Page 5 of Lady of Milkweed Manor
“S’pose he figgers, why not—ain’t the jar been opened already?” Bess’s sharp face was expressive. “A bit more used up won’t do any harm.”
Charlotte swallowed. “Are you suggesting this ... Dr. Preston ... takes advantage of the girls here?”
“I’m not suggesting a thing,” Bess said. “Only sayin’ you best watch your backside, underside, and all the rest like.”
“He’s never bothered me,” Mae said.
“Well, you’re not half the looker I am, are ya?”
“Well, then, I’m thankful I’m not.”
“Have they no midwives here?” Charlotte asked.
Bess smirked. “Oh, a country girl, ey?”
“They once had some,” Sally answered. “But not at present.”
“Do they ...? I mean, I have never been ‘examined’ before. Not ... like that. Do they ...? I mean, will I be asked to ...?”
“Take off your drawers?” Bess grinned.
Charlotte inclined her brow and swallowed nervously.
“I hate to break it to you, birdy, but when the babe comes, you won’t be wearing drawers or petticoats or much of anything else for that matter.”
“Hush, now,” Sally interrupted. “Don’t scare her more than she already is. Don’t fret, Charlotte. They let you wear your nightdress, though ’tis likely to be spoilt.”
“As for the examination,” Mae said, “it depends on which man you get.”
“Are there two physicians?”
“And a surgeon.”
“The young physician is real gentleman-like,” Mae said.
Bess snorted. “Green, you mean. He’s barely more than a boy. I don’t think he’s ever seen a woman in all her natural glory.”
“’Course he has,” Mae said.
“Can’t tell it the way he turned red as a robin when he looked me over last month.” Bess crossed her arms smugly.
Mae ignored this. “But if you get the other, Dr. Preston, I’m afraid you’re in for it,” she said. “He seems to like dressing us girls down.”
“Undressing us down, you mean.”
Just then Charlotte recognized young Becky as she walked quickly through the room, head down, face flushed red, shawl and arms pulled tight across her bosom like a shield of wool and adolescent muscle. Sally followed Charlotte’s gaze and clucked sympathetically.
“Becky, poor girl, come sit with us,” Sally called. “Can I pour you a cup o’ tea?”
But the girl only shook her head swiftly, eyes on the floor, as she walked past them and out the other door.
“Whatever is the matter?” Charlotte asked. “Is she ill?”
“She was right as rain before her appointment,” Mae said.
Gibbs reappeared in the doorway and Charlotte’s heart began thudding in her chest. The needle slipped in her sweating hands and she set her work down, wiping her palms across her lap.
If this man did not conduct himself properly, she would give him a piece of her mind.
Just because she had made one mistake did not mean she would make another.
She took a deep breath. Still she could not calm herself.
She felt so vulnerable, so removed from those who would protect her.
Gibbs walked toward her, and Charlotte took another deep breath.
The woman’s face was a mask of somber efficiency, but Charlotte thought she glimpsed some darker emotion there as well.
Anger? Annoyance? Had Charlotte done something wrong?
When Gibbs stopped at the table Charlotte rose from her chair.
“You may return to your work, Miss Smith. Dr. Preston has been ... called away suddenly and cannot see you this morning after all. We shall reschedule for tomorrow.”
“Oh, I see.” Charlotte exhaled. “Thank you.”
Gibbs turned on her heel and strode back toward the offices. Charlotte sank back into her chair, feeling foolishly relieved. Across the table, Sally winked at her.
Charlotte returned to her stitching but found herself thinking about her mother, who had spent a great deal of time in the company of surgeons and physicians in the final years of her life.
Her mother had enjoyed a friendly camaraderie with her physicians and never feared their presence.
Portly Dr. Webb, a respected and kindhearted doctor, had called on her so often as to become nearly a friend to the family.
The only thing Charlotte had feared from him was a final diagnosis for her mother.
Dr. Webb had brought to the Doddington vicarage a succession of colleagues and apprentices.
The colleagues were stuffy older men—Cambridge professors or renowned London physicians come to offer their opinion on her mother’s condition.
These men offered benign greetings to Charlotte in passing.
The apprentices were young men who seemed determined to prove themselves, so most rarely condescended to speak with a young girl, and of course, Charlotte was never examined by any of them.
Actually, Charlotte had been such a healthy girl that she had rarely been treated by anyone.
Her mother had cared for her minor ailments, and she had never broken a bone.
The only time she had seen a surgeon was when she had fallen into a fox hole while running through the sheep pasture behind the churchyard.
Her parents had feared her ankle broken, but the surgeon—she didn’t recall his name—declared it only sprained.
There was one apprentice who did speak with Charlotte, though granted, he was a bit older than most of Dr. Webb’s apprentices.
Daniel Taylor was his name. He was tall and very thin, with –reddish-blond hair and the palest of skin.
She could not think of him without both a smile and a painful wedge of guilt pressing against her stomach.
She always seemed to say the wrong thing, and inevitably his boyish face would blush a deep apple red, a brighter hue than his rust-colored hair.
But still, he must have admired her. She was certain he did, at least until her father made his disapproval so mercilessly clear.
Mr. Taylor left Kent with barely a good-bye and, she feared, the impression that her own opinion of him matched her father’s.
Something the vicar had no doubt implied.
Charlotte pricked her finger with the needle and gasped. Eyes from around the table rose up in question. She held up her finger, the spot of blood growing big as a beetle. She smiled dolefully at the others. “One should never daydream with sharp implements in one’s hand.”
Bess rolled her eyes and the others returned to their work, but Charlotte found herself morbidly fascinated with the mounding blood. She lifted her finger and watched the blood run down into her palm. Life-giving liquid , she thought oddly. God’s milk.