Page 51 of Lady of Milkweed Manor

You will suckle your infant your self if you can; be not such an ostrich as to decline it, merely because you would be one of the careless women, living at ease.

B efore the assembled family and staff, Charlotte bid Mr. and Mrs. Taylor a formal, somewhat stiff farewell.

She was careful to only glance briefly in Sally and Anne’s direction, lest she give too much away.

She had sat up rocking the little girl half the night, so those farewells had already been endured.

Ignoring Marie’s smirk, she smiled at Mrs. Beebe, who had earlier that morning embraced her in the kitchen and stuffed a bundle of food and jingling coin into her reticule, brooking no objection.

Now Charlotte bit her lip to keep it from trembling, turned, and left the cottage, reticule in hand and heart in her throat.

Thomas walked with her into Old Shoreham this time, carrying her bags as though they weighed nothing.

As they crested the bridge, a family approached from the other side—father with child in arms, mother holding a little boy’s hand—and she and Thomas stepped close to the rail to allow them to pass. When they had, Charlotte walked on but quickly noticed Thomas stayed where he was.

Retracing her steps, she looked at him questioningly. “What is it?”

He stood stiffly, and in a voice nearly petulant said, “I wish there was something I could do.”

She studied his face, so unusually somber. “Thomas,” she soothed, “there are some things even you cannot fix.” She smiled gently. “It’s all right.”

He turned and gripped the bridge rail, still refusing to go farther.

She stood at the rail beside him, an arm’s length away. Staring at the river below, she sensed his agitation, his deliberation.

But what could he do? She knew any money he made went to help his mother provide for his many siblings. Even if he began working as an apprentice, he would have little money of his own for several years. He was surely not yet thinking of taking a wife—not her, in any case. Was he?

Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, realizing that if she did not speak, he would. Without turning to face him she said cheerfully, “I told Sally how it was, between us.”

She heard him move a step closer to her. His voice was uncertain. “Did you?”

She stole a glance at him before returning her gaze to the water. “Yes, I told her that you could never think of me the way I do you.”

“Charlotte—”

She went on quickly, “For you already have four sisters, but I have never had a brother.”

Turning toward him, she self-consciously lifted her gaze to his. “And I have always longed for one.”

His eyes glimmered. He lowered his head, bringing his face close to hers. “I should be honored to be yours.”

They stood that way for a moment, in a silence heavy with unspoken things.

Charlotte took a deep breath. “Sally is dear to me, as you know. I hope you ... and Lizzy ... will be kind to her.” She put her fist to her heart. “It will please me if you show her every attention.”

Quietly, he asked, “Will it?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He straightened but continued to peer down at her for a long moment without speaking.

He reached out his hand toward her. It was not customary, to say the least, but Charlotte understood the impulse behind it.

Some culmination of feeling must occur. It was either shake hands or embrace.

But that, of course, would be inappropriate and foolish and unfair to them all.

So instead, she gripped his hand with her smaller one and felt his answering squeeze.

She held tight a moment longer, then let go.

Charlotte sipped her tea in the dining room of the inn, waiting for her coach to be announced. She had insisted that Thomas return to his work, that he need not wait with her. He had gone, though reluctantly.

Dr. Kendall came in, hat in hand and out of breath. “Miss Lamb. I am so glad I found you before you left. I wonder if I might trespass on your kindness for some time longer?”

“Of course. Please, do have a seat, Dr. Kendall.”

“Thank you.” He sat down and leaned across the table to speak in confidential tones. “A couple has come to me in dire need of a nurse for their infant son. The young mother is unable to nurse him properly, and the father fears his son will suffer.”

“What is the problem?”

“Well, that is rather delicate to discuss here. But if you could come to my offices and meet them ...”

“But my coach—”

“They pass through for London with stops in Crawley twice each day, Miss Lamb. If you could postpone at least until the afternoon’s coach, or tomorrow’s, I am sure the couple would pay for your lodgings. Or I shall, if you would allow me.”

“I had not thought to continue on as a nurse.”

“This would only be a temporary position. I am certain the mother will, in time, be able to nurse her son herself as she desires to do.”

He leaned closer yet. “You are still ... able, do you think?”

She looked at the table, self-consciously slouching a bit to diminish her swollen breasts. She nodded.

“If you could relieve the child’s distress and hunger even for a few hours, I am sure the couple would be most grateful.”

Charlotte had no real desire to wet-nurse another child. But neither could she stand the thought of an infant suffering hunger when she could help. “I shall come.”

“Thank you. I have already told them about you. In fact, they are waiting on us as we speak. If you would not mind ...?”

“My bags ...”

“I shall ask the innkeeper to stow them for you. Until you decide?”

“Thank you.”

They walked quickly through town to Dr. Kendall’s offices, where he lost no time in making introductions. “Mr. and Mrs. Henshaw, may I present Miss Charlotte Lamb.”

Charlotte curtsied.

Mr. Henshaw was older than she would have imagined, in his early fifties, perhaps.

He was well dressed with craggy features and light brown hair combed to one side.

He remained seated, legs crossed, impatiently bouncing his knee.

His wife was young indeed. No more than seventeen or eighteen, Charlotte guessed.

She was a lovely, dainty girl, with fair hair pulled into a fashionable coil and wide, pale blue eyes—eyes which looked terribly concerned.

