Page 40 of Lady of Milkweed Manor

Wet nurses earned twelve dollars a month, paid five dollars for the care of their children, and netted an impressive seven dollars. This was top dollar in the New York City servant market.

T he seaside cottage Dr. Taylor had taken for the summer was a boxy Georgian of blond stone.

From the village, where they had alighted the coach, they hired a boy with a pony cart to take them the rest of the way, across the Adur River bridge and west along the coast. It would have been a taxing walk with Anne and all their things.

The road approached the cottage from the rear, and Charlotte could see neither beach nor sea as they walked up the cobbled path.

The boy carried their baggage to the back porch, where Daniel paid him and waved him on his way.

As Charlotte held Anne and waited quietly, she thought she heard the distant cry of gulls.

“We’re a hundred yards or so from the sea. You cannot see it from the cottage, but I understand it’s an easy walk down the hill.”

Daniel preceded her inside, dropping his medical case in the entry porch as he went. Taking a deep breath, Charlotte followed.

Mrs. Taylor seemed in good spirits and received Daniel and Anne warmly, taking the child and kissing her repeatedly. She offered a reserved but cordial greeting to Charlotte.

The French servant, Marie, led her upstairs, pointing out the rooms where the master and mistress would sleep, then preceded Charlotte up another set of stairs. Huffing and puffing, the woman pointed to two doors close to each other.

“For you and for ze nursery.”

Charlotte opened the first door and saw it led to a small but pleasant room with a narrow, canopied bed, dresser, and walls of white planking.

A child’s room, she thought. Then she opened the nursery door and stepped inside, instantly noticing that it was much larger than her bedchamber.

It was a lovely room with a white cradle made up with cheery pink bedding, two chests of drawers and two chairs, one of which was occupied by a doll and a stuffed rabbit.

“We are not to share, then?” Charlotte asked, wondering what to make of it. This room was certainly large enough to accommodate another bed.

“ Non ,” Marie answered haughtily. “Madame does not wish to bother you every time she wants to see her own baby.”

Charlotte raised her eyebrows. Perhaps it was only her accent, but the maid’s tone made Charlotte wonder if what she really meant was Madame did not wish to bother with her.

But Charlotte said only, “I see,” and forced herself to smile at the woman, who, had she been young or pretty, might have found easier, higher-paying work as a ladies’ maid—a post for which French women were in much demand.

But Marie was neither. Charlotte wondered if this explained her sour and resentful disposition.

In short order, Charlotte established a daily routine.

She nursed, bathed, and dressed Anne. Then, when the weather allowed, she bundled her up and took her for walks along the sea.

Charlotte ate her meals with the servants: Marie and Mr. and Mrs. Beebe, who maintained the place for its absentee owners and were the doting grandparents to six children who lived nearby.

Elderly Mr. Beebe took care of the simple grounds and what repairs he could, though judging by the worn condition of the place, he was no longer equal to the task.

Mrs. Beebe, a few years his junior, was a decent, no-nonsense woman who cooked and did basic cleaning, though she made it clear she expected Marie to help with the housework and laundry while they lodged there.

On her first Sunday in Shoreham, Charlotte nursed Anne and handed her off to the Taylors as they prepared to leave for church, dressed in their finest clothes.

The Taylors would drive together in the gig kept at Lloyd Lodge for tenants’ use.

Charlotte also planned to attend services, but she would go on foot.

Together with Mr. and Mrs. Beebe, she walked across the bridge to the Old Shoreham Church.

When they arrived, she saw the Taylors already seated near the front of the church.

Charlotte sat near the back, next to Mrs. Beebe, whose head kept lolling against Charlotte’s shoulder during the long sermon.

At one such moment, she noticed a broad-shouldered young man across the aisle, looking her way.

He was a head taller than anyone else in the building and had a strong, square face and long nose.

His light brown hair was short and tousled.

He was not handsome, Charlotte decided, but was a very pleasant-looking young man.

He looked from Charlotte to Mrs. Beebe in repose, and then back at Charlotte, smiling at her in amused empathy.

It was a boyish, friendly expression, and Charlotte smiled in return.

After the service, when they had shaken the curate’s hand and walked out of the church a dozen paces behind the tall man, Charlotte asked Mrs. Beebe, “Do you know that young man?”

Mrs. Beebe followed her gaze. “Can’t say I’m surprised you’d notice him, Miss Charlotte. He does stand out in a crowd.”

