Page 6 of Lady of Milkweed Manor

Poor woman! how can she honestly be breeding again?

T he next morning Charlotte awoke before either Mae or Becky, driven by nerves to prepare herself for the visit with the dreaded Dr. Preston. Would he really require her to remove her clothing? She shuddered. Worse yet, would he question her about how she came to be in this place?

She bathed herself with a rough cloth and cold water from the washbasin, cleaned her teeth, and brushed and pinned her hair.

It crossed her mind that she should attempt to make herself appear as unattractive as possible, considering the girls’ comments about Dr. Preston’s character.

But she doubted anyone could find her attractive in her present condition.

Rather, she felt the need to arm herself with good grooming and her best dress, as though to show the man that she was not just another poor, uneducated girl he could manipulate.

The thought pricked her conscience as surely as the needle had pricked her finger.

Did she feel herself above the other girls?

Yes, she admitted to herself, she did—even as she acknowledged the hypocrisy of the thought.

Forgive me . Wasn’t she just another poor—though not uneducated, certainly na?ve—girl, alone in the world and at men’s mercy?

She shook off the unsettling thought. Please protect me, almighty God.

After breakfast, Charlotte again joined the other women at the sewing table.

She glanced around nervously and was relieved when she didn’t see Gibbs anywhere about.

Perhaps the doctor was still indisposed.

But no sooner had she begun her second stocking than Gibbs and her ledger appeared before Charlotte.

“The doctor will see you first this morning.” Gibbs glanced at the clock on the mantel. “He is expected directly. I will let you know the moment he’s ready.”

Charlotte swallowed and nodded.

Bess and Mae exchanged knowing looks. Bess snorted and Mae covered a giggle with her freckled hand.

“Hush, now,” Sally admonished gently. “Dr. Preston is gentlemanlike most of the time. If you ask me, ’tis that other doctor what gives me the shivers.”

“The old one or Dr. Young ?”

“Young. He looks at you with those cold eyes and ’tis as if they’ve got no feelin’ in them. Ice like. Like he’s ... gutting fish instead of tending people.”

“Better cold eyes than warm, roamin’ hands,” Bess muttered.

“Here he comes,” Mae whispered.

“Which one is it?” Bess shifted in her seat to try to see past Sally.

“Young,” Mae supplied.

Charlotte turned her head with dread to look at the man entering.

She took in a tall, thin man in coat and hat, with hard, pointed features and somber expression, neither much softened by the small round spectacles he wore.

Even before she could get a good look at his face, something about his demeanor made her stomach clench.

He removed his hat just as he pulled open a door partway down the passageway.

When the sunlight from a nearby window shone on his rust-blond hair, a jolt of recognition stunned her.

Mr. Taylor. It had to be. Mr. Taylor, here?

Now? To examine her? It could not be! She pressed her fingers to her brow and groaned as he swept out of view.

Sally leaned close. “Did I not tell you? Ice.”

“At least it’s not Preston,” Mae said.

“I cannot,” Charlotte whispered.

“You ’ave to, love,” Sally soothed.

“But I ... know him.”

“Know him?” Bess asked sharply. “Biblically-speakin’, you mean?”

“Of course not.”

“I thought you said you hadn’t been here before,” Mae said.

“I haven’t.”

“Then how’d you know him?”

An inner plea for caution rose up in Charlotte and she changed tack. “Perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps I do not know him.” Perhaps her eyes had played tricks with her mind. After all, no one had actually mentioned the name Taylor.

“Dr. Taylor will see you now, Charlotte.” The matron, Mrs. Moorling, appeared and her no-nonsense voice dampened Charlotte’s spirit yet pulled her to her feet.

“Dr. Preston has yet to appear this morning—I’ve sent Gibbs to find him.

Come, come, we haven’t all day.” The woman should command armies rather than this sorry gaggle of expecting females.

Hurrying to catch up, Charlotte followed the older woman down the passageway.

“Mrs. Moorling. I am sorry,” Charlotte said, struggling to keep pace, “I don’t mean to be difficult, but I really cannot be examined by Mr. Taylor... .”

“And why not?”

“Because I ...” She hesitated. What would be gained by telling the matron that she knew Daniel Taylor? Would that somehow risk her anonymity? Would the matron ask more questions than Charlotte wanted to answer?

“It does not seem, well, proper. He is so young, and I ...”

