Page 32 of Lady of Milkweed Manor

A quarter of an hour later, the center doors opened and a small group of gaily-dressed women entered, chattering and laughing like a clutch of hens.

Charlotte recognized one of Katherine’s friends but none of the other regal ladies.

There was Katherine in the center of them, wearing a pale blue walking dress and a fur-trimmed cape.

A blue hat ornamented with feathers crowned her head.

In her arms, she held a babe ... Charlotte’s babe, gowned even more lavishly than his attendants, in flowing white satin.

As the women chatted amongst themselves, Charlotte heard bits of their plans to visit an elegant tearoom after the churching.

An Anglican priest in flowing robes entered and the women hushed.

He directed them to a small chapel beside the chancel, its size conducive to the intimate gathering.

There Katherine kneeled, as directed by the Book of Common Prayer , and the service began.

Having grown up a vicar’s daughter, Charlotte knew the service was formally named the “Thanksgiving of Women after Childbirth.”

“‘For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of His goodness to give you safe deliverance, and hath preserved you in the great danger of childbirth: you shall therefore give hearty thanks unto God,’” the priest intoned.

Katherine responded, “‘I am well pleased that the Lord hath heard the voice of my prayer. The snares of death compassed me round: and the pains of hell got hold upon me.’”

Charlotte unconsciously mouthed the familiar words along with her cousin. She was touched by the unexpected humility of Katherine’s audible response. She had long known Katherine to be cynical of religion, but her declaration seemed wholly sincere.

“‘Oh, Almighty God,’” the priest continued, “‘which hast delivered this woman thy servant from the great pain and peril of childbirth: Grant, we beseech thee, most merciful Father, that she through thy help, may both faithfully live and walk in her vocation, according to thy will in this life present ...’”

This part of the service did not apply to her, Charlotte realized with a dull ache. Katherine was being exhorted to remain faithful to her husband and to bear other heirs for him. Charlotte swallowed back remaining dregs of bitterness.

“‘... and also may be partaker of everlasting glory in the life to come: through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’”

Would Katherine bear more children? Even though she was older and had experienced such a difficult childbirth? Katherine believed a healthy child had resulted from the ordeal ... so would Edmund yet have a brother or sister? Or would he grow up an only child?

“‘Children,’” continued the priest as he delivered the liturgy, “‘are an heritage and gift that cometh of the Lord. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.’”

Charlotte sat and waited as Katherine’s friends filed cheerfully from the church, their heels and laughter echoing in the lofty space.

Katherine paused to thank the cleric, then turned and followed after the others.

Charlotte watched until Katherine and Edmund disappeared from view beneath the gallery railing.

Then her tear-filled gaze fled to a carving of Mary holding the infant Jesus and, above, the magnificent painting of Jesus at the Last Supper.

She stared at the images as Katherine’s footsteps faded away below.

Charlotte felt her lips part and her chest tighten.

She had spent her life in a church not unlike this one, but this was the first time she had been so deeply struck by the immensity of what God had done in giving up His only Son.

How did you do it? she breathed, tears running down her cheeks.

Of course she knew the situations were beyond compare.

God’s sacrifice had saved countless multitudes. Hers, only one precious child.

A few days after the churching, Katherine pulled the long-forgotten handkerchief from beneath the sachet in her drawer.

How long had it lain there, concealed? The smell of musty lilac was heavy on the material, its folds now permanent creases.

She turned it over and there it was. The unusual flower, the pod, the curve of the leaf resembling the letter C.

Yes ... this was a C and now she remembered.

This was Charlotte’s signature. Cousin Charlotte, who detested needlework but had nevertheless made a pretty handkerchief for Katherine as a gift for some birthday or Christmas many years ago now.

Clutching the handkerchief, Katherine marched up the stairs to the nursery.

Sally jumped when she entered.

“Where is that blanket? The embroidered one?”

“I ... I’m not ...”

“Did you dispose of it as I asked?”

“Well, I ... I meant to put it out with the children’s aid donation. But let me see ...”

Sally lifted the lid of the chest and flipped through the linens.

“There ’tis.”

“I knew it.” Katherine snatched the blanket from her and walked to the window, comparing the two items in the light.

“Do forgive me, m’lady.”

“Look. They are so similar, are they not?”

Sally approached cautiously and leaned close. “Seems so.”

