child?”

He untied his daughter’s nightdress and laid another cool cloth across her chest. The little girl tossed her head, whining at the intrusion.

“If this doesn’t work, we shall have to set her in a tub of cool water. She shall like that far less, I fear.”

“What do you think is wrong?”

“Hard to tell at this point. Stomach is relaxed no distension. Has she been pulling on her ears at all?”

“No.”

“There is quite a lot of sickness going around. Hopefully nothing serious, just something that must run its course.”

Charlotte watched him continue to touch a third cloth to his daughter’s face and arms.

He looked at her suddenly. “How are you feeling, Miss Lamb? I do hope you are well.”

“Yes, I think so. A bit tired, but that is to be expected.”

He reached his hand toward her, then, seeing her surprise, hesitated, hand midair. “May I?”

“Oh, of course.”

He gently touched her forehead, his fingers tracing down her cheeks before returning to the basin. “You feel fine. I never stopped to think Anne might have something contagious. Perhaps I ought to take her to my room.”

“I do not think that necessary. And I am quite certain that if Anne has anything catching I should already have caught it in any case. Or perhaps even passed something along to her.”

“I doubt that. You are so rarely out alone. When would you have occasion to come into contact with some ill person?”

“At the park or market, I suppose, though Anne is always with me. Or church. No, she goes with me there as well…”

“No wonder you are tired. It’s amazing you are not exhausted.”

“It is nothing compared to your days and nights. You so rarely sleep in your own bed, or at all for that matter.”

“I usually find at least a few hours of sleep at the Manor. My own bed holds little appeal for me these days.”

Charlotte could feel a blush warm her cheeks at the implication of his words. An awkward silence hung between them.

“Forgive me. I’m tired. I did not think….”

“It is understandable,” she whispered. “You miss Lizette, and no wonder.”

“Perhaps. Still …” He shook his head.

Trying to lighten the tension, she said, “For my part, I rarely slept the night through at the Manor. All the noise and having to share my bed so.”

“You-” he hesitated, eyes on his task-“object to sharing your bed?”

Her cheeks burned more furiously, and she was relieved he kept his gaze on his daughter.

“Not on principle, no. But before I moved to a private room, I slept with five others.”

He looked up. “Five? Surely not as bad as all that?”

She smiled, “Two other women and three unborn children.”

“Ah … crowded indeed.” He returned her smile before again lowering his gaze. “At least here you have your own bed. Except when my daughter shares it with you. She has no idea how fortunate she is… .” He looked up, startled at his own words. “I mean, to have you care for her so….”