“Miss Smith. Dr. Taylor may look young, but I assure you he’s well educated—more than most. He is also a married man and completely respectable. Again, more than most.” Her voice carried a hard edge.

But Charlotte was still striving to grasp what the matron had just said. Mr. Taylor was married. Somehow that both troubled her and eased her mind greatly, for the present predicament as well as the past.

“If it were another physician, I might offer to stay in the room with you, but I have a long list of duties that require my attention and, I assure you, you are in perfectly good hands.”

Terrifying choice of words , Charlotte thought.

Mrs. Moorling opened the office door for her, and taking a deep breath, Charlotte stepped inside.

He was sitting at a plain but large desk, reading some documents on its surface. She took a few steps forward, then stood silently before the desk, waiting for him to address her. He squinted at the paper before him and did not look up.

“Miss Smith, is it?”

“Ah ... um ...”

“Miss Charlotte ...” He glanced up at her then, and his lips parted slightly. “... Smith?” The question in his tone was obvious, and in that moment in which he sat there, unmoving, staring at her, she saw the ice of his expressionless blue-green eyes melt and then freeze over again.

“Miss Smith. Do sit down.” His eyes fell back to the papers, and he picked up his pen and dipped it into the ink.

She sat and primly folded her hands in her lap.

Did he not recognize her after all? She felt relieved yet mildly hurt at the thought.

Was she so changed in the years since they had last seen each other?

He had changed but was clearly the man she had once known.

His hair was a bit thinner at his forehead, the rust-brown stubble on his cheeks more noticeable, the shoulders broader, but his face was still as angular as ever.

What had changed most were his eyes. Gone was that teasing spark she remembered so fondly, and all warmth with it, or so it seemed.

“Age ... twenty?”

She found her voice. “Yes,” she whispered.

“And this is your first pregnancy?”

She cringed with shame at the baldness of his words. “Yes.”

“When was your last monthly flow?”

Never had a man broached such a topic with her! Never had a woman, for that matter. Such things were not spoken of. She was too stunned to speak.

At her obvious hesitancy, he rose to his feet, but his eyes seemed trained beyond her. “Look here, I heard your little conversation with Mrs. Moorling. If you’d rather wait and see Dr. Preston, that is perfectly all right by me. I shall tell Mrs. Moorling myself.”

“No!” The urgency with which she spoke surprised them both, and he silently sat back down. Embarrassed by her outburst as well as the whole mortifying situation, Charlotte sat staring at her hands, yet felt the man’s silent scrutiny.

She took a deep breath and whispered, “The second of January.”

She heard the scratching of his quill.

“And Smith. That is your ... married ... name?”

She swallowed, completely humiliated. This man who, she believed, had once admired her was now—if he recognized her at all—thanking the Lord above that her father had so thoroughly discouraged him. And she couldn’t blame him. “I am ... not married.”

Dr. Taylor hesitated, eyes on the paper, then put down his pen. He looked up at her, his professional facade gone, his expression earnest.

“Good heavens, Charlotte, what on earth are you doing here?”

Charlotte sighed. “I should think that painfully obvious.”

He winced. “Forgive me. I only meant this is not a place for you, a girl with your family, your connections.”

She opened her mouth, but the words “I no longer have either” wouldn’t form over the hot coal lodged in her chest and the tears pooling in her eyes. She bit her lip to try to gain control over herself.

She would not seek pity.

“As bad as all that, then?”

She bit her lip again but only nodded.

“I am very sorry to hear it. I suppose your father, being a clergyman, took it very hard.”

Again, she nodded.

“Still, there’s not a one of us who hasn’t made some foul error or other. All like sheep astray and all that.”

She could only look at him, speechless.

“I’ve had a taste of your father’s rejection, if you remember. I mean no disrespect, but I cannot say I’d wish that on anyone, much less you.”

She managed a slight smile through her tears.

“I don’t wish to insult you, but I assume that every attempt has been made to garner some arrangement, some responsibility or recompense?”

“Please. There is nothing to be done, and even if there were, I should not like to pursue it.”

“Still, there are legal actions in such cases, if the man—”

She shook her head.

“You claim no injury, then?”

She closed her eyes against the shame her answer brought with it. “I cannot.”

“Still, though you be a party to it, there remain courses of action to secure your support.”

“Please. I do not wish to speak of it further. You can be assured that my father and my uncle, a solicitor himself, have discussed these matters with me thoroughly. Exhaustively.”

“I am sorry.”