“Do you know who made this?”

The nurse hesitated. “Well, I ...”

“My cousin Charlotte, that’s who.”

“Charlotte?”

“Yes, Charlotte Lamb, my young cousin. I’ve been wondering where’s she gone to.”

“Charlotte Lamb?”

“Yes, yes.”

Katherine strode from the nursery, both pieces in hand. She found Charles in the library.

“I knew it. Look.”

“What am I looking at? Not the confounded blanket again.”

“Yes ... and the handkerchief. See—they were made by the same person.”

“I do not see that they are so alike.”

“I asked and asked, and no one would tell me. I detest secrets! I have had my suspicions, but I did not want to believe—”

“Katherine,” he said sternly. “What are you talking about?”

“Charlotte Lamb, of course.”

“What of her?”

“She made this blanket, just as she made this for me years ago. That could only mean one thing.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“You said you got this from a hospital. Which hospital?”

“What does it matter?”

“Was it a lying-in hospital? The Manor Home? Queen Charlotte’s?”

“I had my mind on other things. The physician directed the driver to the nearest facility ...”

“Yes, yes. Which was it?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Because Charlotte is there ... or was. And I have the proof of it.” She lifted the blanket.

“You have nothing of the kind. All sorts of ladies aid societies make blankets for hospitals and foundling wards and other worthy charities. If, and I repeat if, Charlotte Lamb stitched that blanket, that by no means proves anything other than her stitching hasn’t improved.”

“Can you imagine Charlotte sitting around stitching with some ladies aid society? And with such cheap material? I for one cannot.”

“For a good cause ...”

“Yes, for a very good cause—her own. I tell you she has disappeared, and my uncle will not speak her name nor hint at her whereabouts. Neither will her trying sister.”

She suddenly looked at him, staring baldly at him, daring him to lie. “You do not know where she is, do you, Charles? Tell me honestly.”

He replied levelly. “I do not know where she is.”

“I should ask Amelia Tilney. She would know if anyone would.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Why do you think? So we can help her.”

“Even if what you are suggesting is true ... that she’s had a child out of wedlock?”

“Yes. Not publicly, of course. But if she’s been left to fend for herself, there must be something we can do.”

“That is very kind of you, Katherine.”

“Do look into it for me, won’t you, Charles?”

“Very well. If it’s important to you, I shall.”

Daniel’s father, John Taylor, looked at him sadly from across the table. “But to send your child away ...?”

“What would you have me do?” Daniel asked.

“I could help care for her. Have the nurse stay here.”

“What sort of woman would live alone with two men?”

“Plenty would.”

“Not the sort I want nursing my daughter.”

“Anne is my grandchild.”

“And my daughter. Do you not think I shall miss her as well?”

“But Lizette will want her near ... once she is sufficiently recovered.”

“I pray that will be so.”

“May I ask what—” his father hesitated—“what course of treatment you will try next?”

“I do not know.”

“Allow me to help you, Daniel.”

“You are not to practice, if you’ll remember.”

“It was one mistake. And even then both child and mother survived.”

“Yes, I thank God I happened by.”

“She was not expected to deliver for a fortnight at least. If I’d had any indication her time might come sooner, that I might be called into duty, I should never have allowed myself to ... to ...”

“Get drunk?”

His father winced.

“Forgive me,” Daniel said. “That was uncalled for.”

“I have not taken a drink since,” his father said quietly. “But if I’m not allowed to work, to help people ... I do not know ...”

“Perhaps in time, Father. Once that episode is forgotten. Do not forget Miss Marsden threatened to go to the courts with her charges if she caught wind of you practicing.”

“I have not forgotten. Still, I might be of use to my own granddaughter or daughter-in-law... .”

“You saw how Lizette was while she was still here with us. You would barely know her now. The mania is completely out of control. If you have some idea ...”

“I confess I have never treated a case so severe.”

“Nor I, Father. Nor I.”

The following week, Katherine again raised the topic of Charlotte’s whereabouts. “I was speaking with my accoucheur and he remembers a physician by the name of Taylor being on hand the night of Edmund’s birth.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Well, where does he practice? Have you contacted him?”

“What do you plan to do once you know?”

“To inquire after Charlotte, of course.”

“I’m sure such information is confidential. For obvious reasons.”

“Oh, I have my ways—as you well know.” She smiled at him.