Page 13 of Lady of Milkweed Manor

— J ACK S ANDERS, T HE S ECRETS OF W ILDFLOWERS

D aniel Taylor helped his father into his Sunday coat, dusting off, then smoothing the shoulders and sleeves. His hands lingered a moment on his father’s upper arms. When had he become so slight? He felt the tremor running through the older man’s body and bit his lip. Today was no day for lectures.

“Come now, Father. Wash a bit and then we’ll go.”

John Taylor appeared far older than his fifty-five years as he hobbled over to the washbasin and bent low to wash his hands and face.

“Give your mouth a rinse as well.”

His father paused in his ablutions, then did as he was bid. When he finished he said quietly, “Perhaps I ought to stay in this morning.”

“No, Father. You know the service does you good.”

“I’m not sure I’m feeling up to it.”

Daniel sighed quietly. He was torn between the temptation to feel relieved and go alone, knowing his association with his father would not help him build a thriving practice—at least not among those who could pay—and, of course, guilt at such a thought.

He looked at his father, sitting on the edge of his bed now, and felt a combination of feelings too complicated to separate: mild revulsion, pity, anger, protectiveness, love.

“Let’s see,” Daniel began softly, stepping close to his father and lifting his chin gently, looking into his aging face.

His eyes, though tired, were not bloodshot.

He then laid his wrist against his father’s creased forehead.

Warm but not feverish. From this angle above him, he noticed how thin his father’s hair was becoming on top and how several white tufts stood in disarray.

Carefully, he smoothed down the errant hair, as methodically as if he were performing some important medical procedure.

“There now. The picture of health and decorum.”

John Taylor’s grin was bleak. “If only that were true, eh, my boy?”

“Come now, Father, we do not wish to be late.”

Daniel and his father sat on the high-backed bench in a box near the middle of the church—a box generously shared with them by the widow Mrs. Wilkins, originally with the evident purpose of introducing her grown daughter to an eligible physician.

She had been too polite to rescind the invitation once she learned Daniel was already married.

An easy mistake to make, he realized, considering no one in that church had ever seen his wife.

As the man in black began his sermon, Daniel’s attention wandered, as it usually did.

If asked, he would likely acknowledge that he attended church because that was what respectable people did, and what a respectable physician was expected to do.

His spirit received little nurture—nor conviction—from the lofty sermons and formal hymns.

He did not blame the Church of England. He knew the problem lay within his own soul.

As he sat there, his father listening attentively beside him, the hard bench digging into his spine, the man’s deep baritone took him to another church, another time.

How long ago was it? Five years, perhaps.

He had just come from seeing Mrs. Lamb. Dr. Webb, eager to return home in time for tea, hurried on but urged him to take his time.

He no doubt guessed Daniel was feeling low—first from having been called by a teary-eyed lad to a dismal thatched cottage just that morning, only to find the grandmother already dead, and now the disappointing visit with Mrs. Lamb.

Daniel was grateful to the older man and, indeed, felt the need for some solitude.

Walking away from the vicarage, Daniel passed the church and, on impulse, walked inside the empty, echoing old building.

The age of the place continued to astound him—sections dated back to the twelfth century.

He never tired of gazing upon the unique ornaments of the otherwise humble church—chancel arch, double squint, mullioned windows, wall paintings of St. Francis and Henry the Third outlined in red ochre.

He had attended services there the past Sunday and for a moment imagined he could still hear Mr. Lamb’s booming baritone reverberating within the stone walls as he delivered his sermon from the raised pulpit.

But no, the place was utterly silent but for the crisp turning of a page.

He turned his head and there, in a rear pew of the nave, in a spot clearly chosen for its wide swath of sunlight, sat a teenaged Charlotte Lamb.

“Miss Lamb.”

“Hello, Mr. Taylor. How fares my mother?”

“A bit weaker than usual, I’m afraid. But she seems in good spirits.”

“Mother always is. I only wish her health were as good as her spirits.”

Knowing it was not his place to reveal Dr. Webb’s prognosis, he changed the subject, nodding to the black book the girl held against her chest. “May I ask what you are reading so intently?”

