Page 26 of Lady of Milkweed Manor

Now, in chusing of a Nurse, there are sixe things to be considered: Her birth and Parentage: her person: her behavior: her mind: her milke: and her child.

— J AMES G UILLEMEAU, C HILDBIRTH OR T HE H APPY D ELIVERIE OF W OMEN

A few days after the birth of little Anne Taylor, a knock sounded on the door of Charlotte’s bedchamber. She rose gingerly from bed and opened it.

“Hello, Dr. Taylor.”

“You needn’t have gotten up.”

“I do not mind.”

“Most physicians insist on a full month’s recovery. But I see it as a good sign that you are up and about already.”

She nodded, briefly attempting a smile. “I suppose you are wanting your daughter?” Charlotte retreated back into the room toward the cradle. “Let me bring her to you. Mrs. Krebs asked me to nurse her or I should never have presumed ...”

“Nonsense. I am most grateful.”

“Your wife. She is ...?”

“No better, I’m afraid. I regret you had to see her in that state. But that is not why I am here.”

Charlotte lifted wide eyes and waited.

“I thought you would like to know. Mrs. Harris wants a wet nurse for your ... for the newborn child.”

A swell of hope rose within Charlotte, which she immediately realized was vain and foolish. She could not apply to nurse her own son. Katherine would know the truth at once.

“Mr. Harris has asked me to recommend someone,” Dr. Taylor continued. “Have you a preference?”

She smiled gratefully. “Indeed I do.”

There was comfort, at least, in choosing someone to care for Edmund.

“Oh, no, Miss Charlotte,” Sally protested. “I’d never get hired in such a great house, not the likes of me.”

“But you have the kindest heart of anyone I know, Sally. If I were choosing a nurse, you would be my very first choice.”

“Thank you, miss. But them likes the pretty, genteel girls, not some big baggage like me.”

“Nonsense. I shall help you. I shall show you exactly what to say and how to act. Please, you must at least try! It would mean the world to me to know you were there, looking out for him.”

“Are they family to you, miss?”

Charlotte swallowed. “Only distantly ... but if I could help them, I would.”

“I don’t know ...”

“Dr. Taylor has a list of qualifications for a wet nurse. He will let us borrow the pamphlet and we shall have you ready in no time.”

“Oh, very well, Miss Charlotte.” Sally smiled, her front teeth protruding as always. “I’m afraid I’m a beetle-headed burdock, but I shall give it me best try.”

Charlotte stood outside the door to Mrs. Moorling’s office, waiting while the matron made the introductions inside.

“Well, I shall leave you to it,” she heard Mrs. Moorling conclude.

Then she exited the room. Seeing Charlotte there, Mrs. Moorling left the door ajar.

She knew Charlotte had helped Sally prepare for this interview but not the reason why.

Charlotte smiled her gratitude and took up sentry at the narrow opening, watching the proceedings with nervous hope.

Katherine Harris sat with perfect posture, her back to the door.

Charlotte could see her profile as she turned to whisper something to her husband seated beside her.

Charles Harris nodded stiffly and shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable.

Before them stood Sally, petrified into stony stillness.

She was dressed in one of Charlotte’s gowns, its hem lengthened with six inches of material taken from forgotten curtains in the unused room at the end of the corridor.

Hugh Palmer, the man-midwife, stood beside Sally, facing the Harrises.

In his hand, he carried a small booklet, which he held open, referring to it as he spoke.

“First, concerning lineage,” Hugh Palmer began, in his somewhat nasally voice. “Have any of your kindred, whether it be parents, grandfather, or grandmother, ever been stained, or spotted, either in body or mind?”

Sally silently shook her head no.

“And what is your age?”

“Five and twenty.”

He glanced at Katherine. “Between five and twenty and five and thirty is the best age, wherein women are most temperate, healthful, and strong.”

Katherine nodded her understanding and he continued. “And your child’s age?”

“A half year.”

“Good. If her child be above seven or eight months old, then her milk will be too stale. It would also call into question whether she would have milk enough to nurse your son.”

Katherine again nodded, and Hugh Palmer continued, walking around Sally and eyeing her as one would a gown in a dress shop.

“She is a little tall perhaps. Not too fat nor too lean, however. Arms good and fleshly ...” He suddenly reached out and pinched Sally’s arm, and she gasped.

“... and firm.”

He returned his gaze to the book. “‘She must have a pleasing countenance, a bright and clear eye, a well-formed nose, a ruddy mouth, and very white teeth.’” He paused before Sally. “Open your mouth, if you please. Now smile. White, yes, but not very straight.”