In her arms, she held a baby, wriggling and red-faced.

Yet he made no loud cry, merely whined in high-pitched bursts of protest every half minute or so.

“Poor dear. How old is he?” Charlotte asked.

“A week tomorrow,” Mrs. Henshaw answered quietly.

“If he lives that long,” Mr. Henshaw snapped. “Now, let’s not waste time, Kendall. You’ve found us this nurse in haste. How do we know she even has sufficient milk to nurse my son?”

“I can attest to the robust health of her last charge.”

“She might have dried up since then.”

Charlotte recoiled at the man’s bald words.

“No, sir. She left my friend’s employ only this morning.”

“Why was she sacked?”

“It was nothing of the kind. I can vouch for her character and dependability, sir. Rest assured.”

“Well, have you examined her yourself?”

“Examined? Not in so many words.”

“Then do your job, man, and let’s be done. If she’s fit, I want her to nurse little Crispin here before he starves.”

Charlotte felt the blood rushing to her face and neck.

“Miss Lamb is a naturally modest girl,” Kendall muttered, biting his lip.

“Then use that screen there. I don’t know a thing about this girl.

Is it not reasonable to want some proof of her health, that she isn’t ill or infected with some foul sores that would harm my boy?”

Dr. Kendall opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked at Charlotte soberly.

“Miss Lamb, would you mind stepping behind the screen? It won’t take but a moment.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to protest further, but the infant’s whines grew into pitiful squeals that tore at Charlotte’s heart—and threatened to cause her milk to let down on its own.

She stepped behind the screen and waited as Dr. Kendall adjusted it to enclose them more fully. He looked at her and mouthed the words Forgive me.

He looked from her face down to the neckline of her gown meaningfully.

Heart pounding, face burning, she looked away from him and worked her bodice down until it pooled at her waist. Then she lowered one strap of her chemise from her shoulder, then the other.

She had forgotten she had bound her breasts with muslin, to alleviate the pain and swelling since she was still full of milk.

She swallowed, then unpinned the cloth where she had fastened its end.

As she began to unwind the long strip, she glanced surreptitiously at the doctor and saw that he endeavored to maintain a detached, officious expression.

“Make sure her milk is still flowing,” the dreadful man called from the other side of the screen.

Wincing, Charlotte paused. Would Dr. Kendall expect her to express milk in front of him? How mortifying.

At that moment the infant began crying in earnest. As she had feared, her milk let down in response, wetting through the remaining layers of muslin before she could wrap her arms over herself. Dr. Kendall lifted a hand, silently motioning for her to cease unwinding.

“Milk flow is excellent,” he called over his shoulder. “The ... everything ... looks quite perfect.”

He returned his gaze to her face. Although Charlotte was relieved beyond words not to have to expose herself fully, she was still too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

“You may redo your things, Miss Lamb. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Charlotte quickly repositioned her gown. “Why do I not nurse him right now?” she said, attempting to regain her composure.

“Have you another room I might use?”

“Yes, of course.”

Charlotte sat in a chair in a small examination room, nursing the babe who suckled with desperate voracity. The sensation was both relieving and slightly painful. She hoped he would be gentler in subsequent feedings.

The young wife watched with eyes wide, not averted as politeness might have dictated. “You are perfect,” she breathed.

Charlotte did not know how to respond to such a shocking remark. The young woman clearly realized what she had said, for her face flushed pink. “I only meant, compared to me ...”

“I’m sure you are fine.”

“No. I am not.”

When Charlotte next glanced up from Crispin’s fuzz-covered head, she was stunned to see that Mrs. Henshaw had unfastened the nursing panel of her gown. Charlotte glimpsed dark purple bruises before the young woman closed the panel again. Charlotte’s shock was replaced by compassion.

“Oh, you poor dear! No wonder you cannot nurse Crispin. How painful that must be!”

“The physician thinks I may have some infection. All I know is that I cry out in pain when I try to nurse my son. Crispin starts crying then, too, and Mr. Henshaw starts shouting.”

Charlotte shook her head in pity.

“I do not blame him,” Mrs. Henshaw said. “What kind of woman cannot nurse her own child? He says his own mother nursed him, and he would not have his son farmed out to some crude, greedy peasant. Oh! Forgive me, I did not mean you—”

“It’s all right. I have heard such opinions before. You know, you are not the only woman to have trouble, Mrs. Henshaw.”

“Please. Call me Georgiana.”

“Very well, Georgiana. And you may call me Charlotte.”

“Thank you.”

“I have seen that once before. At the lying-in hospital.”

“You have? Is it curable?”

“Of course it is. I shall nurse Crispin for you for a few days while you heal. It appears that he has not been latching on properly.” Georgiana lowered her head and Charlotte hastened to add, “But how would you know if no one showed you? I realize women have been doing this since creation, but it does not always come as naturally as one might think.”

Georgiana attempted a smile. What a lovely, gentle expression she had. Charlotte liked Georgiana Henshaw very much, felt nearly as maternal toward her as she did toward little Crispin. Her husband, however—she’d prefer to have as few dealings with him as possible.

“My own mother is gone, I’m afraid,” Georgiana said wistfully.

“As is mine.”

“I have one sister. But she is far off in Newcastle. Have you a sister?”

“Yes. But she is far away from me as well.”