“Well, it’s the Bible, as you see.”

“And do you like reading it?”

“Yes, of course. Don’t you?”

“I’m afraid I find some of it rather dusty, but there are parts I am quite fond of.”

“Which parts?”

“Oh, I like the Gospels, the Proverbs, and some of David’s Psalms—the desperate ones. And of course in secret ...”

“Secret ...?”

He felt his face heat and knew he was blushing, “I was going to say the Song of Solomon, but I should not say it to you.”

“But you have already said it.”

“Forgive me.”

She turned to scan the south chapel, then looked back at him and whispered, “You have told me a secret. Now I shall tell you one. Shall I show you what I am truly reading?” She pulled out several folded pages that had been tucked into the Bible.

“I am supposed to be reading the book of Numbers, but instead I am reading this letter over and over again.”

“It must be a very interesting letter.”

“More interesting than Numbers at any rate.”

“Is it ... a love letter?”

“A love letter?” She ducked her head. “No. Not at all.”

“But you do ... receive love letters ... from time to time?”

“No. I have never.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for? I am only fifteen years old.”

“Quite right. Those should wait until you are at least ...”

“Sixteen.”

“I quite agree.”

“This is only a letter from my dear aunt. I’m to stay with her the month of August, and I long for it. I am reading what she says we shall do and whom we shall likely see ... all the while pretending to read this to please my father. Do you think me very wicked?”

“Never, Miss Lamb.”

“Father would. He says if we are all very good, and pray hard, Mother will get better. Do you think it true?”

“It’s certainly not fair.”

“Fair?”

“For your father to put that responsibility on you. Forgive me, I mean no disrespect, but do you really think God works that way? If we do the things we ought, He’ll preserve those we hold dear, but if we forget or neglect our duty, He’ll bring down calamity upon us and those we love?”

“I think perhaps you need to read the Old Testament more often.”

“Perhaps you are right. But I prefer the New.”

“Except for the Proverbs and most desperate of Psalms?” He smiled, “And that other book, which shall remain nameless.”

Now Daniel became aware of the congregation standing around him and quickly joined them, glad to rise from the hard bench. He felt himself smile again at the memory, a smile quite out of place with the serious benediction.

That night, Charlotte dreamt that Dr. Webb was again listening to her mother’s heart.

And, as she remembered him doing before, he asked her if she would like to listen as well.

Smiling, Charlotte climbed up onto the bed, returning her mother’s serene smile, and laid her head against her mother’s chest. But her mother’s smile soon faded.

Try as she might, Charlotte could not hear the heartbeat.

“Do you not hear it?” Dr. Webb demanded sternly.

“No,” Charlotte cried. “I cannot.”

It was her fault. If only she could position her head correctly, find the right spot to listen, if only she could hear it ... but she could not, and so it beat no longer.

Charlotte awoke, her own heart pounding, a nauseous dread filling her body as the images and cloak of guilt filled her mind. The images soon faded, but that familiar, nauseating guilt remained. It expanded, accompanied now by new pressure in her abdomen, a pressure which soon grew into pain.

Charlotte rose gingerly and removed her nightclothes to dress for the day—and that was when she saw the small, dark red stain.

On shaky legs, she made her way to breakfast, ate little, and was soon sitting at the table with the other women, attempting to finish the blanket she was embroidering for her child. She found it difficult to concentrate. Then a second wave of pain struck.

At the urging of the other women, Charlotte made her way carefully to Mrs. Moorling’s office. When she had confided to the matron about the pains and the slight but frightful bleeding, Mrs. Moorling had immediately gone off in search of a physician to see her.

By now, Charlotte had been sitting in the office for a quarter hour or more, shifting on the hard chair, trying to get comfortable, rubbing her abdomen, hoping to somehow ease the tightness, the strange new pains.

Gibbs appeared in the doorway. “Dr. Preston has just arrived. He will see you directly.”

“Dr. Preston? Perhaps I could wait ... see how I feel tomorrow.”

“Miss Smith. If you are bleeding, you had better not waste time.”

“Is it so serious?”

The woman shrugged. “Can be.”

Charlotte felt sick. “Very well.”