Page 17 of Lady of Milkweed Manor

In the early nineteenth century a new term—“puerperal–insanity”— would find its way into medical texts... . Women were believed to be particularly at risk shortly after childbirth ... but they could also become mad during pregnancy.

— D R. H ILARY M ARLAND, D ANGEROUS M OTHERHOOD

T he entry hall was empty as Charlotte walked through it, passing the manor’s main staircase.

There was normally a chain strung from between the wall and banister, but at the moment it hung limply from the wall.

She thought she heard voices above stairs and paused to listen.

It was afternoon, and bright sunlight filled the hall from the high, unobstructed windows over the main door.

There was nothing sinister about the setting this time, but still, when the cry came, chills coursed through Charlotte’s body—accompanied by pity for whatever poor creature had uttered it.

Charlotte put her hand on the banister and took a slow step up and then another.

Suddenly a male voice burst out from above, “Moorling! I’m waiting!

” The voice startled her. It was Dr. Preston’s voice, angrier than usual.

She shouldn’t have been surprised, she supposed.

She knew Dr. Taylor was not usually on duty during the afternoons—that daytime hours were primarily the reign of Dr. Preston.

Still for some reason it perplexed her to hear him up there.

She had assumed that it was Dr. Taylor’s on-duty residence—and domain—alone.

She heard footsteps clicking across the marble of the ground floor and looked over the railing to see Mrs. Moorling approaching.

She was carrying a tray laden with lances and glass vials, iodine and bandages.

Charlotte recognized it immediately for what it was.

A bloodletting tray. One of Dr. Webb’s colleagues had treated her mother with similar instruments over a course of days, and it had weakened her so badly that Dr. Webb forbade its use ever again.

Carefully balancing her tray, Mrs. Moorling had not yet seen Charlotte, but as soon as she reached the foot of the stairs and glanced up, her already drawn expression took on a sharp edge.

“May I ask what you are doing, Miss Smith?”

“I thought ... I heard voices.”

“Of course you did,” she snapped. “We have occasional patients on the upper floors as well. Did you not see the sign?”

Charlotte shook her head.

Mrs. Moorling looked over and saw the dangling chain. “Someone’s let it down. Put that back up for me after I pass, will you? And please stay on the ground floor.”

Mrs. Moorling started up the stairs. Charlotte realized the matron would likely have given her a longer lecture had Dr. Preston not been waiting so impatiently.

Charlotte sighed and reached down awkwardly over her bulky middle for the chain.

She fingered the small engraved plaque that hung at the chain’s midpoint. The plaque read: Staff Admittance Only.

Well, there was someone up there who was not on staff and who was not happy about being there.

Why she stood there, she did not know. But she felt oddly rooted to the spot.

A few minutes later, she again heard footsteps on the marble—duller male steps.

She looked across the hall and saw Dr. Taylor approaching, peering at a document of some sort as he walked.

When he looked up and saw her there, he smiled easily. “Good day to you, Miss Smith.”

“And to you, Dr. Taylor.”

“I say, this place is a tomb. Um, rather, I cannot seem to find anyone about. Have you seen Mrs. Moorling or Preston, by chance?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. They are both above stairs right now.”

He stopped where he was. “Are they indeed?” His expression was both thoughtful and perplexed.

“Mrs. Moorling was taking up some things Dr. Preston must have ordered.”

He lowered the document in his hands. “What sort of things?”

“If I am not mistaken, lances and such for bloodletting. I saw that at home on more than one occasion before Dr. Webb forbade it.”

His expression transformed from perplexity to alarm and, she thought, anger.

“Thank you,” he murmured tensely and jumped over the low chain easily and bounded up the stairs two at a time. He disappeared around the corner hollering, “Preston!” as he ran.

There was something troubling going on above stairs. Quite troubling. She thought to follow Dr. Taylor, but a quick look at that little plaque, still swinging from a flick of Dr. Taylor’s shoe, stopped her. That and the thought of Mrs. Moorling’s censure.

Charlotte walked quickly back down the corridor, past her room and to the servants’ stairs.

Looking back and seeing no one, she opened the door and stepped in, closing the door behind her.

She climbed the stairs as quickly as her taxed body would allow, and when she reached the top she heard the unmistakable sounds of Dr. Preston and Dr. Taylor shouting at each other, as well as Mrs. Moorling’s low, admonishing tones.

