Page 12 of Lady of Milkweed Manor

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

— F LOWER E SSENCE S OCIETY

T 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?”

“This garden is overrun with milkweeds, as you can well see. I understand gardening is not a priority in such a place, but—”

“You are quite mistaken, Miss Lamb. This garden is one of my priorities indeed.”

“There is little evidence of that.”

“Ahh ... that is only because you are looking at it with the wrong eyes.”

“Wrong eyes?”

“Yes, the eyes of a formal English gardener who adores box hedges and lilies and other lovely useless things.”

She opened her mouth, but he lifted a hand to ward off her rebuttal.

“Wait until you have heard me out. What do you know of milkweeds, Miss Lamb?”

“I read an article about them in one of Mother’s journals. It said French people actually plant them in their gardens. But I think most people do their best to eradicate them.”

“Yes, you look here and see a patch of pestiferous weeds—is that right?”

“Of course.”

“Yet I look here and see a plethora of elixirs and natural healing compounds that aid my work and soothe my patients.”

“Really?” Charlotte looked back at the milkweeds with skepticism.

“Really. The down of the seed can be used to dress wounds, and the milky sap creates an instant bandage that can be applied to various skin eruptions. A good root tea serves as a diuretic, expectorant, and a treatment for any number of medical conditions—including respiratory ailments, joint pain, and digestive problems. It serves as an invigorating tonic and helps with stomach problems, headaches, uterine pains, influenza, typhoid fever, and inflammation of the lungs. The sap can even heal warts with topical application.”

“You have memorized that entire list?”

He smiled. “You are not the first to question my garden.”

“I would imagine not.” She smiled back at him.

“Come, I will show you how to harvest the root.”

They had dug up only one plant, Dr. Taylor on his haunches to show her where to sever root from stalk, when Sally bolted out the foundling ward door waving her arms.

“Dr. Taylor, do come quick!”

Charlotte noticed he did not question Sally. The urgency in her tone was enough for him to leap to his feet and run toward her. Charlotte followed, though more slowly, the uprooted plant hanging limply in her hand.

Once inside, she heard a woman crying out and shrieking, and old Mrs. Krebs giving orders in her lower-pitched tones.

“What’s happened?” Charlotte asked a white-faced Sally.

“Her baby’s died.”

“Oh no.”

They tiptoed forward and saw Mrs. Krebs trying to console a distraught young woman Charlotte had never seen before.

“Who is she?”

“She came to the door last night, asking to be a nurse,” Sally began earnestly.

“But both Mrs. Krebs and Mrs. Moorling was out for the evening, and Gibbs told her she’d need to come back in the morning.

I thought she looked desperate-like, even offered to work without wages, but Gibbs wouldn’t hear of it and sent her on her way.

Well, this morning she comes back first thing and Mrs. Krebs takes pity on her and lets her start right away.

I was helping handfeed, you know, and I watched her.

I seen how she went from crib to crib, looking not at the babes’ faces but at their feet!

Mrs. Krebs comes and puts a baby in her arms and points to the first rocking chair, and the poor dear sits down and starts to nurse the little one, and I see her work the wee one’s foot out of its bundling and look close-like at the heel. That’s when I figgered it.”

“Figured what?”

Dr. Taylor reappeared and gave the woman a dose of laudanum.

“Just this morning I had to wrap up a babe what died in the night,” Sally continued. “And for some reason, I found myself looking at the little angel’s perfect wee hands and perfect wee feet. That’s when I seen the little black mark on ’er heel. Tar, most like.

Marked by its mama, so she could find her own again.”

Charlotte watched as Dr. Taylor and Mrs. Krebs ushered the woman, still weeping and moaning, into one of the small sleeping rooms down the passageway.

“I shouldna told her, Charlotte. I should’ve found some tar or coal and marked some other poor babe’s heel. She wouldna known and the both of them be better off now.”

“It’s not your fault, Sally. You did what you thought best.”

Sally swiped at a tear and shook her head, clearly not convinced.

Charlotte had difficulty sleeping that night. She turned slowly and heavily in the swaybacked bed, trying in vain to find a comfortable position and to lure the sweet spiral of sleep.

She heard a muffled call from somewhere in the manor, followed by running footsteps down the corridor.

Thinking again of the poor babe who died in the night, Charlotte arose from bed, lit a candle, and made her way to the foundling ward.

As soon as she opened the heavy door, the sound of crying reached out to her.

She stepped in quickly, shutting the door behind her.

Was this the crying she had heard those other nights?

Not likely this far from her room. She moved to the first room of sleeping infants.

One was crying, and another awoke to join the first, the cries mingling in an ear-piercing refrain.

Charlotte stepped back into the hall and saw a mobcapped Mrs. Krebs struggling to fix a feeding tube with sleep-smeared eyes.

“Go and fetch Ruthie for me, will you, Charlotte? It’s her turn. Second door on the right.”

Charlotte soon returned with the sleepy red-haired woman, who sat down and began nursing the two crying infants.

Charlotte walked down the row of cribs and saw another infant lying awake, a boy according to the small card with the child’s sex and date of admission pinned to the side of the crib.

Occasionally a card contained a name, if the child had been given one, but it was rare.

This little boy lay on his back, looking around the room peacefully, taking in the commotion with calm ease.

Charlotte paused, looking down at the child, his eyes bright in the candlelight.

Mrs. Krebs sighed. “Fixed the feeder up for nothing, looks like. Usually when one cries a whole choir wake with it. But only two so far, and Ruthie can manage a pair on her own.”

“Would you mind if I fed this one?” Charlotte asked quietly.

“Isn’t fussing.”

“I know, but he’s awake and so am I.”

“Suit yourself.” Mrs. Krebs set the feeding tube on the table and left the room.

Charlotte picked up the swaddled infant, who seemed light as a kitten in her arms. She sat with him in the rocking chair nearest the table, and he immediately turned toward her, molding himself to her body.

At first she pulled away, back pressed hard against the chair, feeling embarrassed as the infant rooted against her nightdress.

She looked around, feeling guilty, though of what she wasn’t sure.

But no one was watching. Ruthie was facing the other direction and seemed to have nodded off even while she nursed, and Mrs. Krebs had taken herself back to bed.

Charlotte relaxed and allowed herself to draw the infant close.

She felt a sharp longing, and wished she could nurse this little one.

She ran a finger along his smooth cheek and he turned toward it, taking its tip between his lips.

The force of the suction was surprisingly strong.

He took her finger farther in until she felt the wet ridges of the roof of his mouth and his tongue tugging along the underside of her finger.

She wondered how it would feel, if it would hurt or be pleasant, when she finally nursed her own child.

“You’ll have to settle for goat’s milk tonight,” Charlotte whispered. She pulled her finger from his mouth with a slick popping noise and picked up the feeding tube from the nearby table. She adjusted it, lowering the open end toward the baby’s mouth.

“Here you are,” she murmured and smiled when the little one began drinking the milk in earnest.

“If you were my handsome boy, I would not let you out of my sight.” She closed her eyes as she fed the baby. Dear God in heaven, she silently prayed, please watch over this dear, helpless child.

Daniel Taylor stood in the darkness, watching Charlotte.

Unable to return to sleep after a trying day and worse evening, he had roamed the manor’s corridors.

As he passed through the quiet ward, he had been surprised to see her there, especially at this hour.

Aware of his hasty dress and need of a wash and shave, he did not make his presence known.

He had seen many women hand feed or nurse infants over the years—from beautiful young girls to ancient nuns—why did he feel so oddly transfixed by the sight of Charlotte Lamb feeding a foundling?