“Indeed.”

“His name’s Thomas Cox. His family lives up coast from us a bit. One of his younger sisters is at school with our granddaughters.”

“Are his sisters tall as well?”

“No. He’s the biggest of the lot. But a gentler soul you’ll never find. Shall I introduce you, Miss Charlotte?”

“Oh, no. I only wondered.” Charlotte changed the subject, lest Mrs. Beebe misinterpret her interest as something it was not. “And what will you and Mr. Beebe do on your Sabbath day of rest?”

“We’re to dine with my daughter and her husband. They’re the ones with the four little girls. It’s my son in Worthing what’s got the two older boys. We’ll see them Sunday week.”

“How blessed you are to have your family so close at hand.”

“Indeed, Miss Charlotte. And close in heart.” The woman surprised Charlotte by reaching out and squeezing her hand. “Someday you will as well, my dear.”

A few days later, Charlotte borrowed Mr. Beebe’s pride and joy—the baby carriage he had built for his own grandchildren.

It was much lighter and simpler than the large, ornamental conveyances afforded by only the very rich.

His was fashioned after the invalid chairs he had once seen in the spa town of Bath, with a hood and push-handle.

Promising to be careful, Charlotte put Anne securely inside, and together they strolled along the sea.

The large wheels of the carriage turned more easily on the water-worn pebbles of the shingle beach than they likely would have on sand.

Enjoying the breeze and the rhythmic roar of the waves, Charlotte walked for nearly a mile, she reckoned, passing the rooftops of several houses on the ridge as she did.

In the sky ahead, she saw a kite flying.

The sight cheered her somehow, the colorful diamond, soaring on a wind.

She picked up her pace, hoping to catch sight of the child flyer.

She soon realized the flyer was not on the beach but up on the ridge, hidden from view.

As she passed a path leading up to the nearest house, the kite came crashing down beside her.

So startled was Charlotte that she shoved the carriage to the side too quickly and it struck a large stone. She heard something snap.

Oh no ...

Charlotte sunk to her haunches between the injured carriage and the fallen kite and almost immediately heard feet crunching over the pebbles toward her.

Looking up, she saw a boy of nine or ten years, spool of thread in hand, brown curls flopping up and down on his head as he ran.

“I didn’t brain you, did I?” the child called, worried.

“No. Not quite.” Charlotte smiled, and as the child stepped closer she realized it was not a boy after all, but a girl with hair cropped short around her face and dressed in boys’ trousers.

“When I saw you down on the ground like that, I thought I must have.”

“I was just examining this wheel. I seem to have knocked it from its, em, rod there.”

“Axle.”

“Right.”

The girl peeked beneath the carriage hood to look at Anne. “What’s your baby’s name?”

“Her name is Anne. But she isn’t mine. I’m her nurse.”

“She’s lovely.”

“As are you. I like your hair.” Charlotte looked at the loose, springy curls, much like her own hair would be, she guessed, if she cut it that length. “Must be less fuss short.”

“That’s what Mother says. Keeps all our hair short.”

“All?”

“My sisters and brothers. I have three of each.”

“I see. Shall I help get your kite back up?”

“Do you know how to fly a kite?”

“No. My mother and I tried once, but there was insufficient wind.”

“Plenty today.”

“What shall I do?”

“Well, if you’ll hold the kite while I take out the slack and start running ...”

Charlotte was already picking up the kite and flicked a piece of lichen from it.

Over her shoulder, the girl called, “Just let it go when I say.”

Charlotte saluted. “Aye, aye.”

The girl ran, the string grew taut, the girl shouted, and Charlotte released the kite.

It struggled low to the ground for several seconds, then wavered.

Just when she feared it would crash to the rocks, it caught the wind and leapt up.

It rose higher and higher in the sky, level with the ridge, then beyond.

It danced in the currents and reached higher still, straining at its tether.

Watching the bright thing fly, Charlotte felt unexpected tears prick her eyes.

“Woo-hoo, Lizzy, that’s the way!” A man stood high on the ridge, his fist and face raised to the sky. The girl’s father, she assumed.

A few moments later, there came the man bounding down the steep hill, a broad smile on his face. He was younger than she would have expected. Wait, she recognized the man—the very tall man.

“Hallo there,” he called.

She waited until he jogged closer. “Hello. I was just admiring your little flyer there.”