He read on. “‘Her hair should be between yellow and black, ideally a chestnut color. But she especially should not have red hair.’”

Sally self-consciously touched her golden hair, pinned up in a classic twist by Charlotte herself.

“‘She must deliver her words well, and distinctly, without stammering.’ Please tell us something about yourself.”

Taking a breath and swallowing hard, Sally began in careful, practiced tones, “My name is Miss Sally Mitchell. I am five and twenty years of age ...”

From behind the door, Charlotte held her breath. Sally had already told her age. Charlotte hoped they wouldn’t find it odd that she was repeating it.

“I have one child. His name is Dickie. He’s a rascal but I loves him.”

Oh dear. She was extemporizing now.

Sally, apparently seeing the fine lady frown, returned to the rote speech Charlotte had prepared for her.

“My son is a half-year old and is in the care of my dear sister ...”

“Thank you. Moving on ...”

But Sally wasn’t finished yet. “Leaving me free to seek employment as a nurse.”

“As we see. Thank you.” The haughty man returned his focus to the book. “‘She must have a strong and big neck, for thereby, as Hippocrates said, may one judge the strength of the body.’”

Sally swallowed as three pairs of eyes studied her neck. She lifted her chin higher as though to accommodate them.

“‘She must have a broad and large breast... .’”

His gaze lowered and Sally’s strong neck turned bright red.

Katherine dipped her head, touching gloved fingers to her temple, her lowered hat brim no doubt concealing her face. Charlotte noticed that Mr. Harris had the good grace to turn his face away. He cleared his throat. Mr. Palmer looked up, oblivious to their discomfiture.

Mr. Harris said, “We shall leave it to you to examine, um, that aspect of her nature. We need not hear those particulars.”

“Ah ... yes. Very well.” Palmer moved on to the next page.

“‘She ought to be of a good behavior, sober, and not given to drinking, or gluttony, mild, without being angry or fretful: for there is nothing that sooner corrupts the blood, of which the milk is made, than choler or sadness.’”

“Yes, well, we have letters from a physician and the matron testifying to her character on those accounts,” Mr. Harris said dismissively.

“Indeed. ‘She must likewise be chaste.’ Miss Mitchell, are you married?”

“No, sir.”

“‘She must not desire the company of her husband or strange men, because carnal copulation troubleth the blood, and so by consequence the milk.’”

Sally blushed once more, and again Katherine’s hand went to her temple.

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Harris rose, agitated. “Mr. Palmer, do try and remember there is a lady in the room.”

“I am only trying to determine if this woman is a suitable choice.”

“I understand that. And what is your conclusion?”

“Well, I have yet to examine her breasts or her milk for the correct color and consistency ...”

Charles Harris lowered his head and bit out, “And how long does that require?”

“Not long. For the milk, I shall have the nurse express a small quantity onto a looking glass. It should be pure white, have a sweet smell, and be neither too thick nor too thin.”

“Then get on with it, man.” Mr. Harris sat back down.

The accoucheur and Sally disappeared behind a curtained partition, placed there for this use.

Even from her position of modest safety, Charlotte felt her heart pound, her face and neck heat at the thought of what poor Sally must be enduring on the other side of that partition. The only sounds were the rustling of fabric and an occasional murmur of “Mmm-hmm ...” from Mr. Palmer.

Five minutes later the man reappeared, a square of glass in his hand. He tilted it gently from side to side. “The milk flows in a leisurely fashion, not too watery, nor too thick.”

“So?”

“She will do,” Hugh Palmer announced. “The height and crooked teeth are not ideal, but overall an acceptable specimen.”

Stepping back into view, Sally beamed at the words, as though they were the finest compliment a woman could receive.

Charlotte sat on the garden bench, a swaddled Anne Taylor asleep in her arms. She remembered how her mother believed fresh air and sunshine were as important as mother’s milk for a child.

Dr. Taylor came out the side door and waved to her.

She tucked the child into the handled basket beside her and rose as he approached.

“Miss Lamb, may I say you look like a woman who has borne many a child.”

She looked at him quickly, then away, her hand moving self-consciously to her midriff, still somewhat rounded.

Dr. Taylor’s pale cheeks turned pink beneath the sandy stubble.

“What I mean to say is ... you look quite the experienced... . That is, quite ... as if you know what you are doing.” He rubbed his eyebrows with thumb and forefinger. “Though I obviously do not.”

Charlotte wondered why he seemed so nervous.

“Do you still plan to depart for Crawley soon?” he asked.

“Yes. Unless I hear otherwise from my aunt.”