But then the other voice sounded, the high, plaintive wail Charlotte had heard before.

The cry seemed more distressed than ever, and the volume and panicked pitch of it were mounting by the second.

Charlotte cracked the door open and peered down the corridor. The windows up here were unshuttered, so the passage was light enough for her to see clearly. She could also hear clearly as Dr. Taylor exclaimed, “Good heavens, Preston. You have frightened her nearly to death.”

“I am only attempting what you hadn’t the courage to do.”

“Yes, and see how much it has helped her.”

“I was not finished.”

“Yes, you are.”

The fevered wailing rose again, and Dr. Taylor barked a command, “Get out of here, Preston. Now.”

“Fine. Moorling, come with me.”

Preston marched away down the corridor toward the main stairs, Mrs. Moorling following less assuredly behind him. Charlotte saw the woman glance back.

Dr. Taylor’s voice called out, “Mrs. Moorling, please hand me that sponge.”

“Mrs. Moorling, you will come with me,” Preston insisted. “That room is no place for you.”

Charlotte was surprised to see Mrs. Moorling obey the man. The two turned the corner and disappeared, Charlotte knew, down the main staircase.

“Mrs. Moorling!” Dr. Taylor’s voice had taken on new urgency. “I need you here!”

The wail broke off into short cries and curses and Charlotte heard the unmistakable sound of struggle.

“I need some help here!”

Dr. Taylor’s plea pulled Charlotte into the corridor.

She stepped both rapidly and timidly down its length to the open doorway.

She peered in and put her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.

Chills prickled her skin. Dr. Taylor held a wild-haired, half-dressed woman in a wrestling hold against the far wall of the room.

In one hand, raised above her head, the woman held a lance like those Charlotte had seen on the tray earlier.

Dr. Taylor held her wrist to keep the lance at bay and with the other hand held the woman still as she struggled to free herself.

The woman, Charlotte realized, was cursing in French.

Dr. Taylor must have heard her footsteps, because he said, without being able to turn around enough to see her, “The opium sponge on the corridor table. Quick!”

Charlotte turned and found the sponge in a bowl.

She picked it up carefully and quickly stepped back into the room, dripping water and who knew what else and swallowing back her fear of recrimination.

Dr. Taylor pressed the woman’s body with his shoulder and awkwardly stuck out his hand behind himself to receive the sponge.

Charlotte walked closer and laid it in his waiting palm.

At that moment she stepped into his peripheral vision and he glanced up at her, and his eyes sparked with—what?

Anger? Astonishment? Mortification? She wasn’t sure.

Charlotte glanced quickly at the woman, and even through the dark hair strewn across her face, there was no missing the fury in her expression.

The woman began yelling at her, lip curled in disdain, obsidian eyes flashing.

Charlotte’s familiarity with the French language did not extend to whatever vile words the woman was spewing—words that were cut off when Dr. Taylor pressed the sponge against her nose and mouth.

Charlotte backed away slowly, watching the woman struggle in vain to turn her face away.

Just as Charlotte reached the door, the woman slumped against Dr. Taylor, clearly sedated.

He picked her up and laid her on the room’s lone bed.

Only then did Charlotte realize that the woman was with child.

Dr. Taylor looked over at Charlotte in the doorway. “You are not supposed to be up here, you know.”

She nodded. “I know.”

She stood there a few seconds longer. He offered no explanation and neither did she.

He covered the woman with a blanket, grumbling as he did so, “Blast that Preston. I have told him never to try that with her. Arrogant fool ...”

In repose, the woman’s face relaxed into lovely lines and features somehow familiar. Recognition flitted within reach and away again.

“There, she will rest quietly now.” Rising, he led Charlotte from the room, locking the door behind them.

“I suppose you wonder why I don’t have him discharged. What with things like this and those other charges you brought to my attention.”

“I was not ...”

“I cannot release him, though I likely should. He knows too much. And now, so do you. I don’t suppose I have any right to ask you to keep silent about what you have seen this day.”

“What ... have I seen?” she asked softly.

He looked at her, then away. He sighed deeply. “A woman who suffers from puerperal insanity.”

“What is that?”

“A type of melancholy mania. In her case it commenced with conception. More typically it develops after birth.”

“I have never heard of it. Do many suffer from it?”